Soft Summer Blood

by Peter Helton

  The SOCO had brought the metal detector under control and started sweeping the area. The detector indicated almost immediately with an unpleasant electronic squawk. The officer bent down, felt about in the grass with his latex-gloved hand and eventually held up a shiny ten pence piece. ‘Bag it anyway,’ McLusky told him.

  ‘I was going to stick it in a bubblegum machine,’ the SOCO grumbled as he dropped the coin into an evidence bag. He hated being told how to do his job by CID suits.

  ‘Time of death?’ McLusky wanted to know next.

  ‘It was a very warm night,’ mused Coulthart. ‘I calculate late last night. Ten … eleven, around that time.’

  McLusky waved away some of the numerous flies that the blood and gore had attracted. ‘Out jogging, by the way he was dressed. Jogging in the dark. In his own back yard.’ He straightened up. ‘OK. Gardeners’ Question Time.’

  Austin nodded towards the house. ‘In the kitchen, the super said.’

  The kitchen at Woodlea House was nostalgically well equipped: earthenware storage jars, old-fashioned brass scales and bundles of dried herbs. The woman willing a kettle to boil on the cream-coloured Aga was in her late forties. Her shoulder-length hair was the colour of sand – probably dyed, McLusky thought. She wore a snow-white apron over a sober blue dress and gave the officers a red-eyed look as they entered. At the table, waiting for a mug of tea, sat a man in his fifties. He had been scratching at his salt-and-pepper beard and now belatedly removed his grey baseball cap, revealing short greying hair. Opposite him, with her arms folded in front of her chest, sat a woman in her mid-twenties, her blonde hair tied back and her blue eyes bored and resentful. Both man and woman wore identical green T-shirts and khaki trousers. A pair of well-worn gardening gloves curled on the table.

  McLusky introduced Austin and himself, showing his ID. The woman by the Aga introduced herself as Mrs Mohr.

  ‘You’re Mr Mendenhall’s housekeeper?’ asked McLusky.

  ‘Not quite. I come in three times a week to clean and do Charles’s laundry,’ she said, as though her employer did not lie still and bloodless on the lawn. She was pouring water from the kettle into three mugs. ‘Would you like some tea? The kettle’s just boiled.’

  ‘Yes, please. Coffee would be even better.’

  She sighed. ‘As I said, I’m not really a housekeeper.’ But she fetched a cafetière nonetheless.

  McLusky and Austin sat down at the long kitchen table, leaving empty seats between themselves and the pair of gardeners, Tony Gotts and Emma Lucket. ‘You found Mr Mendenhall’s body?’ McLusky asked.

  ‘I did,’ said Gotts. ‘Emm was in the cold greenhouse. I had walked further up the path when I saw him lying there.’

  ‘How close did you go to the body?’

  ‘Quite close. I mean I walked right up – you can’t just look at a thing like that from a distance.’

  ‘Did you touch the body?’

  ‘Didn’t have to. I could see he was definitely dead.’

  McLusky turned to the woman. ‘What about you?’

  She shook her head. ‘Didn’t look at him. Didn’t want to.’ Her voice was high, almost child-like, her accent, like Gotts’, West Country. ‘I took his word for it. Was he shot, though? Tony thought he was.’

  ‘Yes, we believe he was,’ supplied Austin. ‘Did your employer keep a gun in the house?’

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Mohr as she set the cafetière firmly on the table. ‘He didn’t go in for shooting or hunting; he didn’t like guns. Charles was an artistic soul.’

  ‘You knew him well, Mrs Mohr?’ asked McLusky. ‘How long have you worked here?’

  ‘Thirteen years. I used to come in twice a week when Yvonne – Mrs Mendenhall – was alive, three times a week since she died.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Nearly three years ago now.’

  ‘Any other immediate relatives?’

  ‘His son, David,’ Mrs Mohr said. McLusky noted that both gardeners shifted in their seats at this and reached for their mugs. ‘I’ve already taken the liberty of informing him of his father’s death. He lives in town, has an office there. He said he was coming over.’

  ‘When you came here this morning, was everything else as you would expect it to be?’

  ‘No,’ said Mohr. ‘The French windows from the drawing room to the veranda were unlocked. But I only noticed that after Tony found Charles’s body.’

  ‘As far as you know, is there anything missing in the house?’

  ‘Not as far as I can tell.’

  ‘Has anything been disturbed at all?’ Mrs Mohr shook her head. ‘Did Mr Mendenhall have enemies that any of you know of?’ Shakes of the head all round. ‘Any disputes, rows?’ Again the gardeners reached for their mugs together.

  Mrs Mohr took the now empty cafetière to the Belfast sink. ‘No, nothing like that.’

  ‘How did Mr Mendenhall make his money?’

  ‘He was a brewer. Well, used to be. He used to own one of the last big independent breweries in the West Country. But he sold out to one of the big players a few years ago and retired from business.’

  ‘And the jogging?’ Austin suggested. ‘He did that regularly? Late in the evening?’

  ‘Not during the day,’ said Gotts without looking up. ‘Never while we was here.’

  ‘Charles took up jogging recently,’ said Mrs Mohr. ‘I think he didn’t want to be seen doing it, so he jogged in the evenings. I knew he had taken it up but I never saw him do it. None of us are here that late in the evening.’

  ‘And he jogged here in the garden?’

  Nods from everyone. ‘Nice and private.’ It was the first and last sentence Emma Lucket volunteered before quick footsteps could be heard approaching. Seconds later a man pushed through the half-open door. ‘Is it really true, Mrs M? Where is he?’ Before Mrs Mohr could answer, he took in Austin and McLusky. ‘Are you the police?’ The man was in his mid- to late thirties, with short dark hair, noticeably small ears and an aquiline nose, both features he had inherited from his father. He looked flushed, harried. His grey suit was slightly crumpled and he wore a pale blue shirt without a tie. His black shoes, McLusky noticed, were very shiny.

  Austin showed his ID. ‘Are you David Mendenhall?’ When David nodded, he gestured towards the door. ‘Perhaps we could go somewhere private to talk—’

  ‘Bollocks. I want to see him,’ he said and walked out. ‘Is he still in the garden?’ Austin followed him out of the door.

  ‘Please don’t leave the premises for the time being,’ McLusky said to the others. ‘I may want to speak to you again.’

  ‘Can we get on with our work?’ asked Gotts.

  ‘I’m afraid not. The gardens will remain out of bounds until further notice.’

  ‘Great,’ McLusky heard Emma say sarcastically as he left to go after Austin and Mendenhall’s son.

  He found both standing outside on the veranda. ‘Because it is a crime scene, Mr Mendenhall,’ Austin was saying. ‘Until scene-of-crime officers have concluded their investigations, the gardens remain out of bounds. That could take all day.’

  ‘Can’t you at least tell me how he was killed, for Christ’s sake?’

  When McLusky nodded his permission, Austin told him. ‘We believe he was shot.’

  ‘Shot,’ David echoed.

  McLusky gestured at the door. ‘Perhaps we could go inside, out of the sun?’ It was another perfect summer’s day with barely a cloud to be seen. Reluctantly, David led the way into the large drawing room, furnished like the rest of the house with a mix of antique furniture, art deco and Victoriana. It was a comfortable room but one that time had left behind sometime in the 1960s; there was a neat row of LPs and an old-fashioned record player that, even by McLusky’s standards, looked ancient. Countless small paintings in dark frames adorned the walls, many of them executed in the same style, presumably by the same hand. On the mantelpiece stood a family photograph in an ornate silver frame, four people posing in the garden fo
r the photographer. David stared at it intently for a moment, then laid it face down on the mantel and sat down, his expression grim. While Austin and David took an armchair each near the fireplace, McLusky remained standing, storing away the details of the room, picking up objects and setting them down again, never quite where they had been before.

  David looked at him, annoyed and impatient. ‘Would you mind sitting down, Inspector?’

  McLusky ignored him. ‘Are there any guns in the house, Mr Mendenhall?’

  ‘No, no guns. Not even an air rifle. What kind of gun was my father shot with?’

  McLusky ignored that too. ‘Can you think of anyone who would want to harm your father?’ he asked.

  ‘No. It must have been an intruder. A burglar my father surprised.’

  ‘Except, as far as we know, nothing was taken. Is there anything of great value at Woodlea House?’

  David shrugged. ‘Nothing more valuable than the furniture and carpets. Those are quite valuable.’

  ‘What about all these paintings. Any of great value among those?’

  ‘I doubt it. Half of them are by my father. He fancied himself a bit of a painter. The rest, I think, are all by friends of his. They are all semi-professional painters.’

  McLusky took another look at the framed paintings. Most of them were landscapes or still lifes, some were portraits of women; most were oils, but there were watercolours, too. He quite liked them and thought they were well executed. McLusky’s own spartan flat still remained unadorned by wall decorations. ‘Did your father have a painting studio somewhere?’

  ‘Right next door.’ David led them through a connecting door into a room nearly as large as the drawing room. ‘This used to be called the morning room, but even when I was a child my father painted in here.’

  The place was bright, with two large sash windows and a half-glazed door to the outside. There were paintings and art materials everywhere, covering two tables. A plan chest was buried under rolls of paper, tins and boxes. A still life of bottles and bric-a-brac had been set up; on an easel nearby stood a small oil painting of the arrangement. To McLusky it looked finished. There was no shortage of objects with which to compose still lifes; the place was cluttered with pot plants, small bronzes, plaster casts, old china, glassware, silk scarves, oriental face masks, Japanese fans and candle lanterns. With the furniture covered in throws and scarves, the place looked like a bourgeois idea of the bohemian lifestyle. The studio smelled of turpentine, with a hint of overripe fruit coming from a bowl of peaches.

  ‘Mrs Mohr must love dusting this lot,’ said McLusky.

  ‘Looks a very professional set-up,’ Austin commented.

  ‘My father took it quite seriously. He did exhibit here and there. Sometimes together with his friends.’

  ‘Can you let us have the names of his close friends and fellow artists, please?’ He continued his tour of the room, picking up things and setting them down again. ‘And here nothing looks disturbed either?’

  David looked around with a look of distaste. ‘How could you tell in this mess?’

  ‘Nothing else of value in the house? Sculptures maybe?’

  ‘These little bronzes are worth a few bob but otherwise … There’s Mrs Hebe in the garden but she’s a copy, obviously. I suppose there’s my mother’s jewellery, but I think that’s in the safe.’

  ‘Where is the safe?’

  David looked exasperated. ‘Upstairs, in my father’s study.’

  McLusky made an inviting gesture towards the door. ‘I’m sorry to have to put you through all this right now, but in a murder investigation it’s important we gather as much information as possible early on.’

  ‘I understand,’ said David. ‘It’s just … not even having seen him.’

  They climbed the stairs past more framed paintings. ‘When was the last time you saw your father, by the way?’

  ‘Let me see … must be two weeks ago. Yes, about that.’

  ‘Tell me, who benefits from your father’s death?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ David stopped on the stairs to give McLusky an offended look.

  ‘Will you inherit?’

  ‘Yes, I expect so. I hope you’re not suggesting—’

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything, sir.’ McLusky walked on. ‘It helps us get a picture of who may have had a motive and who may not.’

  David paused on the stairs for a few more heartbeats, then followed McLusky up to the first floor. ‘That’s my father’s study there, next to his bedroom.’

  McLusky counted seven doors leading off the darkly carpeted corridor as well as a further, narrower door, which he presumed led to the attic. When David reached for the door handle of the first door, Austin held him back. ‘Please don’t touch anything at all up here.’

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry.’ He stood back while McLusky, wearing latex gloves, turned the black ceramic door knob and pushed the door wide.

  In stark contrast to the bohemian studio downstairs, the study was tidy and efficiently organized, with no papers or letters lying on the spartan desk. It reminded McLusky of his own office on the day he had moved in, except here the furniture was solid and expensive and there were paintings, not city maps, on the walls. The dark wood wastepaper bin was empty; there was a whiff of furniture polish in the air. Files and ring binders on a shelf, some books. A floorboard creaked underfoot as McLusky stepped on the worn Persian rug. He opened and closed the drawers of the desk, saw nothing of immediate interest. ‘Is it always this tidy in here?’

  ‘Since my father retired from business, yes.’

  ‘Where’s the safe?’

  ‘Erm, it’s behind that painting, I believe.’ David pointed to a painting of a seaside view to the right of the desk, held in a hefty wooden frame.

  McLusky found it was hinged; he swung the painting back and revealed the small square safe behind it. ‘Do you have the combination?’ David shook his head. ‘Who, apart from your father, would know it?’ David shrugged his shoulder and shook his head again. ‘OK, thank you. You can give your address and the names of your father’s friends to my sergeant here.’ He stepped to the window which overlooked the gardens. Below, the body was being carried across the large lawn by the coroner’s men. ‘I’d like you to come downstairs and formally identify the body before it is taken away – save you a trip to the mortuary.’

  Downstairs, they arrived just as the men were closing the back of the van. McLusky made them slide out the body bag on its stretcher. ‘Are you ready for this?’ asked McLusky. ‘I must warn you, there was a lot of blood.’ When David took a deep breath and nodded, McLusky opened the body bag just far enough to reveal Charles Mendenhall’s face. David stared down at him for an intense moment, then turned away. McLusky had watched David’s face closely but was not sure what his expression revealed. ‘I need you to say it,’ he said to his back.

  ‘Yes, that’s my father.’ David took a few quick paces away from the van and buried his hands in his trouser pockets, hunching his shoulders.

  McLusky allowed him no more than a minute before he walked up to him. ‘I have to ask you this. Where were you last night? Let’s say between nine and midnight?’

  ‘I was in my office.’ When McLusky raised both eyebrows inquiringly, he added, ‘I run an online drinks business. There was a problem with our last import from California and I was trying to sort it out.’

  ‘Can anyone confirm that?’

  ‘No, I was alone. But I did speak to my secretary on the phone; I needed her help in finding something.’

  ‘What time did you call her?’

  ‘Look, you don’t think I killed my own father?’

  ‘We need to establish where everyone was. What time did you speak to your secretary?’

  ‘It was late. After ten.’

  McLusky nodded his thanks, looked around, took in the registration of David Mendenhall’s BMW and filed it away in his memory. ‘Get all the details off him,’ McLusky said to Austin. He gave the n
od to the coroner’s men and went around the house and into the garden where he collared one of the forensics technicians and told him to fingerprint the safe in the office and David Mendenhall’s car when the man wasn’t looking.

  Back in the quiet drawing room, McLusky stood very still. Sixty-four. Charles Mendenhall could – should – have lived another twenty years, but someone had obviously disagreed. Through the window he could see the blue-suited army of SOCOs combing the garden. Grey clouds were pushing in from the west, causing a change in the light and introducing an appropriate note of melancholy into the room. He took a last look around, then entered the studio next door. Now that the sky had darkened, it had taken on an air of sadness, too, or perhaps it was simply the knowledge that the painter who had worked here would not return that made him think so. A day’s work clearing it out, a lick of paint, and this would once more be a cheerful morning room.

  Who would be sitting in it? He had to get his hands on Charles Mendenhall’s will if he had made one. Austin joined him just as McLusky was prodding one of the overripe peaches in the bowl, sending tiny fruit flies aloft. ‘I’ve got all the details,’ the DS said. ‘His office is on a trading estate in St Philip’s, off the Feeder Road. And he gave me the names of his old man’s painting pals.’

  The door to the drawing room was ajar and McLusky could hear the clink of crockery. ‘Do you mind, Jane, while we’re within earshot? You mean his father’s artist friends.’

  Austin lowered his voice. ‘Sure, sorry.’ He nodded his head at the easel. ‘Do you think this stuff’s any good?’

  McLusky shrugged his shoulders. ‘Don’t know. Beats lights going on and off in an empty room. Let’s talk to Mrs Mohr again.’

  In the kitchen they found the gardeners sitting where they had left them. ‘Did your employer mention anything out of the ordinary to you in recent days? Anything at all?’ he asked them. Shakes of the head. ‘Everything in the garden was as it always was?’ Tony Gotts nodded, but his assistant said, ‘The greenhouse door was left open a few days ago. That’s the heated greenhouse. It’s not a clever thing to do because we’re trying to keep an even temperature in there. But otherwise no.’