Die-Cast (A Peter Marklin Mystery)

by Neville Steed

  ‘Suspect number two: John Saunders.’

  ‘It’s your numbering, Gus.’

  ‘I know, old lad. Purely random, you understand. Well, Saunders could have done it, I suppose. Depends what his lady love says, don’t it?’

  ‘She could lie to protect him.’

  ‘True. Well. He could have a motive. Some argument over drugs. Maybe he wanted all the profit for himself. You say he was up to his whatsits in debt. Or he wanted out or something. Or he didn’t really like Maxwell doing his wife a favour.’

  ‘Granted, he’s got a few motives, Gus. But it still doesn’t explain why Longhurst was down on the beach too.’

  ‘Wasn’t Longhurst also doing his wife a favour?’

  I hadn’t thought of that. I nodded.

  ‘Well then. Maybe Saunders got his air hostess girlfriend to ring Longhurst to get him down to the beach. Frame him, see?’

  I saw. ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Next?’

  ‘Suspect number three: Saunders’ worse half. Lavinia. With a name like that she has to be guilty of something.’ Gus laughed — the cabin top creaked as if it were in a force nine. ‘Poor alibi — watching some old film or other. No one saw her do it. Now let’s think of a motive. Ah, she could have had a lover’s tiff with Maxwell.’

  ‘With a rock? And smash his skull, and then his mouth?’

  ‘Well, isn’t there a poncey French name for that kind of thing?’

  ‘Crime passionnel,’ I tried, ‘but it doesn’t quite qualify.’

  ‘Oh well, never mind. Or she wanted to frame Lana-Lee for murder, so that she could get Longhurst back.’

  ‘Not likely,’ I commented. ‘With Ben out of the way, there was nothing to stop Lana-Lee and Longhurst getting together.’

  ‘Except one or other of them being in prison.’

  ‘How would Longhurst’s imprisonment help her?’

  ‘Revenge. For him throwing her up for Lana-Lee.’

  I thought for a moment. ‘Somehow or other, Gus, I don’t go for a woman rocking Maxwell to sleep. Not the way it was done. Feels like a man to me.’

  ‘You’re too bloody sentimental about women,’ Gus retorted. ‘That’s your trouble. Hard as nails some of them. I could tell you stories...’

  ‘Well, please don’t, Gus. I’m confused enough as it is.’ I grinned at him. He grinned back. ‘All right. So go on thinking it’s a man. But this ’ere Lavinia woman — she’s the one who’s confusing you, not me. She fills your head with new theories every bloody time you see her. First time she led you to Longhurst. Then Lana-Lee. Then Lana-Lee and Longhurst. Now she’s opened your mind to the thought it might be her rotten husband. Every bloody person but herself.’

  ‘Okay, Gus. Have it your way. What about suspect number four?’

  ‘Well, that’s easy. That’s the little lady I’m taking out in my boat Saturday.’

  ‘Lana-Lee?’

  ‘Who do you think I mean, Tara-Lee?’ Not eliciting a reply, he continued, ‘You say Lana-Lee wasn’t connected, as far as you know, with the drugs business. But that French guy could be wrong, couldn’t he? He really only knows the French end, after all. She could have been the brains behind it. Then, once her husband had got the operation going, she thought she could dispense with him, and run off with her lover. Would explain why she suddenly had her husband back, wouldn’t it?’

  To set it all up for her?’

  ‘Hole in one, old son. But she played him for a sucker. Familiar story, that one.’

  ‘I can see she might have sneaked out of the house, walked down to the beach. But how would she know her husband would be there?’

  ‘God only knows.’ Gus sniffed and began walking up and down on the newly scrubbed deck. Now I knew how housewives feel about their husband’s dirty shoes on their clean kitchen floors. I grinned and bore it.

  ‘Maybe she knew he would be there with one of his lady friends.’

  ‘And what has happened to that lady friend now? Why doesn’t she come forward? Lana-Lee kill her too?’

  ‘Don’t scoff, old son. Only trying to help. Maybe she arranged for Longhurst to pick Maxwell up from somewhere and bring him to the beach. Then they both killed him. She with a rock to the head, he with a blow to the jaw. There,’ he said with satisfaction, ‘that would get your beloved male involvement in it.’

  I had to concede, I supposed it would.

  ‘Why are you frowning? Don’t like to think nasty thoughts about such beautiful ladies? Don’t forget, old son, she’s been an actress for donkey’s years. Can never tell what an actress is really thinking.’

  I had to rise to that one. ‘Gus, you’ve never flaming known an actress in your life.’

  He held up a massive finger. ‘Not a professional one, I grant you. But loads of amateurs, old son, loads of amateurs. There’s an actress in almost every woman you meet, and you don’t have to dig far.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Gus. I’m not in the mood for one of your homilies.’

  ‘One of my what?’

  ‘Skip it, Gus. I just don’t think Lana-Lee is capable of anything like that, that’s all. Doesn’t feel right. And it’s not just because I’m sort of working for her.’

  ‘Won’t dwell on it, seeing as how...But she could have made that phone call to frame Longhurst, couldn’t she?’

  I couldn’t agree with that bit, so I didn’t.

  ‘Any more suspects, Gus?’

  ‘Not from the people you’ve talked about. But there must be loads of others, like people we’ve never heard of. In the drugs racket. Enemies of Maxwell’s from way back — in America maybe. Old girlfriends of his — or Longhurst’s, for that matter. Husbands of girlfriends. Both of them must have upset a few husbands along their horny way.’

  He chuckled at the thought, then grabbed a scrubbing brush off the cabin top. ‘Well, that’s my ha’p’orth, old love. Now the boards in the cabin could do with a bit of a going over, whilst I just pop over to the village store to get some brass polish.’ He threw me the brush, and, with amazing agility for his age and size, disappeared over the side.

  ‘Ta,’ I said and went below with my bucket. It was not until he had been gone an hour that the truth hit me. There wasn’t a perishing piece of brass on the whole of his literally perishing boat.

  *

  It took me another twenty-four hours before I managed to raise the elusive air hostess. She claimed she had either been with the police or at her mother’s place in Bagshot the whole time. She did not want to see me at first — not until I said I was on her lover’s side, and might be able to save him from worse accusations than drug smuggling. We finally made a date to meet Saturday midday, as Gus was holding my toy fort, and looking after my client and my beautiful Arabella in the afternoon.

  In the meantime, I had thought of ringing Blake for a pow-wow, then decided I’d almost nothing new to pow-wow about. The same went for Digger Whetstone. And I guessed they had nothing very new to tell me, either, as I had already heard what the latter had asked Lana-Lee that afternoon — basically, all the same questions as before. And Arabella had informed me of most of the rest, before the local radio had beamed it out. Adam Longhurst had been charged with Maxwell’s murder, and remanded in custody for fourteen days. John Saunders had been charged with the illegal importation of drugs, and had been remanded for a similar period.

  Things were certainly marching, but not in my direction. I just prayed the air hostess would land me some sort of lead, for I was starting to feel decidedly inadequate — even as a spineless sponge.

  I was very relieved when Saturday dawned dry, and Radio Four promised it would remain that way, for Windsor is quite a trek from Dorset, and my soft top was really more ergonomic down than up, as well as being more pleasant. It also allowed Arabella to pat me on the head as I set off, with the farewell winked warning not to allow the air hostess to take off while I was there — like clothes. I gave my scout’s salute in return, and then let the power of the Porsche engine propel me with
satisfying speed eastwards, its unmistakable throb quite a tonic for my soul.

  In the blue and blissful autumn air, Windsor came up on the signposts all too quickly, and soon I was ferreting around typical thirties streets trying to find Verulam Avenue. In the end, a little old lady on a bicycle, with half a dozen library books in her handlebar basket, set me on the right course, and I pulled up outside a large between-wars house, whose unloved garden instantly betrayed its division into flats.

  I locked the Beetle, went up the weedy gravel drive, and studied the little slips of paper beside the four bell pushes. Miss E. Sumner was apparently on the top floor. I buzzed, and before I could say anything, an electrically distorted female voice emanated from a metal grill and bade me come up. I obeyed the instant I heard the front door lock disengage.

  She met me at the door. The worried frown took not a jot away from why Saunders had shelled out so much on her behalf — like buying her flat for instance. She was certainly not like any stewardesses I had seen on my flights of recent years. She ushered me into what was obviously the sitting-room. Sixties uncomfy style, I would describe it. You know, matt black, metal-framed furniture, and lots of big basket-weave circular chairs with throw cushions to prevent your backside from carrying basket-weave patterns for life.

  I sat down opposite her, and second impressions only clinched the first. I would have to go easy when I described her to Arabella. Her list of attributes, beside legs that seemed to end under her chin, included dusky olive skin, glistening ebony hair worn longish and loose to frame a face that was all wrong in individual features, but only too right when you added them all together. In a nutshell, she could give Raquel Welch’s daughter a run for her considerable money.

  After a few pleasantries, such as, would I like some coffee or something stronger after my long drive (I took the something stronger), and so on, we got down to business — or rather, she did. She wanted to know what was my connection with her lover. She said he had never mentioned me. I said I wasn’t surprised, and then took her through an edited version of how I came to be caught up in the Maxwell affair. She didn’t interrupt once, but listened intently. I was impressed. And as I rambled on, I came to the very definite conclusion she was not just a more than pretty face. When I had finished, and was putting a Teacher’s to my lips, she asked, ‘And what do you think I can tell you that might help anybody? I’ve told everything I know to the police several times.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘Would it be too much to tell a potted version of your story to me?’

  ‘I can’t go through it all again.’ She fiddled nervously with her slender, red-tipped fingers. ‘You just ask questions.’

  ‘Okay. How long have you known John Saunders?’

  ‘Off and on, nearly two years.’

  ‘Have you ever met his wife?’

  She looked away from me, out of the window. ‘No.’

  ‘You knew he had one?’

  ‘Of course.’ She smiled weakly. ‘That’s the problem with attractive men.’

  ‘Did you know he was into a drugs operation with Ben Maxwell?’

  ‘Of course not. God, won’t any of you leave that subject alone?’ She seemed particularly distressed, and got up and walked over to the big bay window.

  ‘I’m sorry to upset you.’

  She turned back to me. ‘It’s not you. It’s the whole damn drugs business.’ She rubbed her eye. ‘My brother, you see, died last year of an overdose.’

  ‘I didn’t know. If I had...’

  She moved quickly across the room towards the small table that held the drinks. ‘I think I’ll join you now,’ she said quietly, and poured herself a neat scotch. Neither of us spoke for a while. I waited for her to break the silence.

  ‘Okay. Fire away again,’ she said eventually, and resumed her basket-weave seat opposite me.

  ‘If that’s all right?’ She nodded. ‘Did you ever meet Maxwell?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did John ever speak of him?’

  ‘Yes. Not often. Enough for me to know I don’t think I would have liked him.’

  ‘What do you think John saw in him?’

  ‘He was a stronger personality. John admired people like that. He used to tell me his best friend when he was young was the school bully.’

  ‘Did he ever mention Maxwell’s past?’

  ‘Once or twice.’

  ‘Anything about his Grand Prix days?’

  The dark eyes suddenly flared with anger. ‘Okay, Mr Marklin. That’s enough on drugs, thank you. I know what you’re getting at. John used to tut-tut about Ben’s murky past. Had me fooled every which way.’

  I changed tack. It was far too early to be thrown out into Verulam Avenue.

  ‘All right, I’ll be good. I’ll stick to the night of Maxwell’s death.’

  ‘What do you want to know? John wasn’t involved with that. Can’t you all see? John couldn’t hurt a fly. Just couldn’t.’

  I wondered if Eva Braun thought the same about Hitler, but made no comment.

  ‘You flew back from Paris together that night?’

  ‘Yes. We got back here, in the flat, around seven or so.’

  ‘And he stayed with you?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Marklin,’ she said with a hardness in her tone, ‘he stayed with me. All night. All bloody night. Do you want to know what I cooked him for supper? It was a pizza out of the freezer. Followed by Neopolitan ice-cream and fresh fruit. And do you want to know how many times we made love that night? That’s what seemed to turn on the frustrated boys in blue. No doubt, after I’d gone, they masturbated all over...’

  I held up my hand. ‘Miss Sumner. I’m not a boy in blue.’ I thought of saying I was a sponge, but modified it. ‘I’m just here to listen in case there’s something all of us have missed so far.’

  Her mouth relaxed somewhat, for which I was greatly relieved. ‘Any more questions, Mr Marklin? I’m very tired.’

  ‘Only one or two more,’ I lied, as I had no idea really how many more I wanted to ask.

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Did John make any phone calls that evening or that night — to anybody?’

  I could see her mind working on my motives for that line of enquiry. I just prayed she would give a truthful answer.

  ‘None. None at all. He never used this place for phone calls, for obvious reasons.’

  ‘Okay. So nobody phoned out that night?’

  ‘You mean, did I phone anybody?’ She pursed her lips. ‘The answer to that, Mr Marklin, is the same big N for No. Hasn’t anybody told you? Lovers tend to have better things to do of an evening than wrap their fingers round a receiver.’

  My sponge was picking up a forceful impression as to which of the two lovers was the strongest partner. I sipped at my scotch, trying to devise the best next question, for I had a feeling my time might be running out with Miss Sumner. In the end, I began phrasing it this way: ‘Look, I know all this questioning must be very distasteful to you, but the fact of the matter is I don’t know what I’m looking for. Maybe Adam Longhurst is guilty. In which case, I’m on a hiding to nothing.’ She shrugged her lovely shoulders. I could imagine what they looked like in British Airways uniform — a damn sight better than even the First Class menu.

  ‘I’m on that anyway, Mr Marklin. John’s confession is going to put him away for a long time, isn’t it?’

  I didn’t argue, but persevered. ‘But let’s try and see that the police don’t switch their attention.’

  ‘To John? For the murder?’

  ‘If they can charge one wrong man, who knows, they could charge another,’ I tried, and could see her weakening a little. ‘So try and remember if there was anything about that night, or the days immediately before, that seemed a little odd, or unexpected, or...I don’t know — not quite as usual.’

  She thought for a minute. ‘Nothing in the days up to that cursed night that I can remember. John was in a very buoyant mood. That came over clearly in our telephon
e conversations. I hadn’t seen him for ten days before he flew back from Paris with me. We had planned it for nearly a month, you see. Getting together for a whole night, with my British Airways schedules, let alone his private and professional ones, was always tricky.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ I said with genuine sympathy. ‘What about the evening itself? You’ve only mentioned the run-up to it.’

  ‘Well. You see there was nothing you can actually put your finger on, but somehow, John seemed a little preoccupied that night, not quite his usual confident self.’

  ‘Did you ask him why?’

  ‘No. I just put it down to the kind of let down you sometimes feel when you’ve looked forward to something too much and for too long.’

  ‘Did anything he said that night give a clue to what might be the trouble — if there really was anything worrying him?’

  ‘Not really. I can’t think of anything.’

  I was getting nowhere fast. I clutched at straws. ‘What kind of day did he have in Paris?’

  ‘All right, I think. We never really talk business when we’re together. There’s too much else that’s more important to say.’

  ‘So you gathered it was just another routine business day for him?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, then seemed to stop in mid thought.

  ‘Remember something?’ I asked.

  ‘No, not really. Only he told me on the flight back that he was thankful to be going somewhere where no one could reach him, for once.’

  ‘I guess he was. Businessmen often make their home numbers ex-directory to stop being pestered.’

  ‘No, I had the feeling at the time that someone must have called him during that day, and had annoyed or disturbed him in some way.’

  ‘Someone at Reinhardt UK, I expect.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she said thoughtfully.

  ‘Maxwell, then?’ I responded. She didn’t reply immediately, then I got another ‘Maybe’, but quieter this time.

  ‘What have you suddenly thought of now?’

  She looked at me and smiled for the first time. ‘It’s not suddenly, really. I’ve just recalled what made me remember his remark in the first place. He used the word “nag”.’