Death in Elysium

by Judith Cutler

  ‘God helps those who help themselves,’ I said. ‘Ted Vesey’s envelope: is someone going to ask him what was in it? Mazza sniffed it; he seemed disappointed when my nose wasn’t as acute as his, so perhaps he thought he smelt drugs? And surely there must be some connection between the contents of the safe – including, perhaps, this envelope – and the attack on George.’

  ‘Just because you’ve never enjoyed a good relationship with Ted doesn’t mean he’s a bad person.’ Theo seemed to be trying to convince himself as much as me. ‘Please don’t make the sort of assumptions people make about Mazza or Burble, for instance.’

  ‘My colleagues and I never make assumptions,’ Don growled. ‘But we follow leads, Theo, and clearly this has to be one line of enquiry.’ He stood, looking meaningfully at his watch. ‘A police team is like an ants’ nest full of anonymous men and women working their socks off to solve a case. I’m just the ant you get to see. And you only get to see me because of Dave, by the way, on account of we go way back. For better or worse – sorry again, Theo – as I told Jodie this morning, my job’s mostly administrative these days. I worry about budgets; I make sure people are in the right place at the right time. There are loads of other ants toiling away, and now I’ve got to go and see what they’ve been up to.’

  George and Alison lived about a mile from the village centre. We told ourselves that this was far enough from the rectory for a quick dive into their cottage to pick up the things she’d asked for, and for us to be safe. After all, no one knew about the hire car, did they? Then we took the bag to the hospital. She left George’s side long enough to kiss us both and tell us that there were now minute signs of improvement. In fact he’d been moved from one-to-one care to a ward with three other patients.

  ‘Quite a promotion,’ she managed to say, wiping away her tears and straightening her shoulders as she prepared to return to her vigil. Holding her hands, Theo prayed with her. I joined in the Amen, though he’d spoken so quietly and gently I could barely hear.

  Back at the car, he sank into the passenger seat as if it was his favourite armchair. Not that he had one at the rectory; he never seemed to sit down long enough to choose one.

  ‘It’s strange, isn’t it,’ he began, barely stifling a yawn, ‘that we live in one of the most beautiful parts of the country, but we never ever just take time to look at it. When did we last see the sea? Take a gentle stroll along a river? Have a quiet pub lunch in a village as picturesque as ours? We just bolt to London.’

  ‘We don’t have to. We could bolt to all sorts of places provided we stayed there for the time the bishop told you to take for R and R.’ I squeezed his hand. ‘I love the Smoke, and during the cricket season there are few better places than my balcony. But I’d love to get to know Kent too. I’ll check out some bijou B and Bs. We might even get to see something of your Birmingham?’

  ‘Too far for just thirty-six hours, I’m afraid. But I do miss it, even after all these years. It’s like a physical ache sometimes. That lovely engineering brick by the cuts. The warm, kind people – travel next to someone on a bus and it’s as if they’re lifelong friends … Anyway, what’s this about eating with Dilly Pound?’ It would have been hard for him to sound less enthusiastic.

  I was in the middle of telling him, when his mobile rang.

  ‘Ida. Good to hear from you. Are you feeling any better? No, I’m afraid I can’t come round this evening. My car’s in dock. Just rest and we’ll talk tomorrow.’ He cut the call with as much emphasis as is possible when you can’t throw a handset on to a cradle.

  Without comment, I checked my watch. ‘There’s just time to nip into Canterbury if you want to pick up a nice new clerical shirt. And we could say hello to the Cathedral, too …’

  Dilly Pound looked as immaculate as you’d expect of someone who spent her life in front of a camera. However, there was something about her eyes that worried me. Her smile too was decidedly brittle. She said something about her husband being unable to join us; I didn’t feel she regretted his absence too much. But the ice-cubes in her gin and tonic rattled alarmingly when she raised the glass. Theo, who apparently hadn’t eaten since he left the house this morning, was eager to order. I was equally keen to cut the niceties and hear what she had to say. Salmon on samphire seemed to be what we all wanted, though I felt my eyes welling unpleasantly at the connection with poor Burble. To my astonishment she noticed; I had to explain.

  Her nod was disconcertingly understanding – it didn’t feel as if it was just one of her professional skills. ‘Then I’ll get straight to the point. You know I said I’d keep an eye open for things that might help locate him? Well, sometimes when you look for one thing you find another. One of my friends who keeps an eye on the cameras covering the motorways and major roads for the local radio travel bulletins tells me she’s seen a larger number of JCBs on low-loaders heading your way than she’d expect. And then I had a mate who was working on a nature programme – you know, all those wonderful aerial shots that go with sweeping gloopy music. I got him to fly low over your valley with TV-quality cameras rolling. The footage should be in police hands now.’ As a group of men in business suits sat at the next table, she stopped short. She got up, heading for the ladies’ loo. A twitch of her head summoned me too. Still without speaking, she adjourned to a cubicle. I followed suit. When we were washing our hands, she turned on the taps full blast; it seemed I was to do the same, though I’d thought that was a technique simply to drown out sound – and who’d be bugging this place anyway? Only then did she hand over a jiffy bag, as discreetly as if she were dealing drugs.

  ‘Thank you,’ I mouthed, rather than murmured. ‘Shall I get my police contact to come here or will you come to see him with us?’ Not that I was at all sure that Don could be summoned like that.

  She looked at her watch. ‘Neither. As soon as I’ve eaten I have to be on my way. But you’ll find all the relevant footage on that DVD.’ She led the way back to the table.

  By now the men were well down their first pints, and their voices were loud enough to persuade her that it was safe to talk, even though we both had to strain forward to hear her.

  ‘Now, your friend Burble. The police press office has told us all the facts they have, apparently, which isn’t actually saying very much. What’s happening about his funeral? Because – but I’d want this to be entirely confidential, right? – I’d be happy to cover some of the expenses. I gather there’s no family.’

  Theo might have been an exhausted man glad to have his hand wrapped round a half-pint glass, but he was transformed before our eyes into a caring priest. I’d seen it before, but always found it disconcerting and very moving. Dilly’s eyes filled, as if his sympathy was directed purely at her.

  ‘That’s a wonderfully kind offer, Dilly. Jodie and I had intended to take care of that, but if you would like to help, please do. We’ve not had time to discuss it yet, to be honest, but I’d want to give him a fairly traditional funeral service – even his reprobate friends might find that a comfort if they chose the hymns and other music. As for his body—’ He turned to me with an enquiring smile.

  ‘Burble’s friend Mazza and I were talking about a green burial.’

  Dilly nodded. ‘Of course. Just what a forager would have wanted. How would you feel about press coverage, Theo?’

  He shook his head gently. ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The body’s not yet been released. No one’s been arrested in connection with his death, as far as I know, let alone charged. It seems police mills are even slower than the mills of God.’

  ‘But they both grind exceeding small,’ Dilly said, with some satisfaction. ‘Every heart has its secret sorrows which the world knows not, and oftentimes we call a man cold, when he is only sad,’ she added disconcertingly. Perhaps she would have said more if our salmon hadn’t arrived.

  Though it looked delicious, we all left the samphire.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Before we left the Crab and Basket’s
car park, just on the off-chance I phoned Don Simpson, telling him what Dilly had handed over. I had a strong impression that he was leaving the building, and why not, at eight fifteen at night? But he sounded interested enough, and invited us over. Meanwhile, he’d check on what had happened to our cars.

  He greeted us with a smile that edged towards perfunctory, nonetheless reaching out a surprisingly slender hand for the DVD, which he slipped without comment into the player in the opposite corner of his office from the coffee-machine. Almost as an afterthought, but a welcome one, he switched on the machine too: ‘Decaf at this time of night? Growing old’s a bugger, isn’t it?’

  The footage from the motorway cameras showed more JCBs than I for one knew existed, though I admit my expertise was somewhat limited. Then there was a lot of complicated farm equipment that looked eye-wateringly expensive. Don watched with a deepening frown that said, clearly enough, that someone should have told him about this before. He jotted vigorously. ‘And where might that JCB be heading? To your site, of course. To clear it, no doubt.’

  ‘It’s an SSSI,’ I said quietly.

  ‘Which means none of this should be happening anyway. Why haven’t the Planning department got back to me?’ he demanded rhetorically. ‘Cuts, I suppose. Look at the size of those things. What can they need all those for – bloody hell!’ Freezing the footage, Don smacked the side of his head theatrically, and reached for the phone. His short conversation ended with the suggestion that his interlocutor got his or her arse back in, presumably to the CID office.

  He started the footage again. This was of a young woman I vaguely recognized as a reporter for TVInvicta, doorstepping – or rather gate-stepping – a middle-aged man wearing a suit so sharp he could have cut himself on it as he tried to drive his shiny new Range Rover out on to the road. The registration was clear. Don jotted.

  She didn’t get very far with her yelled questions about the developments on his land, which turned out, as the camera panned first to the departing vehicle and then to the beautiful sign on his gate, to be Elysian Fields. Don snorted with laughter. ‘Do they buy truckloads of Ambrosia rice?’

  ‘Is it still available? You know, the tinned rice pudding,’ I added for Theo’s benefit, because he didn’t seem to have picked up Don’s food of the gods quip. ‘I was practically reared on it.’

  ‘Why haven’t I seen this before?’ Don asked.

  ‘Dilly assured me she forwarded everything to the police – but says she’s heard nothing. Maybe she sent it to the wrong email address or something?’

  ‘Well, we’ve got it now. Looks like the basis for a good piece of investigative journalism: these reporters can sometimes ask questions we can’t, you know. This wasn’t one of your headings, Jodie!’ He gave a crack of laughter.

  ‘It should have been. This is my thesis, Don, for what it’s worth. Elysian Fields and Double Gate – and don’t forget that so far my enquiries haven’t found out who actually owns either organization—’

  ‘I can find who owns the Range Rover for starters,’ Don said, tapping his computer and jotting. His eyebrows bobbed up and down over the furrows of his forehead. ‘Sorry. Carry on.’

  ‘I think Elysian Fields and Double Gate are a front for something. Right? And I keep seeing on the news pieces about post office raids, carried out by JCBs that are then loaded on to convincing-looking low-loaders and driven away. Possibly, just possibly, to the building sight we flew over in that chopper.’

  ‘So this could be a multi-storey car park for earth movers?’ Theo suggested, disbelief dripping from his voice.

  ‘It’s supposed to be a cow shed, according to a friend of mine,’ I said, wishing I didn’t have to. ‘Have you had a chance to check out the photos yet?’

  ‘They’re in my case to look at when I get home,’ Don admitted. ‘But let’s see the rest of this, shall we?’ He pressed the zapper.

  ‘Ah, you won’t need to do any homework,’ I said with a comradely grin. ‘That’s the moving version of our stills. Dilly said it was part of a nature programme.’

  ‘At least we’re spared a soundtrack,’ Don said dourly. ‘Have you noticed how the music gets especially emotional and dramatic when a lion or whatever kills some poor defensive antelope and starts tearing it— Hey up!’ He froze the footage. ‘You’re right, Theo,’ he said, as generously as if he’d not noticed Theo’s sarcasm. ‘It does look like a multi-storey. And that looks like a container to me. Down there: can you see?’

  ‘Not a cattle truck,’ Theo, back on our side, put in helpfully. ‘What’s that – in the opposite corner? All those – they look like giant chocolate rolls.’

  ‘Turf,’ I said. ‘Rolls of turf. You can just see the green fringes peeping out at the edges. Some lawn!’

  Theo pointed. ‘Can you get back to the frames showing the top of the construction? Look, there are heaps of what looks like soil over there. This sounds crazy, but it’s by no means a new idea. If you want to hide something from the air then it’s a very good idea to make it look like the surrounding countryside. Nuclear silos; aircraft hangers – that sort of thing. Suppose that’s what they’re doing.’

  ‘Weapons of war?’ It was Don’s turn to snort in derision.

  ‘More likely proceeds of crime and stolen property,’ I said. ‘There’s more farm equipment there than even a big conglomerate can use, surely. We’ve got people trafficking from Eastern Europe to the west; is there parallel heavy plant and equipment trafficking in the opposite direction?’

  ‘Bloody right there is. At one point manufacturers made it easy for thieves: each one of the same batch of tractors or combine harvesters had the same key, would you believe? Things are better now: most sensible farmers fit tracker devices which sound an alarm when someone moves a vehicle out of a yard. So if you want to steal them you must get them into a container as quickly as possible to shut off the signal. And I suppose, though I’m not expert in such matters, a place like that would provide cover for your containers. It might even prevent the signals being transmitted while they’re prepared for export. Yes?’ he called tetchily in response to a quiet knock.

  One of the tiniest police officers I’d ever seen put her head round the door and slid into the room. She was so petite I only realized she was an officer when Simpson grudgingly, even disparagingly, I thought, introduced her as DI French.

  ‘She’s in charge of the unit dealing with agricultural theft. And you’ve been doing all her work for her.’ He ejected the DVD and flipped it to her. ‘Say thank you kindly.’

  I winked at her and she responded with an almost invisible smile; we both knew whose side I was on.

  ‘So which of you would be investigating Burble’s death, assuming it’s in this context?’ I asked. ‘Money’s only money, but this was someone’s life. And, to be selfish for a moment, in what context are the attacks on me to be dealt with?’

  DI French looked horribly blank.

  ‘You go and invite Range Rover man to come and have a conversation with us, French, will you? I’ll sort out a search warrant. Best go mob-handed, and have some armed back-up. No heroics, French, from anyone. If you’re protecting that much money,’ he continued, pointing at the DVD, ‘you don’t fight fair. And we’re running out of good officers. Keep a team on to it all night and tomorrow, if needs be. You won’t get them all in one fell swoop. Oh, and get the ports and airports alerted. The gang may not be taking flights to Eastern Europe, but that’s where they’ll be headed when we start picking up the big cheeses.’

  She left. Theo rose to leave too. ‘Our cars?’

  ‘How did you get here?’

  I smacked the side of my head. ‘Hire car. Oh, bloody hell. Sorry. It’s exactly the same colour and model as the one that was driven at me. Why on earth didn’t I ask the rental people who else they’d loaned one to?’

  ‘Perhaps because it wasn’t your job to poke your nose in? And they wouldn’t have told you. Shouldn’t have, anyway. Which rental company?’ He pressed
a button on the phone. Someone was going to get on to it. Now. His smile had a valedictory quality about it.

  ‘Ted Vesey’s envelope?’ I prompted him, not moving.

  ‘Tomorrow. I promise you. Time to go home.’ He nodded in Theo’s direction. He was fast asleep.

  TWENTY-SIX

  As I drove back into the village I had an awful sense of déjà vu. The area round the rectory was full of blue flashing lights. My first thought was that Mazza had installed himself once again as a private security guard and that the police were having another bite at what they thought was a tempting cherry. Then I realized that some of the blue lights were much higher off the ground, and that there was a reddish background. Red as in bonfires. There was no denying the smell of smoke. It was time to wake Theo. Though I suspected it was too late for prayer.

  The ubiquitous Sergeant Masters greeted me with an ironic smile tempered by what seemed genuine if reluctant sympathy. ‘At least we’ve got the mongrel that started it,’ he said. ‘Your cycle-collecting friend. A passer-by caught him red-handed on camera. How about that?’

  ‘Mazza? No! He wouldn’t do that! He’s a friend. He’s a good kid.’

  ‘He’s an arrested kid now. Bang to rights.’

  ‘No! Please, I must talk to him!’ I was tempted to fight off Theo’s restraining arm, but subsided; there was no point in hitting the man’s pompous, self-righteous chest.

  ‘No can do, Doctor. Oh, and before you make a song and dance about it, his mother’s with him. OK?’ In other words, end of discussion.