He was beginning to get a bit hacked off, frankly. Although he was sure that Susan hadn’t meant to get embroiled in a web of intrigue, murder, gun-wielding bankers and Napoleonic furniture, at least she had the small consolation that the furniture in question was – if not actually hers – probably going to earn her a fairly sizeable reward when it was returned to the Jarrold Collection. In the meantime, however, he had lost his job, his car wasn’t working, he would probably have to move out of his flat due to lack of money, and to top it all off he had a slight pain in his shoulder where he’d been wrestling with the van. Maybe the others had been too busy, shocked, or worried to ask him how he felt, but if they had asked him, he would have probably been honest and said he felt pretty shit, really, all things considered. He had been the one who’d hired the van, and – at least for now – paid for it, with money he didn’t have on a credit card he should never have taken out, as for a while now it had been bucking under the weight of the bills, meals, one month’s rent, and games for the Playstation that he’d put on it. And he would be the one they’d come running after asking for the money to replace the van – which was probably, what, fifteen grand or something? Add to that the almost certain fact that he would never be able to be insured on any vehicle ever again, and things weren’t really looking up. He entered the maze, for the second time in two days, with a certain malaise and his head in a haze, and followed the sounds of the other two.
“Come on,” Susan called urgently from further ahead. “We don’t have time to mess around.”
“I’m coming as fast as I can,” Paul said crossly. “How do you know your way through here without a map, anyway?”
“I don’t,” Susan replied from the other side of the hedge. “That’s why we need you to catch up.”
He rounded the hedge at the far end and almost ran into them. “We took a wrong turn, I think,” Susan puffed. “I think it’s this way, but can we look at the map?”
Paul brought the tiny map up on his phone again. “We’ll have to be careful how much we use this,” he cautioned, “I haven’t charged the battery in two days – it’s running down, look.”
Susan didn’t reply; she was studying the map. “OK,” she said finally. “I think it’s this way.” She set off, followed by Xavier, who seemed to be in a daze: understandably, perhaps, given that he had just seen an old friend of his shot dead. “Hey, Susan,” Paul called, in an urgent half-whisper, as she charged ahead.
“What,” she called back.
“Can I remind you that the only reason we’re here is because of that maniac shooting at us. I think we may have managed to lose him, what with your daredevil car-jack stunt. We’ve certainly lost our only means of getting out of here alive, now we don’t have a van –”
“I’m sure we’ll find a golf buggy if we’re desperate,” she puffed, jogging.
“That against a BMW is even worse than a bloody Transit,” Paul pointed out. “The fact is, though, if he’s still chasing us he’ll have had to run up the drive, and he didn’t look fit. But he does know the layout of the house. So can we stop a minute,” he added, an agonised look on his face as he came to a halt, doubled over and put his hands on his knees for a few moments, breathing heavily, “and come up with a plan?”
Susan stopped, ten yards ahead. Xavier almost ran into her.
“Are you all right?” she asked him, noticing for the first time, properly, how washed-out he looked.
“I…” Xavier seemed unable to speak, the colour drained even more than usual from his normally pale face. “I still can’t believe that – that Damien –”
Against all her expectations, Susan held out her arms and gave Xavier a big, comforting hug. At least, she hoped it might be comforting. “Nor can I,” she admitted. “Up until today I’d never actually even seen a gun, let alone had one… pointed at me…”
A tear appeared in one of Xavier’s eyes, slid down the side of his nose, and dissolved in his mouth. “He didn’t deserve that,” he said, his voice quavering. “Nobody does. I wish to God I’d never involved him.”
“How were you to know?” Susan asked, as Paul walked up, rubbing his shoulder. “If any of us had thought for a moment that Arbuthnot might go to those lengths, we’d have – I don’t know, gone to the police – earlier.” She looked at Paul for some backup.
“We need a plan,” he repeated flatly. “I’m getting pretty pissed off with being in this bloody maze all the bloody time, in the dark, with no idea what we’re doing.”
“We’ve got to hole up somewhere before we think of a plan,” Susan said reasonably. “If he’s still after us, he’s got a gun, and whether he’s going to get arrested or not, I’d rather be alive when he does. So let’s get to the middle, go underground, and find somewhere we can hide for a couple of hours or something until we know the coast’s clear.”
“Are you sure the cabinets are safe?”
“How the hell should I know, Paul?” Susan said. “Stop asking me all these questions. At the moment I couldn’t care less about them, frankly, I’m just trying to get us out of here alive.”
They pressed on, not saying much, and presently got to the corridor with the bridge going over the top of it. They were having to lead Xavier a bit by this point; he still seemed shell-shocked, and Susan was trying to chivvy him along as gently as she could, knowing that if they stopped he would probably not be able to carry on. Several times, Paul hung back a bit and slowed down, listening for any sounds from Arbuthnot; but he couldn’t hear anything, and after a few times of doing that satisfied himself that they weren’t being followed.
“Right,” Susan said to Xavier, trying to keep his spirits up, “it’s just round the corner at the end, and we’re pretty much there.”
“Must we continue?” Xavier implored. “Somebody has been killed, which is illegal, by a handgun – which is also illegal. In a public place, too. The police will be combing the scene now, there’ll be a murder inquiry, TV appeals and reconstructions on Crimewatch. We’ll be implicated. The more we run, the more guilty we’ll look. We should go to them immediately, offer ourselves up as witnesses, and stop running away.”
“I don’t think he’s following us,” Paul concurred. “Xavier may be right.”
“I want to be sure,” Susan persisted. “At least we know that once we’re in the cellars, it’s pretty secure. I don’t think Arbuthnot would know the code on the pagoda door.”
“You’re not thinking straight,” Paul said. “Xavier’s right. The more we run, the guiltier we look, until we look so guilty that they’ll take us in anyway. It’s been a couple of hours since the shooting, and it’s impossible that it won’t have been discovered by now.”
“Well, OK,” Susan said forcefully, “whatever you say, Paul. I agree, we don’t want to be implicated. But at the same time, we’ve first got to get past a banker with murderous intentions. And as you said earlier, it hardly looks innocent of us to have trashed the van, does it? It’s got bullet holes in it that will match Arbuthnot’s gun, and we’ve also probably damaged the house when we crashed the van into it.”
Paul sighed. “Look, I just don’t want to get us in the shit,” he said wearily, running his hands through his hair. “Any more than we already are, that is.”
“How about a compromise, then,” Susan suggested. “We get into the pagoda, then at least we know we’re safe if Arbuthnot is following us. Then we call the police, tell them where we are, and meet them outside the maze or something.”
Paul considered this. “Xavier? What do you think?”
Xavier also considered this. “Is there somewhere in the pagoda that I can sit down?” he asked.
“I think there’s a bench just outside it,” Paul offered, “if that’s any good.”
“Well, then,” Xavier relented, “that’s OK by me.”
Five minutes later, they rounded the corner by the bridge, which was silhouetted eerily in the full moonlight, crossed over the hedgerows into the central eye with the pagoda in it, and caught sight of a body.
For a few moments, they froze where they were. It was difficult to tell who it was; the figure was lying in the shadow of one of the hedges and wearing dark clothes, and none of them felt willing to approach it. The shooting earlier had been a sort of overload for Susan and Paul, at least, neither of whom had seen a dead body before, and to have to deal with another one within the space of a couple of hours was almost too much. It was Paul, finally, who gingerly tiptoed down the steps towards the prone figure, gave it a gentle prod with his foot to confirm it was dead, and bent over to see who it was.
He straightened up. “I think it’s Thimble,” he said, ashen-faced.
“Oh shit,” Xavier mumbled.
“Right,” Susan said. “We phone the police right now, before things get any more complicated.”
Forty minutes later, the three of them sat in the back of a police van, not speaking, as it hurtled them towards Eastwestchester police station.
*
It was not a very pleasant evening. They were interviewed, one after another, by a police sergeant who seemed to have already made up his mind that they were guilty. The only coffee that was available was utterly disgusting and served in a plastic cup from a dispenser that looked like it had been there for twenty years, and it did nothing to staunch Susan’s cravings for caffeine. Paul tried to keep calm, but got irritable when it was suggested in his interview that he was guilty of the murder of much-loved local antiques expert Damien Casablanca; because he felt so innocent, and yet so flustered, he was on the back foot and ended up overjustifying things and probably sounding more guilty. Why was it so hard to remain calm in circumstances like this?
“I didn’t do it,” he spluttered. “None of us were involved at all – I’ll tell you exactly what happened,” and he described the sequence of events, as far as he could remember them. He could feel the policeman’s eyes boring into his skull as he recounted Arbuthnot’s sudden appearance from behind his car, their headlong dash to escape, and the reason why they’d ended up wrecking an otherwise perfectly usable van against the wall of Opocapopopoulos House.
“So why did you throw a car jack at Mr Arbuthnot’s car?” the policeman asked. “Would you not say that that was rather a dangerous thing to do?”
“That wasn’t my idea,” Paul admitted. “We were in a Transit van, and he was in a BMW. He’d have overtaken us at the first available opportunity, so we felt we had to do something to – to stop him.” He stopped uncertainly. “Don’t look at me like that,” he pleaded.
“What do you mean, ‘like that’? I’m just looking at you,” the policeman said levelly. His name was Yarrow, in case you were wondering. “I’m just trying to find out why it is that we’ve got two dead bodies, a wrecked van, and the only people who have guilt written all over their faces are you three.”
“Three dead bodies,” Paul reminded him, “if you count –” he had to stop himself from saying “Bartholomew” – “Mr Opocapopopoulos.”
“His is a separate case,” Yarrow said dismissively. “We don’t think there’s any reason to connect his death to these two. Can we get back to the point? We were just trying to find out why you fled the scene of a crime if you aren’t guilty of it.”
“We weren’t fleeing the scene of a crime,” Paul said indignantly, “we were running away from a lunatic with a gun. Who had just shot someone in cold blood. Have you arrested him, by the way?”
“Arrested who?”
“Algernon Arbuthnot, of course,” Paul said, perplexed. “The one with the gun, remember?”
“There’s no proof Arbuthnot even had a gun, let alone tried to shoot you,” Yarrow said flatly. “All I’ve got to go on is your statement. Which doesn’t tie in at all well with Arbuthnot’s reputation as a highly-respected, successful business leader.”
“But –” Paul was beginning to think he’d gone mad. “I saw him there. We all did!”
“Yes, you’ve obviously concocted a very convincing story,” Yarrow said sarcastically. “Yet if you look at it, you’ve got far more of a reason to shoot Mr Casablanca, since he was the one who’d told you the cabinets your sister inherited were stolen.”
“Hang on,” Paul interjected. “We were perfectly OK with that. We’d gone down to the Jarrold Collection so that we could meet up with the museum director and arrange to give these cabinets back. We didn’t, for a moment, feel any bitterness towards Casablanca at all. Xavier – Mr Franks – had known Mr Casablanca for years, and as you can see he’s pretty shaken up about his death –”
“An overwhelming proportion of murders are committed by someone who knows the deceased,” Yarrow cut in. “Just because your uncle knew Mr Casablanca is no reason for him not to be killed by him.”
“None of us carry guns,” Paul protested weakly, “or ever have. Or would even know where to get one if we wanted one, which we don’t.”
“Your uncle professes an interest in the occult, though, doesn’t he?” the policeman mused. “He’s cropped up on the old radar a few times.” He frisbeed a few sheets of paper towards Paul; they were photocopied news articles from the local paper, mainly about local residents complaining about Xavier’s activities.
“These are from years ago,” Paul frowned, studying them. “He hasn’t had his hair like that since his early thirties.”
“Nevertheless,” Yarrow said. “I think this is anything but a clear-cut case. On the one hand, we have the three of you: speeding, causing reckless criminal damage to a hired vehicle, driving dangerously, endangering the lives of others, fleeing the scene of a crime, damaging property, trespassing, etcetera etcetera. On the other hand, we have Mr Arbuthnot, a pillar of the community, whose posh car is a write-off due to your actions, and who is currently too shaken up to talk about what happened.”
“And what about the gun, then?” Paul spluttered. “You’re not denying that a gun was used to shoot Mr Casablanca in the head, presumably. Have you found it?”
“Not yet,” Yarrow said, “but we will be searching your and Miss Franks’ property in due course.”
“Hang on,” Paul said, “if you’re searching our homes, are you doing the same to Mr Arbuthnot’s?”
“We will,” Yarrow said smoothly, “as soon as we can find the money, and do the paperwork, to travel to all of Mr Arbuthnot’s properties, which are located in the Canary Islands, Monaco, New York, London and Ipswitch.”
“So, the upshot of that is…?” Paul said. “You’re going to let a rich man walk free, but just because you can investigate us, because it’s cheap, you will?”
“We will do whatever we can,” Yarrow said, “to bring this investigation to a speedy close.” There was a pause while he and Paul looked at each other. “Interview ends,” he said, and stopped the cassette recorder.
*
Outside, Susan had been sitting next to Xavier, nursing her plastic cup of shit coffee. Xavier was still not saying much, so after a period of trying to cajole him into better spirits, she’d given up and resorted to staring at the wall, until the man sitting in the hard plastic chair opposite her had interrupted her thoughts.
“What’re you in here for, then?”
“Oh,” Susan began, and then decided not to go into it. “We had our car stolen,” she said. “How about you?”
“Oh, mine is a woeful story, an’ no mistake,” began the other. “Up ’til recently, I enjoyed a wondeful lifestyle, truly wonderful. I drove a number of fine cars around the country – around the world, in fact. I worked for a lovely gent, couldn’t have been a better man to work for. Then one day, I come back, and find ’im gawn. I mean, I was expectin’ to find him one place, and he was somewhere else. Mr Opoca – Opopopo – Ocadopop –”
Susan leaned forward in her chair. “Opocapopopoulos?” she prompted in an urgent voice.
“Yeah, that’s ’im,” said the other man. “Not a name I ever found easy to say, and I certainly never bloody learned to spell it. You know ’im, then?”
Susan resisted the urge to be truthful. “Well, you can hardly avoid the name,” she said, trying to paper over the lie with a half-laugh. “What’s your name, by the way?”
“Cabin,” said the man. “Orson Cabin. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss –” “Franks,” Susan replied, shaking his hand guardedly. “Susan Franks. Go on? You were saying –”
“Yeah,” Cabin said, withdrawing a large handkerchief from his top pocket and blowing his nose loudly, “Mr O goes an’ gets himself killed. I shit myself, I really did. I ran away for a few weeks to spend a bit o’ time with me mum, I was so worried about what might ’appen to me if I stayed.”
“Why?” Susan asked. “If you weren’t guilty?”
“I ain’t guilty,” Cabin protested. “I just din’t want the police to find out about the envelope ’e left me, that’s all. ’Course, finally, me mum persuades me to go to ’em anyway, see. I din’t hand meself in, but I went an’ tole the police, an’ that’s where me troubles started.”
“What’s in the envelope?” Susan asked innocently.
“Nuffin, now,” Cabin replied. “I din’t dare open it for ages ’cause I was so shocked at ’im dyin’, an’ that. But when I finally plucked up the courage… I was ’opin’ for some kinda bonus, but all there was was this photo of ’im and this other geeza, throwin’ money around in some kind of vault.”
“What?” Susan almost jumped out of her seat. “Who was the other guy?”
“Difficult to tell,” Cabin replied sadly, “but I reckon it was this Arbuthnot guy – Mr O’s mate from way back. I couldn’t work out why he’d left me something like that, though. An’ then,” he continued, oblivious to Susan’s sudden interest in his story, “I tell Fil about it, an’ next thing I know, he’s askin’ if he can have it. Well, of course, I said no. It’s bin left to me, so why should Fil take it? I felt sure Mr O would’ve left Fil something, too – very fair, he was,” he added, misty-eyed. “Very fair. But you know what – one day I get back from doin’ the shoppin’ – I was stayin’ at me mum’s at this point, you know, couldn’t face goin’ back to live in the flat on the estate – and it’s gone. Turns out Fil had turned up, an’ talked me mum into givin’ him the photo! God only knows what he wanted with it, why it was so blinkin’ urgent that he had it. Anyway, I ’ad a right go at me mum, as you can imagine, called ’er every name under the sun. I didn’t hit her, mind,” he continued, “of course I din’t, but it was a bit of a blow, I can tell you, cos I held Mr O in high regard, and I respected him a lot. He was a great man. I jumped in the Rolls I’d borrowed from ’is garage – I tell you, they ain’t ’alf a bugger to fill up, cost me damn near a hundred quid just to get into town – and went over to Fil’s flat to try to talk ’im into givin’ me back the photo, but ’e wasn’t there. I ’ad to force the door a bit, but to be honest we used to do that quite a lot – we worked closely with each other, see, an’ I ’ad to get in his flat sometimes when I din’t ’ave a key. Then tonight, they find him – they find ’im –” He stopped, and blew his nose on the handkerchief again, seemingly unable to carry on. “They find ’im dead, in the middle of the maze,” he said finally, in a despondent whisper. “An’ the next fing I know, I’m being rounded up and bein’ brung ’ere. They tell me I’m under suspicion of ’is death, just ’cos I knew ’im. I’d never ’ave killed him, never!” He broke down, sobbing into the handkerchief. Susan reached forward and patted him on the arm.
“Don’t worry,” she said soothingly. “If you’ve got nothing to do with it, you’re fine – they can’t convict you of anything if there’s no evidence.”
Just then, Paul burst out of the interview room, in a foul mood. “They’re telling me they think we had something to do with Damien’s death,” he said. “What did you tell them?”
“The truth,” Susan said truthfully. “We’ve got nothing to hide. Xavier said exactly the same, as far as I know.”
Paul looked at Xavier, who had nodded off. “They’ve said we can go, for now,” he said. “But they’ve got more they want to ask us tomorrow. Are you busy?”
“Well, I’ve got some reading I need to do,” said Susan. “But look, I need to tell you something.”
And she led Paul into the yard outside the door of the police station, and told him what she’d just heard.
