Death in Elysium

by Judith Cutler

  ‘Let me just change the memory card – there, that’s a couple of gigabytes for you to play with.’

  He picked it up tenderly, but put it back down again. ‘Worth nicking, that.’ He looked me in the eye, having, I guessed, assessed its value to within a hundred pounds. ‘What if someone thinks I robbed it?’

  ‘Stole,’ I said, automatically. ‘Easy. I can write a note on a bit of paper saying I’ve lent it to you and you can take a snap of it. That way you’ve got evidence you didn’t steal it.’

  ‘Bloody hell. Never have thought of that.’ He stared at the note I wrote, on a piece of rectory-headed card. But his hands seemed paralyzed.

  ‘It won’t start till you take the lens cap off.’ I talked him through the various obvious functions. ‘Now, snap that card. Ah, it may want extra light – can you work out how to get it? Good. It’s often better than flash because you don’t finish up with people with red eyes.’

  ‘But doesn’t pressing that get rid of red eye?’

  It didn’t take him long to work his way round it. All my years in computers and this undereducated kid picked things up more quickly than I did.

  At last he wound himself up to ask a couple of salient questions. ‘Are you really sure, Jode? I mean, what if someone nicks it off me? Or I drop it or something?’

  ‘Insurance,’ I said blithely, but wished I hadn’t. What if I was leading him straight into temptation and a chance to make money for drugs? ‘But it won’t come to that, will it? Got a lot of sentimental value, that little beastie.’ I patted it as if I was telling the truth.

  At last he took himself off, but he doubled back. ‘Green bin,’ he said, tenderly putting the camera back in my hands while he trundled the bin round to the front of the house.

  When Theo came back, much later than I expected, he was quietly furious. His bicycle, which was pretty well as old as he was but which nonetheless occasionally, when he felt the need for exercise, got him round the village for house calls, had disappeared from outside the old lady’s bungalow. As instructed by Ted Vesey, wearing his Neighbourhood Watch hat, he reported it to the police before he even sat down, but his announcement was greeted with little more than a sigh. ‘Of course I’d locked it,’ I heard him say. ‘I’d chained it to a lamp post. But someone simply smashed the padlock.’

  Time for a cup of tea, I’d say, and a suggestion that on Wednesday we might nip into the nearest Halfords en route to the Audi dealership. But as soon as I turned my back, the sound of voices snarled in from the garden. It seemed Theo’d taken it on himself to do a spot of detective work, with a loudly objecting Burble having his hands checked for oil. What on earth was Theo doing? Even vicars aren’t supposed to demand the truth in that sort of voice. He was clearly about to threaten the kid with divine retribution. But Burble could always make a counter claim of common assault. I must step in, with cups of drinking chocolate.

  ‘I tell you, Vic, I was helping this poor bastard biker. Leathers and all. BMW, for your info.’

  ‘And I’ve been helping the Queen of Sheba!’

  Burble’s voice squeaked with indignation. ‘Big bloke. Bigger than you, Vic. Looks like a bloody great badger,’ he persisted. ‘Said he was looking for Jodie, like. Only he’s got to wait for someone to pick up his bike. Imagine, a fucking Beamer going belly up. Asked me to bring one of his panniers for him,’ he added, his spotty face aglow with righteousness as he pointed to the proof of his story.

  ‘A biker? Looking for Jodie?’ Theo repeated bitingly.

  ‘Right. Over by the Pickled Walnut he was. He’s probably heading this way now. Dead slowly. Not dressed for walking.’ Then his voice got quite tight. ‘Hey, Vic, what’s all this about the missus getting run over? She never said nothing this morning. Look here, anyone hurts her, I’ll make sure the bugger never walks again.’ He was so incensed he forgot he wasn’t supposed to swear in front of Theo, and used a plethora of words I’d expressly forbidden. But before I could run out and chew his ears off, I realized his voice was cracking. So much for the macho and offhand image he liked to project. At this point there was a thunderous knock on the front door. The tall dark stranger, no doubt.

  Tall and dark he might have been. But he wasn’t a stranger: he was my cousin, Dave. Dave was the sort of man who’d make even our living room sofa look small. He was not only taller than Theo, he was broader too, though probably with muscle rather than fat. We soon worked out that we’d not seen each other for all of two years. It wasn’t that we’d argued or anything; we just weren’t that sort of cousin. We were the wedding and funeral type of cousin, retiring to a quiet corner to exchange sardonic family gossip and to wonder aloud why we didn’t keep in touch a bit more often.

  Dave grabbed the morning’s Guardian and, turning to a page of ads, spread it out and sat on it. Theo passed him a wad of kitchen towel for his oily hands and he gave them a cursory wipe before absent-mindedly accepting some of Theo’s truly awful coffee. He left black prints all over the mug, which almost disappeared in his hand. The other tugged at a piece of expensive material that had sunk between two cushions. It was a leftover from my bag-making activities, but it was clear he recognized it from the last time I’d worn it, at a snazzy wedding for his side of the family, though he merely raised an eyebrow in my direction.

  Editing the episode very heavily lest I worry Theo, I explained that I’d recycled some clothes I no longer needed.

  Possibly Dave saw through me. ‘I didn’t think vicars’ wives had to be Lady Bountifuls these days. Thought they were supposed to have independent careers. Especially high-flyers like you.’

  ‘They clipped my wings, Dave. Made me redundant.’

  ‘Not that you couldn’t have pulled in a few quid here and there as a freelance consultant,’ he observed, before adding more sombrely, ‘It’s getting quite fashionable, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, Dave – surely not you too!’

  Theo said, ‘I didn’t think the police were allowed to make people redundant. Not front-line officers, that is; I know they’ve been getting rid of swathes of back-room staff.’

  ‘They don’t call it “making redundant”. They simply enforce the thirty-year rule, which says you can retire when you’ve done thirty years’ service. In this case can equals must. So it was thank you, DCI Harcourt, and goodnight.’ The bitterness in his voice suggested he needed Theo’s counselling skills rather than my simple sympathy. ‘I took the money and ran, of course – any day now I can see the government abolishing lump sums, can’t you? Since then, I’ve actually been all round the world on that old bike. I come home – and it dies here.’

  ‘Round the world?’ My eyes widened. Dave had never been one for adventure, but this was embracing freedom with a vengeance.

  ‘And back again. That lad who says he works for you – fancy you having outdoor staff, eh, Jode! – did his best, but in the end I had to get a BMW dealership to cart it off for radical surgery.’

  ‘We’ve got a spare room and a washing machine at your disposal, Dave, if you care to stay until the bike’s back on the road,’ Theo said. ‘You and Jodie have obviously got a lot of catching up to do, and I don’t suppose she’d object to a bit of company anyway …’

  ‘I’d be very grateful for some,’ I confessed, hoping I sounded sociable, not needy. ‘Theo works six days a week, from breakfast to late supper. And sometimes after that too. Theo’ll show you the guest room. While you clean yourself up, I’ll get some lunch. Are you still vegetarian?’

  To my relief he shook his head. ‘Devout carnivore these days.’

  But there was a snag, wasn’t there? Monday was our night off. We wouldn’t be here tomorrow. First there was lunch with an old friend I wanted to wheedle into providing the equipment we needed to record the peal of bells for the website. And in the evening we’d got tickets for an LSO concert at the Royal Festival Hall; fond as I could become of Dave, I didn’t want to sacrifice them on the altar of family unity.

  In the event, Dave
, registering the fact that we only had one bathroom and a bitterly cold downstairs shower-room, declared himself quite happy to have sole occupancy of the house for thirty-six hours. Having mastered the washing machine, and expressed horror at the absence of a tumble dryer, he even promised to help Burble – or perhaps compel Burble – to finish off the bramble for good, motivating him with the promise of a bonus.

  ‘I liked the kid,’ he declared through the game pie I’d forced myself to make with Burble’s birds and had frozen for just such an unexpected lunch as this. ‘Did his best with my bike, though I’m not convinced he learned all his skills honestly. What’s his background?’

  ‘Anything and nothing. I’d say his main problem is lack of stickability, which probably has a proper psychiatric name. He learns quickly, but just when you think you’ve pressed all the right buttons, you don’t see him for a couple of days.’

  ‘Don’t you indeed? We’ll see about that.’

  SEVEN

  Our thirty-six hours of R and R were always over all too soon. I revelled in the warmth of the apartment, the furniture I’d chosen, the pictures I’d bought from artist friends, and once Theo had shaken off the guilt he always brought with him, he enjoyed them too, probably even more than I did. There was the spectacular sight of London, Lord’s particularly, spread out before us; the rectory must have been the only house in Kent not to have a view from any window. Here we could oversleep or pad off mother-naked to get breakfast to eat in bed without fear of Mrs Mountford knocking at the front door and peering through the letter box to see why we didn’t respond instantly to her summons. All visitors could be screened by the charming security staff in the foyer if you asked them; since I was now away from home so much – and what a Freudian slip that is! – I made it a firm request. Today, having had a leisurely shower, with as much hot water as we wanted, we lunched with an old friend who flashed credit cards, expertise and promises of equipment with equal ease, punctuating the conversation with delicious gossip. We had a mid-afternoon slot at the latest exhibition – as a Tate Friend I could get us a quiet preview time – and then the most superb concert rounded off by an uninterrupted late supper à deux.

  The only thing to alarm me in the whole break was a quiet word from Ravi, who wore his security uniform as seriously as he took his responsibilities, as we left for Kent: ‘Doctor Harcourt, someone was asking the other day if you lived here.’

  ‘If?’

  ‘Quite. An odd question, I thought. So I put on my most pompous voice and told him that it wasn’t our policy to disclose the identity of any of our residents, nor to confirm or deny that they were indeed residents.’ He grinned. ‘I pretended I was playing Jeeves.’

  ‘One day, Ravi, one day. If not playing Jeeves, you’ll soon be back on the stage where you belong.’

  ‘I hope so, Doctor Harcourt. Though I must say this place is wonderful for people-watching.’

  I always dragged my feet as we returned to the cold village and colder rectory. This time I was more than reluctant: I simply dreaded the moment.

  There was no reason, of course. Dave would have kept an eye on things; his presence was better than any burglar alarm, all the upgraded locks. And he’d have kept the central heating going full blast, if I knew him.

  He’d done more. At eight-fifty the kitchen already smelt of fresh ironing. Not only was the bramble gone, but the garden now had a couple of official beds, newly dug. As Theo headed to his study to pick up phone and email messages and I carried our overnight bag upstairs, Dave erupted through the front door, talking loudly to someone whose voice was so quiet I could hardly hear it.

  Dumping the bag on the landing, I ran down again to resume my daily triage duties. Theo’s time was spread so thinly that people couldn’t just barge in and demand to see him. I had to filter them – like a doctor’s receptionist – or he’d never get to see the parishioners in urgent need. A bereavement had to trump someone wanting a bit of theological chat over why God had allowed the latest natural disaster, important though such issues were to the person concerned.

  But Dave said this woman wanted to talk to me, not Theo. ‘Burble’s mum,’ he said in an aside, as she hesitantly introduced herself as Sharonammond, running the two names together into one continuous strip of sound.

  I sat her down in the kitchen, pressing on her coffee and shop-bought biscuits. It was almost impossible to put an age to her – she could be anything between forty and sixty, though given that she had a son in his teens the former was more likely. She was so thin I suspected anorexia. Her hair was colourless and thinning; her teeth were as poor as her complexion. Burble had never mentioned she was ill – had snubbed me when I’d mentioned her at all. And I’d never found a chance to press him, however gently, again. What about his father, too? Domestic skills, people skills – despite my years telling senior management exactly what their multimillion-pound businesses needed, I had such a lot to learn, didn’t I? Especially as I hadn’t a clue how to put the poor woman sufficiently at ease for her to tell me what she wanted. She sank the awful coffee as if it was nectar, but although she couldn’t keep her eyes off the biscuits, she accepted only one, as if in response to a long-ago instruction to remember her manners.

  At last I found myself asking point-blank, ‘Is Burble all right?’

  She blinked hard. Then it seemed to dawn on her. ‘Burble? Oh, you mean Bernard. Named after my grandfather. I call him Bernie. But he made so much noise as a kid – you know how they won’t shut up – I used to yell at him not to burble on so, and he seemed to think it was his name, so that’s what his mates call him. And he still won’t shut up. I tell him sometimes, why don’t you just shut the fuck up? But the little bastard always has a bit of cheek for me. Mind if I smoke?’ She produced a battered pack, her hands shaking so much I was almost inclined to say I didn’t.

  But I did. Very much, in fact. ‘Burble always smokes out here in the back garden,’ I said, getting to my feet. ‘Do you want to see what he’s been up to? He’s achieved so much.’

  I might have been asking her to fly.

  ‘Thing is, you been paying him, right?’ The cigarette crept reluctantly back into the packet.

  ‘Oh, Lord, I haven’t messed up his dole, have I?’ The blood rushed to my cheeks as if I was a teenager again. I sat down.

  ‘Just wondering if … if, like, you owed him anything. So I could give it him,’ she added in a rush.

  I was about to embark on a probably boring explanation that I’d not seen him when Dave materialized.

  ‘I paid him in full yesterday, Mrs Hammond. Didn’t he tell you?’ he said implacably, resting his hands firmly on my shoulders. It may have looked like an affectionate, cousinly gesture, but there was also no way I could reach, as I’d intended, for my purse.

  Not surprisingly the poor woman quailed. ‘Just wondering. You know.’

  ‘Yes. I do know. So I’m sorry, Mrs Hammond, we don’t owe him anything. And of course, since he’s an adult in the eyes of the law, we could only pay him direct in any case,’ Dave declared, almost lifting me to my feet so I could – had to – usher her out.

  Theo emerged from his study just as I turned to Dave, wringing my hands. ‘I could have given her something anyway. I wouldn’t have missed it!’

  ‘On the contrary,’ Theo said, ‘Dave was quite right. If you’d given her money, sweetheart, it would have gone straight on drugs. Giving an addict food’s one thing, but it’s so dangerous to give cash. Right, Dave?’

  ‘Right. I just hope she doesn’t have to earn it on the streets. She needed her fix, that one. I don’t think you noticed the needle tracks all over her arms, did you, Jode?’

  I shook my head. ‘It never occurred to me to look. But you didn’t need to pay Burble, Dave, that’s my responsibility.’

  ‘As it happens, I didn’t. He worked for an hour yesterday, no more. Then he said he’d see you this morning, soon as he got up. And he buggered off – noon, I suppose.’

  ‘
After what passes for him as a full day’s work,’ Theo laughed sadly.

  ‘He did say he had another errand to do as it happens. Photos. You were a bit trusting to lend him that camera, by the way, Jode – a couple of grand there, just waiting to be nicked. Or more likely, from what I’ve seen, for his mum to get her hands on and flog.’

  Theo nodded. ‘I hope she doesn’t – she could get more than enough heroin or whatever to kill her.’

  ‘What do you actually know about Burble?’ Dave asked. ‘I know he’s not keen on anyone meeting some of his mates,’ he added ominously.

  ‘Very little. He was just drifting past when I needed a hand and he gave it to me. So it was just a spot of casting one’s bread upon the waters,’ I said, trying not to sound as defensive as I felt.

  ‘Jodie’s managed to uncover a side of that young man which no one seems to have found before,’ said Theo, in a suspiciously pulpity voice.

  ‘Someone ought to have,’ I said shortly. ‘If only he’d been allowed to burble more – he probably got clouted into silence – he might have done a lot better at school and not got into bad company. He’s got an unexpected way with words sometimes – it quite takes one aback. He said you looked like a large badger, Dave.’

  ‘Without the TB, one hopes,’ he said, running his hands over his black and grey hair.

  The next female to present herself at the front door also wanted me. From her very strong facial resemblance to my new running partner, I gathered before she even spoke that she was Mazza’s sister. It turned out her name was Martina. I wondered – but not aloud – whether someone in her family had wanted her to be a great tennis player. Curiously her nickname was Sian. Maybe one day I’d get the back story. But clearly not now.

  ‘’Bout this website,’ she said, ‘for the village and that. Mazza reckons I can’t do it. I reckon I can. With a bit of help,’ she added, honestly if not quite audibly.