Death in Elysium

by Judith Cutler

  ‘Not quite. His sister. She’s a minor. Who’s looking after her?’

  ‘A friend, I think. If you really insist, I suppose I could check. And I’ll get Social Services on to it.’

  I wasn’t going to be in any position to look after her myself, was I? ‘Thank you.’

  He nodded, as if accepting his due. ‘Now, best you have a word with the lead fire officer about the house.’ He turned away, even his shoulder officious.

  Theo fished in my bag and grabbed my phone. ‘I’m calling Don. I don’t care if he’s got his slippers on and his feet up on the sofa. He needs to know.’

  Meanwhile a young man who introduced himself as the watch manager had come over. ‘Jason Heath,’ he said, shaking hands. ‘In simple terms, the fire started in the kitchen. We’re not sure yet if it was an electrical fault or if accelerant was involved.’

  ‘So it could have been arson?’ Theo asked sadly, returning my phone.

  ‘It could. And I understand that there are witnesses to say that an individual was seen breaking into the premises and was subsequently apprehended.’ He gestured in the direction of Sergeant Masters.

  ‘Is it possible to get into the house? To get some clothes at the very least.’

  He shook his head sadly in response to what he clearly thought was a silly question. ‘We’re still damping down, sir. Is there somewhere you could stay? Friends in the village?’ He didn’t wait for an answer but headed back to his colleagues.

  Had he waited he’d have received a reluctant negative. Though half the village seemed to be watching the entertainment, there was no sign of either of the people who might have been expected to have some sort of duty of care towards Theo at least: Ted Vesey and Elaine Grant. All I wanted to do was bolt to my dear, clean apartment. In the heat, the smoke, the dust, I could have sat down and cried. The thought that Mazza might somehow be involved made it worse. No time for crying. I dug in my bag. My turn to use my phone.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Theo asked quietly.

  ‘Calling the solicitor who represented Mazza last time he was framed.’

  He produced his own phone, tilting it so I could see the image. ‘Sergeant Masters forwarded it to me. It does indeed look as if Mazza was involved, Jodie. I’m so sorry.’ He held me while I stared. Mazza was indeed about to throw something, though it was hard to tell what. Whatever it was, in a case as serious as possible arson, the police and fire service would be meticulous in locating his missile. ‘Come on, let’s sell one of your Monopoly houses and find a hotel for the night.’

  ‘That’s the best idea I’ve heard all evening,’ Don Simpson declared; to say he’d made me jump would be a masterpiece of understatement. ‘But I want us to talk first thing. This is looking personal, Jodie. Arson and attempted murder.’

  ‘I’m not sure it is.’ Goodness knows where that came from. ‘No cars, no lights on, no indication anyone’s at home.’ I waited for one of them to agree. When neither spoke, I shook my head, almost apologetically. ‘Perhaps I shall think more clearly in the morning. Hang on, Don – that photo Sergeant Masters sent us of Mazza throwing something. Who sent it to him?’

  ‘Even asleep on your feet, can you imagine I can tell you that?’

  ‘It’s just that there’s something missing from the image. If I wanted to take a picture of someone torching a place, I’d make sure I got the bottle of petrol or whatever in frame. All I could see was his upper arm, not the lower part and the hand.’

  ‘That’s good enough for me,’ Masters said, with the same ability as his boss to materialize unannounced.

  But not for me. We got in the hire car, me motioning Theo into the driving seat. I had a call to make. If only, and my brain seemed as heavy as my drooping eyes, I could remember the name of the security firm that had installed our magic invisible cameras. Other security firms advertised their names on square red alarm boxes, but ours was far too discreet. I’d just have to switch off the conscious part of my brain and wait for the name to pop up.

  We checked into the Maidstone Mondiale, a modern building so imposing that in other circumstances I’m afraid Theo would have driven straight past in search of a hotel with far fewer stars. Not this time, thank goodness. The night staff rallied round with wonderful kindness, providing us with everything they could, from luxury bathrobes to basic toothpaste.

  At last, perching on the bed and sipping hot chocolate, Theo said in a far from convincing voice, ‘We have a lot to be grateful for – or at least we shall realize in the morning that we have.’

  ‘We have a huge amount to be grateful for,’ I said quite sharply. ‘Each other – alive and well. The best solicitor money can hire for Mazza. Social Services on to Sian. Hey, a text I missed earlier – no, it’s just that this guy keeps late hours. Do you recall my having a pointed conversation with the local drug-dealer? Philip, known as Pill? No? Anyway, this is from that friend of mine in Nottingham who’s found a job and accommodation for him. Thank God for that.’ Though as he’d predicted, there’d no doubt be others to fill the drug distribution vacancy in the area.

  ‘Amen.’

  He so rarely said that, church apart, of course, that I stared. ‘Grace!’

  ‘A bit late for that,’ he said through his second biscuit.

  ‘Not with twenty-four-seven coverage,’ I declared, reaching for my phone.

  Even Theo didn’t argue about the need for new clothes, so we descended on the centre of Maidstone to bend some plastic. What we’d worn last night went into bin liners, since neither of us had the faintest clue if the police would want it as some sort of evidence. So when we presented ourselves once again at Don Simpson’s office we were as smart as we could make ourselves. Don’s eyes narrowed. ‘At least you’re not creeping in like victims. We’ve released young Mazza, before you ask. Dave dropped by to take him and his mother home. You’re right. He’s not a bad kid. That footage your security people sent through – well, you might want to see it.’

  He brewed coffee and, as before, operated his DVD player. ‘At first, as you can see, his actions look decidedly suspect. What’s a lad doing prowling round the back of the rectory? Why does he run back, armed with a brick he’s prised from your front wall? What’s he going to do with it? Well, I know you think we function at a snail’s pace, Jodie, and I can see you must get frustrated having been used to people tugging their forelocks and asking how high when you tell them to jump, but sometimes we get it right – as your security people have done. Because there’s a bit of footage I’ve not shown you: a lad frantically using his mobile. He says he was dialling nine-nine-nine. He was. His call was logged. He said he was afraid you might be asleep in the rectory and was going to break in – hence the brick.’

  Theo’s smile threatened to break his face. ‘Thank God for that.’ He didn’t say that lightly.

  ‘So who’s the malicious bastard who sent you the footage of him ready to throw the brick? Did he actually break the window, by the way?’

  ‘He scarpered when he was challenged. And why not? He knew the emergency services were on their way. He says he wished he’d stayed put, but he could see the fire was so intense he’d not get in through the kitchen.’

  ‘And the photographer?’

  ‘Is that friend of yours. She said she didn’t dare challenge the young man but she wanted evidence. And she scarpered too. In the opposite direction, of course.’

  ‘Elaine? So why wasn’t she in the crowd watching the show?’ asked Theo, taking my hand.

  ‘She was afraid she might get lynched for grassing up a youngster known to the mob of rubberneckers. She said that she felt totally betrayed: she was about to entrust some very important work to this Mazza and now she finds he’s a common criminal.’ He did a remarkable imitation of Elaine’s clipped enunciation. ‘We’ve no evidence that she set the fire, either,’ he added regretfully. ‘But our friends in the fire service will be invaluable there. Plus, if they find any accelerant, they can tell us what sort it is – e
ven the make, if it’s petrol – and decent everyday police work will find out where it was sold and to whom.’

  ‘But why, if the kitchen was alight, should she think that Mazza was holding a petrol bomb or whatever? Wouldn’t the light – the glare – from the fire illuminate everything?’

  He nodded, as if I were some rookie constable who’d had a bright idea. One he’d already had himself, of course. ‘I think there may be further conversations with her,’ he said quietly. His phone rang. ‘Ah. A meeting I tried to forget.’

  ‘We’ll go and visit my very sick parishioner,’ Theo declared. ‘Just tell us what time you want us back here.’

  Don spoke directly to Theo. ‘I want your word that you won’t take any foolish risks. This is our case. Your input’s been invaluable, but you have to leave it to us now. And you, Jodie, do I have your word too? You’re the tricky one,’ he added dourly, ushering us out.

  Predictably, the only spaces left in the hospital car park were miles from the entrance. It was a lovely sweet spring morning, with life-affirming birds finding even the puny car park saplings a good place to sing from.

  Paradoxically it was a vehicle tucked away on the furthest corner of the car park that drew my attention as, hand in hand, we started walking to the entrance.

  ‘Isn’t that Elaine’s new beast?’ I asked, pointing at the silver-grey Range Rover. ‘Keep going. Don’t stop to look. But I think something’s up. I’m going to pretend I’ve forgotten something – silly me! So wait here looking impatient.’ I jogged back to the car and fiddled in the glove box. All the time I was trying to see inside the Range Rover. I even got a quick photo and sent it to Don. Why on earth hadn’t I asked him if he’d organized a guard for George? He’d got so much on his plate I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d forgotten. I jogged back to Theo, heaving my shoulders in a huge shrug that said, I hoped, to an onlooker, that it was his problem and he had to look for the mythical missing object. ‘Elaine’s in the driving seat, with someone at the back holding a knife to her throat. The passenger seat is empty. Theo, I’ve got a terrible fear. I’ve sent a pic direct to Don, but dial nine nine nine and tell them to alert hospital security too. ICU, of course! Pretend you’re cross with me and stalk back to the car.’ Slinging my bag across my body, I jogged off. Once out of sight I ran. I hared. You’re not supposed to run in hospitals, are you, but I zipped along those corridors and hurtled up the stairs. At long last my behaviour attracted attention, but the security guard wanted to stop me, not help. So I shook him off and took the stairs two at a time.

  I was stopped good and proper in ICU. ‘Doctor Harcourt,’ I snapped, as if irritated I’d lost my ID. ‘For George Cox.’

  A burly lad in scrubs stepped in front of me; sidestepping him, I grabbed his wrist, dragging him along. ‘Someone’s planning to kill George. They’re holding his partner as a hostage. I need your muscle. And beep for back-up!’

  He didn’t argue.

  At the door to the ward, we froze. Ted Vesey was leaning tenderly over George, as if talking to a dear friend. His hand, holding something small, moved slightly but perceptibly. Scrubs Lad was on him with a roar, knocking him backwards on to the floor. Delicately I removed the syringe from Ted’s grasp, placing it on a cardboard kidney bowl a nurse held out as calmly as if all this was normal procedure.

  I knelt down beside Ted, still pinioned. ‘Ted, what do you have to do to get Elaine released? I know she’s got a knife at her throat. What do you have to do to make them remove it?’

  Ted sobbed, started to gibber.

  ‘I know it’s not your fault. And you didn’t manage to kill poor George, did you? Look, there are sick people in here: this young man and I are going to take you into the corridor, and then you are going to tell us all we need to know to save Elaine.’ I was whippy strong and Scrubs Lad was rugby-player strong: together we dragged him out, the nice shiny lino assisting us as he slithered along the floor. Then we kindly helped him to his feet, and by the time security arrived he was sitting down quite comfortably. Had we used undue force in our citizens’ arrest? It wouldn’t be the first time a criminal tried to sue those who’d apprehended him for common assault. There’d be incriminating CCTV pictures, no doubt, and it might be time to use my clever lawyers for myself this time; I might have to lend them to Scrubs Lad too. On the other hand, Ted, relieved of his burden, looked up almost gratefully.

  ‘Elaine,’ I repeated. ‘What do you have to do to make him release Elaine?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m supposed to call in and say something. But even if I do, I think he’ll kill her. And I think, when I get back to the car, he’ll kill me too. He can’t afford to have us alive, can he?’

  Scrubs Lad – now I had time to check his name-tag I found he was Eddie Barnes – produced a mobile. ‘Best use it anyway.’

  ‘It’s got to be my own phone. But what if he breaks his word and …’

  ‘Just have to risk it. At least,’ Eddie continued drily, ‘it’ll be in your favour when the case comes to court. You tried to save her. You can say that much.’

  It was a good job he had the number on speed-dial: his hands were shaking too much for him to have hit the tiny digits with any accuracy. I have an idea he muttered, ‘Goulash.’ I couldn’t be sure. Goulash? Why goulash? Why was Alison holding my hand and smoothing back my hair? Where had she sprung from? Why hadn’t she been at George’s bedside when Ted came a-visiting? A comfort break, maybe … And why was my brain bothering to tangle itself up with silly speculation when there were more urgent matters in hand? Such as contacting Theo to make sure he’d done nothing foolishly, fatally heroic. When he didn’t pick up I wanted to sit beside Ted and sob. I didn’t.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  There was blood all over the inside of the Range Rover’s windows. I could see that, but I couldn’t see Elaine. In fact soon no one would see much. The police were already erecting a screen and some were wrestling with a tent which I guessed would fit over the entire vehicle. The place swarmed with people already in white suits and others struggling into them. I wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near, of course, but I’d insisted on coming to find Theo. Eventually someone located him: he was behind someone’s car on his knees, not praying but throwing up the hotel breakfast.

  He waved me away.

  For once I didn’t argue.

  An unmarked car screeched up, blue lights as authoritative as if they were announcing a more conventional police car. Don Simpson emerged, mobile in one hand, radio in the other. He sent a young constable over to me, a man as slight as Simon Barnes had been burly. In the whole frenetic scene the young man was a tiny oasis of sense: this was Jake, alongside whom I’d paced out my last Great North Run. This time we didn’t fall into a crossing-the-finishing-line hug, but I fetched up in his arms anyway, as my legs concertinaed.

  ‘Elaine?’ I gasped. ‘The woman in the Range Rover?’

  ‘Safe. The blood’s her assailant’s, I believe. Let’s get you out of here, shall we?’

  ‘Not without Theo. My God!’

  At least he was on his feet and walking towards me, but his face was blood-spattered and his shirt blood-soaked. Jake yelled as I ran towards him, ‘It’s the assailant’s blood, Jodie. Theo got the woman out the moment the marksmen shot him. Quite the hero, though you won’t hear the Super saying that.’ Theo was tearing off his clothes. Who could blame him?

  Jake conjured a paper suit from somewhere. While Theo tugged it on, he continued, ‘OK, I’m supposed to be taking you back to Maidstone to take your statements. But a proper change of clothes takes priority in my book. You’ve no home to collect them from, have you?’

  ‘We’re still checked in at the Maidstone Mondiale,’ I said. ‘Room seven-oh-three. Everything’s still in his and hers bags,’ I added over my shoulder as I took the trembling, retching Theo in my arms.

  We sat hand in hand in what Jake told us was a soft interview room, a claim backed up by the huge and vastly uncomfortable sofas, prints
the visual equivalent of easy-listening, and the odd box of tissues. In one corner was a box of toys, the lid not quite closed. Several teddies and a rabbit regarded us benignly as we sank tea. On my own, I’d have helped myself to a bear and cried into its fur. A plate of biscuits lay untouched on a low coffee table: I suspected I’d never want a biscuit again.

  ‘She’s my friend. Elaine’s my friend.’ Perhaps I was insisting more to myself than to Jake. ‘A friend who’s been held at knifepoint. But she lied about Mazza, she burnt my house down.’

  Theo squeezed my hand; he was now the calmer of the two, outwardly at least. ‘There may be extenuating circumstances. Let’s make our statements as Jake suggests and then I’m sure Don will explain everything.’

  I wasn’t, but there was no point in arguing. We had to be questioned separately, Jake explained apologetically. For now it would be just about our activities this morning, he added with an ironic grin. He handed Theo over to a man who looked old enough to have retired years ago; perhaps he had, and was now helping out. I ought to have cared but didn’t.

  Jake and I got to work. Maybe talking would be cathartic.

  One thing I’d never have imagined would be on the agenda was having lunch with the rural dean. Don Simpson had popped his head round the interview room door to tell me he was still tied up but would ensure I was debriefed at about half-past four. Meanwhile, if I was up to it, I should nip off and have a bite of lunch – oh, and Theo’s boss was waiting with Theo in reception.

  If not the Boss, a boss. The area dean, Barney Anderson, whom I only knew slightly, smiled at me as if I was an old friend and enclosed me in a remarkably comforting hug. Chattering inconsequentially, he carted us off to lunch at a pub in Bearsted, a pretty village I’d never been to before. He was rather younger than Theo, with a full head of hair prematurely white. As he got older, and his still-boyish chubbiness turned to real and regrettable flesh, he’d look as if he’d stepped out of a Trollope novel. Meanwhile he had the sharp keenness of mind to offer practical help that we might have needed even more had it not been for my Monopoly money. A house. Furniture. Help with insurance. A flying curate – Theo would need a reduced schedule for a bit, and he’d certainly need support while the trial was on. It was entirely possible, he said gently, that we might choose not to return to the parish at all; the bishop would understand and help us to move wherever God called us. We declined his rather hesitant offer of a few nights in his own home, because of his triplets and because his Labrador had recently pupped.