by Peter Helton
‘So someone hoping to inherit might have had quite a wait.’
‘Oh, yes. Decades. You think an heir helped matters along a bit?’ ‘It’s possible. No proof as yet. Did I hear Denkhaus say this morning that you think he bled to death?’
‘Oh, yes. He bled profusely from his neck wound.’
‘How long did it take him to die, would you say?’
‘Not long – a few minutes. And he would have been unconscious for most of the time.’
‘But no one would have shot him in the neck on purpose, would they? I mean, they would have aimed at his head, surely? Or his chest? His heart?’
‘Oh, yes. There is no good reason for aiming for the neck.’
‘If he had been killed by a professional, then there would be further bullet wounds, to make sure of the hit.’
‘Almost certainly.’
‘We’re definitely looking for an amateur, then. And an amateur who was no good with a gun. Perhaps never fired one before and might never again.’
‘Possible. Quite possible. Did you find the weapon?’
‘No. We have the bullet but it’s a ricochet and probably not much use.’
‘Pity. Do you have any suspects yet?’
‘I quite fancy the son for it. I think he got tired of waiting for the old man to pop his clogs and bought himself a gun.’
Coulthart nodded. ‘Wouldn’t be the first time. But patricide is such an invidious crime, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘She’s not been here for about three months, I should think. Well, I’ve not seen her.’ Carol Clarke, the neighbour who rented the studio flat opposite Fulvia Lamberti’s, leant against her door frame and looked down the stairs for inspiration. She was in her late twenties, had neatly cut short hair and wore minimal make-up. Also minimal clothes – a grey oversized T-shirt and electric-pink bunny-rabbit slippers. ‘Yeah, at least three months. Although she must collect her mail because that disappears every so often.’
‘Are you a student too?’ Fairfield asked.
Carol gave a snort of amusement. ‘Me? Not likely. I’m a cardiac nurse. You’d have to be quite a posh student to rent here – like Fulvia. Or a wage slave like me.’ Even the rent on an attic studio flat in Clifton Village did not come cheap.
‘Did she have a lot of friends round when she did stay here?’
‘Once or twice just after she moved in, but after that, not that I noticed.’
‘Did you have much to do with her?’
‘Nothing at all. As soon as she realized I wasn’t into art, she just nodded hello.’
Soon after Carol had closed the door behind her, the landlord’s agent arrived with the keys. She wore a navy-blue business suit, white blouse and a silk cravat of sky-blue and lemon-yellow. ‘She’s not in trouble, is she?’
‘Not that we know of.’
‘The rent is being paid regularly.’
‘Gone missing. Dad’s worried,’ Sorbie said. ‘We’ll take it from here, thanks.’ He took the keys off her.
‘Oh. Are you sure?’ She checked her watch. ‘Would you return the keys, please?’ She clacked on kitten heels down the wooden stairs. The carpet ran out a floor below the bedsits.
The flat was tiny but in good repair. It had a small kitchen with a breakfast counter and a bed-sitting room with a two-seater sofa bed and a coffee table; the kitchen was blonde wood and brushed steel, the sofa shiny faux leather. The only toiletries in the claustrophobic bathroom were an empty bottle of Italian shampoo and a bar of soap in the shower cubicle.
‘She didn’t do much cooking,’ said Fairfield, opening cupboards and looking in the oven. ‘Not a stray lentil or a grain of spilled rice.’
‘Washed her hair,’ said Sorbie, holding up the empty bottle of Trivitt shampoo. ‘When her Italian shampoo ran out, she couldn’t bear it and went back to Italia. Case solved.’
‘Why are you handling it like that, Jack? Without gloves?’
Sorbie swallowed, putting it down on the kitchen counter. ‘It’s not a crime scene, ma’am. Surely.’ Sorbie only called Fairfield ‘ma’am’ when he knew he was in the wrong.
‘We don’t know that yet. Leave it there. No point in sending anything to forensics anyway until we know a bit more. Let’s get out of here.’
‘Gladly. I can’t breathe in this pokey hole.’
McLusky checked his torch was working, switched it off again and set off down the lane. He had parked his car on the grass verge some fifty yards from the gate to Woodlea House, just as an intruder might have done, but he was very aware that any mode of transport might have brought the killer here. He walked without the aid of a torch. Cloud hung low but there was just enough ambient light to walk by if you knew where you were going. He could hear distant thunder. It had been a sticky kind of day; McLusky hoped a thunderstorm might clear the air, preferably while he was indoors keeping dry. He stopped by the gate. No light was showing in the house and the gate was locked. Last night, when Charles Mendenhall went for the last jog of his life, it had probably been a little brighter, and there may have been light showing at the house somewhere.
He briefly considered climbing the gate but did not believe an intruder would have done so, not with hundreds of yards of wall to choose from and a smaller gate at the back of the gardens, completely out of sight from the house. He walked on to the end of the wall, a considerable distance, where he turned to the right off the lane. Immediately, he needed to use his torch to light the way. High grasses advertised the uncultivated status of the fields surrounding Woodlea. He had seen the place in daylight from the lane but had not realized just how uneven the ground was. He could see where the feet of SOCOs had flattened the grass in their effort to find where an intruder might have scaled the wall, which was barely more than eight feet high here; standing on tiptoe, he could finger the top of it, but he wasn’t tempted. He scrambled along towards the dark line of trees that denoted the beginning of the wood after which the house was presumably named. Soon he found himself in the deeper darkness under the thick canopy. McLusky was no good at classifying trees but even he recognized some of them as oaks. Several grew close enough for their branches to overhang the wall which soon came to an end. Turning right, he struck a faint path which brought him to the back gate. It was narrow and fashioned from wrought iron, its lower half reinforced with fine chicken wire, to keep the rabbits out. But McLusky was no rabbit. Despite having to hold on to the torch, he had no problem climbing up and over the gate. He let himself drop to the ground on the other side.
His landing coincided with another growl of thunder, much closer now. ‘Cue eerie string music,’ he said out aloud.
The sound of his feet on the gravelled path grated noisily in his ears. He stepped off it and walked on the grass instead, aiming diagonally towards the site of Charles Mendenhall’s murder. He walked slowly – prowled along, as the killer might have done.
You walked in the gathering dusk without a light, quietly, the gun in your hand, heavy, unfamiliar but reassuring. You knew Mendenhall’s routine, knew he would come this way, every night. But it was getting late. Would he not come, tonight of all nights, tonight when you were ready for him?
McLusky swept the torch from side to side, trying to get his bearings. There was the group of trees. The shadow of a figure jumped across the grass to his left and McLusky pointed his torch at the movement like a gun, his heartbeat accelerating. It was the statue of Hebe, life-size, holding up some sort of dish. If he had held a gun, not a torch, he might have fired at it in surprise. The thought made him pause beside the statue; he laid one hand on her cool arm. What if you did not come to kill him? What if you fired at him because he surprised you? That might explain the awkward and inefficient wound. But then why were you here? Why did you carry a gun around with you in the first place? Were you scared of him? Was he dangerous to you?
The patch of grass where Mendenhall had died was almost black with dried blood. Did you leave him to bleed into the lawn, convinced death had been
dealt or else indifferent to the outcome? Or did you stand and watch until the man’s last struggling breath, until the last drop and bubble of blood had drained from his fatal wound and all signs of life had extinguished? Did you stand in the dark and listen or did you watch the stream of blood turn to a trickle by the light of your torch?
That would have been risky. The shot might have been heard. Yet shots were common in the countryside and the handgun would have sounded like the small calibre rifle of a man going after a rabbit.
The first drops of rain fell noisily in a heavy pattern around him, glittering in the concentric rings of torch light. He had a swift look about in all directions, then turned towards the back gate. Lightning flickered overhead, swiftly followed by thunder and a deluge of rain. By the time he reached the gate, he was drenched and his thoughts went to the virginal umbrella standing furled in his office. Climbing the gate was more effort in the rain and he splashed heavily on to the ground on the other side. Even before he had a chance to straighten up, he was grabbed from behind and pushed hard against the gate. His assailant tried to wrest the torch from him, but McLusky kicked out backwards and followed it up with a swing of the heavy rubberized torch at his opponent’s face while both shouted a simultaneous ‘Police!’ at the other. It took another couple of seconds for the situation to sink in and the struggle to subside. McLusky shone his light at his assailant and saw that he was indeed a bareheaded PC wearing his stab vest.
The constable was now also shining a torch into his face and at the ID McLusky held up. PC Matthew Sharp, known as Sharpie to his colleagues, relaxed at last and rubbed the side of his face where McLusky’s torch had made contact. ‘Sorry, sir, we hadn’t been told there would be an officer here. A neighbour on his way home spotted a man with a torch making his way along the wall and reported it. Understandably, considering what happened here.’
McLusky’s shoulder ached from where he had been thrown against the gate and he was now in an uncharitable mood. ‘You could have called out a challenge before wading in like that,’ he growled at him. More lightning flashed above. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here before we both drown.’ He directed his torch beam at the constable’s face for a last look, as though to better remember him. That man, he decided, would have quite a bruise in the morning. Then he turned away.
‘Yes, sir. Sorry about this.’ Sharp didn’t really know what he was apologizing for; it was all the inspector’s fault for prowling around here after dark without telling anyone. McLusky. He had heard of him, of course. So that’s what he looked like. Strange eyes, he thought. And he could definitely do with a haircut.
FOUR
McLusky’s shoulder retained some memory of the event the next day as he drove down the A4 towards Bath to keep an appointment with – he glanced at the display on his mobile again – Nicholas Longmaid, one of Mendenhall’s painting friends. He would go and see both of his painting buddies but he wanted to start with Longmaid because he was mentioned in Mendenhall’s will and was about to inherit all of the dead man’s paintings. Not that McLusky thought this enough of a motive since most of them were by the trio, but then, as Austin had pointed out, painters were usually a weird lot. And, he had added, talking of weird, did McLusky know that DI Fairfield went to art classes? It was news to him, but then Fairfield tended to keep her private life to herself, except when extremely drunk, an event McLusky had witnessed only once.
His mobile chimed just as he turned off the A4 towards the village of Corston where Longmaid lived. He pulled over, answered it and stepped out of the car to stretch his legs. ‘Yes, Jane?’
‘I’ve got the background checks on the staff at Woodlea.’
‘Please tell me Mrs Mohr’s last employer died in mysterious circumstances.’
‘I’m afraid not. Pure as the driven. But you’ll like the gardeners; we know both of them.’
‘Marvellous. Let’s have it.’ He shook a cigarette from a packet and lit it, shielding the flame of his lighter from the fresh summer breeze.
‘Anthony Gotts has form, mainly receiving stolen goods but also ABH and GBH. He was on parole during the last offence so did twenty-two months for the latter. Got out four years ago; nothing on file since.’
‘What about the girl?’
‘Emma Lucket is all drugs and theft. She got away with community service even though she nutted the security guard who was trying to stop her from running from the shop with a CD player. Broke his nose. Nothing on the computer for the last two years.’
‘That’s gardening for you.’
‘And we have a preliminary on the recovered bullet, they’re pretty certain it was fired from a thirty-eight but nothing beyond that – too mangled.’
‘Marvellous, ta.’
The Longmaids’ house – or ‘residence’ as McLusky mentally corrected himself when he saw it – was a large Georgian villa on the outskirts of Corston, south of the A39. It sat in landscaped gardens of a similar size to those of Woodlea, but here no walls enclosed the property; instead, low wooden fences let the countryside bleed into the views across the garden. A herd of red Friesian cows grazed in the distance as though sketched in by a landscape artist to enliven the greenery.
McLusky parked his own car on the gravelled forecourt next to an even older black Mercedes in immaculate condition – circa 1960, he guessed. On the other side of it stood a small red two-seater Mazda, roof down, pointing towards the road as though impatient to get away. It was the owner of the sports car – Nicholas Longmaid’s wife, Jennifer – who opened the door to him long before he had reached it. Jennifer Longmaid looked to be in her mid-forties; she had expertly dyed blonde hair and was as tall as McLusky. She wore a startlingly short black skirt, black tights and shoes and a shimmering charcoal-grey top. Inch-thick silver graced her earlobes, neck and wrist. ‘You must be Inspector McLusky,’ she said. She extended a manicured and beringed hand in greeting, which took McLusky by surprise; not many people offered to shake hands with police officers. He took it with only the smallest hesitation. She looked past him. ‘My husband will approve of your car, I’m sure.’ The tone of her voice strongly suggested that she herself had no interest in classic cars. ‘Please come in.’ She stood aside. There was plenty of room even had she not done so; everything at Stanmore House was large – large and antique.
Antiques were everywhere, yet Stanmore House was not furnished with antiques like other venerable homes might be: it was stuffed, crammed and cluttered with antiques. Nicholas Longmaid was an antiques dealer and obviously took his work home with him. ‘My husband is in his studio; I’ll take you to him.’ She led him swiftly through a drawing room dominated by a bulky if partially broken stone figure that looked vaguely Babylonian to McLusky – or was it Assyrian he meant? Other antiques stood, lay and hung everywhere; the closed grand piano was virtually buried under figurines, clocks, china and silverware. They were walking on old Persian carpets, some of which had smaller rugs lying on top of them. There was not a speck of dust in evidence. He followed Jennifer Longmaid’s legs out into the garden. It was large but had a soulless air, designed to match the stark symmetrical grandeur of the Georgian architecture. McLusky was being led to a low timbered building with a large skylight in its low-pitched slate roof, forty yards from the main building among a group of beech trees. Jennifer entered without knocking. ‘Darling, Inspector McLusky is here, and he is on time,’ she said pointedly. To McLusky she said, ‘Once in his studio, my husband would forget to eat if I did not remind him.’
The studio was spacious and bright. On the outside it looked as if it had been built in the early twentieth century; its interior, however, was even more fiercely nostalgic than Charles Mendenhall’s. Everything in here looked authentically nineteenth century. There were many paintings, mostly still lifes and some landscapes. They too looked as if they would have felt more at home in the nineteenth century than the twenty-first.
Nicholas Longmaid was slim, tall and almost completely bald; what remained of
his hair was trimmed to no more than a stubble. He had a deeply lined, intelligent face and wore delicate-looking round, rimless glasses. His blue painting smock, which he wore over a white shirt and tie, was covered in multicoloured streaks of oil paint. ‘I’m so sorry, Inspector; once ensconced in here, I lose all sense of time.’
McLusky knew this to be a lie – no one forgot an appointment with a police inspector investigating a murder, let alone the murder of a friend. It was therefore a pose: Nicholas Longmaid wanted to be found deeply engrossed in the artistic side of his life. McLusky nodded understandingly.
‘I won’t shake hands,’ said Longmaid, wiping his stained fingers on his painting smock. ‘Excuse me for a moment while I get myself cleaned up.’ He retreated to the back of the studio where he disappeared through a door.
‘Charles being killed like that – I don’t know what to say,’ said Jennifer. ‘Thank God Yvonne wasn’t alive to witness this. It was so sad about his wife dying and now Charles is gone too.’ She shook her head, looking bewildered and close to tears. ‘It’s so inexplicable! Who would want to kill him? And what for? Was there a robbery at the house?’
‘Not as far as we could establish.’
‘The officer who called to make the appointment would not say how Charles was killed.’
‘He was shot, with a handgun. You don’t keep any handguns at your house?’
‘What are you suggesting?’ she asked. ‘That we shot him?’
‘No, he’s not, Jenny,’ said Nicholas Longmaid. He had returned minus his painting gear and with clean hands, but he did not offer a handshake. His shirt was spotless. ‘The police have to ask questions like that of everybody. Isn’t that right, Inspector?’
‘A lot of uncomfortable and intrusive questions have to be asked in investigations of this kind,’ confirmed McLusky.
‘I’m afraid we don’t know anything about Mendy’s murder,’ said Longmaid. ‘It came as a great shock, I can tell you.’
