I’d cheered up a bit by teatime, mainly because I’d found a mistake in my figures that meant I was a couple of hundred quid better off than I’d thought. And then Phil had announced he’d found a few local bands to choose from for the wedding—I avoided making any pointed comments about all the paperwork he’d supposedly been doing—and we spent the rest of the evening watching YouTube vids and arguing about musical integrity versus broad appeal. The one we decided to go for, and even managed to book with a swift phone call, had a dodgy name but they were willing to play just about anything you asked for, which is pretty handy when your guest list skews heavily towards the older demographic.
And no, I didn’t include me and Phil in that.
We were getting cosy on the sofa, and I for one was debating the merits of an early bedtime when the phone rang.
“Is that Mr. Paretski?”
The nervous, breathy female voice was familiar, somehow, but I couldn’t quite place it. I scrabbled around for my work diary. “Yeah, that’s me. Paretski Plumbing. What can I do you for?”
“It’s Hazel. Hazel Lovett.”
Oh. Not that I didn’t feel bad for the girl, but couldn’t she give us our Sunday night off? It wasn’t like there was anything we could do for her at this precise instant. “All right, love?”
“It’s— I don’t know what to do. Everything’s so . . . Oh God.” There was a loud snuffling sound, and when she spoke again, her voice was stretched to breaking point. “I don’t know if you’ve heard—”
“About your mum being arrested?” I finished for her, because God knows she sounded like she needed the help. “Yeah, I know. Me and Phil are working on—”
“No! It’s not— I mean, yes, but it’s . . . Oh God.” There was an actual sob this time, and then silence.
“Hazel?” I was getting worried now.
“It’s Axel. He tried to k-kill himself.”
Bloody hell. Christ, I felt like a bastard for wanting to give her the brush-off a minute ago. “Is he okay?”
“He’s gone to hospital. The ambulance just left.”
“Where are you? Are you on your own? Is Pete with you?”
“I’m at home. He had to go to work.”
On a Sunday night? That was unsociable hours and then some. Or did it count as Monday, if half his shift was after midnight?
And why the bleedin’ hell was I wasting time thinking about that right now? “What about your dad?”
“He’s not here. I . . . I really need to talk to you. Can you come over?”
“Course, love. We’ll be straight there.”
I hung up and turned to give Phil the good news.
There was a bit of déjà vu when we got over to Pluck’s End to find another uniformed copper answering the door. Actually, I thought it was the same one for a mo, until I remembered the morning one had had shorter hair.
She had an identical scowl on her face, mind. Maybe they teach that at Hendon too: advanced glowering, intimidation of pesky members of the public for the use of. “Can I help you, sir?” There wasn’t a hint in her tone that she desperately wanted to add into a nice, comfy cell but the eyes gave her away. What on earth had we done to her? Failed to correctly perform the secret knock?
“Tom Paretski and Phil Morrison.”
The copper-cum-gatekeeper nodded, which solved that little conundrum. She’d heard of us.
“Hazel asked us to come round,” I went on quickly, speaking loudly in the hopes the young lady in question would hear me, and sure enough, a pale face appeared over PC Pleasant’s shoulder.
“Thank God you’re here,” Hazel said shakily, and after that her police escort had no option but to let us in.
Hazel was wearing baggy leggings and a massively oversized hoodie with saggy pockets. Comfy clothes, for lounging around on a Sunday night. Inside them, she was a ball of tension and misery. “Come on through,” she said, hugging herself.
We followed her into Lilah’s living room, which looked like it’d been yarn-bombed. There were balls of wool everywhere, in all different colours—on the sofa, on both chairs, and on the floor. Arthur and Merlin would’ve thought they’d died nine times and gone to heaven. Laid out on the arms of the sofa and chairs were hand-knitted mittens in varying stages of completion.
“Hey, you make all these? For the Smithy, right?” I asked to distract Hazel.
“Oh. Yes. Sorry. I should’ve . . .” She gazed hopelessly around at the muddle, obviously feeling she should tidy but not knowing where to start.
“How about we go in the kitchen and have a cuppa?” I suggested.
Hazel’s lip trembled, but she held it together. “Okay.”
I felt the urge to put an arm around her as she led us to the kitchen, but wasn’t sure if she’d welcome it. It wasn’t entirely clear why she’d called us over, but it seemed more likely it was for professional reasons than because the sudden crisis gave her an irresistible urge to see yours truly.
Once we were in the kitchen she seemed lost, so I gave Phil a nod to see to the kettle and shepherded her over to the table, where I sat down beside her.
PC Pleasant hadn’t followed us in, and the door to the hallway was shut. I made a mental note not to forget she was probably earwigging, mind.
“How do you take your tea, love? Or would you rather have hot chocolate?” I suggested, thinking of Axel. Also of the time, which was after eleven. Hazel was going to have enough trouble sleeping tonight without added caffeine.
Hazel sniffed and nodded. Phil seemed to be doing a sterling job of searching through cupboards, so I left him to it. “How are you doing?” I asked her.
“It’s all so h-horrible. First Mum and now—” She choked.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?”
Hazel took a couple of deep breaths and tucked a strand of lank hair behind one ear. “He . . . he took some pills. From Mum’s cabinet. I don’t know what they were, but I heard him being . . . being sick, and thought he’d just drunk too much—he had a bottle of Mum’s gin—but then I saw the pill bottle and . . .”
“You called the ambulance?” I finished for her, as she seemed to have run out of words.
Hazel nodded again, tight-lipped. “Why didn’t he talk to me? I could have helped . . .”
“Have you got any idea why he did it?”
“I— No. That is, he left a note. But it didn’t make sense.”
“Can I have a look?”
“The police took it. They wouldn’t say w-why. Why would they do that?” The lip quivered again, and this time I did give her a hug. She snuffled briefly into my shoulder, then pulled back as Phil put a couple of steaming mugs on the table. “I’ll . . . I’ll get some biscuits.”
“I’ll do it,” Phil said, and fetched the tin.
Hazel snagged a Rich Tea and dunked it in her hot chocolate before taking a dainty bite. It seemed to calm her down.
“Can you remember what the note said?” I asked gently, taking a bourbon cream to show willing.
“I took a picture. On my phone.” She fumbled in her hoodie pocket, dropped her phone on the floor, picked it up—thankfully intact—and handed it over.
It wasn’t easy, as, understandably, the focus wasn’t great, but through zooming in and swiping from side to side, I managed to make out what it said:
I’m sorry. It’s all my fault. I never meant anything bad to happen.
It was signed, Axe.