Death in Elysium

by Judith Cutler

  The waiting room could have served just as well as one in an inner-city GP’s or dentist’s practice, with plastic chairs and a heap of plastic toys in one corner. The posters tended to be less about hidden health diseases like Chlamydia, than about hidden crime like picking pockets. The viciously uncomfortable plastic stacking chairs didn’t stack but were firmly attached to the floor. I settled in one furthest from the toys, hoping to be on my own as long as possible; with nothing to cushion the sound it could get very noisy indeed. One sip of the paper-cup coffee a young constable brought convinced me I ought to wait for Don’s next offer of hospitality.

  To the iPad, then.

  I had to prompt Don to offer me coffee, but it was worth the wait. He also produced some biscuits, consuming three or four to my one. We studied the screen together.

  ‘Elaine Grant,’ he read aloud. ‘Anything you need to add to what you’ve written here? She seems a decent enough woman, but I’ll get her checked out. Bicycle theft,’ he continued. ‘DNA tested by Rosemary – no results yet. Why try to frame Mazza? I’ll get one of the team to call Doctor McVicar,’ he said, writing a note to himself.

  ‘I’ve already emailed her,’ I admitted. ‘She’ll be in touch with you.’

  ‘Helicopter flights, private photographers and forensic ana-lysis, private DNA collection – you don’t leave much to us, do you? Oh, and you paid for some very fancy lawyers for that Mazza and his mother.’

  ‘Is it a problem? I can see the lawyer business might irritate you, but in the other cases I’ve saved you a great deal of money.’

  He responded to my beatific smile with a predictable glower. ‘And I’ll bet you’ll find that it’s tax deductible.’

  ‘Not if it’s nothing to do with my work, Don,’ I replied sweetly. A bit of mutual respect never came amiss.

  ‘According to Sergeant Masters, the bikes weren’t worth nicking in the first place,’ he mused. ‘There is a gang – we think they’re from Albania or somewhere – hoovering up all sorts of garden equipment and the kind of expensive bikes commuters chain up hopefully outside stations. Perhaps these are their rejects, and framing someone else seemed like a good idea at the time. It’s an interesting point you’ve made, though: why choose this Mazza of yours to frame? Because he’s your mate, I suspect.’

  As if I agreed, he heaved himself to his feet and, gathering the mugs, walked across to his coffee-machine. ‘Same as before?’ He didn’t wait for a reply.

  Plonking the full mugs on the desk, he settled heavily back in his chair. ‘OK, who’s responsible? It’s got to be someone from your past. It’s time you were frank with me, Jodie.’

  ‘I still think it’s my present. It’s whoever’s involved with the big development.’

  ‘Come on, with your contacts—’

  ‘Not to mention my computer skills. You know what, I’ve only got one pair of hands. I had a poke round, sure, but it’s a time-consuming business, and honestly it’d take a forensic accountant to find who really owns what and where. I’m sure your colleagues will do better. Actually,’ I added with a grin, ‘they could do what I couldn’t do. You could do what I couldn’t do. You could walk up to those big front gates and ask.’

  He got to his feet: the interview was over. ‘So I could,’ he agreed, ‘so I could.’

  It was a pity I had to spoil his exit line. ‘One thing we’ve not touched on, Don: the next heading of my notes. How did our friend know you were due to meet me at my place this morning? Someone who knew you by name, and could realistically suggest you’d prefer to meet me here.’

  He stared, clearly wondering for a moment if I was alleging he might be complicit. But then his eyes narrowed in recollection. ‘We were sitting at the table, right, and someone came and grabbed all the empties. Very efficient I thought at the time. Then you followed me to the bar and we spoke a bit longer.’

  ‘Then we stepped outside.’

  ‘Right. So we did. Out of earshot of anyone. You gave me your tail’s details. Still on my to-do list, I’m afraid, for all I was here before seven. Traffic should have come back to me last night, probably did, but we’ve got a major case – maybe I should say another major case – on our hands and I’ve been tied up with that.’

  ‘I always found delegation hard, Don. Still do. But sometimes it’s the only way to survive. So you should dispatch a nice young constable to talk to the Goose’s bar staff and delegate someone to check my car over to see if it’s not just got a tracking device glued to it but also a little voice-activated recorder?’

  He threw his head back and laughed. ‘Tell you what, you can do my job and I can do yours – the Lady Bountiful bit, anyway. Or better still, you could be the next Police Commissioner round here. You wouldn’t half put the fear of God into our boss! Now, your car’s still at the rectory because you – er – hitched a lift with Theo. Right? So I’ll get a couple of officers to give you a lift back to Lesser Hogben. Unmarked car. All casual – a couple of folk you happen to know. Then one of them can drive your car back here to give it the check over you recommend. And I’ll go over the rest of your notes, ma’am: Church connection? Contents of safe? Ida Mountford? Unless,’ he added with a sigh, ‘you want to look into these yourself?’

  TWENTY-TWO

  The two officers, a sharp-faced young woman called Jo, and Tony, a man old enough to be her father, and I, had a lovely silly time working out a reason – should one be needed – for their giving me a lift. It took more effort to work out a cover story, should one be needed, of course, than to get back to the rectory. Why should I hand over my new toy to Jo? She was the first to say that in real life she wouldn’t be able to afford the insurance. We decided that Tony was another of my cousins, and that Jo was – why not? – his daughter. Tony would drive away the Audi, Jo would leave in the unmarked police Mondeo, having checked the rectory to see that all was well. We had to go round the back, of course, since I’d kept the chain on the front door. Yes, I had remembered to close the back door. The Yale didn’t seem to have been tampered with. But since I’d not had time to deadlock it, or set the alarm, of course, I was glad of the moral support.

  ‘I’ll go in first, Jodie, if you don’t mind,’ Jo said without emphasis, but in a voice not expecting argument.

  I nodded. My mouth was horribly dry, and my pulse decidedly fast. So far in the whole crazy day I’d not admitted, even to myself, that I was scared. Now my body did it for me, even though Jo assured me there was no sign of any tampering. We checked the CCTV footage together, just to reassure me.

  ‘I’ll download the CCTV images of the guy who came to the door. And if you give me your phone number I can send you some images of a guy who tried to get access to my London flat.’ While she brewed tea I uploaded the images and sent them on.

  ‘Yes: same man, I’d say. I’ll see what the Super has to say, but I’m sure the tech team will use their facial recognition stuff and prove it. And better still, who it is. Someone as enterprising as this guy must be on record. I’d best be getting back. But what about you? Half an hour’s shut-eye wouldn’t do you any harm.’ She peered hard at me, making me feel at least ninety-three.

  ‘That kid they did the autopsy on yesterday, Burble – I ought to go and offer my condolences to one of his relatives. A very distant relative, so I don’t think she needs the full-blown rector’s visit,’ I added drily.

  ‘How are you getting there?’

  I stuck out my legs and pointed to the turned up bits at the end.

  ‘Is that wise?’

  ‘In the absence of a car. If I stay here, I’m a sitting duck. If I’m out and about, at least I can waddle away as fast as my legs will carry me. Or run. I do marathons,’ I added, just to convince her I wasn’t too decrepit to be left to my own devices.

  Suddenly she was my new best friend. For five minutes we had a proper conversation, though it might not have appeared so to anyone not interested in runners’ accoutrements. Since I’d been deprived of anything like it since I
’d left my regular running mates in London, I found it delightful. When she really had to go back to work, we strolled out like aunt and niece – perfect. But then, staring at the anonymous but still vulnerable car, I froze: ‘Let me just check out CCTV – we don’t want this to have been doctored, do we?’

  She pulled a face. But then, with a let’s-humour-auntie shrug, she nodded. We trailed back in together to review the footage. Unfortunately she’d parked just at the edge of the cameras’ range. At this time of day there was very little activity from drivers or pedestrians, and ours wasn’t the sort of village where cows or sheep made a regular rural appearance. One cyclist – helmet and goggles but not Lycra – headed out of the village, but appeared to change his mind and head back, though this time on foot. This was enough to put Jo on red alert, even though I pointed to what I was sure was a flat tyre second time round.

  ‘Haven’t got a biggish mirror, have you?’ she asked.

  ‘Bigger than my make-up one?’

  ‘Please. And a torch.’

  The mirror in the downstairs loo was nearest. Oh dear. Ashamed that I’d left such a pathetic specimen hanging anywhere in public for more than a day, I carried it out, its white plastic frame yellowing and slightly warped. The torch, from Merry’s Useful Items drawer, was one you had to shake to activate the battery. It took its time to wake up, but eventually produced a glimmer. Squatting by each wheel-arch in turn, she checked with as much care as my dental hygienist looking for tartar.

  ‘Nothing.’ It was hard to tell whether she was relieved or disappointed. At any rate, she got in and drove off without incident, leaving me clutching the offending mirror and now defunct torch.

  I toddled down to the shop, to pay the duty condolence call I was sure Merry would have paid. Putting a few things in my basket while Violet was serving someone else – I needed something to descale the kettle, come to think of it, before it gave up the ghost – I tried to work out the best words. Think tact and diplomacy, Jodie.

  No point. ‘You’ve had some news, haven’t you, about that body? Thought so, with that Friday face of yours. Young Burble? Well, you know what they say, Live by the sword, die by the sword. I suppose he was so full of drugs he didn’t know where he was going or what he was doing.’ She didn’t look as distressed as I felt.

  ‘I don’t know all the circumstances,’ I said truthfully. ‘But I’m sorry he died alone. So young, too.’

  ‘Well, I’d normally agree, and add, What a waste. But no, he was a scrounger and a druggy and a part-time thief – dress it up as foraging, or whatever he called it, but it’s still stealing, isn’t it?’

  ‘For all that, I still think his father ought to know. Assuming he’s alive, of course.’

  ‘Bad genes, that’s what his dad gave him, and nothing else. The kid was doomed before he was born, if you ask me.’

  I could have argued about forgiveness and redemption, and that yes, the lad really had been trying to turn his life, if not around, then on to a slightly different course. Think how he cherished that camera of mine. I swallowed a sob.

  ‘Six pounds seventy, please. Thanks.’

  I was so busy stowing my change as I crossed the little lay-by of a car park that I almost walked into Ida Mountford – not a good move. Naturally I stepped back with fulsome apologies, but she recoiled as if she’d been sullied by the brief contact. To hell with all this!

  ‘Mrs Mountford,’ I began quietly, ‘I really wish you’d tell me what I’ve done to annoy—’

  This time she didn’t step back: she pushed forward, almost shouldering me out of her way. I staggered, hardly keeping my feet. But now she wasn’t there. She was reeling, collapsing on to the roughly paved area. At first I thought she was having a heart attack – her tablets had always formed part of Theo’s narrative – but then I sensed, rather than saw, a car driving quickly away. Grey? Silver? I was too busy dialling 999 and getting ready to do first aid to check.

  There was no sign of any external injury: she might have hit her head on something as she fell, but there wasn’t so much as a bruise. But her pulse was definitely wavering. Failing. The emergency call centre told me to start CPR. So here I was giving the kiss of life to someone who’d rather go under a car than even speak to me.

  Calm, efficient – the young paramedic who turned up on a motorbike was everything I didn’t feel. At least before I’d been doing something and hadn’t had to think or react. Now I was redundant, I found myself becoming a victim too. Or a heroine. Opinion among the little knot of onlookers attracted by the commotion, and more particularly by the flashing blue light, seemed divided.

  A Police Community Support Officer had materialized; the one who’d genuflected to Theo, as it happened. He might have had a thought bubble over his head, wondering where on earth he’d seen me. Once I’d told him my name and address – still no magic light bulb moment in his head – I sat heavily on the shop’s front step and let the conversations whirl round me. I reckoned if I kept quiet I might learn more than if I asked questions. Most people agreed that a car was involved, probably grey or silver. No one thought it was anything more than a bit of careless driving, until one person thought it headed straight for Mrs Mountford, an opinion flatly contradicted by someone else who thought I’d been the target. There was a lot of argument about my conversation with Mrs Mountford: the consensus was that she was a bossy old cow (couldn’t have put it better myself), until someone pointed out you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead – or in this case, possibly dying. When blues and twos announced an ambulance, which rather suggested she was still alive, the crowd parted like the Red Sea for Moses and, once deprived of any spectacle, most people drifted away. One remained, however.

  ‘Mazza!’

  He squatted beside me. ‘You OK, Jodie?’ Assured that I was, he got up in one easy movement I found I couldn’t emulate, so I stuck out a hand. He looked embarrassed but obliged. ‘There. Fancy a cuppa at me mum’s?’

  I did. Very much. As much for the gossip it would create as anything else. We started walking. ‘You OK after last night?’ I asked.

  He nodded. ‘You?’

  ‘Spent ages with the police this morning. Actually, there’s something I need to tell one of them.’

  ‘About that guy trying to run you over?’

  For a second the village street tipped and rocked. ‘You’re sure it was me, not Mrs Mountford?’

  ‘Swear on Burble’s grave. When he gets one. Or will he be cremated? Someone’s got to sort it, Jodie.’

  ‘Which do you think he’d have preferred?’

  ‘Never asked. Not something you talk about.’ At our age hung unspoken in the air.

  ‘You ought to talk about organ donation though, you and your mates.’ Nothing of Burble’s left to donate hung there too. ‘Theo and I will take care of the funeral service, but we’d want your input – music and so on. And deciding what to do … with … Burble. You and any other of his mates – it’s up to you.’ I added, ‘A green burial, maybe?’

  ‘You know,’ he said slowly, ‘I think he’d have liked that. Any news of old George Cox, by the way?’

  ‘None good. His wife’s with him. Theo’s with them both. Good morning, Ted,’ I called. ‘Have you heard the news about George?’

  With obvious misgivings, as if Mazza might give his little dog mange, Ted sidled towards us.

  ‘Not just Mr Cox, either,’ Mazza put in helpfully. ‘Mrs Mountford got run over earlier. Mrs W here saved her life.’ All these correct titles! He was taking the prospect of a job with Elaine very seriously. ‘One churchwarden, one ex-churchwarden: you might want to keep an eye open yourself, Mr Vesey.’ I might have put it more tactfully, but it was certainly a good point to make.

  ‘Are you serious? About Ida Mountford?’ Ted’s face seemed stiff.

  ‘Hit and run, they say. Mrs W had to give her the kiss of life.’

  ‘Indeed! And did she survive, dear lady?’

  My kiss or the accident? But I didn’t t
hink I should be flippant, not when Mazza was working so hard on politeness. ‘She was alive when the ambulance took her away, at least. Mazza and I were just going to St Dunstan’s, weren’t we, Mazza?’

  He nodded, as if it wasn’t a complete surprise that I’d changed my mind about the cuppa. ‘Ah. To light a few candles. You’d be the best one, Mr W not being around, to say some prayers, wouldn’t you, Mr Vesey?’

  To do him justice, Ted neither winced nor protested. Ignoring a few shreds of police tape, he unlocked the great oak door – it suddenly dawned on me how many deaths, natural and unnatural, they must have witnessed, and all the tears and consolations too – and switched on a few lights. The carpet was still rolled back from the safe.

  Mazza wandered over to light his candles. I pointed to the safe. ‘I was here when poor George said he’d phone you to get the combination. Did he ever reach you? Or did his assailant catch him first?’ Even as I spoke I realized that Theo and I ought to have seen the attacker if George had been attacked immediately. Why had no one asked us that? And why hadn’t we thought of it ourselves? Since we hadn’t seen anyone, was it a reasonable conclusion that he’d failed to reach Ted and was trying someone else? Ida, of course. Perhaps Mazza had been right in his speculations. Perhaps someone was simply after the wardens, not me at all. Nor Burble, of course, or Mazza himself, I reminded myself with angry irony. Maybe it was this morning’s shocks that were making me stupid.

  ‘I’m afraid I missed his call. He left a message on my landline. Perhaps he didn’t know my mobile number.’

  ‘What’s in the safe that would be worth killing a decent man for?’ I asked. It had been on my list for Don Simpson, after all.

  ‘Some plate. A good silver chalice and a large paten that we only use at Christmas and Easter – you’ve probably seen them. Nothing else, as far as I know.’

  ‘Shall we check? If you’re worried about security I’ll turn my back.’