Free Hymn by Graham Masterton Page A

Florida Canyon. Yellow petrol can, everything the same. The only difference was that nobody got to that suicide with a fire-extinguisher. There was nothing left but ashes, believe me. It took us two weeks to identify the victim. A store assistant from Sears. No connection with your fiancée whatsoever, apart from the mode of demise.’
    Lloyd climbed shakily out of the freezing-cold car into the grilling heat of the downtown sun.
    â€˜Take it easy,’ Sergeant Houk told him, leaning across the front seat. ‘Throw yourself into your work, maybe. A lot of people find that helps.’
    â€˜Thanks for the tip,’ Lloyd replied, though Sergeant Houk didn’t hear the sarcasm in his voice.
    â€˜And if anything occurs to you . . . any conceivable reason why Ms Williams might have wanted to take her own life . . . even if it was nothing more than premenstrual tension, well, you’ll call me, yes?’
    â€˜For sure,’ Lloyd told him.
    He crossed the dazzling white car-park. He was conscious that Sergeant Houk was watching him as he went. He unlocked his BMW and climbed in, and sat for a while with his eyes closed, and repeated the words of Allen Ginsberg’s Kaddish:
    There, rest. No more suffering for you. I know where you’ve gone, and it’s good.
    He didn’t see the girl in the raincoat standing on the opposite side of Broadway, staring at him, unmoving, her yellow scarf flapping in the warm harbour wind, her upswept sunglasses reflecting two dazzling points of light.

Six
    When he arrived back at North Torrey, he was surprised and annoyed to find a metallic red Lincoln Continental parked in his driveway. He drew into the kerb, climbed out of his BMW, and cautiously approached the Lincoln across the lawn, jingling his car-keys in his hand.
    As he came closer, he saw that a balding man of about sixty-five was sitting in the driver’s seat, and next to him was sitting a white-rinsed woman in a purple-and-white blouse and more gold necklaces and bangles and brooches than Nefertiti. Lloyd tapped with his knuckle on the window, and both of them beamed at him.
    â€˜Hi there! You must be Otto,’ the white-haired man greeted him, letting down his window. He held out his hand, still beaming.
    Lloyd said. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I think you have the wrong house. This is 4884 North Torrey.’
    The man frowned, and unfolded a pair of heavy-rimmed spectacles. He fished a well-folded letter out of his shirt pocket, and examined it closely. ‘That’s right. That’s the address I’m looking for. 4884 North Torrey.’
    â€˜Well, I’m afraid there’s no Otto here,’ Lloyd told him. ‘Never has been, to my knowledge.’
    â€˜Oh, I’m sorry,’ the man answered. ‘We weren’t actually looking for Otto. We were looking for Celia—Celia Williams?’
    â€˜You’re friends of hers?’ asked Lloyd.
    The man laughed, and the woman joined in. ‘You could say that. Do you happen to know where we might find her? We’ve driven all the way from San Clemente this morning, and we’ve been waiting here for almost an hour.’
    Lloyd rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I’m afraid I have some pretty bad news for you.’
    â€˜Don’t tell me she’s gone off on one of her lecture tours?’ said the woman. ‘Oh, Wayne . . . I told you to call first.’
    â€˜What kind of surprise would it have been if I’d called first?’ the man demanded.
    â€˜It would have saved us two hours on the freeway, for goodness’ sake.’
    The woman gave Lloyd a fixed grin, and asked, ‘Do you happen to know if she’s going to be away for very long?’
    â€˜Ma’am,’ said Lloyd, and he couldn’t stop his throat from tightening nor the tears from prickling his eyes. ‘I’m sorry to tell you that Celia died yesterday.’
    The man and the woman stared at him with