The Death of Marco Styles (4 page)

‘As long as you're innocent you don't have to worry about Inspector Morden. That's just the way he does things, and you'd be surprised how many confessions come out after a direct accusation. He's thorough, but he's honest.'

‘I'm relieved to hear it,' de Lacy answered, ‘and his reasoning is sound enough, if only because he doesn't seem to have any evidence against anybody else. He seems to think I'm some sort of low-level psychopath, deliberately taunting him, and you, in order to massage my own ego.'

‘I've known people to do exactly that.'

‘No doubt, but don't you think that sort of clumsy posturing is at odds with the way the crime was carried out?'

‘Yes, but that might be an act, and he has a thing about arrogant, public school types.'

‘So I noticed. Look, this new murder moves the case outside my scope, so I'll leave it with you, if I may?'

‘That's what I expect you to do, Mr de Lacy, unless there's anything else you want to tell me?'

‘Not really, no. No doubt you realise that if it was Dr Adams who provided the neurotoxin, as seems likely, then she was probably bribed.'

‘Why?'

‘Because a blackmailer needs compromising material, and it's extremely unlikely that the murderer would know of any such material relating to anybody who could get hold of what they needed. It's not impossible, but it would take a remarkable coincidence.'

‘It would take a lot of money to bribe her,' Sergeant McIntyre mused. ‘She was a professional, probably well-paid, and she'd have known what was going to happen, more or less. So we're looking for somebody with easy access to plenty of money, then.'

‘So you are,' de Lacy agreed, ‘so you are.'

Having secured himself a pint of beer, de Lacy made for his preferred seat in the saloon bar of The George, only to pause as he recognised the lean, grizzled features of Richard Vine across the room. He was seated at a table beside a window, with a glass of what looked like neat whisky in front of him, and to judge by his manner it wasn't the first. De Lacy hesitated, aware that it was almost certainly Vine who had given Inspector Morden the unsavoury details of what had happened at school between Marco Styles and de Lacy's father, but curiosity quickly got the better of him.

In the two days since his interview with Inspector Morden and the conversation with Sergeant McIntyre, he had avoided talking to either of them and so far they had not sought him out. A round of golf with Clive Styles and Adam Carradine had allowed him to confirm that no arrests had been made, although Clive had been taken into Solsbury Police Station for a second interview after the inspector discovered that the investment fund he managed had substantial holdings in Vulcan Pharmaceuticals. Beyond that de Lacy knew nothing, while his own plans were coming slowly to fruition, leaving him with a constant sense of tension not even the menu and wine list at The George could shake off. A chance to talk to Richard Vine was too good to pass up.

‘Richard, hello,' he said. ‘It's Charles, Alex de Lacy's son.'

‘Sure,' Vine answered. ‘I'd know that face anywhere. You look just like your dad. Sit down.'

De Lacy accepted the invitation. Despite the drink, Vine's expression and body language suggested a touch of embarrassment and not a little caution, which reflected de Lacy's own feelings.

‘Bad about Marco,' Vine said. ‘I hear you were at the dinner when he died?'

‘Yes. In fact I'm a suspect.'

‘Yeah … look, I'm sorry about the business with your dad and Marco. That guy Morden, he really grinds it out of you. He was asking me about school, stuff with the band, all sorts.'

‘Not at all. He's only doing his job, and I am clearly a suspect.'

Vine didn't answer immediately, but took a swallow from the glass of whisky on the table in front of him.

‘I take it you've come down for the funeral?' de Lacy asked. ‘It might take some time.'

‘Not just that,' Vine answered, and carried on only after a long pause. ‘It's going to come out soon enough, so I might as well tell you as anybody. If you think you had it bad with Morden, just wait until he gets his hands on me.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘It's like this. Marco was keeping a dolly bird in a flat in London, in Hounslow, well out of the way, but somehow Irene found out. They had a hell of a row and Irene told him she'd been unfaithful, just to get back at him really. You didn't really know Marco, did you? He was all right, when he was calm, and he'd mellowed a lot, but he was not the sort of guy who'd reckon that what was good for the goose was good for the gander. He was furious, and when she wouldn't tell him any more he said he'd have the kids' DNA tested.'

‘How did you find this out?'

‘From Irene, and it's a problem, because Miriam's not his … she's mine.'

‘You're sure of this?' de Lacy asked.

Vine drained his glass before replying, his hand unsteady as he replaced it on the table.

‘As sure as can be,' he said. ‘You know what Irene's like. She gets what she wants, and Marco wasn't getting her pregnant. Three years they'd been trying, and nothing. So she came to me. You know, I'd known her back before Marco did, and we'd had a fling then, and of course I'd already got my two eldest, so she knew I wasn't firing blanks. I didn't even realise, at the time. Marco was away somewhere and she said to come around because she was lonely. A few drinks, a bit of talk about the old times together, and we ended up in bed, several times that week and a few more later. Nine months later and along comes Miriam.'

‘Did Marco suspect? And what about the others?'

Vine shrugged.

‘I'm guessing they're his. They look like him, at least the girls, and Clive's like his mum. Maybe he suspected, maybe not, but with the DNA …'

‘They went ahead with the test then?'

‘Yeah, but the results weren't back. My DNA's already on their database, so it's only a matter of time before Morden catches on.'

‘He's aggressive, and he's an inverted snob, but he's supposed to be honest. My advice would be to go to Solsbury Police Station this afternoon and explain the situation. That way at least it won't appear as if you're trying to hide anything. Besides, you weren't at the dinner party, so I'd say the evidence points more towards Irene. Would she go that far, to murder Marco, simply to stop him learning about Miriam?'

Again Richard Vine shrugged.

V

De Lacy was smiling as he left Hill's Delicatessen in Solsbury High Street, but quickly put on a more solemn expression as he saw Sergeant McIntyre come out of the police station almost directly opposite. She was out of uniform, in dark, figure-hugging jeans and a cream-coloured jumper of light wool, a combination that made her look far from intimidating. Nevertheless, de Lacy drew in his breath. He had been hoping to avoid her until he was able to present her with the full facts of the case, but she had already seen him and was crossing the road.

 ‘Good morning,' he greeted her. ‘I trust that my witnesses supported my alibi?'

‘Yes,' she told him. ‘Do you have any further information?'

‘Information? Something, perhaps,' he admitted. ‘I assume that Richard – Richie – Vine came in yesterday to tell Inspector Morden that he is Miriam Styles' father?'

‘I didn't know that,' she answered. ‘He came in yesterday, but was interviewed by DC Pymm. That's interesting, but Richie Vine wasn't at the dinner party.'

‘He might have had an accomplice, Miriam even, although I consider the probability very low. What he told me yesterday might not have been true, after all, and he did seem rather keen to put the information forward, but unless I know the results of the DNA tests I can only theorise. After all, Vine thinks he is Miriam's father, but he might not be, and what about the other children? Elaine and Louise look like their father, but Clive doesn't, and Irene strikes me as a woman who likes to be certain.'

‘I don't know the results of the DNA tests, and I wouldn't be able to tell you if I did. Have you got anything else?'

‘Not as such, no. It is impossible to make worthwhile deductions when starved of information. I appreciate that the DNA results are confidential, but if you were to give me something to work on, such as the other suspects' alibis for the time of Dr Adams' death, then I might be able to help.'

‘That's not how it works, Mr de Lacy.'

‘Ah, no. That's not how you work, that I accept, but why you assume that I should subscribe to the internal ethics of the British Police Force I cannot imagine. I, Sergeant McIntyre, am a private individual, so let me be very clear on this point. I am not obliged to provide you with any information whatsoever. I do consider it my duty to assist you, but I am not, and will never be, one of those sordid individuals who earn small sums of money by providing information to the police.'

‘I wasn't suggesting I pay you, but if you want an easy life you'd better be cooperative. Inspector Morden still considers you a suspect.'

‘I have been cooperative, extremely so, even when being interviewed by the charming and tactful Inspector Morden. In terms of hard facts I have nothing more to offer, and if you want me to apply my reasoning to the case then I need more information, it's as simple as that.'

They had remained standing on the pavement outside Hill's Delicatessen as they spoke. Sergeant McIntyre's tone of voice had been pre-emptory, very much that of somebody giving orders they expected to be obeyed, but it was much softer as she spoke again and simultaneously began to walk.

‘OK, let's start again. Walk with me for a little way.'

‘My pleasure.'

‘It seems that Clive Styles had connections with the company who made the neurotoxin, Vulcan Pharmaceuticals, while Irene Styles was in Devon the week that Dr Adams went missing. Dr Adams had taken a cliffside cottage at Whitsand Bay, which is only a few miles from Plymouth, where Irene Styles claims to have been shopping that day. She was not at the regatta she was attending with Marco in Dartmouth, we're sure of that. Unfortunately, her phone records and two receipts from shops in Plymouth make it seem unlikely that she ever left the city.'

‘Perhaps Dr Adams came to meet her in Plymouth?'

‘Then Irene killed her and disposed of the body in the middle of a busy city?'

‘That would present problems, certainly. What is supposed to have happened to the body?'

‘There was sea fog that afternoon and the tide was high. Anybody who had a fall would be very unlikely to survive and might well not be recovered.'

‘It would be risky though, for a murderer. What was Dr Adams' height and build?'

‘About 5'3” and quite slight.'

De Lacy allowed himself a pleased smile. The information fitted in with his own theories but also allowed him to suggest a viable solution to Sergeant McIntyre's line of reasoning.

‘And Irene is perhaps 5'10”, and plays tennis and golf with a vigour worthy of a professional. I'd say she agreed to meet Dr Adams at some remote spot along the Tamar Estuary, and there are plenty, then killed her and took the neurotoxin.'

‘What about the phone records and receipts, and how would she have disposed of the body?'

‘Could she have made a detour on the way back from Plymouth to Dartmouth, perhaps? I know that area and she'd need a window of an hour, no more, or possibly somebody else had her phone and credit cards that afternoon? As for disposing of the body, the hills around the Tamar Estuary used to be mining country. I've seen open shafts that are said to go down 500 feet. Given your family's own mining background it would also seem to be a sensible suggestion for you to make.'

‘Thank you,' Sergeant McIntyre replied, now with genuine warmth.

‘However,' de Lacy went on, ‘please bear in mind that it's only a theory. It fits all the facts, yes, but please don't accuse me of wasting police time if it proves to be false.'

‘Your name will never be mentioned,' she assured him. ‘But I hope you don't mind me taking the credit?'

‘Go ahead,' he went on. ‘I have no desire whatsoever for publicity, just the opposite.'

‘No? That's unusual.'

‘I enjoy a peaceful, unrestricted life. The last thing I want is attention from the press and public.'

‘OK. So what are you going to do now?'

‘I,' de Lacy stated, ‘am going enjoy an afternoon at Solsbury Races.'

VI

With the Jaguar parked in a conspicuous position, de Lacy got out and looked around. He stood on top of a low rise, with Solsbury Downs spread out around him, speckled with cars and groups of race-goers talking or seated at their picnics. Further away the cars were more densely packed, creating a solid, multi-coloured block above which the tall white roofs of the hospitality stand rose in a line of concave pyramids. Most of the actual racetrack was invisible, but to one side he could see the packed heads of the crowd in the public enclosure, turning as one when a group of horses thundered by. Here and there the brilliant yellow reflective vests of the police and security were visible, singly or in pairs, creating what was in effect a cordon around the public areas.

Satisfied with his position, he opened the boot of the Jaguar. Within was a large, wickerwork hamper containing not only the picnic he had assembled with great care that morning, but crockery, cutlery, and glasses. There was also a large rug patterned in a tartan whose shades of deep, rich green, navy blue, and black complimented both the colour of his car and the paler colours of the chalkland scenery. There was no sign of the maid he had booked to wait on him, so he began to set out the picnic, taking occasional glances at his watch or in the direction of the temporary bus stop at which she would presumably arrive.