Soft Summer Blood

by Peter Helton

  The door flew open with a red-faced Poulimenos filling the opening. ‘What the fuck? How did you get in here?’

  ‘I couldn’t get an answer so I climbed the wall. I have bad news, I’m afraid. Nicholas Longmaid is dead.’

  Poulimenos punched him hard in the face, knocking him to the ground. For a moment McLusky was stunned by the force of the blow, then he came to his senses and scrambled to his feet, ready to defend himself, but Poulimenos stood dumbfounded, rubbing the hand that had dealt the blow, looking almost as surprised as McLusky. ‘Sorry. Don’t know why I did that. You’re bleeding. Come inside.’ He turned and went in himself.

  McLusky gingerly dabbed at his nose and came away with blood. He didn’t think it was broken, but it produced a lively pain and so did his left cheek. ‘Marvellous.’

  Once McLusky had followed him inside, Poulimenos fussed around him until he was seated in a chair at the long table with a damp cloth to wipe off the blood and a glass of single malt in front of him. ‘Liquid inspiration. I always keep a bottle handy. Do you want me to get you some ice?’

  ‘I take it straight.’

  ‘For your face. It’ll be quite a bruise, I’m afraid. I can’t apologize enough. I don’t know what made me do it. The shock. Not Nick too. What’s going on? How was he killed?’

  ‘He was shot. Shot in the back of the head while he was kneeling in front of his safe.’ He should be withholding this information until Poulimenos had been eliminated as a suspect, but he felt a strange urge to share it with the man.

  ‘That sounds like he was executed. But why? Why those two? Damn it, I thought I’d had enough to drink but I was wrong.’ He fetched another glass and poured himself a large measure of Laphroaig from the bottle on the table. He took a generous swig and set the glass down heavily. ‘What the fuck is going on, Inspector? Someone has killed off both my painting buddies. Does that mean I am to be next?’

  McLusky sipped his whisky more cautiously. ‘You might want to review your security arrangements and be careful who you open the door to. Did you know it was me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I could have been someone carrying a thirty-eight. Your freestone walls are climbed easily. I can arrange for police protection until we apprehend the killer.’

  ‘No thanks, Inspector. I’m not going to barricade myself in. Do you really think someone will come after me as well?’

  ‘Since I don’t know why your friends were killed, I can’t answer that. Do you perhaps have another place where you can stay? One not generally known? Relatives?’

  ‘I have a sister. She married a Greek Australian and lives in Melbourne. And I do have a house in Cornwall. But I’m not running away, either. Anyway, whoever killed Nick and Mendy knew enough about them to get close to them. They probably know about Rosslyn Crag, too.’

  ‘That’s your place in Cornwall?’

  He nodded. ‘Port Isaac.’

  McLusky leant back in his chair and swilled the oily liquid around his glass. ‘Let’s stay with the seaside for a moment. Tell me about Ben Kahn.’

  For a moment the Greek’s eyes widened as he stared past McLusky, then he swiped the glass from the table and drained it, refilled it and swigged some more before answering. ‘Yes. We were a quartet of mad painters. And now there is one mad painter.’

  ‘Ben Kahn drowned, isn’t that right? Where?’

  Poulimenos nodded. ‘Cornwall,’ he said hoarsely.

  ‘How?’

  ‘No one knows, though we were all there on that boat.’

  ‘Whose boat was it?’

  ‘Oh, we had hired it for the day, with a skipper, so we could paint the coast from the sea. Not a viewpoint you see very often. It was a warm day; we were all in shorts and swimming trunks. We had painted all morning, a view of Daymer Bay from seaward, had put in at Rock for lunch and painted some more in the afternoon. It was after seven when we decided to head back …’

  ‘Back where?’

  ‘Port Isaac. We were all staying at Rosslyn Crag that summer. On our way back up north, a wind sprang up. It was getting a little choppy but nothing out of the ordinary – by no means towering waves, you know; you could still have swum in it, near the boat. We were nearly home; I had put on more clothes because the wind made it a bit chilly. Then all of a sudden Ben was in the water. There was a lot of shouting and the skipper stopped the engine. I was on the starboard side with my things. I rushed to the port side and could just see Ben, already some thirty, forty yards off. The skipper turned the boat around, but Ben had vanished. He had simply slid under without a trace.’

  ‘Did anyone go in after him?’

  ‘We didn’t. By then we had no idea where exactly he had gone in; the boat was dancing about and there was no sign of him. We had thrown the lifesaver overboard but it was just bobbing uselessly on the water. We were panicking. It seemed to take forever to turn the boat about. The skipper informed the coastguard, but it took them a long time to get there, of course, and they turned up nothing.’

  ‘The body?’

  ‘His body was never found. There was some kind of investigation. The Cornish police interviewed all of us, but it was obvious it was some sort of freak accident. He’d fallen in or jumped in.’

  ‘Had you been drinking? As a group, I mean.’

  ‘We had had plenty of wine with our lunch – and it was a long lunch.’ He gave a mirthless chuckle. ‘We had another couple of bottles or so in the afternoon. Not the skipper – he was sober, as far as I know. He was devastated to lose a passenger. We were all devastated. Ben was … he was definitely the best painter of the four of us. Without him, it all changed. We were never the same again, us boys.’

  ‘Just how boyish were you then?’

  ‘It was seventeen years ago. Bloody middle-aged, but it looks like youthfulness from where I’m sitting now. Until then we took it all for granted – we were all well off, we had talent and we had friendship. His death changed everything. It became a time of legend, like someone else’s past. I think that ever since that day all of us have been looking backwards, not forwards. Why your interest in Ben? It couldn’t have anything to do with this.’

  McLusky drummed his fingers on the table. ‘I admit to a prejudice against people who disappear at sea and whose bodies don’t turn up.’

  ‘Ben didn’t fake his own death! That’s preposterous. Why? To what end? And we were all there.’

  ‘But you came back without him. He was the first of you four to die. His death may have nothing to do with the two recent killings, but you can’t expect me to ignore it. Do you remember the name of the investigating officer?’

  Poulimenos pulled a face. ‘It was seventeen bloody years ago.’ He made a show of searching his mind. ‘Wordsworth or Wandsworth or some such name.’

  ‘I think it’s time I had another look at Ben Kahn’s death. It seems like too much of a coincidence.’

  Poulimenos appeared to consider this for a moment and then he became more lively. ‘Well, if you are going to Cornwall to look into it, you might as well stay right where it happened – at Rosslyn.’ He reached for a bunch of keys and proceeded to twirl a Yale key with a red plastic cover off the split ring. When he slid it across the table, it clinked against McLusky’s glass.

  ‘I didn’t say I was going to go down there myself,’ McLusky said, not touching the key.

  ‘Shame. You’d be doing me a favour.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Haven’t been there yet this year. You could give the place a good airing.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry I hit you. Why not allow me to make it up to you? Take the key, have a holiday at Rosslyn Crag. It’s got great views of Port Isaac and the sea. There’s a few bottles there I won’t miss, I doubt I’ll go down there this year. You’re going to say that’s bribery again, right?’

  ‘You’ve answered your own question.’ McLusky picked up the key and twirled it between his fingers until it escaped his grasp a
nd clattered back on to the table. ‘Where were you yesterday between ten and twelve midday?’

  ‘Yesterday? You mean he was killed yesterday and you left it until today to tell me?’

  ‘We get quite busy with hunting for killers when we find people shot in the head. Where were you yesterday between ten and twelve?’

  ‘I was here. I didn’t get up until after ten. I had a headache.’

  ‘Did anyone see you?’

  ‘No, I don’t have an alibi for the time and I don’t need one. Nick was one of my best friends. I did not kill him. Perhaps you should speak to his wife.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘How did she take Nick’s death?’

  ‘Quite well, I believe.’

  ‘I bet she did.’

  McLusky dabbed his nose; it had stopped bleeding. He drained the last drop of whisky from his glass and got up. Poulimenos remained seated, looking down at the table, dull and deflated. When McLusky pocketed the key to Rosslyn Crag, he smiled briefly and, without looking up, said, ‘Goodbye, Inspector. Thank you for coming in person to let me know.’

  ‘I thought it best. Do I have to climb the wall again to get out?’

  ‘Simple. Because you didn’t bloody ask.’ Gotts was on his hands and knees checking the connections on the automated watering system for the long border in the Mendenhall garden. He was talking to McLusky’s legs beside him. ‘I’m a gardener, not a bloody psychic. How was I to know that Mr Longmaid would be bumped off next? If you wanted to know who else we work for, you should have asked for my client list.’

  ‘Are you by any chance working for a Mr Poulimenos too?’

  ‘Who?’

  McLusky, who had finally caught up with Gotts and Lucket at Woodlea House where Austin had tracked them down, felt angrier than he had for a long time. The urge to kick Gotts on the behind he was presenting to him was strong.

  ‘There, found the bugger,’ said Gotts and levered himself upright. ‘Loose connection.’

  ‘I’m happy for you.’ McLusky stomped off towards the house, knowing that he was being unreasonable out of frustration but keeping his resentment well stoked for David Mendenhall, who was inside the house but had let it be known that he would not speak to the police without a solicitor. He squinted against the bright sunshine and thought he could see David watching him from behind one of the French windows; he made a beeline for it. He was right: David had been standing there, watching the inspector cross the lawn. McLusky walked up to the double doors so fast it looked as though he would walk straight through the glass without stopping. He practically threw himself against them, rattled the door knob, then cupped his hands against the glass to better see inside. ‘Open up, Mendenhall, I need to talk to you.’ He could just make David out standing by the door at the other end of the room, staring, not moving. He kicked the wooden frame of the French windows, making the glass rattle. ‘Open the bloody door, David, or I’m taking you in for questioning.’ David disappeared from view.

  He jogged quickly to the front of the house in case Mendenhall tried to leave that way. Earlier, he had thoughtfully parked his car so close to David’s that it would cause maximum inconvenience. Seeing no one, he thumbed his radio and requested transport for one prisoner. ‘And make it a nice big van.’ Then he worked the bell until the door opened a fraction and Mrs Mohr’s frown appeared in the narrow gap. ‘I need to speak to David, Mrs Mohr.’

  She was trying to stand her ground. ‘He won’t speak to you, not without a lawyer. He said to tell you.’

  McLusky, who was certain David was lurking just around the corner, allowed himself a malevolent smile and pushed the door wide open. ‘Then would you kindly tell him that I am here to arrest him for the murders of Charles Mendenhall and Nicholas Longmaid?’

  All the colour left her face and she looked uncertainly over her shoulder. David appeared in the hall behind the housekeeper. ‘You’re mental, McLusky. My lawyer is going to make mincemeat of you.’

  ‘Know a good criminal lawyer, do you? That’s very forward-thinking of you. David Mendenhall, I’m arresting you for …’ He rattled off the caution and handcuffed the man who was swearing and threatening him. Mendenhall stared in disbelief at the handcuffs as though he had found someone else’s hands at the end of his wrists.

  Control had been as good as their word and had sent a malodorous van whose holding cage was still redolent of last night’s puking public-order prisoners. David complained loudly and appeared to contemplate resisting, but McLusky had disappeared as soon as two muscular officers, utterly inured to threats and complaints, had taken charge of him. McLusky followed the van down the drive, watched from behind a window by Mrs Mohr. The van drove at a sedate pace, giving him plenty of time to mull over events and come to the conclusion that he had acted in anger and that arresting David had not been one of his better ideas.

  DSI Denkhaus agreed. ‘Could you not have waited until he came in to make a statement with his solicitor? You have to entertain the possibility that the son is completely innocent and therefore a victim in this crime. Have you looked at it from that side? Your father is murdered and the police arrest you for it.’

  ‘He had no intention of coming in and making a statement, and when he said he wouldn’t talk to us “without his solicitor present”, he meant he wasn’t going to talk to us at all.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘He doesn’t have a solicitor. Nor did he make any effort to find one. We let him call his late father’s and they were not at all keen to represent him, it seems. He’s waiting for the duty solicitor now.’

  The superintendent waved a hand, indicating he could go. ‘OK, but go easy and by the book. If he’s not involved in his father’s death, he’ll inherit enough money to make a nuisance of himself.’

  ‘He’s already threatened to sue me for wrongful arrest, make mincemeat out of me and promised me that my career is finished.’

  ‘Not quite finished,’ said Denkhaus when McLusky had left his office. ‘More like stalled at the bottom of a steep hill, I’d say.’

  In Interview Room One, McLusky soon admitted to himself that the interrogation had run on utterly predictable lines. It had taken two hours for the solicitor to turn up, nearly another hour while the solicitor, a short, blue-suited man called Green, had been closeted with his new client. By the time David, Green, McLusky and Austin sat down beside the rolling tape machine, it was late and McLusky was as irritable as David Mendenhall. He leant back on his chair, stared at David with undisguised loathing and let Austin do all the talking.

  ‘You said in your statement that at the time of your father’s death you were working and that you called your secretary from your office just after ten. Is that correct?’

  ‘If you say so. I really can’t remember. So much has happened since then.’

  Austin tapped the file in front of him. ‘It’s here in your statement. However, when we spoke to Sandra Lucas, your secretary, she told us that you told her in that phone call that you were at the office but she could hear noises that she described as a pub door opening and closing with music and voices.’

  ‘Yes, I called her from outside the Red Lion; it’s down the road from the office. I didn’t say I was at the office; I said I’d been at the office. And I went back there, too. I only went for a swift pint because I was thirsty; we were out of teabags at the office.’

  ‘So you weren’t, for example, standing outside the Coach and Horses? Which is five minutes away from your father’s house, calling your secretary, pretending you were at the office to give yourself an alibi, however feeble, for the time of your father’s murder?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Your secretary said the file you pretended not to be able to find was almost impossible to mislay in an office and, let’s face it, a business of that size.’

  ‘I’m not very good with paperwork.’

  ‘What are you good with, Mr Mendenhall?’

  ‘What kind of a question is that?’r />
  ‘Moving on …’

  Asked for his whereabouts during the most likely time of Nicholas Longmaid’s murder, David said he was aimlessly driving around in the countryside, to help him think about recent events and how his life might change. ‘How convenient. And naturally you didn’t drive past a single CCTV camera. You didn’t stop anywhere? Speak to anyone? Buy anything?’ David Mendenhall hadn’t.

  It was nearly eight o’clock when McLusky left Albany Road station and drove home. He was irritable and hungry and needed a drink, but he would be sensible and eat before having a couple of pints at the Barge Inn, the pub opposite his flat in Northampton Street. When he reached his front door, he found a large package and some letters on the doormat where the Rossis often left his mail. Not remembering having ordered anything, he approached the package with caution. He was relieved to see that it appeared to have been delivered by Royal Mail, which meant it was unlikely to explode when picked up – McLusky had a certain expertise in packages that did.

  He dropped the letters on to the coffee table and turned the rectangular package round and round in his hands. It was relatively light for its size. There was no sign of the sender’s name and the postmark was illegible. He fetched a knife and slid open the packaging and found copious amounts of bubble wrap. He soon guessed what he was unwrapping: a canvas by Leonidas Poulimenos. It was the painting he had pointed to when the painter had pressed him to express a preference – a sunny seascape, with parts of the coast visible and the tiny figure of a swimmer in the water. There was no note, just the painting. He propped the canvas up at one end of the sofa and sat in the opposite corner. He would have to give it back to him, naturally, or it would become a disciplinary matter should it be discovered, but why had Poulimenos, who knew this, sent it anyway?

  He leant forward to examine the painting, nose close to the canvas, angling the surface so that maximum light fell on it. He thought the swimmer was a blonde-haired man, or else a broad-shouldered topless woman. There was no face; the whole figure was cleverly composed from just five or six brushstrokes. He really did like the painting. It would do his empty white wall good to have a splash of joyous colour on it. He turned the canvas around. Poulimenos had signed it on the back and dated it: 1998. McLusky swivelled it round again, looked at the lone figure. ‘Hello, Ben,’ he said aloud. ‘Waving or drowning?’