Peter Lovesey - The Summons

“Oh, but-”

“Let’s have it straight. She turned you down, right? The wild and steamy three weeks never happened.”

“Em…”

“Should have realized you’re a specialist in horseshit. We could do you for making a false statement, do you know that? Better not push your luck, chum. Can we rely on anything you told us? She came to you to get some riding in, strictly with the horses. Is that right?”

Diamond was fizzing. Nothing could equal the satisfaction of snaring a liar. To have caught the glib, golden-tongued Marcus Martin was a particular pleasure.

Martin leaned back and closed his eyes, trying to appear calm. “Broadly.”

“You made a play for her and she wasn’t having any?”

“You policemen make things sound so crude.”

“Yet according to previous statements you visited the house in Larkhall on more than one occasion.”

“That was true,” he insisted, opening his eyes and sitting forward. “She had no transport. I used to drive her back in my Range Rover.”

“Hope springs eternal. But she gave you the frost each time, did she? Afternoon tea in the Canary was part of the campaign, was it not?”

Martin’s voice was a semitone higher. “No, it was quite unplanned, in fact. She wanted to do some shopping that afternoon, so I parked the car in town and joined her for tea.”

“That was when you saw G.B. and got nervous of the company she kept, or so you claimed.”

“I was speaking the truth. I still nourished hopes of, er…”

“Getting inside her joddies?”

“Joddies?”

“Jodhpurs.”

“I suppose that sums it up, if vulgarly.”

Diamond picked up on the part of the answer that mattered. “You didn’t give up? You didn’t take no for an answer?”

“Who does?” said Martin, seizing the opportunity to make a general point. “They all say no at the beginning.”

“And mean ‘yes’?” said Diamond. “Better watch what you say, my friend. DI Hargreaves here is a rampant feminist.”

Julie, motionless in the front seat, made no comment, but the look she was giving both of them in the driving mirror made her disapproval clear.

“You persisted,” Diamond continued with his demolition of Marcus Martin. “You couldn’t believe she’d turned down an offer from you, the international show jumper, adored by all those little girls who muck out the stables. Are you sure you never bought her flowers? Have a care. We’ve caught you out in one lie already.”

“Absolutely not.”

“A bunch of roses would be more your style than some fellows’. We checked every florist for miles around. Care to reconsider?”

“I didn’t buy her flowers of any sort, ever.” Martin’s voice was taut, under strain. There could be no question that he knew the significance of what was being asked, but was he lying?

“When was the last occasion you saw her?”

“I’ve told you this before.”

“And I’m giving you this chance to tell it as it really happened.”

Martin shook his head wearily. “The weekend before she was killed I traveled to Brussels with the national show-jumping team. On, I think, the Thursday before that she came out for an afternoon at the jumps. She said it would be her last opportunity, as she’d recently enrolled on a college course that would take up all her time. I offered to drive her back to Bath as usual. She said she’d arranged a taxi. The message was loud and clear. We didn’t even shake hands at the end of the session.”

“When did you return from Brussels?”

“The Sunday evening, late.”

“And you didn’t see Britt again?”

“No.”

“Nor have any contact?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Remind me of your movements on Thursday, the eighteenth of October, 1990, the last evening of Britt Strand’s life.”

“I spent the evening quietly with a friend.”

“The young woman who died shortly after of meningitis?”

“That’s correct. Had she lived-”

“We wouldn’t be having this conversation, sir. You’d have a cast-iron alibi.” Diamond was at his combative best. The danger, he knew, was that he could dominate too much and shock his adversary into quiescence. “Your statement of four years ago had you in the flat in Walcot Street on the crucial evening with this young woman. What was her name?”

“Kelly McClure.”

“Could anyone else vouch for this?”

“I told you at the time. No.”

“Pity. I’m doing my best for you. You gave me some indispensable information that proved to be correct and the least I can do is help you out.”

“What information was that?” Martin asked, suspicious of this change of tactics.

“Things Britt confided, about her landlord pestering her, giving her presents and so forth. It was true. I verified it. You must have been a good listener for Britt to have talked so frankly.”

Martin didn’t accept the compliment. “It was only her way of telling me to keep off. She was being uncomplimentary about men in general when she said it.”

“You also put us on to another man in her life: G.B., the crusty.”

“He wasn’t a serious boyfriend,” said Martin. “She was using him.”

“She told you that?”

“Couldn’t have made it plainer.” He was more willing to talk now the spotlight had moved elsewhere. “She was a bloody good journalist doing the professional thing, buttering up a contact. She was writing this article about the crusties in Bath.”

“I know. You’re sure she wasn’t playing the same game with you?”

He frowned. “What game?”

Diamond unfolded a theory that he had not discussed with Julie, or anyone, for the very good reason that it had only just occurred to him. “You just said it: buttering up a contact.”

“What could I tell her?”

“You tell me, Mr. Martin. Show jumping is an upper-crust sport that I’m sure has a place in the glossy magazines she wrote for. She was a good rider herself, so she probably followed the careers of international riders like yourself. No professional sport is without its scandals and you’re well placed to tell all.”

Martin sounded skeptical. “Oh, yes?”

Dredging deep-because he was ignorant about the horse world-Diamond said, “The doping of horses, for instance. What’s that painkilling drug they give them-bute, is it called?”

“You’re way behind the times.” Martin scathingly dismissed the suggestion.

Unperturbed, Diamond said, “But what sells magazines- the sort she wrote for-is human interest, never mind our four-legged friends. People-trading. Present company excepted, the things people are willing to do to make it big in show jumping or eventing. I bet you can tell some tales.”

“If I did,” said he, “I’d be out. Do you think I’d chuck in my career?”

“If you did, you’d have a motive for murder.”

“What?”

“You give her the dirt, regret it later, go back and silence her.”

“No.” Martin hammered the seat in front with his fist. “I’ve told you the truth. Britt wasn’t interested in me or my career. She simply came to my place to ride. I fancied her, drove her home a few times, but she left me in no doubt that she wanted to be left alone. Is that too difficult for you to grasp?”

Outside, the daylight had gone. Dusk is a nonevent on some October evenings. All the other cars had left except a Range Rover that must have belonged to Martin. And still nothing of substance had emerged from this interview. Stubbornly Diamond began casting the net for one more trawl.

“All right, Mr. Martin. I’m accepting what you’ve told me. You didn’t make love to her. You didn’t give her material for a story. You didn’t kill her.” He let that sink in before saying, “You’re still a witness, and you could be a crucial one. You spoke to her several times in the last month of her life. You’ve told me about other men she mentioned-Billington and G.B. Was there anyone else?”