Die-Cast (A Peter Marklin Mystery)

by Neville Steed

  *

  Lynch was in when I called. I got his address by phoning Lana-Lee immediately after leaving the cuddly warmth of Whetstone. Lynch’s office was, surprisingly, in Dorchester. I had expected Longhurst’s lawyer at least to have his office in Bournemouth, if not in the great Metropolis itself. But the moment I arrived, my fears about his professional standing disappeared. The premises explained all — in stone and gargoyles, mullioned windows and spacious grounds. Mr Lynch did not have far to travel to his office. He just sallied forth to the west wing of his baronial home.

  As I pulled at the ancient bell rope, I wondered who his other clients might be, who helped him live and work in such secluded splendour. One thing was for sure, they weren’t antique toy traders.

  Inside, I was greeted by a slim brunette with John Lennon glasses, who showed me through to a waiting-room, leaving me to the mercy of a dozen or so ancestors in portraits on the wall. I buried my head in a copy of Zoom from a pile of magazines on a round table, and had just turned over a page which revealed a luxurious nude lady in the most Hasselbladt of poses, when she returned. Blushing, I followed her up a lofty lavender coloured corridor to a large white door with an ‘enter’ sign above it. She dutifully knocked, then ushered me in.

  ‘Thank you, Lydia. How do you do, Mr Marklin? I’m so glad you’ve come.’

  Before I could really take him in, he had pumped my hand warmly, and led me over to a cosy grouping of armchairs to one side of his (compared to the waiting-room) fairly modestly sized office.

  ‘Miss Claudell has told me you have, as you might say, joined our side.’

  I smiled and sat down opposite him. ‘Yes, something like that.’

  ‘Good, good.’ Lynch relaxed back into his chair, but his eyes remained on red alert. I could now take stock of him, and I liked what I saw. He was shortish, but perfectly proportioned, so that his lack of height did not sing out (like Paul Newman, so I’m told, in that respect), around my age, I guessed, but with prematurely grey hair that gave him a look of maturity beyond his years — no doubt, a great asset in legal circles. But the singular impression one retained of him was his almost electric stage presence. You could almost see a very blue chip personal computer working overtime behind those eyes of his. I decided I was even more glad he was on my side than he was that I was on his.

  ‘You’ve been with Inspector Whetstone, I gather?’

  I nodded. ‘I might as well not have bothered for all I got out of him.’

  ‘Oh, the police have to be very cagey at this early stage. After all, they haven’t taken Longhurst to court yet.’

  ‘Do you think they will?’

  He sighed. ‘It looks like it, I’m afraid. You see, my client really doesn’t seem to be able to produce any evidence that he didn’t do it.’

  ‘Tell me all you’ve learnt. Whetstone won’t let me see Mr Longhurst. So you’re my only source of information.’

  ‘All right. My client has instructed me to tell you everything. It’s not very helpful, as I’ve said. But here goes. He has admitted to an affair with Miss Lana-Lee Claudell, which he states terminated more or less after her estranged husband’s return — a new state of affairs which my client obviously did not welcome or relish. However, beyond pleading his case with Miss Claudell on quite a few occasions and one unfortunate time, arriving at her home somewhat inebriated, I gather, and threatening Mr Maxwell, he maintains that he was responsible for no other reactions whatsoever, beyond loose talk at social gatherings. Certainly, he seems genuinely horrified at Maxwell’s murder and, obviously, even more shocked by his own arrest.’

  ‘Do you believe him? It’s important, you know.’

  Lynch smiled. ‘I know. I’m in one of those fortunate positions now, Mr Marklin, when I can pick and choose my clients. Very early on in my career, I was asked to take on the defence of an up-and-coming pop star who had been accused, quite unjustly, of rape. He got off. I won’t divulge his name, but he’s now one of the most successful men behind the whole pop scene. The word spread around the pop world and then show business in general. In no time at all, though my role had only been that of instructing solicitor, of course, I found I had some of the richest clients in the world, from professions where litigation, criminal or civil, seems to be as everyday an occurrence as I’m told groupies are at every stage door.’ He looked down at his well manicured, strong hands. ‘So suddenly, I was the guy to see if you had a problem in show business. In the end, it was those clients who forced me to buy a place like this, away from it all, where they could come without too much fear of instant publicity.’

  ‘And Longhurst?’ I asked.

  ‘I drew up Lana-Lee’s contract with Reinhardt perfumery. That’s how I met her. And she remembered me directly poor Adam Longhurst was detained.’

  I looked at him with a wry sort of smile. ‘I wonder why Lana-Lee didn’t appoint as high-powered a private eye? There must be quite a few of them on the ground.’

  ‘You were highly recommended.’

  ‘By some friends of a Mr Treasure, whom I...’

  ‘Did she tell you that?’ He chuckled. ‘I suppose she was just being cautious and covering for the real source of the recommendation.’

  Suddenly the whole truth hit me, and I could have kicked myself for having been so blind.

  ‘It was Inspector Blake, wasn’t it?’

  He didn’t even blink.

  ‘Tell me, when did he recommend me? Before or after Adam Longhurst was arrested?’

  ‘Before, I think. Yes, I’m sure it was.’

  The bastard. Blake had already recommended me before he came back with Arabella that evening. But why? There could only be one reason. He knew how Digger Whetstone’s mind would work or was working, and had already guessed the likely outcome — Longhurst’s arrest. So did that mean Blake thought Longhurst was unlikely to have committed the murder or what? My mind seethed with questions, all of which I knew I would have to leave unanswered until I had finished getting the information I wanted out of Sebastian Lynch. So I got back to the point immediately.

  ‘So Longhurst claims he’s innocent. You and Lana-Lee, and perhaps myself, believe him. Whetstone obviously doesn’t. So tell me what Longhurst says he was doing that night. His Range Rover was observed down by the beach at Osmington Mills at around the estimated time of the murder. Does he claim he wasn’t in it?’

  ‘No. He was in it.’ The lawyer paused, then went on, ‘Let’s go back a bit. My client had spent most of that day in London on business, seeing some Americans about shipping some cattle out. He had flown himself up to Denham airfield in his small private aircraft, then flown back, earlier than he had expected, arriving at the strip behind his house at around 6.00 p.m. Because he had not anticipated being home at that hour, he’d given his housekeeper the evening off and she had gone to her brother’s in Weymouth. There being, therefore, no evening meal prepared for him, he went out again, and I gather, drank somewhat, at the Green Pheasant over Wool way. I’ve checked on that, by the way, and I have quite a few witnesses who saw him there. Unfortunately, drink exacerbated his loathing of Maxwell once more, and he was none too cautious about his comments. They included threats, so my informants report.’

  ‘But you say, at the estimated time of the crime, he was in his car at the scene of the crime.’

  ‘That’s right,’ the lawyer sighed. ‘He was home by 9.30 p.m., says he saw some of the ten o’clock news on ITV, then as he was about to go up to bed, the phone rang. And this is the crucial bit.’

  I leaned forward as if that would help me hear better. ‘He states that a woman’s voice told him he was wanted down at Osmington Mills urgently, because there had been some kind of an argument with Maxwell near the beach.’

  ‘Did he recognize the voice?’

  ‘That’s the problem, Mr Marklin. He says he didn’t — that the woman was so hysterical it was even difficult to hear what she was saying.’

  ‘And he took off in his Range Rover to s
ee what it was all about, without knowing who the woman was, or quite what she was saying?’

  ‘I know. It doesn’t sound too convincing to me either, let alone to twelve good men and women and true.’

  I thought for a moment. ‘You reckon he knew who the woman was, don’t you?’

  The lawyer shrugged. ‘I could be wrong.’

  ‘There’s only one name that will spring instantly to the mind of the prosecution, and that’s what you’re afraid of. That’s providing they believe there ever was a woman at all, which I doubt.’

  ‘Lana-Lee.’

  ‘Lana-Lee. And if it was her, I’m pretty certain Longhurst is the kind of man who would rather get convicted than come up with her name.’

  Neither of us spoke for a while, then Lynch got up from his chair, and went over to the window.

  ‘So you see the terrible problem, Peter. Longhurst has no alibi for any of the crucial time period. And his Range Rover was at the scene of the crime.’

  ‘What did he say he did there? Why didn’t he find the body?’

  ‘He says he couldn’t find anyone on the beach at all. He did not go the whole stretch each way, because it was dark, and he didn’t have a torch. What’s more, he, quite sensibly, explains that he didn’t imagine there had been anything as gruesome as a murder, and therefore was looking for signs of activity, or at least someone, or a group of people standing up, rather than a body lying down and two-thirds hidden by rocks and stones. Don’t forget the little girl in daylight only really spotted it because of the gulls.’

  ‘Those gulls. Don’t remind me,’ I shuddered, then went on, ‘So what did he do then? Go back to his car and home?’

  ‘He sat in it for a while. About ten minutes or so, he thought. Then turned around, motored home and went to bed. The first time he knew anything about a murder was next day.’

  ‘So we both have quite a task on our hands, don’t we?’ I stared into space. ‘Longhurst has a classic motive for killing Maxwell: the beautiful femme fatale. He has a record of fairly violent behaviour, and of even more violent words. He has no real alibi. His cover story sounds too weak even to convince a doting mother, and he confesses to being at the scene of the crime around the estimated time of death. Not bad for a start, is it?’ I grinned ruefully, ‘No wonder bloody Whetstone thinks he’s on to a winner.’

  ‘He’s not won yet,’ Lynch smiled, and all the confidence in the world was back in his face. He came over and patted me on the back. ‘Cheer up,’ he added, ‘worse things happen at sea.’

  ‘Really?’ I sighed. ‘Then I’m relieved I’m not working for Cunard.’

  *

  Two hours later found me seated on a rather haemorrhoidally cold rock on the beach at Osmington Mills. For in my amateur way, I was attempting to follow what I loosely imagined would be a professional’s way of going about a murder investigation. I was absorbing the atmosphere (and some of the damp) at the scene of the crime.

  My mind, however, was not at its crispest, for Sebastian Lynch had insisted that I stay for what he described as his office ‘canteen’ lunch. Some canteen! Smoked salmon and a salad like mother used not to make, followed by a crème brulée that was tempting enough to quash the strictest of dietician’s qualms. All washed down by a modest little Sauternes that had never seen an odd bin, and a half inch of brandy served in a glass almost large enough to swim in. For myself, I’d use Lynch as a solicitor solely on the basis of his culinary credit-rating.

  The beach did little for me. I was sitting at the spot where a fisherman showed me the body had been found, but no real vibes were coming through. Just cold. The only shiver I suffered from was caused by the keen autumnal wind off the sea. And it wasn’t through lack of trying. I imagined Maxwell swishing down in the luxury of his Cadillac, parking, then strolling along the water’s edge until...I reckoned he must have been with someone, for Maxwell had not struck me as exactly the solitary stroller type, especially at dead of night. So, did he drive his companion down to the beach? If so, why a beach? Seclusion? A clandestine business meeting, or maybe it was a lover? Or did he meet his companion by arrangement on the beach? And was this person, or maybe persons, the murderer or murderers, or was some other party involved? From a brief chat to a couple of people I found walking in the tiny village, no other strange car had been seen. Just Maxwell’s Cadillac and Longhurst’s special Range Rover.

  I very speedily realised my visit was raising a load of new questions, and supplying no answers to the old ones, let alone the new. I turned my mind to Longhurst. Saw him spot the Cadillac parked. No one in it. Walk around the village, maybe, then down on to the beach. In the dark, it would be hard to see any distance as there had been no natural aids that night — like a moon. He had drunk enough to cloud both his mind and his vision, anyway. If he, truthfully, had not recognised the woman’s voice on the telephone, he would eventually, I assumed, have considered the whole matter some kind of elaborate hoax, or a mystery to be solved in the sober light of morning, and driven off home. But it would be very different if he really thought that woman was Lana-Lee. I made a mental note to check on the phone call the very next time I saw her.

  And that’s about as far as my tiny mind went that afternoon in the pleasant, but by no means sensational surroundings of that tiny village by the sea, a village that, had it not been for Maxwell’s murder, would have remained as one of Dorset’s little-known holiday spots. For, beyond a cluster or two of mobile homes that are never mobile, there are few places to stay at Osmington Mills. That is one of its charms.

  I guess, too, my brain was still preoccupied with my long-into-the-night discussion with Arabella — a discussion that had left both of us not only extravagantly tired by morning, but rather non-plussed. For we had not tackled, really, the whys and wherefores of the murder mystery itself, but rather the whys and wherefores of our involvement with it, though we really knew the answer to the latter, and it wasn’t just Lana-Lee’s blue eyes that swung it, either. It was Adam Longhurst. We just couldn’t see him as a murderer. Bully, yes; but killer, no. Nor did the prospect of ten thousand pounds influence our thoughts one iota. Arabella and I had decided we would accept no financial reward beyond the recovering of legitimate expenses, and the odd bob for any loss of trade from the Toy Emporium.

  So, after about an hour on the beach waiting in vain for some kind of inspiration to strike, I walked rather stiffly back to my Beetle, and decided, whilst I was in the area, I might as well go visiting. I drove back to the main road, and stopped at the first phone box. By a miracle it still had some of its glass left, and the phone itself actually worked — which was just as well, as I could see what was left of the phone book lying like confetti from Gulliver’s Travels along the ditch outside. Directory enquiries was coldly prompt, and I soon knew where I was going — physically, that is. It was no distance at all.

  *

  The house was very much what I had been expecting — post-war executive righteous. To describe it, as no doubt estate agents would, as neo-Georgian was wholesale flattery, and enough to make those poor old German-speaking kings of ours turn in their tombs. However, to some, no doubt, a highly desirable assembly of brick and breeze-block. Its saving grace was its setting — up a private road, and in an area liberally besprinkled with trees.

  I pulled the Beetle up the salt-and-pepper-tarmacked drive, and stopped beside an all white Escort XR4 that flashed indiscreetly in the downing sun. I regretted not having brought my sunglasses. I reckoned by the look of the place, I might have a need for them indoors as well.

  I rang the bell, and heard it Westminster chime away. I’d finished shuddering by the time she came to the door.

  ‘I’m sorry, we make it a practice not to...’ she began. Then the penny dropped. ‘Why, it’s you, Mr er...’

  I had a feeling her puzzled expression wasn’t just due to her hunt for my name. ‘Marklin.’

  ‘That’s right. Peter, isn’t it?’ A veneer of a smile came over her face. ‘I
mistook you for one of those awful door-to-door salesmen.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I grinned.

  She hesitated, then stepped aside at the doorway.

  ‘Oh, Peter, how rude of me. Do please come in.’

  I thanked her once more and entered. She went ahead of me, but looked back continually in case I got lost. The hall was as predictable in style as the house: discreet in its muted pastel colour scheme, loud in its furnishings and effects, especially the latter. I particularly hated the elephant’s foot stool and the bull’s horn dinner gong.

  ‘Come into the sitting-room, Peter. I hope you will excuse the untidiness.’

  I went in and excused it immediately. There wasn’t any. Everything was just where it should have been, that is, if some of the things had to be anywhere. In this room, I guess it was the curved copper hood over an open fire basket that scored lowest on my taste-ometer. It was shaped like the roof of a Chinese pagoda, and had little brass balls on its corners to boot. However, it was certainly a costly error.

  ‘Do sit down.’ Her green eyes looked a little less nervous now, but they still said, ‘Why the hell are you here?’

  I sat down on one of those G-Plan settees, where even the arms have separate cushions. She curled her willowy frame into a chair to match, but was careful to be careless with how much leg she showed.

  ‘I’m sorry to burst in on you like this,’ I began, but she stopped me.

  ‘Peter, burst in on me anytime. I’m delighted to see you. Our little chat that unfortunate evening wasn’t half long enough for us to get to know each other, even just a teensy bit.’