Dark Undertakings Page 10

  Drew blinked. The description was ringing the faintest of bells. ‘So, she and Lapsford—’

  ‘That’s right. At least, that’s the gossip.’

  ‘Does the wife know?’

  ‘Aha! There you have it. Does she or doesn’t she? Nobody’s sure on that one. The funny thing is, Roxanne’s sister is Pauline Rawlinson, and she’s a close friend of Mrs L. One day soon there will be a bucketful of shit hitting a very big fan.’

  ‘You’re forgetting Proctor,’ growled Sid, who had turned his back on the spate of delighted gossip that he himself had unleashed. ‘Reckon maybe Mrs Lapsford was glad to have her husband off her hands.’

  Drew’s eyes widened. ‘You don’t mean Gerald Proctor? The dentist?’

  ‘The very same,’ nodded Sid. ‘She works for him. Receptionist.’

  Drew could scarcely absorb it. He watched Sid for a minute, irritated by the obsessive ordering of tools. It was the same in the mortuary – everything precise and finicky. Daphne had made a joke about it when first showing Drew around.

  ‘Sid’s very particular,’ she’d said, with a little laugh. ‘The others say he’s like a magician – or a sorcerer. His embalming’s so good, people almost come back to life under his hands.’

  Drew hadn’t forgotten the remark. It told him as much about Daphne as it did about Sid; he got the clear message that Sid could do no wrong in her eyes.

  But what should he do? he wondered again. Even with all this talking and gossiping, there still didn’t seem to be any suspicion that Jim had been deliberately poisoned. Not yet, anyway, with the illicit toxicology results an unknown quantity. He considered contacting Dr Lloyd, but realised that would amount to accusing the man of incompetence. He could go directly to the Coroner’s Officer, perhaps anonymously, but that was far too risky. Questioning a doctor’s judgement was akin to blasphemy, and nobody was likely to listen to him. The only course open to him seemed to be to follow up some of this new information about Lapsford’s life and background, as well as his wife’s. And he was aware of a sudden, powerful urge to go and see this famous Roxanne.

  Meanwhile, his researches were progressed indirectly by the arrival of young Dr Parton – who was blessed with the obvious nickname. ‘Dolly’s here,’ hissed Vince, noticing the sporty purple car drive in. ‘Looking knackered.’

  Doctor Parton was twenty-eight, pregnant and now working only one afternoon a week in a well woman clinic. The rules for cremation papers ordained that the two doctors who signed up a body must not work for the same practice, which sometimes gave rise to complications in a town with only two small GP groups. Dr Parton came in very useful; she was qualified, but not working in a local practice. Her husband was one of Bradbourne’s best loved doctors.

  ‘I’ll take her through,’ said Sid. He went down to meet the young doctor. Drew followed him as casually as he could; fortunately nobody paid him any attention.

  Lapsford was still on the top tray in the fridge. Sid pulled the body out, and the doctor stood on tiptoe, her nose just level with the tray. ‘I can’t see much,’ she said, and glanced at the paper in her hand. ‘Coronary,’ she said to herself, and peered again at the dead face level with her own. ‘Hmmm. Better check his name tag.’ She stood helplessly, waiting for Sid to assist her. He slid the tray out a little further, until it threatened to tilt like a seesaw and deposit the body onto the floor.

  ‘Hold it, will you?’ He motioned to Drew, who was tinkering with one of the coffin trolleys, pretending to have found something wrong with one of the wheels. Drew went over to the fridge, and supported the head end of the tray.

  ‘Why don’t we get it right out?’ he said helpfully. ‘Then the doctor could have a proper look.’

  ‘No, no,’ said the woman quickly. ‘That’s okay. I can see him well enough. I just thought I should check his name – since I don’t think I knew him.’

  Sid roughly tugged at the cold right arm, until the red wristband was visible. He swivelled it slightly, and pulled again. ‘There,’ he said. ‘Lapsford.’ The doctor squinted up at it, and nodded. Drew wasn’t sure whether she’d been able to read it or not. What a fiasco, he thought. She wouldn’t even notice if there was a knife sticking in the guy’s back.

  ‘That’s that, then,’ said Sid, when she’d gone. ‘We can get on with embalming him now.’

  Drew glanced reluctantly at the jars of bright pink fluid, the rubber tubes and little pump. He knew the theory, but wasn’t in any rush to witness the practice. The deception offended him, making a dead body look pink and healthy seemed a violation of the natural processes.

  ‘I’ll just—’ he began, trying to think of some excuse not to be present on this particular occasion. He was mercifully interrupted by Daphne coming into the mortuary.

  ‘Drew,’ she began, frowning slightly, ‘I’ve just had a rather strange request. It’s a bit unorthodox, but I’ve agreed to do it. Mrs Lapsford just phoned. Apparently her dog has died during the night, and she’s asked if we could possibly cremate it in with her husband. I said I thought we could probably do that. It’s not as if anyone’s going to know. So – would you go round there after lunch and fetch it?’

  Drew could hardly speak for excitement. ‘No problem,’ he choked. ‘No problem at all.’

  David Lapsford was drunk, at eleven in the morning. It had been a deliberate process, pouring whisky into a tumbler, filling it half full at regular intervals, and taking big mouthfuls of it. It tasted marvellous. He concentrated on the taste, and the friendly burn that followed every swallow. Firewater is right, he thought. The perfect name for it. He ought to be at work, of course. He hadn’t even bothered to phone in. If he lost the job, then too bad. It didn’t strike him as worth bothering about.

  The muzziness of the alcohol in his blood stream brought relief, self-pity and frustration. At ten, he’d phoned the only person in the world he thought might understand him. ‘Sorry, she’s not here,’ an impatient voice had told him. ‘She’s gone off somewhere for the morning.’

  David put the phone down without responding. An hour later, he was too skewed by the drink to remember he’d made the call.

  The door opened without warning, and his mother came in; she had a key to his flat, just as he had one to the Primrose Close house. He could see her sniffing the air like a questing dog, and it made him laugh. He stopped abruptly when a second person followed Monica into the room. ‘Hi, Davey,’ said Jodie. ‘Haven’t seen you for a while.’

  ‘Brought reinforcements, did you, Ma?’ he slurred, trying to remember why he’d already spoken Jodie’s name that day.

  ‘David, you’ve been drinking!’ Monica was rigid with outrage. ‘The whole place stinks of it.’

  ‘Just drowning my sorrows,’ he said extravagantly. ‘Isn’t that what you do when a person dies?’

  Monica looked at Jodie for rescue. ‘Have you seen him like this before?’ she demanded.

  Jodie shrugged. David wondered whose side she thought she was on, as she met his eyes with something of the old affection. He remembered then that his mother had come with a specific purpose, to talk to him about his real parents, and he took another swift gulp from the tumbler. Now she was here, he didn’t think he wanted to know the truth after all.

  ‘It’s very nice of you to come and visit me,’ he said slowly. ‘I appreciate it – yes, I do. Would you like a drink? Coffee, not whisky. I don’t think there’s much whisky left. Jodie, will you help me make it, please? Ma, you sit down, I won’t be long.’ He led the way unsteadily down the narrow corridor to the kitchen. The mess was no worse than usual. David had a flatmate, Angus: a divorced man with sorrows of his own to drown. He was a shadowy figure, even to David, saying little and keeping to his room for most of the time. Angus never washed anything up, and never cleaned the floor or the sink or the cooker. David did the bare minimum, unless expecting visitors, when he was capable of making an impressive effort. At least to that extent, his early training at Monica’s hands had stuck.
But clearly the effort had not been made recently.

  Monica remained obediently in the living room, which had been furnished and decorated barely a year ago. The carpet had some unpleasant-looking stains on it, and there was a splintery gash in the wall which looked as if it had been rammed with something sharp. Jim had lent David his deposit. Not much chance of getting that back, thought Monica wryly.

  The fact of David’s drunkenness loomed over her like a heavy rock teetering and threatening to land on her head. If she made a wrong move, there could be a disaster. She was far from sure that she had the strength or the skill to push it upright again, and get it onto a firmer foundation. One thing she had realised in the first few moments was that David was in no state to hear the truth about his origins. She simply couldn’t trust him to grasp the facts, nor to react to them in anything like an adult fashion. Having endured the four-mile drive with Jodie, trying to rehearse what she would say, the sense of anticlimax was acute.

  Jodie carried the three large mugs of coffee back into the living room, on a tray.

  David followed close behind. ‘Here we are!’ he trilled, the perfect host. Although he seemed steadier on his feet, his eyes were bleary and unfocused. Monica felt sick; she knew she couldn’t drink the coffee. Sick and self-pitying and disgusted. Hurtful accusations crowded the tip of her tongue. As if aware of this, Jodie began to speak.

  ‘David, your father died two days ago, and this morning your mother found poor Cassie dead, too. The last thing she needs is for you to start behaving like a complete idiot. You don’t get many chances in this life, you know. If you can’t get yourself sorted out, stick with the job, tidy this place up, figure out what you want to do with yourself – then you’ll always be a loser.’ She spoke levelly, looking straight at him. Monica winced at some of the words, but was reassured by David’s reaction. Despite the familiar sideways tilt of the head and jerky raising of his shoulder, he seemed to be calmer.

  One phrase had hooked his attention. ‘Sort myself out,’ he echoed. ‘Yeah. That’s what I’m trying to do. I’ve been trying for years. And I was going to ask him – I was. I was going to tackle him – and her – this week. They don’t know that I know. But I do, and I want them to explain.’

  Jodie’s blank expression almost made Monica laugh. It was obvious, as she had already assumed, that David had never shared his suspicions about his parenthood with his former girlfriend. She herself had told Jodie no more than that she had something very difficult to discuss with her son, and would appreciate the girl’s company. She hadn’t used the word ‘protection’ – but the implication had been there.

  Monica said nothing for a long minute, as the other two looked on. She recalled a flickering image from four or five years ago, when David and Jodie had defied Monica or Jim or anybody else to try and separate them. Monica had never made the attempt; she knew David was lucky to have Jodie. Jim’s response had been a lot more complicated. He had obviously felt uncomfortable about the relationship, but Monica had never understood why.

  ‘It’s okay, Mama,’ he said, with a startlingly sober smile. ‘You can be excused for now. You’ve told me all I need to know, just by coming here. I know I’m not your natural son.’

  Jodie’s chin jerked up with shock and she stared wildly at David. ‘What are you talking about?’ she demanded.

  ‘Didn’t she tell you?’ he frowned suspiciously.

  Jodie shook her head. ‘I never doubted you were her son. And Jim’s.’

  ‘Then you’re in for a surprise, my old mate,’ he said, brandishing the mug like a beacon.

  The local weekly paper that day carried a brief report in the ‘STOP PRESS’ column.

  Popular local printer, Jim Lapsford, has been found dead. His doctor diagnosed a massive heart attack. Funeral details have yet to be announced. Jim, 55, was a member of the King’s Head darts team, a breeder of pedigree West Highland terriers. He leaves a widow, Monica, and two grown-up sons.

  For one person at least, this small report was the first she knew of the death. Lorraine Dunlop had been away in Cyprus for three weeks with her husband and young daughter; they had arrived home at eleven that morning. She felt the shock as a liquidising of her internal organs, puddling in her lower belly, fixing her to the sofa, where she had flung herself for a moment’s flip through the news. She felt cold and terribly, horribly lonely. There seemed to be a vicious wind blowing from somewhere, forcing her to stand in a dark void where nobody would love her ever again.

  She clamped her lips together, and quickly turned the page. Frank hadn’t noticed anything; too busy inspecting his fish tank and checking for any casualties during their absence. The urge to say, ‘Jim’s dead! Can you believe that? He’s dead’ was almost beyond bearing. And why not say it? Frank knew Jim; everybody knew Jim. It was a piece of real news, which she might be able to read out without betraying herself. Except she knew she wouldn’t be able to say it. To say the actual words. Not without screaming, crying, running out of the room like a teenager. Swallowing hard, she realised that she would never be able to talk about Jim as she wanted to, not to anyone. Like that woman in Madison County, she would go to her grave with her love unspoken. The dramatic romance of it made her feel slightly better.

  Putting the paper down, Lorraine allowed herself a few moments’ reverie. Jim’s strong arms, thick with black hairs, had hugged her so warmly, so protectively, after they made love. Jim had been so different from Frank, who merely kissed her briefly and rolled away when the sex was over. Jim had held her tightly to him, savouring the afterglow. He had always thanked her, as if she had given him the greatest gift imaginable; making him so happy had been the best part of the whole thing. Jim understood how to take pleasure, gracefully and wholeheartedly.

  Jim had let her talk about disappointment and frustration, and then laughed her into a new state of being. ‘Enjoy life!’ he had told her. ‘Take it by the throat and squeeze every drop of fun out of it. That’s what I’ve decided to do. This is just the start.’ He’d been wicked and boyish and she could scarcely believe afterwards the things they’d done together.

  The shock hit her again, harder than ever. It wasn’t possible that he was dead. Jim had been too vital, too overflowing with life for this to happen. What would he look like, pale and cold in his coffin? Those lovely arms, stiff and folded. No, it was impossible to imagine.

  She couldn’t face the rest of the day, unpacking and washing the sandy holiday clothes, persuading Cindy to stay awake, so she’d sleep properly at bedtime. The flight had left Cyprus at six-thirty, which meant they’d had to get up at four. It seemed a million miles away already, the sun and smiling brown people, everything so easy and uncomplicated. Frank had been a different man, swimming in the sea each day, eating the foreign food with relish, and rampantly sexy into the bargain. With a mixture of fear and excitement, Lorraine suspected that they’d started a second baby during the first days out there. The sweaty afternoons, where clothes had been sheer insanity, and the rhythms of the tides just outside the hotel combined with something visceral and urgent to bring them together time after time. She hadn’t given Jim more than a fleeting thought, taking her pleasure with Frank, feeling a sense of wifely virtue in the process.

  ‘I’d better go and get some shopping in,’ she said, heaving herself up, praying that she sounded normal. ‘There’s nothing for lunch.’

  ‘We could go to the pub,’ he offered. ‘We’re still on holiday, after all.’

  Lorraine shook her head, a shade too vehemently. ‘There’s lots of stuff we need. I’d best get it over with. I might be too tired later on.’

  ‘It’ll be tomorrow that it hits us,’ he said, with his usual irritating certainty. ‘Just when I’ve got to go back to work.’

  ‘Well, time enough to worry about that. It’s daft going back on a Friday, anyway. Are the fish okay?’

  ‘Seem to be. That self-feeder gadget worked, by the looks of it.’

  ‘That’s good. Keep
an eye on Cindy, will you? She’s up in her room. Don’t let her go to sleep.’

  ‘Might be a bit late for that. She’s very quiet.’

  ‘Oh, hell. Well, I can’t be bothered with it now. I need to get out.’

  He lifted his head. ‘What’s up with you?’

  ‘Just jangled with coming home again.’ She shrugged. ‘Nothing. See you later, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’ He turned back to his fish. ‘I’m sure the koolie eels have grown.’

  In the mortuary, Sid was pulling an over-tight dress onto a woman of seventy whose daughter thought she should go to her Maker looking as if she was off to a cocktail party. There was no real knack to it, apart from being firm with the uncooperative limbs. It was a point of honour not to simply cut the garment down the back, put it on like a hospital gown and then crudely pin or stitch it up again. Never once had he done that, though many a time he’d been tempted. Perhaps it was less a matter of principle than an anxiety that somehow the family would find out and be outraged. Sid was highly sensitive to criticism.

  Daphne’s system worked smoothly. A shiny whiteboard was mounted on one wall, and on it she wrote details of jewellery to be left on the body; chapel viewing; whether the cremation papers were completed. Not until this last was accomplished could Sid proceed with any significant tampering with the body. He kept glancing at the board as if half-expecting some unseen hand to have ticked the column for Lapsford. Doctor Parton should have constituted permission – but Sid remembered the day he’d jumped the gun, only to have Daphne’s wrath descend on his head. ‘You have to wait until I’ve put it on the board,’ she’d raged. ‘You can’t just carry on regardless. For all you know, the second doctor might not be satisfied. It might seem just a stupid formality to you, but I promise you it isn’t.’ Sid had apologised, and agreed to stick to the rules in future. Once he’d thought about it, he fully approved of the firm discipline, anyway. Word of mouth and personal observation were not reliable, especially when things were busy.