The Golem of Hollywood

Chapter forty

The decrepit fence surrounding the Heap estate told the story: land-rich, cash-poor. Jacob squeezed through a gap in the chain-link, carrying a package of Tesco brand toffee.

In the hour since the rain had let up, the pools in the pitted asphalt had been colonized by insects. If he hadn’t known any better, he might’ve looked at the teeming life and thought it the product of spontaneous generation. He couldn’t blame the ancients for making that assumption.

No beetles.

Still, he hurried up the driveway.

The door knocker came off in his hand. Jacob reinserted it on loose screws and circled around the house. Someone had carelessly left several upper-story windows open. Wet, ragged curtains ballooned and snapped in the wind.

Out back, he mounted a buckling terrace, surveying a wide, unkempt lawn, bounded by treeline.

He cupped his mouth and bellowed hello.

Silence.

He called again, received no answer, turned to knock on the French doors.

A clap and a whine and the concrete planter fifteen feet to his left cleaved in two.

The second shot removed the stump. Jacob had by then dropped behind the balustrade, balled up, his head between his knees, his arms around his shins.

A third shot shattered the planter to his right.

The gunfire was coming from the trees. Run and he’d be open season for the minute it would take to cover the lawn.

Option two was scrambling for the French doors. Kick in a panel, dive for safety. He’d cut himself. He’d probably still get shot. Obvious break and enter, no charges filed.

Frantically he keyed his phone. It loaded one agonizing byte at a time.

The fourth shot went wide, chunking the house’s brick exterior.

The number for emergency services in the United Kingdom was 999. You could also use 112 or, charmingly, 911.

He dialed.

The voice that answered was American.

Two more shots; two more exploding bricks.

He tried the other emergency numbers, without success; either his phone beeped at him or he ended up speaking to someone in West Virginia. He added a 1, then a 1–1, a 0-1-1. Futile; he returned to Google.

He was going to die while incurring massive data roaming charges.

The shots stopped, replaced by the sound of boots on grass.

“You’re trespassing.”

Without moving, Jacob called, “I knocked.”

“And therefore?”

Jacob dared to poke the box of candy over the balustrade. When his hand wasn’t blown off at the wrist, he rose, showing his badge. “I’m sorry. Really.”

The human bulldozer before him wore baggy flannel trousers. Seventyish, with snow-white streamers whipping from a sun-splotched scalp, he carried a string of hares slung over one shoulder, a hunting rifle propped on the other.

“Those were warning shots. Fifty yards. From this distance, I reckon I could shave you blindfolded.”

“I’m sure you could, sir.”

“So. Move along.”

Feeling like the butler, Jacob opened the box and held it out.

“What is that? Is that toffee?” The man clomped up the steps and selected a piece, pink cheeks reddening as he chewed. He grunted and grimaced, as if he were having his teeth torn out and enjoying every moment of it.

He swallowed. “This is revolting,” he said, reaching for another piece.

“Edwyn Heap?”

“Mm.”

“Jacob Lev. I’m a detective with the Los Angeles Police Department.”

“How marvelous for you.”

“I’m here about your son, Reggie.”

“A term best used loosely.”

“Pardon?”

“I told Helen from the outset: I don’t fancy squandering my life and treasure on a stranger’s mistakes.”

Jacob said, “He was adopted.”

“Of course he bloody was. No natural son of mine would’ve turned out that way. What’s he done in Los Angeles?”

Jacob noted the syntax: not what’s he doing but what’s he done. “I’m not sure.”

“Rather a long way to come in a state of doubt.”

“Was he in Prague last April?”

“Prague?”

“In the Czech Republic.”

“I know where Prague is, you prat.”

Heap swallowed wetly and plucked another piece of toffee, leaving seventeen in the box.

“Absolutely, perfectly revolting,” he muttered.

Jacob had an idea that the conversation would last as long as the candy. “Do you know if he’s been there?”

“I do not, nor do I care. He’s a grown man, or so says the law. He may go where he pleases. Nor can I see what an American police officer’s got to do with any of it.”

Jacob glanced at the gun. Close enough that he could get to it if necessary, wrest it away. “I’m afraid I have some bad news. Prague police found a body that appears to be his.”

Heap stopped chewing.

“I’m sorry,” Jacob said.

Heap leaned against the balustrade, his eyes bulging as he gulped the half-chewed toffee.

The rifle clunked down, and he clutched his chest. Jacob reached for him, but Heap swatted his hand away, breathing savagely. “What happened.”

“Are you okay, sir?”

“What happened.”

Jacob said, “It’s not entirely clear. It appears that he was murdered—”

“‘Appears’? What the bloody hell’s the matter with you? Murdered by whom?”

“We’re still working on that—”

“Well work on it, you idiot. Don’t stand there asking me questions.”

“I’m so sorry to have to tell you this.”

“I don’t give a toss how sorry you are. I want to know what happened.”

“It appears—”

Heap snatched up the gun and leveled it at Jacob’s midsection. “You dare tell me one more time what it appears to be and I’ll paint my house with your guts.”

A beat.

Jacob said, “He tried to rape a woman.”

Heap said nothing; nor did he react.

“She fought him off and fled the scene,” Jacob said. “When the police returned to look for him, they found him dead. Murdered.”

“How.”

“... how?”

“How was he murdered?”

“He was...” Jacob cleared his throat. “He was decapitated.”

The rifle wavered in Heap’s hands.

Jacob said, “I know it’s hard.”

Heap smiled sourly. “Do you have a son?”

“No, sir, I don’t.”

“Then you don’t know what it’s like to find out he’s been murdered, do you?”

“No, sir.”

“And, consequently, you don’t have the faintest notion of how hard it is.”

Jacob said, “None.”

A silence.

“If you could show me a photo,” Jacob said. “I need to confirm that it was him.”

The gun swung loosely at Heap’s side. He went in through the French doors. Jacob followed.