by Peter Helton
‘I’ve been wondering about Elaine Poulimenos’s Porsche. How old is it?’
‘Dunno, not seen it. Why?’
‘The older models sound surprisingly like a Beetle. A noisy Beetle. Especially from a distance.’
‘Do they? Interesting.’
‘Basically made by the same people. A Porsche is just a squashed Beetle, isn’t it?’
‘Not sure Porsche owners would see it that way. But we’ll have a look at it.’ He turned the car around and pointed it south towards Bath.
‘Will she inherit her husband’s fortune?’
‘We don’t know yet. She left him. He did have time to change his will and leave it all to a home for decrepit Sunday painters. She could probably challenge that in court and so on and so on. People do change their minds where money is involved. Last time I spoke to her, it was “poor but happy, starting a new life with nothing but my little Porsche and a couple of David Bomberg paintings”. We’ll see what the mood is, shall we?’
The mood at Elaine Poulimenos’s house was, if not sombre, then at least less ebullient than the last time McLusky had been there. He made the appropriate noises. ‘I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs Poulimenos.’ This time Elaine did not insist he call her Simmons. ‘But we will have to ask you a few routine questions.’
It was her new partner, Paul Chappell, who had opened the door to them and admitted them with a show of reluctance.
They followed the couple into the sitting room which, despite the bright sunlight that streamed in through the UPVC windows, looked sad. Elaine, a nervous hand plucking at her T-shirt, looked lost in the room, as though she still wasn’t used to the positioning of the furniture. All four found places to sit around the coffee table, Elaine and Paul sitting close together. McLusky realized what made the room so depressing, despite being larger and much better furnished than his own: it was the relative grandeur of all those drawing rooms he had been in lately, from the Victorian stuffiness of Mendenhall’s Woodlea House to the tasteless opulence of Hotchkiss’s Ashton View.
‘We need to know exactly where you were two days ago in the evening – let’s say between nine and six in the morning. Both of you.’
‘Well, I was here,’ said Elaine, looking up at her partner, who nodded.
‘I was at my mother’s house; she was feeling unwell. She lives in Wells.’
‘I hope she is feeling better now,’ McLusky offered.
‘She is,’ said Elaine. ‘But she really needs someone to look after her. And that’ll be us, I expect,’ she added with a marked lack of enthusiasm.
‘Can anyone confirm that you were here, Mrs Poulimenos?’
‘I spoke to her on the phone, twice,’ Paul said eagerly.
‘I’m afraid partners giving each other alibis counts for very little in the eyes of the law, but thank you.’
When Austin spoke, the couple looked at him as though they had previously thought he was mute. ‘Can you tell us who will benefit, financially, from your husband’s death, Mrs Poulimenos?’
‘Yes, I expect that’ll be me, unless Leon changed his will recently. If he did, then he didn’t tell me. I don’t think he would have done. He wanted me back. He wanted me there, even though I was seeing Paul.’
‘This may sound like an idiotic question,’ McLusky said, ‘but do you have any idea who might have wanted your husband dead?’
‘It’s only idiotic because naturally I’d have told you if I did, but no, I have thought about it ever since the woman police officer came to tell me. She was very good by the way – made me a cup of tea in my own kitchen so I could sit and have a cry.’
Austin left a few heartbeats of a pause before he asked, ‘What were your husband’s politics like, would you say?’
The ghost of a smile. ‘I expect you found his little Nazi theme park at the back of his studio. Yes? Oh dear. It started off quite gently, almost like a hobby. An interest in history, German history, World War Two history. He was reading books about it. Of course, he had the money to buy more than just books, so he started collecting bits of World War Two and Nazi memorabilia, and that’s where it got strange. He started talking about it differently. I told him what I thought about it and he never pushed me to share his convictions after that. After all, I was only the little woman with no head for politics. It was as though the stuff he bought – that flag and other things – it was as if they were infectious. As though he caught something off them. It turned from a hobby into a philosophy. And when Golden Dawn became more prominent in Greece, he was convinced it was the right answer for the old country. He thought at the next election they might be victorious and sweep away all the old parties, and he didn’t seem to mind that they murdered the odd opponent here and there.’ Her face brightened up. ‘Looks like Greece went quite the other way now, doesn’t it?’
‘Did he have any political associates in this country?’
‘I don’t think so. It was all done over the internet. He Skyped with Golden Dawn types sometimes.’
‘Can you tell us what was discussed?’
‘No idea. He always chatted to them in his fascist cubbyhole; anyway, they would have spoken in Greek. I don’t speak it. I tried but I couldn’t even master the alphabet.’
McLusky pulled a couple of large photographs from a folder. ‘When we entered Bybrook View, we found that things in your husband’s cubbyhole, as you call it, had been disturbed. There was a display case.’ He held up the pictures. ‘Would you be able to tell us what is missing from it?’
‘No idea. Not the foggiest. It’s all yucky Nazi stuff and I never went inside that place. It felt like a dustbin to me.’
McLusky still held up the photographs. ‘Are you sure you don’t remember anything about this display, Mrs Poulimenos? If the items turn up somewhere, we might be able to trace them back to your husband’s killer.’
‘No idea. For the last two years I’ve never been over the threshold of that room. I was afraid I might find something – not just something distasteful but something really horrible, you know?’
McLusky thought he did and put the photos away. ‘I know what you are saying. We found nothing more distasteful than memorabilia – objects with Nazi logos, a few postcards, that sort of thing.’
‘Thank you,’ she said simply.
‘I think that is all for the moment. We’ll keep you informed of any developments.’
They all rose and made for the hall. ‘Just one more thing. Your Porsche. Have you sold it yet?’
‘No. And I’ve changed my mind about it; I’m not going to sell it after all.’
‘Oh?’
‘It’s quite an old model and I wouldn’t get that much for it, I expect. So I’m holding on to it.’
‘Perhaps wise.’
McLusky and Austin sat in the car outside Elaine Poulimenos’s house while the inspector made a phone call. As he waited for him to finish, Austin thought he could see Elaine’s silhouette behind the net curtains. McLusky put his mobile away. ‘Yup. The two Bomberg paintings have been withdrawn from auction by the owner. Looks like “poor but happy” has been cancelled.’
They did not catch up with Jennifer Longmaid until the next day. In front of Stanmore House, beside the little Mazda, stood a large white box van, back doors open; it contained several tea chests. The door to the house stood wide open too. McLusky walked right in without ringing the bell or knocking and Austin followed behind. ‘Perhaps we came none too soon,’ he suggested.
In the drawing room they found a lot of empty boxes and three men: two workmen in jeans and T-shirts carefully wrapping antique items in copious amounts of bubble wrap and a chubby man in a white shirt and pink bow tie writing in a notebook. The bow tie looked challengingly at the newcomers but relaxed when IDs were proffered.
‘Where would we find the lady of the house?’ McLusky asked.
‘In the garden. I’ll tell her you’re here.’
‘Thank you, but we know the way.’ They squeezed past the workmen an
d went out into the garden. Jennifer Longmaid was sunbathing on a lounger some way from the house. Beside her on the grass stood a tray with a wine bottle and a glass; a paperback lay open beside it. McLusky stopped and squinted against the bright sunshine. ‘Is she wearing anything at all?’
Austin squinted too. ‘Erm … yes, two slices of cucumber, I believe. She knew we were coming.’
‘She knew we were coming yesterday but went out anyway.’ McLusky cupped his hands and called from where he was standing. ‘Mrs Longmaid? Can we have a moment?’
Jennifer Longmaid lifted the slices of cucumber from her eyelids, looked across and sat up, temporarily mesmerizing the two police officers with the seductive movements of her breasts. She stood up and slid into a black, red and gold kimono and changed the lounger into a sitting position. By the time McLusky and Austin stood at a polite ten-foot distance, she had poured herself another glass of wine and sat, with her long legs crossed and on view, smiling ironically. ‘And then there were none,’ she announced. ‘Isn’t it all terribly Agatha Christie? Three country houses, three murders, lots of suspects. What you need is a Miss Marple, Inspector, or a little Belgian.’ She looked at Austin. ‘You’re not Belgian, by any chance? No? You’re not little, either.’ Austin remained impassive.
‘Can you please tell me,’ McLusky asked, ‘where you were three nights ago? Between, say, nine in the evening and five in the morning.’
‘Three days ago? I can hardly remember last night.’ She drained her glass of red and reached for the bottle. Only a mouthful remained, which she attempted to pour, half of it arcing over the top of the glass. ‘Bugger. Another one bites the dust. Three nights ago … three nights … I was probably here, pissed. Or in Bath, pissed. Or first in Bath, pissed, and later here, more pissed. I have been drinking rather a lot lately. Enjoying the weather.’
‘We’d like you to be a bit more specific, Mrs Longmaid. That was the night your friend Elaine’s husband was killed.’
‘I know. Bang bang. Just like mine.’
McLusky noted the double ‘bang’. ‘I’d be grateful if you contacted us should you remember where you were – and with whom, if applicable. Is there a regular bus service from here to Bath and Bristol?’
‘Eh? Bus service? What d’you want with a bus? There used to be, but the service has been withdrawn.’
‘Then may I suggest you don’t give us reason to withdraw your driving licence – for drink-driving, say? Life in the country can be tricky without a car.’
Jennifer wrinkled her nose. ‘Yeah, all right, all right. Don’t go all prissy on me.’
McLusky pointed over his shoulder. ‘Or are you perhaps in the process of moving house?’
‘That? No, I’m just getting rid of some of the old crap. I never did take to antiques; I found I prefer younger things on the whole. I’m selling the lot and doing up the house in contemporary style. No more fusty old nonsense. Room to breathe is what I need now. Isn’t the twenty-first century wonderful?’ She stood up and returned the lounger to its lying position. ‘If that is all, gentlemen, I’d like to resume my sunbathing. They said it’ll rain tomorrow, so make the most of it.’ She let her kimono fall to the ground and resumed her sunbathing as McLusky and Austin turned away. They returned to the house.
The man with tie and notebook was busy talking on his mobile. ‘Astounding, astounding. Yes, that too. Peculiar chap.’ He noticed the officers. ‘Actually, can I call you back?’ He put away his mobile. ‘You found her all right?’
‘Yes, thanks.’ McLusky waved an arm at the room which was still full of countless antiques. ‘All this stuff, for want of a better word – is it as valuable as it looks?’
‘Absolutely. Worth a small fortune. Longmaid had a brilliant eye, but …’ He shrugged.
‘But what?’
‘He loved antiques too much. He liked living among them more than selling them. There is more and better stock in here than in his Clifton outlet. I think the man was more antique than dealer. If you gave him a thousand-year-old piece of china, he’d probably eat his porridge out of it.’
‘Did you know him quite well?’
‘Not really. I have a stall in the Emporium too, but, to tell you the truth, I don’t think he liked me. Or anyone, for that matter. And I think he hated selling antiques.’
‘I got that impression. He loved antiques but hated selling them. Mrs Longmaid feels quite the opposite.’
As McLusky checked his watch, the antique dealer looked at him with sudden professional interest. ‘That’s a fine timepiece you have there. Mind if I have a quick look at it?’
McLusky held out his wrist. ‘Cheap fake, I’m afraid.’ The Rolex had been part of a whole box of worthless tat recovered from the house of a habitual burglar, and when McLusky found he had absent-mindedly pocketed it, he had kept it to replace his own broken one.
‘I disagree,’ said the dealer. ‘I know my timepieces and that is a genuine 1948 or 1949 Oyster perpetual date Rolex. I’d offer you five grand for it. But I’d probably sell it for eight.’
McLusky stared at it, then at the dealer, then at Austin who – thankfully – was having a conversation with one of the workmen at the other end of the room. ‘Thanks for telling me. I’ll sleep with my arm in a safe tonight.’ He buried his hands deep in his jacket pockets and left the room quickly, signalling Austin to follow him. ‘I have to get a move on,’ he told him, ‘if I want to get to Poulimenos’s PM on time. I’ll drop you off at the station.’
At Flax Bourton, Dr Coulthart greeted him like a long-lost friend when he appeared in the viewing suite. ‘Inspector, what a pleasant surprise. I had expected DS Austin.’ In the past McLusky had sent his sergeant to attend whenever possible, but DSI Denkhaus had put an end to it, insisting that he be present if he was leading the investigation. McLusky loathed autopsies almost as much as Austin did. ‘Then let us begin.’
Leonidas Poulimenos had been a large man who had indulged his earthly passions without much restraint. His naked grey body on the steel table evoked no pity in McLusky, only revulsion, and he felt uneasy about that. He was a police officer and he owed it to the dead man – all three dead men – to find the killer and to avenge their deaths, or rather to allow society to exact revenge within the framework of the law. All too often society felt let down by the law; yet perhaps no section of society felt more disillusioned about the efficacy of the legal system than the police force. McLusky had now worked on a good number of murder cases and led quite a few investigations himself, but he felt more impatient than usual. He put it down to the way the murders were committed, close together, almost with impunity, wiping out an entire group of friends. His early conviction that David Mendenhall had killed his father for the inheritance had crumbled when his friends were murdered. All murder was strange, firmly outside people’s normal experiences, and what led up to murder was sometimes complex, but mostly it was bloody obvious and depressing. He could cope with that; policing the obvious and depressing was what they were here for. It was mostly stupidity or greed. Often it was stupidity combined with greed, sometimes intelligence and greed. But what McLusky hated – loathed with every fibre of his being, in fact – was the weird. He couldn’t abide weird. People who picked up a bottle in anger and bashed someone’s head in, he could understand; turf wars between drug gangs – obvious; morons with knives and low self-esteem – par for the course. But the killings of the three painter friends in their luxurious houses was different. Jennifer Longmaid had put her finger on it: it was like walking around in a bloody Miss Marple story, only the busybody spinster never had to watch dead bodies being eviscerated. Now, without its covering of clothes, the second bullet wound on the right side of his chest was only too obvious. It was the deliberateness of the killings, the cold-hearted point-blank shooting, that got McLusky’s goat, and, as Laura had frequently pointed out, he had a lot of goat to get.
The pathologist cut, lifted, drained and weighed while McLusky unfocussed his eyes and let them
drift over the immaculate inhumane surfaces of the operating theatre. ‘You asked me a while back about the first victim,’ Coulthart said. ‘How much longer he might have lived had he not been shot. I can tell you categorically that Mr Poulimenos was killing himself quite effectively already. I suspect a heart attack would have done for him within a couple of years anyway. Some of his arteries are in a shocking state and so is his liver. Now, from the way we found him and the spray patterns of blood above the sofa, I’d say the victim was standing or perhaps in the process of standing up when he was shot. The trajectory of the bullets as they hit suggest the gun was fired from below. The killer was either sitting opposite him or lying on the floor, or you’re looking for a midget, about three feet in height. I can also confirm that the gun was a thirty-eight.’ He held up the projectile he had recovered from the body. ‘Even I can tell that from looking at it. It’ll go off to forensics within the hour, I’m sure you’ll be glad to hear.’
‘Oh, ecstatic.’ McLusky slammed out of the viewing suite.
‘No pleasing some people,’ said Coulthart and dropped the bullet into an evidence bag.
TWELVE
‘You already made an offer on it?’ Laura pulled away from him in order to give him an inquisitive look from her corner of the sofa.
He had hoped he might feed it into the conversation, but all through the meal that Laura had cooked for him at her place – most of her fellow students were at a music gig – he had failed to find an opportunity. In the end he had just blurted it out. ‘I like the place. And I like the neighbourhood.’
‘You mean the pub opposite.’
‘Not just that.’ McLusky had always known how Laura would interpret the purchase of the Northampton Street flat: as a confirmation of his status as a bachelor and of her status as a convenient add-on. But he really did like his flat; it had a quirky charm, just like the Rossis themselves. He enjoyed their Italian voices as they chatted under his window while setting up the vegetable display outside the shop, and he did not even mind the voices of the pub’s patrons leaving at closing time. He wasn’t sure he really wanted triple glazing to shut out the world or to live among easy-to-wipe surfaces.