The Death of Marco Styles

by J. J. Campbell

  ‘You can turn off the act, Mr de Lacy,’ Morden said. ‘I’ve seen it all before, and I’m not fooled. What about your fingerprints and DNA on the glass? Yes, I know what you’re going to say, that you took the glass and gave it to Sergeant McIntyre, but that’s just the point, isn’t it? You did it on purpose, didn’t you? I know your sort, de Lacy, stuck-up public school boys who think everybody else is stupid, and you, you think you’re so fucking clever, don’t you?’

  He was getting angry, or pretending to, his great, heavy face now red and his eyes staring. De Lacy allowed himself a languid shrug and Morden carried on.

  ‘Do you want to call your solicitor now, Mr de Lacy?’

  ‘No thank you, Inspector,’ de Lacy replied. ‘Unless you intend to charge me?’

  Morden paused, as if considering the matter.

  ‘No, not yet.’

  De Lacy started to rise.

  ‘Will that be all, Inspector?’

  ‘No it will not,’ Morden answered, his voice a growl. ‘I can hold you here for 24 hours, Mr de Lacy, or four days if I apply for an extension. Sit down.’

  Resuming his seat, de Lacy waited as the inspector looked him over, slowly and carefully, as if seeking a weakness, only to suddenly turn to the recorder, speak a few sharp words, and turn it off.

  ‘You are free to go,’ Mr de Lacy, ‘but you are to remain in the vicinity.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ de Lacy answered. ‘I’ll be at The George in Great Aldbury if you need me, and of course I’ll be delighted to assist you in any way I can.’

  As de Lacy left he caught two words from the inspector, clearly intended to be loud enough for him to hear.

  ‘Idle bastard.’

  De Lacy had done his best to keep up the calm, self-assured manner he liked to present to the world during the interview with Inspector Morden, but it had shaken him more than he’d have admitted to, while being forced to walk through the heart of Solsbury and take a bus to Great Aldbury while dressed for golf had been both embarrassing and irritating. His annoyance had lasted as he set up his laptop and began to search for information on the employees of Vulcan Pharmaceuticals, only to give way to shock and a dull sense of horror at his discoveries.

  His hand moved to his phone, only to stop. It was obvious that the inspector had received much of his information from Sergeant McIntyre, and he felt no particular obligation to tell her first, but as his mind raced from one link of a chain of logic to the next he put the phone down once more. His duty was clear: to inform the police of what he’d discovered in case they missed it, but in the circumstances he could hardly be expected to do their reasoning for them. Yet presenting Inspector Morden with the true facts of the case was going to be immensely satisfying.

  Pausing only to change into something more suitable, he drove out to Elthorne House.

  There was a constable stationed at the gates, one of the men who had been among the first to arrive on the night of the murder. Slowing the Jaguar, he lowered the window and gave the man a friendly smile, hoping to be waved through, only to be directed to pull over beside the drive just inside the gates.

  ‘Wait here, please, sir,’ the constable instructed.

  ‘Couldn’t I park at the house?’ de Lacy asked. ‘I’m here to see Sergeant McIntyre.’

  ‘No, sir. You have to be accompanied at all times.’

  De Lacy didn’t try to argue, but got out of the car while the constable spoke into his intercom. When the sergeant appeared around the curve of the drive he greeted her with a measured, formal nod. For an instant she seemed embarrassed, before composing herself and greeting him with equal formality.

  ‘Can I help you, Mr de Lacy?’

  ‘I have information for you,’ he told her, ‘but first, are you aware that I was taken into Solsbury Police Station this morning and interviewed by Inspector Morden?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought we had an agreement?’

  ‘Yes, that you would give me any information you had on this case, and that you would be discreet about what you’d told me.’

  ‘Discretion works two ways, or it should. I appreciate that you have a job to do, but the information you passed on to Inspector Morden was given in confidence, and I kept my part of the bargain, by the way. My hope was that we could assist each other in finding out who the killer is, and that only then would you present the facts to Inspector Morden, as a fait accompli.’

  ‘I can’t do that,’ she answered him. ‘What do you imagine it would do to my career prospects if I withheld information from a senior officer?’

  ‘True,’ de Lacy admitted, ‘and it’s not your fault that Morden chose to put two and two together and make about two dozen, but it was rather a shock to be hauled into the station and all but charged with murder. You might at least have warned me.’

  ‘That’s not the way it works, Mr de Lacy,’ she told him firmly. ‘Now, what do you have to say?’

  ‘Inspector Morden showed me a printout of an email,’ he explained, ‘probably in the hope of shocking me into a confession. The printout showed the structural formula for the neurotoxin used to murder Marco Styles, and I recognised the logo at the top as belonging to a company called Vulcan Pharmaceuticals. It’s synthetic and still at the trial stage, so even to identify it must have been difficult, and the murderer cannot possibly have obtained it from any other source. Therefore an employee of Vulcan Pharmaceuticals must be involved.’

  ‘I’m sure Inspector Morden realises that.’

  ‘Probably, but does he know that Dr Mary Adams, a senior research assistant at Vulcan, disappeared while on holiday in Cornwall this spring?’

  ‘Do you think she was murdered?’

  ‘Well, it certainly bears investigation, and if she was murdered, well, the implications are obvious: that she was coerced into providing a quantity of the neurotoxin, then killed in order to cover the murderer’s tracks.’

  ‘Yes, so all very carefully planned, by somebody intelligent and completely callous.’

  ‘So it seems. Fortunately I have a cast-iron alibi. I was in Burgundy at the time, on a wine tasting tour, which means I have any number of witnesses. Still, no doubt the inspector will want to bring me in for another grilling.’

  ‘As long as you’re innocent you don’t have to worry about Inspector Morden. That’s just the way he does things, and you’d be surprised how many confessions come out after a direct accusation. He’s thorough, but he’s honest.’

  ‘I’m relieved to hear it,’ de Lacy answered, ‘and his reasoning is sound enough, if only because he doesn’t seem to have any evidence against anybody else. He seems to think I’m some sort of low-level psychopath, deliberately taunting him, and you, in order to massage my own ego.’

  ‘I’ve known people to do exactly that.’

  ‘No doubt, but don’t you think that sort of clumsy posturing is at odds with the way the crime was carried out?’

  ‘Yes, but that might be an act, and he has a thing about arrogant, public school types.’

  ‘So I noticed. Look, this new murder moves the case outside my scope, so I’ll leave it with you, if I may?’

  ‘That’s what I expect you to do, Mr de Lacy, unless there’s anything else you want to tell me?’

  ‘Not really, no. No doubt you realise that if it was Dr Adams who provided the neurotoxin, as seems likely, then she was probably bribed.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because a blackmailer needs compromising material, and it’s extremely unlikely that the murderer would know of any such material relating to anybody who could get hold of what they needed. It’s not impossible, but it would take a remarkable coincidence.’

  ‘It would take a lot of money to bribe her,’ Sergeant McIntyre mused. ‘She was a professional, probably well-paid, and she’d have known what was going to happen, more or less. So we’re looking for somebody with easy access to plenty of money, then.’

  ‘So you are,’ de Lacy agreed, ‘so you are.’
>
  Having secured himself a pint of beer, de Lacy made for his preferred seat in the saloon bar of The George, only to pause as he recognised the lean, grizzled features of Richard Vine across the room. He was seated at a table beside a window, with a glass of what looked like neat whisky in front of him, and to judge by his manner it wasn’t the first. De Lacy hesitated, aware that it was almost certainly Vine who had given Inspector Morden the unsavoury details of what had happened at school between Marco Styles and de Lacy’s father, but curiosity quickly got the better of him.

  In the two days since his interview with Inspector Morden and the conversation with Sergeant McIntyre, he had avoided talking to either of them and so far they had not sought him out. A round of golf with Clive Styles and Adam Carradine had allowed him to confirm that no arrests had been made, although Clive had been taken into Solsbury Police Station for a second interview after the inspector discovered that the investment fund he managed had substantial holdings in Vulcan Pharmaceuticals. Beyond that de Lacy knew nothing, while his own plans were coming slowly to fruition, leaving him with a constant sense of tension not even the menu and wine list at The George could shake off. A chance to talk to Richard Vine was too good to pass up.

  ‘Richard, hello,’ he said. ‘It’s Charles, Alex de Lacy’s son.’

  ‘Sure,’ Vine answered. ‘I’d know that face anywhere. You look just like your dad. Sit down.’

  De Lacy accepted the invitation. Despite the drink, Vine’s expression and body language suggested a touch of embarrassment and not a little caution, which reflected de Lacy’s own feelings.

  ‘Bad about Marco,’ Vine said. ‘I hear you were at the dinner when he died?’

  ‘Yes. In fact I’m a suspect.’

  ‘Yeah … look, I’m sorry about the business with your dad and Marco. That guy Morden, he really grinds it out of you. He was asking me about school, stuff with the band, all sorts.’

  ‘Not at all. He’s only doing his job, and I am clearly a suspect.’

  Vine didn’t answer immediately, but took a swallow from the glass of whisky on the table in front of him.

  ‘I take it you’ve come down for the funeral?’ de Lacy asked. ‘It might take some time.’

  ‘Not just that,’ Vine answered, and carried on only after a long pause. ‘It’s going to come out soon enough, so I might as well tell you as anybody. If you think you had it bad with Morden, just wait until he gets his hands on me.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘It’s like this. Marco was keeping a dolly bird in a flat in London, in Hounslow, well out of the way, but somehow Irene found out. They had a hell of a row and Irene told him she’d been unfaithful, just to get back at him really. You didn’t really know Marco, did you? He was all right, when he was calm, and he’d mellowed a lot, but he was not the sort of guy who’d reckon that what was good for the goose was good for the gander. He was furious, and when she wouldn’t tell him any more he said he’d have the kids’ DNA tested.’

  ‘How did you find this out?’

  ‘From Irene, and it’s a problem, because Miriam’s not his … she’s mine.’

  ‘You’re sure of this?’ de Lacy asked.

  Vine drained his glass before replying, his hand unsteady as he replaced it on the table.

  ‘As sure as can be,’ he said. ‘You know what Irene’s like. She gets what she wants, and Marco wasn’t getting her pregnant. Three years they’d been trying, and nothing. So she came to me. You know, I’d known her back before Marco did, and we’d had a fling then, and of course I’d already got my two eldest, so she knew I wasn’t firing blanks. I didn’t even realise, at the time. Marco was away somewhere and she said to come around because she was lonely. A few drinks, a bit of talk about the old times together, and we ended up in bed, several times that week and a few more later. Nine months later and along comes Miriam.’

  ‘Did Marco suspect? And what about the others?’

  Vine shrugged.

  ‘I’m guessing they’re his. They look like him, at least the girls, and Clive’s like his mum. Maybe he suspected, maybe not, but with the DNA …’

  ‘They went ahead with the test then?’

  ‘Yeah, but the results weren’t back. My DNA’s already on their database, so it’s only a matter of time before Morden catches on.’

  ‘He’s aggressive, and he’s an inverted snob, but he’s supposed to be honest. My advice would be to go to Solsbury Police Station this afternoon and explain the situation. That way at least it won’t appear as if you’re trying to hide anything. Besides, you weren’t at the dinner party, so I’d say the evidence points more towards Irene. Would she go that far, to murder Marco, simply to stop him learning about Miriam?’

  Again Richard Vine shrugged.

  V

  De Lacy was smiling as he left Hill’s Delicatessen in Solsbury High Street, but quickly put on a more solemn expression as he saw Sergeant McIntyre come out of the police station almost directly opposite. She was out of uniform, in dark, figure-hugging jeans and a cream-coloured jumper of light wool, a combination that made her look far from intimidating. Nevertheless, de Lacy drew in his breath. He had been hoping to avoid her until he was able to present her with the full facts of the case, but she had already seen him and was crossing the road.

  ‘Good morning,’ he greeted her. ‘I trust that my witnesses supported my alibi?’

  ‘Yes,’ she told him. ‘Do you have any further information?’

  ‘Information? Something, perhaps,’ he admitted. ‘I assume that Richard – Richie – Vine came in yesterday to tell Inspector Morden that he is Miriam Styles’ father?’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ she answered. ‘He came in yesterday, but was interviewed by DC Pymm. That’s interesting, but Richie Vine wasn’t at the dinner party.’

  ‘He might have had an accomplice, Miriam even, although I consider the probability very low. What he told me yesterday might not have been true, after all, and he did seem rather keen to put the information forward, but unless I know the results of the DNA tests I can only theorise. After all, Vine thinks he is Miriam’s father, but he might not be, and what about the other children? Elaine and Louise look like their father, but Clive doesn’t, and Irene strikes me as a woman who likes to be certain.’

  ‘I don’t know the results of the DNA tests, and I wouldn’t be able to tell you if I did. Have you got anything else?’

  ‘Not as such, no. It is impossible to make worthwhile deductions when starved of information. I appreciate that the DNA results are confidential, but if you were to give me something to work on, such as the other suspects’ alibis for the time of Dr Adams’ death, then I might be able to help.’

  ‘That’s not how it works, Mr de Lacy.’

  ‘Ah, no. That’s not how you work, that I accept, but why you assume that I should subscribe to the internal ethics of the British Police Force I cannot imagine. I, Sergeant McIntyre, am a private individual, so let me be very clear on this point. I am not obliged to provide you with any information whatsoever. I do consider it my duty to assist you, but I am not, and will never be, one of those sordid individuals who earn small sums of money by providing information to the police.’

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting I pay you, but if you want an easy life you’d better be cooperative. Inspector Morden still considers you a suspect.’

  ‘I have been cooperative, extremely so, even when being interviewed by the charming and tactful Inspector Morden. In terms of hard facts I have nothing more to offer, and if you want me to apply my reasoning to the case then I need more information, it’s as simple as that.’

  They had remained standing on the pavement outside Hill’s Delicatessen as they spoke. Sergeant McIntyre’s tone of voice had been pre-emptory, very much that of somebody giving orders they expected to be obeyed, but it was much softer as she spoke again and simultaneously began to walk.

  ‘OK, let’s start again. Walk with me for a little way.’

  �
��My pleasure.’

  ‘It seems that Clive Styles had connections with the company who made the neurotoxin, Vulcan Pharmaceuticals, while Irene Styles was in Devon the week that Dr Adams went missing. Dr Adams had taken a cliffside cottage at Whitsand Bay, which is only a few miles from Plymouth, where Irene Styles claims to have been shopping that day. She was not at the regatta she was attending with Marco in Dartmouth, we’re sure of that. Unfortunately, her phone records and two receipts from shops in Plymouth make it seem unlikely that she ever left the city.’

  ‘Perhaps Dr Adams came to meet her in Plymouth?’

  ‘Then Irene killed her and disposed of the body in the middle of a busy city?’

  ‘That would present problems, certainly. What is supposed to have happened to the body?’

  ‘There was sea fog that afternoon and the tide was high. Anybody who had a fall would be very unlikely to survive and might well not be recovered.’

  ‘It would be risky though, for a murderer. What was Dr Adams’ height and build?’

  ‘About 5’3” and quite slight.’

  De Lacy allowed himself a pleased smile. The information fitted in with his own theories but also allowed him to suggest a viable solution to Sergeant McIntyre’s line of reasoning.

  ‘And Irene is perhaps 5’10”, and plays tennis and golf with a vigour worthy of a professional. I’d say she agreed to meet Dr Adams at some remote spot along the Tamar Estuary, and there are plenty, then killed her and took the neurotoxin.’

  ‘What about the phone records and receipts, and how would she have disposed of the body?’

  ‘Could she have made a detour on the way back from Plymouth to Dartmouth, perhaps? I know that area and she’d need a window of an hour, no more, or possibly somebody else had her phone and credit cards that afternoon? As for disposing of the body, the hills around the Tamar Estuary used to be mining country. I’ve seen open shafts that are said to go down 500 feet. Given your family’s own mining background it would also seem to be a sensible suggestion for you to make.’