Murder on the Short List

by Peter Lovesey

  “What a skunk!” Maggie said, and Donna knew she’d got through to her at last.

  That evening Maggie took Donna for a meal at a restaurant near the agency. “I’m not short of a bob or two,” she said, “but let’s admit it, I’m unattached and on the lookout. I meet plenty of hunky blokes in my job, but it doesn’t do to mix work and pleasure, so I put my ad in the Guardian. Lionel was the best of the bunch who responded – or seemed to be.”

  “I wonder how many other women he’s conned,” Donna said. “It really upsets me that he went to all that trouble to make out I was dead and he was a free man. There must be some way of stopping him.”

  “We can’t stop him if we can’t find him.”

  “Couldn’t we trace him through the newspaper?”

  “I don’t think so. They’re very strict about box numbers. And they cover themselves by saying you indemnify the newspaper against all claims.” Maggie thought for a while, and took a long sip of wine. “Righty,” she said finally. “What we do is this.”

  * * *

  GORGEOUS Georgie, 38, own house, car, country cottage, WLTM Mr Charming 35-45 for days out and evenings in and possible LTR. Loves fast cars, first nights and five star restaurants.

  * * *

  “What’s LTR?”

  “Long term relationship. That should do it,” Maggie said.

  “It’s a lot more pushy than mine,” Donna said

  “How did you describe yourself?”

  She blushed a little. “‘Independent, sensitive and cultured.”

  “Independent is good. He’s thinking of your bank balance. But we can’t use it a second time. This will pull in quite a few gold-diggers, I expect. We just have to listen carefully to the voice messages and make sure it’s Lionel.”

  “I’ll know his voice.”

  “So will I, sweetie.”

  “And who, exactly, is Gorgeous Georgie?”

  “One of the best stuntmen in Britain.”

  “A man?”

  “Ex-boxer and European weightlifting champion. He’s been on my agency books for years. He’ll deliver Lionel to us, and the money he stole from us. When Georgie has finished with the bastard he’ll beg for mercy.”

  Maggie called ten days later. “He’s fallen for it. A really unctuous voice message. Made me want to throw up. He says he’s unattached –”

  “That’s a lie.”

  “Professional, caring and with a good sense of humour. He’ll need that.”

  “So what’s the plan?” Donna asked.

  “It’s already under way. I got my film rights director to call him back. She has the Roedean accent and very sexy it sounds. I told her to play the caution card. Said she needed to be certain Lionel isn’t married. He jumped right in and said he’s a widower and would welcome the opportunity to prove it. They’re meeting for a walk on the Downs at Beachy Head followed by a meal at the pub.”

  “Your rights director?”

  “No, silly. She was just the voice on the phone. He’ll meet Georgie and get the shock of his life. All you and I have to do is be there to take care of the remains.”

  Donna caught her breath. “I can’t be a party to murder.”

  “My sense of humour, darling. Georgie won’t do anything permanent. He’ll rough him up a bit and put the fear of God in him. Then we step up and get our money back.”

  Maggie drove them to Eastbourne on the day of the rendezvous. She took the zigzag from Holywell and parked in a lay-by with a good view of the grass rise. From here you wouldn’t know there was a sheer drop. But if you ventured up the slope you’d see the Seven Sisters, the chalk cliffs reaching right away to Cuckmere Haven. It was late on a fine, gusty afternoon. George and the hapless Lionel were expected to reach here about five-thirty.

  “Coffee or champagne?”

  “You are well provided,” Donna said. “Coffee, I think. I want a clear head when we meet up with him.”

  Maggie poured some from a flask. “We’ll save the champers for later.”

  Donna smiled. “I just hope it stops him in his tracks. I don’t want other women getting caught like we did. I felt so angry with myself for being taken in. I got very depressed. When I came up here I was on the point of suicide.”

  “That’s no attitude. Don’t ever let them grind you down.”

  “I’m not very experienced with men.”

  “Well, at least you persuaded the bastard to marry you, darling. You can’t be a total amateur. Me, I was conned every which way. Slept with him, handed him my money, accepted his proposal.”

  “Proposal? He proposed to you? Actually promised to marry you?”

  “The whole shebang. Down on one knee. We were engaged. He bought the ring, I’ll say that for him. A large diamond and two sapphires. He knew he had to chip in something to get what he wanted. What did it cost him? – a couple of grand at most, compared to the sixty he got off me.”

  “I had no idea it got that far.”

  “He’d have married me if I hadn’t caught him out. Bigamy wouldn’t have troubled our Lionel.”

  Donna was increasingly concerned about what she was hearing. “But you didn’t catch him out. When I first phoned, you called him your boyfriend. I had to persuade you that he was a conman.”

  “Don’t kid yourself, ducky,” Maggie said with a harder edge to her voice. “I knew all about Lionel before you showed up. I had him checked out. It’s easy enough to get hold of a marriage certificate, and when he gave me the guff about the flying accident I checked for a death certificate as well, and there wasn’t one, so I knew he was lying. He was stupid enough to tell me about the memorial bench before I even saw it. I went to the council and made sure it was bloody Lionel who paid to have it put there. He handed them the plaque and a wad of cash. What a con. He could go on using that seat as his calling card every time he started up with a new woman.”

  “If you knew all that, why didn’t you act before? Why are you doing this with me?” Donna said.

  “‘Do you really want to know?” Maggie said. She reached for the champagne bottle and turned it in her hands as if to demonstrate good faith. “It’s because you would have found out. Some day his body is going to be washed up. The sea always gives up its dead. Then the police are going to come asking questions and you’ll lead them straight to me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Get with it, Donna dear. Lionel is history.”

  She felt the hairs rise on her neck. “You killed him?”

  “The evening he brought me up here to look at the stupid bench. I waited till we got here and then told him what an arsehole he was. Do you know, he still tried to con me? He walked to the cliff edge and said he would throw himself off if I didn’t believe him. I couldn’t stand his hypocrisy, so I gave him a push. Simple as that.”

  Donna covered her mouth.

  “The tide was in,” Maggie said in a matter-of-fact way, “so I suppose the body was carried out to sea.”

  “This is dreadful,” Donna said. She herself had felt hatred for Lionel and wanted revenge, but she had never dreamed of killing him. “What I can’t understand is why we’re here now – why you went through this charade of advertising for him, trying to find him – when you knew he was dead.”

  “If you were listening, sweetie, I just told you. You knew too much even before I gave you the full story. You’re certain to shop me when the police come along.”

  It was getting dark in the car, but Donna noticed a movement of Maggie’s right hand. She had gripped the champagne bottle by the neck.

  Donna felt for the door handle and shoved it open. She half fell, trying to get out. Maggie got out the other side and dashed round. Donna tried to run, but Maggie grabbed her coat. The last thing Donna saw was the bottle being swung at her head.

  The impact was massive.

  She fell against the car and slid to the ground. She’d lost all sensation. She couldn’t even raise her arms to protect herself.<
br />
  She acted dead, eyes closed, body limp. It wasn’t difficult.

  One of her eyes was jerked open by Maggie’s finger. She had the presence to stare ahead.

  Then she felt Maggie’s hands under her back, lifting. She was hauled back into the car seat. The door slammed shut. She was too dazed to do anything.

  Maggie was back at the wheel, closing the other door. The engine started up. The car bumped in ways it shouldn’t have done. It was being driven across the turf, and she guessed what was happening. Maggie was driving her right up to the cliff edge to push her over.

  The car stopped.

  I can’t let this happen, she told herself. I wanted to die once, but not any more.

  She heard Maggie get out again. She opened her eyes. The key was in the ignition, but she hadn’t the strength to move across and take the controls. She had to shut her eyes again and surrender to Maggie dragging her off the seat.

  First her back thumped on the chalk at the cliff edge, then her head.

  Flashes streaked across her retina. She took a deep breath of cold air, trying to hold on to consciousness.

  She felt Maggie’s hands take a grip under her armpits to force her over the edge.

  With an effort born of desperation she turned and grabbed one of Maggie’s ankles with both hands and held on. If she was going, then her killer would go with her.

  Maggie shouted, “Bitch!” and kicked her repeatedly with the free leg. Donna knew she had to hold on.

  Each kick was like a dagger-thrust in her kidneys.

  I can’t take this, she told herself.

  The agony became unbearable. She let go.

  The sudden removal of the clamp on Maggie’s leg must have affected her balance. Donna felt the full force of Maggie’s weight across her body followed by a scream, a long, despairing and diminishing scream.

  Donna dragged herself away from the crumbling edge and then flopped on the turf again. Almost another half-hour passed before she was able to stagger to the phone box and ask for help.

  When she told her story to the police, she kept it simple. She wasn’t capable of telling it all. She’d been brought here on the pretext of meeting someone and then attacked with a bottle and almost forced over the edge. Her attacker had tripped and gone over.

  Even the next day, when she made a full statement for their records, she omitted some of the details. She decided not to tell them she’d been at the point of suicide when she discovered that bench. She let them believe she’d come on a sentimental journey to remember her childhood. It didn’t affect their investigation.

  Maggie’s body was recovered the same day. Lionel, elusive to the end, was washed up at Hastings by a storm the following October.

  He left only debts. Donna had expected nothing and was not discouraged. Since her escape she valued her life and looked forward.

  And the bench? You won’t find it at Beachy Head.

  THE MUNICH POSTURE

  Adolf Hitler stared across the restaurant.

  Camilla, blonde, eighteen and English, succeeded in saying without moving her lips, “He’s looking, he’s looking, he’s looking!”

  “For a waiter, not you, dear,” Dorothy Rigby remarked. Rigby was, at this formative stage in her life, less flagrantly sexy than her friend Camilla. Rigby’s appeal was subversive and ultimately more devastating. Here in Munich, in September, 1938, the girls were at the Countess Schnabel’s Finishing School. Rigby’s lightly permed brown hair was cut in a modest style approved by the Countess, so that a small expanse of neck showed above the collar of one’s white lawn blouse.

  It was Camilla who had dragged her into the Osteria Bavaria. Their table was chosen for the unimpeded view it afforded of the Führer and his party, or rather, the view it afforded the Führer of Camilla. Flamboyant Camilla with her blue Nordic eyes, her cupid’s-bow pout and her bosom plumped up with all the silk stockings she owned. She was resolved to enslave the most powerful man in Europe. It wasn’t impossible. It had been done by Unity Mitford, the Oxfordshire girl turned Rhine-maiden, who had staunchly occupied this same chair in Hitler’s favourite restaurant through the winter of 1935 until she had been called to his table. From that time Unity had been included on the guest lists for Hitler’s mountain retreat at Obersalzberg, and for the Nuremburg rallies, the Bayreuth Festival and the Olympic Games.

  Until this moment, Camilla had unaccountably failed to emulate Miss Mitford, though she was just as dedicated, just as blonde and, by her own assessment, prettier.

  Until this moment.

  “Oh, my hat! He’s talking to his Adjutant. He’s pointing to this table. To me!”

  “Calm down, Cami.”

  Camilla gripped the edge of the tablecloth. “God, this is it! The adjutant is coming over.”

  Undeniably he was. Young, clean-shaven, cool as a brimming Bierglas, he saluted and announced, “Ladies, the Führer has commanded me to present his compliments . . .”

  “So gracious!” piped up Camilla in her best German.

  “. . . and states that he would prefer to finish his lunch without being stared at.” Another click of the heels, an about-turn, and that was that.

  “I’m dead,” said Camilla after a stunned silence. “How absolutely ghastly! Let’s leave at once.”

  “Certainly not,” said Rigby. “He wants to be ignored, so we’ll ignore him. More coffee?”

  “Is that wise?”

  They remained at their table until Hitler rose to leave. For a moment he glared in their direction, his blue eyes glittering. Then he slapped his glove against the sleeve of his raincoat and marched out.

  “Odious little fart,” said Rigby.

  “I hope Mr Chamberlain spits in his eye,” said Camilla.

  “He’ll have Mr Chamberlain on toast.”

  Outside, in Schellingstrasse, heels clicked and the young adjutant saluted again. “Excuse me, ladies. I have another message to convey from the Führer.”

  “We don’t wish to hear it,” said Rigby. “Come on, Camilla. We’re not standing here to be insulted.”

  Camilla was rooted to the pavement. “A message from him?”

  “This is difficult. The message is for the dark-haired young lady.”

  “Me?” said Rigby.

  Camilla gave a sudden sob and covered her eyes.

  “The Führer will dine at Boettner’s this evening. He has arranged for you to join his party. Fräulein, er . . .”

  “I am not one of your Fräuleins. I am Miss Rigby.”

  “From England?” The adjutant frowned and reddened.

  Rigby said off-handedly. “Actually I was born in Madras. India, you know. I expect he thought I was a starry-eyed little Nazi wench. Will you be there?”

  He stared back. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said, will you be there?”

  “As it happens, no.”

  “A night off?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “How convenient. You can tell Herr Hitler that when you found out the young lady’s dusky origins you did what any quick-witted officer of the Reich would have done – arranged to take her to dinner yourself, thus saving your Führer from sullying his snow-white principles.”

  His eyes widened. First they registered shock, then curiosity, then capitulation.

  His name was Manfred, he told her in the candlelight at Walterspiel that evening. “It’s strange,” he said. “I took you for an English girl.”

  “Oh, I am by blood. Daddy served in India with the Army.”

  He frowned. “Then why did you decline the Führer’s invitation – such an honour?”

  “I didn’t care for the way it was communicated, as if I was biddable, to put it mildly.”

  “But I think your friend was biddable.”

  She laughed. “Still is. She’s stopped talking to me. She can’t understand why she was overlooked. Frankly, neither can I. Camilla has the fair hair and blue eyes, and much more.”

  He leaned forward confidenti
ally. “With respect, Miss Rigby, I think you misunderstood the Führer’s motives. He is not in want of female companionship. There is a lady at Obersalzberg.”

  “Eva Braun?”

  “Ah. You are well informed.”

  “Then why did he ask me to dinner?”

  Manfred took a sip of wine. “Some years ago there was a girl, his stepniece actually, who died. He was very devoted to her, more than an uncle should be. No, I mean nothing improper. Like a father. She was eighteen when she came to Munich. He took her about, to picnics, the opera, paid for singing lessons, rented a room for her.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Angela Raubal, known to him as Geli. She looked remarkably like you. The dark hair, the cheekbones, the whole shape of your face, your beautiful hazel eyes. This, I think, is why he wanted to meet you.”

  “I see. And you say she died?”

  “Shot herself with the Führer’s own gun.” He paused. “No one knows why. I think perhaps it was best that he did not meet you. But please understand that it was not because you are English. The Führer and Mr Chamberlain are much in agreement, wanting to keep the peace in Europe.”

  “Neville Chamberlain does, without a doubt,” said Rigby with a quick, ironic smile.

  “So does the Führer.”

  “Yes – if the other powers allow him to march into Czechoslovakia.”

  He frowned. “You speak of international politics – a young girl?”

  Rigby decided to take the remark as a compliment. She was a great reader of newspapers. She’d often been told that comments on international affairs came oddly from a girl of her age, but she wasn’t perturbed. Crisply she analysed the crisis over Germany’s claims to the Sudeten regions of Czechoslovakia and the dangerous effects of Hitler’s Lebensraum policy. Manfred used the stock German argument that something had to be done about the crushing restrictions imposed at Versailles after the Great War.

  “It won’t wash,” commented Rigby. “It’s transparently clear that Czechoslovakia is next on your Führer’s list. God help us all.”