Dark Undertakings Page 6

  ‘Yes, it was a shock,’ Monica agreed. ‘And yes, it will be a cremation. Tell him I’ll be fine once all this business is over with.’ She held up the squarish brown envelope containing the death certificate and flapped it a little.

  Susie nodded wearily. ‘Oh, I know. There’s so much to do when somebody dies. But they say it’s good for you. Helps to keep you going.’

  Monica gave an impatient shrug. ‘Just a lot of bureaucratic nonsense, more like. But thank you for being kind. It does make a difference.’ And she left.

  The Registrar was a woman with a severe hairstyle, heavy spectacles and a brisk manner. Monica had been first in the queue, waiting outside for the door to open at ten, but despite this, she had been kept waiting in an anteroom for almost ten minutes, while a disorganised minion tried to ascertain her business. By that time, three more people had appeared, intent on registering the birth of their babies.

  ‘Let me see now,’ said Ms Registrar, opening the brown envelope. ‘Oh dear … so young. Do you know, this is the fourth man in his middle years to go like this, since Easter.’

  She shook her head, more disapproving than sorrowful. Monica guessed that she was about Jim’s age herself. The fact that Jim was not unusual was faintly reassuring. ‘Were they all heart attacks?’ she asked.

  ‘I think so. Yes,’ mumbled the woman, reading the certificate carefully. For a long minute, she scrutinised the document in silence, much to Monica’s irritation. She could see quite clearly that there were very few lines of writing on it. Then the official sucked her teeth, and tapped her fountain pen on the edge of the desk. Outside the door, the wail of a baby came loud and clear. Monica wanted to point out the existence of the queue, but suspected that this would only have a delaying effect.

  ‘Did your husband have any history of heart trouble?’ the woman asked. ‘Or did this come right out of the blue?’

  ‘It was very unexpected. But then heart attacks are, aren’t they.’

  ‘You have no reason at all to doubt this diagnosis?’

  ‘None at all. Jim was lying in bed beside me. His heart just failed. A nice way to go, some might say.’

  ‘But not you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose there isn’t really any good way to die – not at that age.’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure I can accept this at face value.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We can’t know for certain what the cause of death was. Not without a post-mortem.’

  Monica sat back in her chair, stunned. ‘But – but isn’t it too late for that?’

  ‘Not at all. Of course it isn’t. Why do you say that?’

  ‘Oh, well. Embalming, that sort of thing …’

  ‘They’re not allowed to touch him until I issue my certificate. It wouldn’t even cause a delay to the funeral. No need for you to worry at all.’

  ‘So, what are you going to do?’

  ‘Firstly, I’ll ring the doctor. I’ll do it now, while you’re here, and then take it from there.’ The woman smiled, for the first time, and Monica tried to relax. The baby’s howls grew louder outside and a second one joined in. Mercifully, Doctor Lloyd was still at the surgery. The Registrar spoke quickly. ‘This Mr Lapsford,’ she said. ‘You’ve put “myocardial infarction”. How certain are you about that?’ She listened and jotted a few words on a pad. ‘Right … right. Yes, I know. But that’s not my problem. Well, I suppose that’s true.’ She laughed briefly. ‘All right then. Sorry to worry you. Goodbye.’

  ‘Well, he’s convinced me,’ she told Monica. ‘It is my job, you know, to be sure.’

  ‘Of course.’ Sure of what? Monica wondered. That she hadn’t somehow murdered the man in his bed? That must obviously be it. For a moment, she half wished there could be a post-mortem, to settle the whole business once and for all.

  But she had no time for doubts. Questions about dates, names, National Insurance, were fired at her, the keyboard rattled, and finally a printer across the room disgorged a modest green document which was headed ‘Disposal Certificate’. This, apparently, was every bit as important as the much more impressive Death Certificate. ‘Give this to the funeral director,’ the Registrar instructed. ‘It means you can proceed with the arrangements without any hitches.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Monica made her escape, squeezing past prams and buggies overflowing into the corridor, smiling apologetically at the waiting crowd. What a system, she thought. And how spinelessly we all queue up to do its bidding.

  It was about ten when Drew found himself alone in the mortuary, with fifteen minutes to spare before Sid returned. Lapsford’s body lay undisturbed in the fridge. It occurred to Drew that Mrs Lapsford could show up to arrange the funeral as soon as she’d registered the death – and there was a chance that she would want to view the body. If that happened, Sid would have to glue or stitch the lips together, and Drew’s task would be impossible. The dual pressure of time made his insides shaky.

  Nervously, he opened the fridge door, and slid out the tray bearing the body. In order to see it properly, he would have to bring it out altogether and lower it on the hydraulic trolley. He hoped earnestly that his precautionary words with Vince would be enough to explain his behaviour if anybody walked in now and caught him. He had no genuine justification for what he was doing. It was well beyond the scope of his job description, and potentially an invasion of Lapsford’s privacy. Anxiously he ran through his plan of action.

  The only logical cause of death, apart from a heart attack or aneurism, must surely be poisoning. Although it was conceivable that someone had injected him with a toxic substance, the likelier method was giving it to him in food or drink. Therefore his stomach had to be the source of any evidence. And getting at the contents of a dead body’s stomach was not a straightforward business.

  At the sink there were the usual jars of vivid pink embalming fluid, with their rubber and plastic tubing and assorted attachments. Trembling, Drew went to the sink and grabbed a piece of tubing – the most rigid he could find. There was no other way to get what he wanted, without leaving obvious wounds on the body. This would also be quicker. But he would have to be extremely careful.

  The body was stiff now and too cold to work with easily. Forcing the tube down its throat was an act of real violence, and Drew was afraid that he was tearing the gullet as he went. If so, and if the case did come to the Coroner’s attention for some reason, the evidence of his intervention would be impossible to conceal from a pathologist. He was burning bridges in a major way.

  Gritting his teeth and closing his mind against the implications, he worked on. Outside the door, footsteps came closer, and his heart swelled and then stopped. He hadn’t known it was possible to be so afraid. Under his breath he cursed himself for being a complete fool. Not only was he about to lose his job, but there would doubtless be a police investigation. Violating a dead body was a criminal offence. But the steps continued past the door, and he managed a wobbly breath, before his heart resumed something closer to its normal rhythm.

  Returning to his task, he gazed into the dead man’s face. Lapsford was still looking healthy. Any lines on his face had been cheerful ones, and the thick hair gave him a handsome appearance. Only the gaping mouth looked wrong. The protruding plastic pipe gave a grotesque aspect to the picture, turning a man into a thing, inert and helpless. Drew felt sorry for what he was doing, and muttered an apology. ‘But it’s for your own good,’ he added. ‘You wouldn’t want them to get away with it, now would you?’ Holding the idea firmly in mind that this could so easily be an unacknowledged murder victim was the only way he could proceed with the next stage in the process.

  Once he was sure that the tube had reached the stomach, he had to perform the worst part. He had to suck the other end, just enough to draw up some of the contents, but not hard enough to bring it into his own mouth. Like syphoning petrol out of a car’s tank – the most terrible consequences would follow if you got it wrong. He could hardly bear to d
o it, but there was less sense in giving up now than in getting the job done properly. Two or three jerky little sucks, and he felt enough resistance at the end of the tube to know that something had been taken up. Keeping his thumb firmly over his end, and quelling his heaving stomach with extreme difficulty, he pulled roughly until the whole thing was clear. There was an inch of greyish matter lodged in the far end of the tube.

  Stepping away from the trolley, he carried his sample back to the sink, and grabbed a small plastic bag from a shelf above it. Inserting the end of the tube into it, he blew hard, and dislodged the morsel of stomach contents safely into the bag. The sick feeling worsened, and he clamped his jaws tightly against it. Never in his life had he done anything so disgusting. He tried to focus on the positive: at least now he would be able to produce some sort of evidence, feeble though it might be, if there were to be a forensic inquiry into the death of Jim Lapsford.

  He was washing the tube when Sid came in. ‘Oh, there you are,’ said Drew, falsely hearty. ‘I was just getting to know all the instruments.’

  ‘Why’re you washing them then?’ demanded Sid suspiciously.

  ‘Well, I’d been handling them. Habit, I suppose.’

  ‘We don’t have to be sterile here, you know,’ Sid said. ‘Dead people don’t catch infections.’

  ‘No, but they might give them to us, if we’re not careful.’

  ‘Not much danger of that.’ Sid’s light blue eyes conveyed no emotion, but he made a big show of rearranging his equipment around the sink. Drew decided to act casual and drifted away.

  ‘Do you think we’ll have to embalm Lapsford?’

  Sid shrugged. ‘Bound to. Not much chance of the funeral this week, and somebody’s sure to want to view him. I’ll get onto it soon as the second doctor’s been.’

  ‘Right.’ Drew made his escape then, the tightly sealed plastic bag in his pocket making him feel guilty and queasy. It went against all his training to remove unauthorised parts of human tissue, smuggling them away in such a surreptitious fashion. He would have to find somewhere safe to keep it until he decided on his next step. Although an awareness of what that might be was already pushing its way to the front of his mind. No sense in giving up now, it said. Got to carry through to the bitter end – and that means getting this stuff analysed as soon as you can.

  Monica was thankful that she’d arranged to meet Pauline for coffee before going on to Plant’s only two streets away. She felt hot and thirsty, and in no mood for another gruelling interview without some sort of break first. Whatever arranging the funeral might require of her, she wasn’t ready for it just yet. Anyway, she thought defiantly, why was there such a rush to get on and tidy poor Jim away? Ever since yesterday morning, everyone had been in such a hurry. Those men, coming out so quickly, once the doctor had phoned them. And the instructions they’d given her. Register as soon as you can, they’d said, then come and sort out the day for the funeral; choose a coffin; sign the papers.

  No, she decided mutinously, she’d move at her own pace, whatever anyone said. Coffee never failed to brighten her up, however weary she might be. She could wait quietly for Pauline, and think about nothing for a while.

  It was obvious that none of the staff in the coffee shop had heard about Jim. Everything was so normal that Monica was able to forget for a few minutes that she was a widow. She sat by the window and watched the street outside. It was relatively quiet, although a short cut from the car park to the main shops ensured a trickle of pedestrians passed the window. Opposite was a carpet showroom, which on a Wednesday morning might as well not have bothered to open. She could glimpse salesmen standing beside a table, waiting in vain for customers. In dark suits and with neat haircuts, they seemed like undertaker’s men to Monica. Standing like mutes, or birds of prey, just waiting for victims. She had to force herself to drag her eyes away from them.

  She jumped when someone put a hand on her shoulder from behind. Turning, she relaxed and smiled at the sight of Pauline. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, inspecting the face which was now on a level with hers, across the small table. Pauline’s colouring was a striking contrast to her own ash-blonde and milky-pale tones. They had established the friendship at the school gates, when Monica’s David and Pauline’s Craig had been in the same class. Craig had been almost as troublesome as David in his own way, and their mothers had found plenty in common.

  ‘Have a coffee,’ she said. ‘There’s no rush – I’ve done the registration part. It’s kind of you to keep me company.’

  ‘Didn’t you ask Philip to come as well?’

  ‘He’s got something important on at work. And David—’

  Pauline smiled. ‘David would be more of an impediment than a help. Tell me about it! Honestly, they never get any better do they? Craig’s in a dreadful state at the moment, because Susie’s trying to dump him. At least, I think that’s what’s happening. They never tell you anything, do they. But you don’t want to listen to me rabbiting on.’ She fetched coffee from the counter, and they sat together, as they’d done a thousand times before.

  ‘You look as if you’re coping, anyway,’ Pauline commented. ‘Not that I ever doubted you would. But it’s hard to imagine life without him.’ She shook her head. ‘Jim was quite something.’

  ‘It still doesn’t feel as if he’s really gone. Not for ever. Death’s so weird. I suppose people always feel they’re the first ever to experience its effects. And yet it’s so ordinary. It comes to us all. Oh, I’m sorry – I’m talking drivel. I can’t put it into words at all. I tried yesterday, with the boys, and just made them cross.’

  ‘It must be nice to have a daughter,’ said Pauline wistfully. ‘They always seem so much more – I don’t know – rewarding, I suppose.’

  ‘Philip’s all right. He and I are very close. And poor David can’t help it. I still think it goes back to his early years. It was all so unsettled. Compared to Philip, poor Davey had an awful time.’

  ‘Craig was forceps. Great dents in his head. Then, when his dad walked out, he got terribly disturbed. We really messed him up, between us.’ They sighed in unison.

  ‘Well, this won’t do,’ Monica regained her morning briskness, and gathered up her bag. ‘Let’s get it over with.’

  ‘It’s cremation, then, is it?’ Pauline asked, as they walked side by side down the street. The undertaker’s office was situated in a side street at the far end of the main shopping area.

  ‘I think so,’ Monica said. ‘He did say once that he hated the thought of burial. I forgot to ask the boys what they thought we should do. I don’t suppose they care much, either way.’ She spoke in jerky sentences, matching the rhythm of her step. Pauline found the pace uncomfortably fast.

  ‘They’ll ask you about stuff like hymns and flowers,’ she remarked. ‘There’ll be all sorts of decisions. I remember when my dad died—’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Monica spoke impatiently. ‘You don’t have to try and prepare me. I don’t care what happens at the funeral, quite honestly. He’s dead anyway – what difference will it make?’

  ‘Right,’ panted Pauline placatingly. ‘Anything you say. It’s just down here, isn’t it?’ Monica increased her pace and pushed open the front door of the building without waiting to see if her friend was still at her shoulder.

  After a short wait, the two women were sitting opposite Daphne Plant, who got straight down to business with very few preliminaries. The first question was the ‘burial or cremation’ one. Monica closed her eyes for a moment before answering. ‘Cremation’s the norm these days, isn’t it? We’ll go for that.’ She shook her head, and fiddled unconsciously with an earlobe. ‘We never thought that this would happen, you see. That probably sounds pathetic to you, avoiding the inevitable. But he was only fifty-five, and he’d never been ill at all.’

  Daphne had no comment. Many people complained that this was some kind of mistake, when death came suddenly. Only gradually would it emerge that Jim had been breathless recently, tha
t his uncle was waiting for a triple bypass, that he’d been worrying about money, or adultery, or promotion. ‘Cremation, then,’ she said. Monica found the ensuing decisions came almost effortlessly as Daphne posed her questions. Until they reached the one about chapel visiting.

  ‘I have no idea,’ she said flatly, when asked if anyone would like to ‘view’ Jim. ‘What do people usually do?’

  Pauline made a diffident contribution. ‘Oh, I think there’ll be people who would like to come and see him when he’s all nice and tidy in his coffin.’

  Monica shuddered. A wave of icy water seemed to be flowing through her system. She didn’t think she’d ever seen an occupied coffin – surely she’d remember if she had? Various good excuses had kept her away from funerals, all her life. Even her own father had managed to die when she was in hospital with appendicitis, and she’d insisted they carry on without her.

  ‘It seems awful,’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose it’ll look like him.’

  Daphne raised her eyebrows and tapped her lips with her pencil. ‘Most people say they’re glad they came,’ she said. ‘It’s a chance to say a last goodbye.’

  ‘It’d feel – I don’t know – strange,’ faltered Monica. She knew they didn’t understand her, that she wasn’t able to express the strong feeling that had gripped her at the prospect of visiting Jim in a strange impersonal ‘chapel of rest’.

  ‘I could just leave it open,’ Daphne offered. ‘You don’t have to decide now.’

  But Monica was still wrestling with her emotions. ‘I should see him again,’ she went on. ‘I can’t just leave it like this. Everything happened so quickly yesterday, I didn’t have time to really think. Do you think – er – could we have him home again, in his coffin? That’s what used to happen, isn’t it? I think it would be nicer if people could come to see him at the house. I could give them a cup of tea. Yes,’ she looked up from the desk, where her gaze had been fixed while she worked out what she wanted. ‘Yes! That would be much better.’