Death in Elysium

by Judith Cutler

  ‘But he was young,’ I yelled. ‘He’d bounce. He’d fall and get his flesh torn. He’d not just break his neck.’ And any moment I’d have to find Mazza and break the news. Or get Theo to do it. That was what clergymen did, wasn’t it? Except …

  Dave raised a hand. ‘You missed a couple of words there, Jodie. Rosie said it looks as if. He wouldn’t be the first person to have his neck broken and then his body arranged artistic-ally to make the death look natural. Of course, natural it might be if he had gone hard over one of those tripwires, in which case any cop worth his salt would be looking to prosecute whoever put the wires there. I would have, but then,’ he admitted with a bitter smile, ‘I might be biased.’ He patted his injured leg.

  ‘Do you think any unbiased cop will want to pursue the tripwire possibility?’ I asked. ‘Prosecution for manslaughter is better than nothing. But there’s something else you haven’t told me yet, isn’t there, Rosemary?’ I braced myself.

  She nodded. ‘The pathologist found something unexpected when he was examined. Highly unexpected. It’s been damaged, but the tech girls and boys are wizards, and should be able to pull something off it.’

  My mouth was dry. ‘It’s the memory card from my camera, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. From where the pathologist found it, it was clear Burble didn’t want it to be found if the person I presume was his assailant searched him.’

  ‘Whoever’s in charge of the case had better have my camera as well. Just in case.’

  ‘I’ll take it over first thing tomorrow – don’t worry, it’s in my lab safe.’

  Dave said, ‘I’ll call Don Simpson and get him to collect it. He knows some of the background, although it’s still not his case. Pity his old boss had to retire – you’d have liked her, Jodie.’ He fished in his pocket for his mobile. So did I, to call Mazza. Voicemail. No, I couldn’t leave a message. Not about Burble. That had to be face-to-face.

  Dave, on the other hand, did manage a conversation – short and to the point. ‘Great. Tonight it is,’ was how it ended. Then Dave turned to us to outline what I thought was a simply crazy plan. He wanted us all to leave the house together, using all three cars. Why anyone should want to put tracking devices on any of our cars was beyond me, as was his decision that we should take weird and wonderful routes to deter any physical tails. We’d fetch up at a pub where this Don Simpson character would be waiting, and Rosemary would hand over the camera she’d retrieved from her lab.’

  ‘This is all a bit Boys’ Own!’ Theo objected. ‘We’re not snotty schoolboys having a Big Adventure.’

  ‘Think what happened to Burble. That wasn’t Boys’ Own.’

  ‘I’ve got a parish to run.’

  ‘Change your answerphone message and leave your mobile number.’

  Theo flushed. The answerphone was so old I’d swear he’d lost the instructions. ‘My place is here.’ He didn’t look at me.

  I said quietly, ‘I think they’re after me, not Theo.’

  Wrong. Now Theo would be crushed between two lots of guilt, the Scylla of leaving his flock temporarily undefended, and the Charybdis of risking his wife, and knowing that whatever he’d chosen it might be the wrong one. In London, he’d have made a swift decision; here he still dithered. ‘This is ridiculous – Rosemary, why don’t you just hand over your lab keys to this Don character and let him get on with it?’

  ‘And compromise all those forensic samples in my care? Only named persons get into my holy of holies, Theo, and because of the legal implications police officers are not among them.’ She picked up her keys and handed Dave his crutches. ‘What time did you agree to meet Don Simpson?’

  ‘Nine thirty.’

  ‘Let’s hit the road, then.’ She looked at me, not Theo.

  ‘The Goose that Laid,’ Dave said, scribbling on the phone pad. ‘This is the postcode for the pub Don’s selected. Don would really like to talk to you, Jodie, and you ought to talk to someone with enough clout to act.’

  I dug in the drawer where Merry had always kept the car keys. ‘OK. Mazza’s been a target once – next time it could be far more serious.’

  At last I’d pressed the right button. You could almost see a light switched on; certainly Theo’s shoulders lifted and he managed a grim smile: ‘What are we waiting for?’

  I waited till he’d picked his route, then I went my way.

  Cynical as I’d been about the mere thought of a tracking device on my car, I soon acquired a tail. At first I just assumed it was Joe Public out for an evening with his girl. But there was something about the way he speeded up when I did and slowed when I braked that worried me. So what were my options?

  It was weird: they appeared in my head like a set of bullet points at a presentation:

  •Find a police station and ask for protection – were any open in this area at this time of night?

  •Find a filling station – though down here they were like hen’s teeth unless you were near a supermarket.

  •Drive up to a house with lights on and ask for help – assuming the house was occupied, and not using lights as a burglar protection; and who’d want a loony rector’s wife asking for shelter?

  •Something else.

  Given the speed at which I was now travelling, none of the options seemed good. In fact, I was so flagrantly ignoring limits that the police might well come to me before I found them. But my story would take a lot of believing – far easier to give me a ticket and send me on my way. But if I joined the motorway at least I’d have the eyes of CCTV operators, especially if I was driving erratically – which, since I wanted the cameras on me, I did my best to do. I failed. Too much traffic: I didn’t want to harm innocent people. Come to think of it, I didn’t even want to harm me. So I made sure I flashed my lights vigorously every time I neared a camera. That ought to interest someone. I came off at an intersection, went round the island twice, and to my great pleasure found my tail whizzing off ahead. Sorry about the bad lane driving, everyone. Thence to this Don Simpson’s pub – The Goose that Laid. Why not just call it The Golden Egg, for goodness’ sake? The satnav insisted I took a narrow twisting lane. I’d have loved to slow right down, but still felt as if someone was breathing down my neck, although my mirror said otherwise. Once or twice I drove the satnav to hysteria by making unauthorized deviations: the poor thing nearly got hoarse telling me to U-turn as soon as possible. But at last, more exhilarated than I cared to admit, I pulled up as near to the pub door as I could and almost tumbled into the bar.

  Anyone could have told at ten paces that Don Simpson was the cop in the group in the corner furthest from the fruit machine. BBC central casting might have supplied him, all bulky six feet of him. I bought a J2O and headed their way, looking around as if I had all the time in the world. The Goose was actually quite charming – a better patronized version of the Pickled Walnut – with a quiet game of darts in one corner and some lads playing pool in a yellow-painted annexe off the snug – the golden egg half, no doubt.

  ‘You took your time,’ Dave observed.

  ‘So I did. Bit of a problem on the motorway. But better late than never.’ I held his gaze, willing him to shut up. I really did not want to talk about my Girls’ Own journey until I’d prepared a sanitized version for Theo’s consumption. But, as if simply checking my phone, I made a note of the make and number of my pursuer’s vehicle and would make sure this Don character had them before the evening was over. I assumed my camera was already in his hands – or more literally in the sports bag by his knees.

  Don and I shook hands, both of us clearly evaluating the other. I saw a lot of common sense. Tenacity by the ton. Not much in the way of a sense of humour, maybe. But definitely the sort of man you wanted on your side. I didn’t think my tentative approval was reciprocated unreservedly. Somewhere deep in Don was a residual belief that woman had certain roles, and I wasn’t sure that making a pile was one of them.

  Rosemary said quietly, ‘I’m afraid my mate’s still not l
ooked at your photos, Jodie.’

  ‘What?’ It would have been crass to point out that I’d paid him a very great deal of money for the swiftest service.

  ‘Sick child. He sends his apologies. He’ll be on to them as soon as maybe.’

  It was a good job I’d kept my mouth shut then. I fished in my bag, producing my new camera. ‘Not analyzed, or anything, Don, I’m afraid, and I still haven’t sorted out the dross from the decent pics, but you can have a look – take the memory card if you wish.’

  Looking at me fiercely from under Dennis Healey eyebrows, Don took the camera and reviewed the photos then and there. ‘Good snaps,’ he grunted, as if we were talking about holiday pictures. He added, with a grudging smile, which finally widened, ‘My retirement’s not long away; I wouldn’t mind a bit of kit like yours for my farewell gift.’

  Kit. That was the word Burble had used.

  I was about to tell him that as soon as Burble’s killers had been dealt with he could have the camera he’d used as a thank you gift. But he couldn’t. Sian must have that. If she could handle the emotion, that is.

  ‘What do the photos tell you?’ Theo asked.

  ‘That there’s a lot of work there that probably didn’t get planning permission. Now don’t flare up again, Jodie. That’s Planning’s problem, in the first place. They can demand access and can inspect what’s been done. If it’s something they can’t approve, then everything can be pulled down and restitution made, particularly in the matter of ancient trees. I like it when things can happen without us getting involved.’

  ‘I’ll raise a glass to that,’ Dave said, suiting the deed to the word. ‘Softly, softly. And just as effective. Especially as it wouldn’t appear to have any connection with you, Jodie.’

  ‘Except it does, Dave. Apart from all the people who know about the helicopter flight, at least one person in the village knows I was interested in the site.’

  Theo sighed, ‘Not Ted Vesey.’

  ‘Two people, then. Ted Vesey met me after I’d been running one day. He asked very particularly what my route might be. I was trying to avoid the amorous intentions of that nasty little dog of his, so I gave him a pretty vague reply. But he’s no fool. If I say up hill and down dale, he’s going to know which part of the Downs I was heading for.’

  Don nodded. He didn’t jot in a notepad, as I’d possibly expected, but was using a phone to record the conversation. ‘And the other person?’

  I shook my head. ‘I can’t believe I’m saying this. A lovely woman, who teaches me to bake and is kind and imaginative and single-handedly trying to save our village pub.’

  ‘Elaine Grant? You’re joking!’ Theo buried his face in his hands.

  ‘Elaine’s the nearest thing I’ve got for a friend in the village, Don. I asked her what was going on. She came back with a whole lot of stuff about dairy farming. She talked all about planning permission and making sure the slurry didn’t enter the water supply and— No, she’s my friend …’

  ‘And …?’ Don prompted me.

  ‘She said she’d got it all off the Internet. But I’d already checked myself and found nothing.’

  ‘And this is the woman who’s forgotten more about computers than any of us here will learn in a lifetime,’ Dave pointed out.

  Don nodded. ‘You couldn’t have missed something?’

  ‘Easily. Yes, easily. Other things to think about. I’ve only been in the village a couple of months, Don, I’m still feeling my way.’

  His glance was surprisingly sympathetic. ‘You give up a big, responsible job and come and live in a one-horse village – it must be hard. My old boss took months to adjust. You need a hobby.’

  ‘I’ve actually got a new job – being the rector’s wife,’ I said, wishing I could reach to squeeze Theo’s hand.

  ‘Being second in command’s not the same as you were doing, though, is it? Any other enemies?’

  ‘Enemies?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking, Jodie,’ Don said, as if I was beginning to try his patience.

  As one of the bar staff reached for our dirty glasses, rather prematurely, I thought, and decidedly clumsily, Don’s phone sang a really naff little tune. One glance and, grabbing the sports bag, he was on his way. Almost. As he got up, he put his hand on my shoulder. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow, Jodie – my office or your house? I’ll come to you,’ he decided for me. ‘Tennish.’

  I got up to follow him, as if heading for the loo. By the bar, I said, ‘I know you’re in a rush, but I was tailed here. Here are the details.’ I brought them up on my phone. ‘Three series Beamer, about four years old. Driver white, baseball cap – couldn’t pick up the logo. But your motorway cameras will.’ I eased him outside. ‘My car will show up on a lot of motorway cameras. Each time I passed one I flashed my lights. He’ll be not very far behind me. As a tail he was useless, of course, because he followed too closely. Unless of course he wanted me to see him – a visual threat.’

  ‘You sound remarkably knowledgeable.’ It didn’t sound like a compliment.

  ‘I went out with one of Dave’s mates for a few months,’ I said. ‘And every time we watched a police movie or something like The Bill he’d talk me through the mistakes they made.’

  ‘OK, Jodie. I’ll be on to this. And if you give me a couple of minutes, I’ll organize some unobtrusive company on the way back.’ He patted my shoulder and headed for his car.

  I used the loo – might as well – and returned, hoping against hope that my extra conversation had gone unnoticed. It might well have done; Dave and Rosie were on their feet, announcing that they were heading back to her place. Theo hadn’t quite finished his beer, so I sat down to enjoy a moment of quiet with him. And possibly tell him about our tail, and the need to wait for a tactful police escort.

  But then I got a text. Mazza. Could I call him, like, now?

  I could – and did. ‘Theo, there’s a problem at the rectory – Mazza’s in a fix. I’m on my way. See you there!’

  TWENTY

  Unaware of anyone following me, legitimate or otherwise, I drove as briskly as I dared. Trust Dave to bunk off just when Mazza and I might need him. But I wasn’t going to waste time calling him, even with Bluetooth. I needed all my powers of concentration.

  When I got back to the rectory, the whole area was pulsing with blue lights, as a couple of police people carriers (was that what they called them? Probably something more portentous) joined a couple of police cars stationary in the road rather than parked against the kerb. No doubt it was the drivers of those who were arguing with five or six teenage lads sitting on the rectory wall. They weren’t lounging threateningly, swigging from beer cans. They were remarkably upright and disciplined, like so many skittles, come to think of it. Throwing the car – neatly – on to the drive, I headed for the one in the middle – Mazza.

  I reached him at the same time as a couple of what looked like combat troops. ‘Hi, Mazza! Sorry to keep you hanging around,’ I greeted him loudly. The occasion also called for a very public hug. Then I turned, a hand still on Mazza’s shoulder. ‘And good evening, officers. I’m Doctor Harcourt. I gather there’s some problem?’ How many times had I spoken to inadequately prepared junior managers like that? It was good to see the tone of voice still worked.

  There was an exchange of glances. ‘You can see for yourself.’ The lead officer, my old friend Sergeant Masters, might have gestured with an accusing hand, but there was more bluster than conviction in his voice.

  I looked, very ostentatiously. ‘I see one of my running partners, who helped set up the village website. I see a neat stack of empty coke tins. I see a number of Mazza’s mates sitting on the rectory wall. I don’t see alcohol. I can smell tobacco – stupid kids – but not pot. No needles. No other way to ingest drugs. So the problem is …?’

  ‘Unlawful assembly for a start.’

  ‘Really? Aren’t they just sitting waiting for me? Mazza helped put together the village website. Now he and I are trying to
assemble a team for a community project linking the Women’s Institute and the village pub. I promised to brief them.’ I was out on a limb, here: who in their right mind would want to talk to a bunch of lads long past their bedtime – mine, not theirs? ‘I’d have been here very much earlier, but I was in a meeting with Detective Superintendent Don Simpson. You can confirm it if you like. I just applaud their patience.’

  ‘All the same, we had a call. They said the vicarage was under threat. And I can see why.’

  ‘Of course you can, and I can see why my neighbours might have been alarmed. Would you happen to know who made the complaint so I can go and apologize in person?’

  ‘I believe it was someone attached to the church,’ he said, ‘but you understand I can’t give away confidential information. Anyway, if they’re all your visitors, you’d better get them inside.’ His eyes gleamed: he’d thrown down the gauntlet. Never would I invite half a dozen ill-favoured youths into my home.

  At this point Theo’s Focus arrived, parking alongside mine. ‘Hi, darling,’ I greeted him. ‘I told you I should have left earlier. Mazza and his mates have been waiting for me all this time.’

  ‘Best let them in,’ he declared, flourishing the front door key. ‘How are you doing, Mazza? Best bring that pile of empties with you and we can put them in the recycling bin.’ For a man who didn’t want a Big Adventure he was thinking on his feet remarkably well.

  The officers looked nonplussed, as well they might, as the lads trickled in behind Theo.

  ‘You don’t need to caution them or anything, do you?’ I asked with a regrettably winsome smile. I flicked a discreet but meaningful glance at my watch.

  ‘What about them getting home?’

  Somehow the question didn’t sound paternal, but I treated it as if it was. ‘The rector or I will run them back after our meeting.’

  ‘That’d be a very good notion, Doctor. Don’t want them nicking any bikes, do we?’ At that point he clearly decided that honours were even, and that he had other things to do than fill in a load of paperwork.