Die-Cast (A Peter Marklin Mystery)

by Neville Steed

  ‘Did Lana-Lee see any of all this?’

  ‘No, or so she states. She put it all down to Ben’s drug-ridden past catching up with him. She even toyed with the thought he might be getting some kind of brain tumour.’

  ‘Did she sound sympathetic?’

  ‘No, not really. Why should she be? There was obviously no love lost between them.’

  ‘To hell with bed sheets,’ I almost shouted. ‘There’s still that bloody great other mystery, isn’t there?’

  ‘Why Lana-Lee allowed him back?’

  ‘Precisely. She claims the reason could have nothing to do with Maxwell’s death, so she won’t out with it. Or, at least, she won’t tell me.’

  ‘She may be telling the truth.’

  ‘Everybody may be telling the truth. Then again, everybody may be lying.’

  Arabella smoothed my brow. ‘Been one of those days, hasn’t it? Now tell me again about Elizabeth Sumner. I couldn’t take it all in while Gus was gargling with the Sauternes.’

  ‘Do I have to?’

  ‘Have to, or...’ She made a ‘no’ wiggle with her finger.

  ‘In that case,’ I laughed, ‘here goes. Miss Elizabeth Sumner turned out to be a rather plain girl with greasy hair, in an extra long kaftan to hide all the scars and warts on her body caused by multiple mid-air collisions...’

  We got to bed very shortly after that.

  *

  I had fully absorbed Sexton Blake’s advice, and was not trying to make four out of two plus two just yet, or even work out if I had any numbers to juggle with. Instead, I suggested to Arabella we take a few tenners out of Gus’s sales of the previous morning, and treat ourselves to a sprauncy Sunday lunch somewhere over Lyme Regis way (Arabella had never visited the place). En route, we could stroll along Charmouth beach and catch a glimpse of Golden Cap — old childhood playgrounds of mine, of fond and loving memory.

  So we stowed ourselves in her Golf, just in case it rained (of course, when you take precautions, it never does), and did just that. Dorset is great to explore at any time, but particularly now that the tourists had gone. Arabella loved Charmouth (bright girl) and was pretty enchanted with the little harbour town-cum-village of Lyme Regis, except for its precipitously steep hill, which we were silly enough to climb after we had absorbed the culinary (and alcoholic) delights of its highest-starred hostelry. Her only disappointment was that she didn’t get to meet its most famous inhabitant, John Fowles, but I did take a photo of her on the cob, pretending to be a very short-haired Meryl Streep in the French Lieutenant’s Woman.

  The mental benefit of the day came when we had rolled home in the evening, had a bite of left-overs, and were relaxing in front of a non-turned on telly. For suddenly, in answer to a question from Arabella, I seemed to know what my next course of action must be without really, consciously that is, having thought about it. Her question was, what was I going to do this coming week? The answer, quick as a flash, was, ‘See Whetstone. Get to see Longhurst. See Lavinia again. Then, maybe, see Saunders...’ And then I laughed.

  ‘Why are you laughing?’ Arabella asked, somewhat bemused.

  ‘I sound so definite, don’t I? As if I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘Perhaps you do.’

  ‘Maybe. Or maybe they’re just the only people I know.’

  This time she grinned, and then reminded me, ‘You must leave time to see Mr Muir. Isn’t it Flamingo time on Wednesday, or thereabouts?’

  I nodded, but somehow I didn’t feel like saying anything.

  ‘Come on, Peter, why aren’t you jumping up and down? Wednesday will be a great day, won’t it? You shouldn’t let the Maxwell affair ruin every private pleasure.’

  I put my arm round her shoulder, and gave a little hug. ‘I don’t, do I?’ I smiled weakly. ‘I suppose it’s just because Muir is a bit of a self-righteous bore. Holier than thou, and certainly far holier than me. Seeing the Flamingo is exciting enough, but, unfortunately, I have to see him with it. And his wife, if anything, seems worse — or is it better?’

  ‘Depends on where you’re standing.’ She turned to face me. ‘Anyway, Mr Marklin, I feel like a spare wotsit at a wedding in all this business. Isn’t there anything I can do?’

  ‘Yes. Keep tabs on Lana-Lee. Filter what I’m doing through to her. You know, the odd phone call...’

  ‘...And, on the odd visit...’ She was one step ahead of me.

  ‘...keep digging away at why she allowed that bum Maxwell back. It may be irrelevant, or it may be key. Either which way, we ought to know.’

  Arabella saluted. ‘I’ll do that, sir. Right away, sir.’ She rose from the settee, more’s the pity.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To put myself in the hands of the receiver,’ she winked. And a moment later, I heard the ‘ding’ as she began dialling. In the immediate short term, I regretted ever having opened my mouth.

  *

  ‘I don’t know why you’re still at it, Mr Marklin.’ Digby Whetstone’s undersized moustache curled with amusement, and he lolled back in his creaking chair, the essence of a self-satisfied man. ‘The case against Longhurst is incontrovertible. Besides being observed at the scene of the crime...’

  ‘His car,’ I corrected.

  ‘Okay. His Range Rover. Besides that, he had the perfect motive, Lana-Lee, and the most imperfect alibi in the world. Like he doesn’t have one. He has a track record of violence. There was more than one example on his army records, for instance. The first one he got away with, because it was only against an NCO, I guess. The second one, he didn’t. We have evidence from about twenty-five people that Longhurst has expressed his hatred of Maxwell on numerous occasions, and actual threats to his life on many.’

  ‘What about the phone call?’

  ‘What phone call? You don’t believe that story, do you? It’s just about the weakest concoction I’ve ever heard.’

  ‘Maybe that’s why it might be true,’ I countered.

  Digby’s chins wobbled as he laughed. ‘You’ve been reading too much detective fiction, Mr Marklin. This is real life.’

  I decided to risk a googly. ‘Does Inspector Blake agree with you?’

  Digby lolled forward again, and put his elbows on the worn plastic of his desk top. His moustache now curled the other way.

  ‘Mr Marklin, I must warn you that you will get no co-operation from us whatsoever if you start getting impertinent.’

  ‘I thought it was pertinent,’ I couldn’t resist saying. ‘For why can’t Maxwell’s murder be connected with his international drug smuggling rackets, past and present, rather than with this domestic triangle, which seems to be mesmerising you?’

  Digby Whetstone pursed his lips, and I knew I was about to receive a great truth.

  ‘I get your point, Mr Marklin. You think that Inspector Blake disagrees with me because he has been investigating an international drug smuggling operation, and therefore, might like to link Maxwell’s death with something larger than a lover/husband domestic triangle.’ He stopped for a second and looked at me. I didn’t bother to point out his error. ‘Now let me inform you, Mr Amateur Detective, that when you’ve been dealing with crime as long as my colleague and I have, you know that most murders are unplanned, often unpremeditated, and overwhelmingly domestic. Great plots and intricate schemes belong to fiction, not to fact. And international scheming is even rarer, unless you’re dealing with terrorism, which we are patently not.’ He lolled back again, and rubbed his chubby hands together. ‘Unless, of course, you’re trying to prove that Maxwell was actually killed by Colonel Gaddafi.’ His burst of laughter made him cough, I’m glad to report.

  When the spluttering had stopped, I said, ‘All right, I’ll admit statistics may prove that most murders are for bad old domestic reasons, but you often need exceptions to prove a rule.’

  ‘Semantics,’ Whetstone beamed, then looked at his watch. ‘Anything more you want to know, Marklin? I’ve got more on my plate than this open and shu
t case. There’s been another attempted child abduction.’

  I raised my eyebrows, then lowered them again. For I had been about to tell Whetstone about Tara-Lee and the ghost; then decided to hold it for Blake. In his present mood, Digby would probably equate ghosts with Colonel Gaddafi. So I went back to a question I had been about to ask before he mentioned the child abduction.

  ‘Tell me, Inspector, about the injuries to Maxwell’s head?’

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Oh, it’s just to help me sort out in my own mind whether the killer was a man or a woman.’

  Whetstone looked surprised, then smiled. ‘Oh — very professional of you, Mr Marklin. The first sensible thing I’ve heard you say. And I’m glad you asked, because in all our views, the murder is likely to have been committed by a man.’

  ‘Can you tell me why?’

  ‘The nature of the injuries. If they had just been to the back of the head, we might have guessed either sex because, though he was tall, he could have been sitting down or crouching when he was attacked, thus allowing quite a short person to bash his head with a rock.’

  ‘Found the rock?’

  ‘No. It must have been thrown into the sea. We’ve combed the whole beach. But it’s the facial injuries, mainly to the mouth, that make us think it must have been a man.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, they were very violent. His whole mouth and jaw were smashed. We found some of his teeth in the back of his throat, for instance.’

  ‘And you don’t think a woman would have been able to cause that kind of injury?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. It’s a question of likelihood. In my experience, both direct and vicarious, women may kill but they tend not to beat up and batter their victims like the male of the species. They lash out and leave it at that.’

  ‘And you think Longhurst is a batterer?’

  ‘Got the temper, and the strength for it. And a bit of a track record, short of death — up to Maxwell, that is.’

  ‘What killed him, or can’t you tell? The attack on the head, I assume?’

  Whetstone nodded. ‘Your assumption is ours too. The blow on the back of the head would have been fatal — the facial injuries probably not.’

  ‘So whoever killed Maxwell...’ Whetstone chuckled, but I continued, ‘...must have hated him with a vengeance.’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘And you think that Longhurst hated him that much? I mean, he may have a reputation for violence and threatening behaviour, but it was all spur of the moment stuff, wasn’t it? Flash of temper, regretted a second later.’

  ‘You forget one thing, Mr Marklin. Adam Longhurst had never fallen in love before in his life. He is forty. Lana-Lee Claudell is not only famous but rich, and, without question, one of the most sexually desirable women any man of his age could contemplate as a mate. Put all those factors together, and you have a powerful set of triggers for Longhurst’s violent reaction to Maxwell’s unexpected return. I can see him sitting in his Art Deco palace of a farmhouse, building up the grudge, stoking his ire, developing an unbelievable level of resentment and hatred for Maxwell, as he imagined his lover resuming her relationship with her ex-husband, resuming it at all levels of intimacy, or so I’m sure his fevered imagination would have had it. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying Longhurst plotted the murder for weeks. I don’t think he is that kind of person. But the hatred built up over that period to a point where, maybe, he met Maxwell by accident, say, then asked him to go somewhere with him to thrash out the whole affair. They both motor down to Osmington Mills beach; begin talking. The argument gets heated. Longhurst loses his temper, the pent up hatred and resentment is released in a fury of blows with a rock. All he knows is that he wants to obliterate every feature of the man who, so unexpectedly, came between him and the love of his life. And what more satisfying features to smash than the mouth that had lied, and made love to the one who Longhurst now believed should be exclusively his own.’

  There was no satisfactory answer I could make to Whetstone’s reasoning. Unfortunately, I could already hear counsel for the prosecution getting a persuasive mouth around very similar arguments, with identical thought processes. So I asked my last but one question.

  ‘I heard tell Maxwell only had one eye when he was found. Is that true?’

  Whetstone nodded. ‘It happens when bodies lie around for a bit. Haven’t you seen those nature documentaries on television? Vultures pecking out the juicier morsels...’

  I cut him short. Breakfast was still too recent. ‘Scavenging gulls, you mean, in this case?’

  ‘The little girl who found him said the body was surrounded by them.’ Digby Whetstone rose from his reclining chair, which creaked back upright. ‘Now, if that’s all, Mr Marklin.’

  ‘Not quite,’ I said, also rising. ‘I’d like to be able to see Mr Longhurst now.’

  The Inspector consulted his Pulsar. ‘Right now?’

  ‘If that’s possible,’ I said most respectfully, for I realised creeping was now the order of the moment, if I were to succeed.

  He thought for a moment, then went to the door, opened it and bawled out, ‘Sergeant!’ He turned back to me. ‘All right, if it will keep you quiet. But you’ll get no further than we have. There is one thing I’ll say about him — he’s consistent with his story.’

  ‘I’ll let you know if he deviates,’ I smiled.

  ‘Oh,’ Digger muttered, and I could see he wasn’t quite sure what to make of my smile. It wasn’t really surprising; he was only on a par with myself.

  *

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a change in a man. When they brought Adam Longhurst in to the small interrogation room with the subtle bars on the single sky-high window, I hardly recognised him. It wasn’t just the weight loss, either. There were grey hollows in his face where his confidence used to be, and emptiness in his eyes where boyish hope once shone. His frame was still that of a bull, but the picadors’ darts had drained him long before the final lunge.

  Greeting didn’t take long; you don’t waste time in a prison situation. What’s more, the presence of the policeman in the corner didn’t exactly encourage outpourings of an emotional kind.

  ‘Sebastian said you’d try and come. Thanks.’

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘No, I’ll remember, believe me, if I ever get out of here.’ He looked round despairingly.

  ‘Look,’ I said, leaning forward on the table that separated us, ‘don’t let’s waste time. Whetstone has only given me ten minutes.’

  ‘What do you want to know? I’ve told Sebastian everything I can think of.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard. Just a few question, that’s all.’

  ‘Okay.’ He folded his strong hands in front of him. I wondered if they had recently folded round a rock. I almost shivered at the thought.

  ‘Tell me about that phone call, the one that got you to go to the beach.’

  ‘It was a woman, an hysterical woman. I could hardly hear what she was saying. What I gathered was that there had been some commotion with Maxwell down at Osmington Mills, and would I come quickly.’

  ‘That all she said?’

  ‘Yes. But two or three times over.’

  ‘Did she say why you should come?’

  ‘Not really, but I inferred someone might get hurt.’

  I didn’t want to waste time, so I rattled on to my next question. ‘Are you sure you didn’t recognize the voice?’

  He shook his head. ‘She was so hysterical. It could have been — anybody. The voice wasn’t familiar at all.’

  I jumped right in. ‘Are you sure it wasn’t Lana-Lee?’

  His eyes flickered for a moment, then he nodded. ‘It wasn’t Lana-Lee.’

  I leaned further forward on the table and repeated, ‘Adam, was it Lana-Lee? Please admit it, if it was, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘It wasn’t,’ he said quietly. ‘I’d have known, wouldn’t I? She’s American, after all.’
<
br />   ‘And this woman was English?’

  ‘I — er, yes. Of course, she must have been. I’d have noticed otherwise.’

  I could hear the seconds ticking away, so reluctantly, I passed on.

  ‘Tell me, Adam, can you think of anyone who would want to frame you for Maxwell’s murder?’

  He smiled weakly. ‘The murderer?’

  ‘No, I mean someone who had it in for you for something else.’

  ‘Not really. No. I’ve thought a lot about it since my arrest. Murder is a hell of a thing to frame you for.’

  I decided time did not allow me to be diplomatic. ‘What about an old girlfriend? Or husband of an old girlfriend?’

  He looked up. ‘No, I can’t really imagine...’

  I guessed he couldn’t, so I helped him. ‘You knew Lavinia pretty well, didn’t you? Lavinia Saunders.’

  ‘Oh, you don’t think...?’

  ‘Come on, Adam, we haven’t got much time. I know you and Lavinia were lovers, and not just before her marriage to Saunders.’

  ‘But really...’

  I cut him off. ‘Don’t be chivalrous, Adam. I know enough about her to know she really doesn’t care a shit about anybody but herself. You know it too. And she was having an affair with Maxwell.’

  He didn’t look surprised.

  ‘But murder? That kind of murder?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t accusing her of Maxwell’s murder. Just exploring whether she might have been the lady on the phone.’

  ‘No. No. No. She wasn’t the lady on the phone,’ he said emphatically, and then, I think, realised what he’d implied.

  ‘It was nobody I recognised, I told you.’

  ‘All right,’ I said and tried to catch his eye but he wouldn’t let me.

  He went on, ‘Lavinia’s a tempestuous lady, a devious lady, a hothead — in fact, hot all over — and we had the most monumental rows, where we’d break most of the china in whatever room we were in. But I can’t think she would frame me.’

  ‘You gave her up for Lana-Lee. She can’t have been very pleased.’