Blue Genes (2 page)

‘So what’s the pitch?’ Alexis asked.

‘They do the tea-and-sympathy routine, then they explain that they’re adopting the new practice of visiting people in their homes because it’s a more personal approach to choosing an appropriate memorial. Then they go into a special-offer routine, just like they were selling double glazing or something. You know the sort of thing—unique opportunity, special shipment of Italian marble or Aberdeen granite, you could be one of the people we use for testimonial purposes, limited period offer.’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ Alexis groaned. ‘And if they don’t sign up tonight, they’ve lost the opportunity, am I right, or am I right?’

‘You’re right. So these poor sods whose lives are already in bits because they’ve just lost their partner or husband or wife, or mother or father, or son or daughter get done up like a kipper just so some smart bastard can go out and buy another designer suit or a mobile bloody phone,’ I said angrily. I know all the rules about never letting yourself get emotionally involved with the jobs, but there are times when staying cool and disinterested would be the mark of inhumanity rather than good sense. This was one of them.

Alexis lit another cigarette, shaking her head. ‘Pure gobshites,’ she said in disgust. ‘Twenty-four-carat shysters. So they take the cash and disappear into the night, leaving your clients to pick up the pieces when the headstone remains a ghostly presence?’

‘Something like that. They really are a pair of unscrupulous bastards. I’ve been interviewing some of the people who have been had over, and a couple of them have told me the woman has actually driven them to holes in the wall to get money for a cash deposit.’ I shook my head, remembering the faces of the victims again. They showed a procession of emotions, each more painful to watch than the last. There was grief revisited in the setting of the scene for me, then anger as they recalled how they’d been stung, then a mixture of shame and resentment that they’d fallen for it. ‘And there’s no point in me telling them that in their shoes even a streetwise old cynic like me would probably have fallen for it. Because I probably would have done, that’s the worst of it,’ I added bitterly.

‘Grief gets you like that,’ Alexis agreed. ‘The last thing you’re expecting is to be taken for a ride. Look at how many families end up not speaking to each other for years because someone has done something outrageous in the immediate aftermath of death, when everyone’s staggering round feeling like their brain’s in the food processor along with their emotions. After my Uncle Jos’s second wife Theresa wore my gran’s fur coat to the old dear’s funeral, she might as well have been dead too. My dad wouldn’t even let my mum send them a Christmas card for about ten years. Until Uncle Jos got cancer himself, poor sod.’

‘Yeah, well, us knowing these people haven’t been particularly gullible doesn’t make it any easier for them. The only thing that might help them would be for me to nail the bastards responsible.’

‘What about the bizzies? Haven’t they reported it to them?’

I shrugged. ‘Only one or two of them. Most of them left it at phoning my client. It’s pride, isn’t it? People don’t want everybody thinking they can’t cope just because they’ve lost somebody. Especially if they’re getting on a bit. So all Officer Dibble has to go on is a few isolated incidents.’ I didn’t need to tell a crime correspondent that it wasn’t something that was going to assume a high priority for a police force struggling to deal with an epidemic of crack and guns that seemed to claim fresh victims every week in spite of an alleged truce between the gangs.

Alexis gave a cynical smile. ‘Not exactly the kind of glamorous case the CID’s glory boys are dying to take on, either. The only way they’d have started to take proper notice would have been if some journo like me had stumbled across the story and given it some headlines. Then they’d have had to get their finger out.’

‘Too late for that now,’ I said firmly.

‘Toerags,’ Alexis said. ‘So you’ve put Richard’s death notice in to try and flush them out?’

‘Seemed like the only way to get a fix on them,’ I said. ‘It’s clear from what the victims have said that they operate by using the deaths column. Richard’s out of town on the road with some band, so I thought I’d get it done and dusted while he’s not around to object to having his name taken in vain. If everything goes according to plan, someone should be here within the next half-hour.’

‘Nice thinking,’ Alexis said approvingly. ‘Hope it works. So why didn’t you use Bill’s name and address? He’s still in Australia, isn’t he?’

I shook my head. ‘I would have done, except he was flying in this afternoon.’ Bill Mortensen, the senior partner of Mortensen and Brannigan, Private Investigators and Security Consultants, had been in Australia for the last three weeks, his second trip Down Under in the past six months, an occurrence that was starting to feel a lot like double trouble to me. ‘He’ll be using his house as a jet-lag recovery zone. So that left Richard. Sorry you had a wasted journey of condolence. And I’m sorry if it upset you,’ I added.

‘You’re all right. I don’t think I really believed he was dead, you know? I figured it must be some sick puppy’s idea of a joke, on account of I couldn’t work out how come you hadn’t told me he’d kicked it. If you see what I mean. Anyway, it wasn’t a wasted journey. I was coming round anyway. There’s something I wanted to tell you.’

For some reason, Alexis had suddenly stopped meeting my eye. She was looking vaguely round the room, as if Richard’s walls were the source of all inspiration. Then she dragged her eyes away from the no longer brilliant white emulsion and started rootling round in a handbag so vast it makes mine look like an evening purse. ‘So tell me,’ I said impatiently after a silence long enough for Alexis to unearth a fresh packet of cigarettes, unwrap them and light one.

‘It’s Chris,’ she exhaled ominously. More silence. Chris, Alexis’s partner, is an architect in a community practice. It feels like they’ve been together longer than Mickey and Minnie. The pair of them had just finished building their dream home beyond the borders of civilization as we know it, part of a self-build scheme. And now Alexis was using the tone of voice that BBC announcers adopt when a member of the Royal family has died or separated from a spouse.

‘What about Chris?’ I asked nervously.

Alexis ran a hand through her hair then looked up at me from under her eyebrows. ‘She’s pregnant.’

Before I could say anything, the doorbell blasted out the riff from ‘Layla’ again.

I looked at her and she looked at me. What I saw was genuine happiness accompanied by a faint flicker of apprehension. What Alexis saw, I suspect, was every piece of dental work I’ve ever had done. Before I could get my vocal cords unjammed Alexis was on her feet and heading for the conservatory. ‘That’ll be your scam merchant. I’d better leg it,’ she said. ‘I’ll let myself out through your house. Give me a bell later,’ she added to her slipstream.

Feeling stunned enough to resemble someone whose entire family has been wiped out by a freak accident, I walked to the front door in a bewildered daze. The guy on the other side of it looked like a high-class undertaker’s apprentice. Dark suit, white shirt that gleamed in the streetlights like an advert for soap powder, plain dark tie. Even his hair was a gleaming black that matched his shoeshine. The only incongruity was that instead of a graveyard pallor, his skin had the kind of light tan most of us can’t afford in April. ‘Mrs Barclay?’ he asked, his voice deep and dignified.

‘That’s right,’ I said, trying for tremulous.

A hand snaked into his top pocket and came out with a business card. ‘Will Allen, Mrs Barclay. I’m very sorry for your loss,’ he said, not yet offering the card.

‘Are you a friend of Richard’s? Someone he works—
worked
—with?’

‘I’m afraid not, Mrs Barclay. I didn’t have the good fortune to know your late husband. No, I’m with Greenhalgh and Edwards.’ He handed the card over with a small flourish. ‘I wonder if I might have a quiet word with you?’

I looked at the card. I recognized it right away as one of the ones that come out of machines at the motorway-service areas. The ones on the M6 at Hilton Park are the best; they’ve got really smart textured card. Drop three quid in the slot, choose a logo, type in the text and you get sixty instant business cards. No questions asked. One of the great mysteries of the universe is how villains catch on to the potential of new technology way ahead of the straight community. While most punters were still eyeing the business card machines warily on their way to the toilets, the bad guys were queuing up to arm themselves with bullshit IDs. This particular piece of fiction told me Will Allen was Senior Bereavement Consultant with Greenhalgh and Edwards, Monumental Masons, The Garth, Cheadle Hulme. ‘You’d better come in,’ I said tonelessly and stepped back to let him pass me. As I closed the door, I noticed Alexis emerging from my house with a cheery wave in my direction.

Allen was moving tentatively towards the living room, the one open door off the hallway. I’d drawn the line at cleaning the whole house. ‘Come on through,’ I said, ushering him in and pointing him at the sofa Alexis had just vacated. He sat down, carefully hitching up his trousers at the knees. In the light, the charcoal grey suit looked more like Jasper Conran than Marks and Spencer; ripping off widows was clearly a profitable business.

‘Thanks for agreeing to see me, Mrs Barclay,’ Allen said, concern dripping from his warm voice. He was clean cut and clean shaven, with a disturbing resemblance to John Cusack at his most disarming. ‘Was your husband’s death very sudden?’ he asked, his eyebrows wrinkling in concern.

‘Car accident,’ I said, gulping back a sob. Hard work, acting. Almost convinces you Kevin Costner earns every dollar of the millions he gets for a movie.

‘Tragic,’ he intoned. ‘To lose him in his prime. Tragic.’ Much more of this and I wasn’t going to be acting. I was going to be weeping for real. And not from sorrow.

I made a point of looking at his business card again. ‘I don’t understand, Mr Allen. What is it you’re here about?’

‘My company is in the business of providing high quality memorials for loved ones who pass away. The quality element is especially important for someone like yourself, losing a loved one so young. You’ll want to be certain that whatever you choose to remember him by will more than stand the test of time.’ His solemn smile was close to passing the sincerity test. If I really was a grief-stricken widow, I’d have been half in love with him by now.

‘But the undertaker said he’d get that all sorted out for me,’ I said, going for the sensible-but-confused line.

‘Traditionally, we have relied on funeral directors to refer people on to us, but we’ve found that this doesn’t really lead to a satisfactory conclusion,’ Allen said confidentially. ‘When you’re making the arrangements for a funeral, there are so many different matters to consider. It’s hard under those circumstances to give a memorial the undivided attention it deserves.’

I nodded. ‘I know what you mean,’ I said wearily. ‘It all starts to blur into one after a while.’

‘And that’s exactly why we decided that a radical rethink was needed. A memorial is something that lasts, and it’s important for those of us left behind that it symbolizes the love and respect we have for the person we have lost. We at Greenhalgh and Edwards feel that the crucial issue here is that you make the decision about how to commemorate your dear husband in the peace of your own home, uncluttered by thoughts of the various elements that will make up the funeral.’

‘I see,’ I said. ‘It sounds sensible, I suppose.’

‘We think so. Tell me, Mrs Barclay, have you opted for interment or cremation?’

‘Not cremation,’ I said very firmly. ‘A proper burial, that’s what Richard would have wanted.’ But only after he was actually dead, I added mentally.

He snapped open the locks on the slim black briefcase he’d placed next to him on the sofa. ‘An excellent choice, if I may say so, Mrs Barclay. It’s important to have a place where you can mourn properly, a focus for the communication I’m sure you’ll feel between yourself and Mr Barclay for a long time to come. Now, because we’re still in the trial period of this new way of communicating with our customers, we are able to offer our high quality memorials at a significant discount of twenty per cent less than the prices quoted on our behalf by funeral directors. So that means you get much better value for your money; a memorial that previously might have seemed out of your price range suddenly becomes affordable. Because, of course, we all want the very best for our loved ones,’ he added, his voice oozing sympathy.

I bit back the overwhelming desire to rip his testicles off and have them nickel-plated as a memorial to his crass opportunism and nodded weakly. ‘I suppose,’ I said.

‘I wonder if I might take this opportunity to show you our range?’ The briefcase was as open as the expression on his face. How could I refuse?

‘I don’t know…’

‘There’s absolutely no obligation, though obviously it would be in your best interests to go down the road that offers you the best value for money.’ He was on his feet and across the room to sit next to me in one fluid movement, a display file from his briefcase in his hand as if by magic. Sleight of hand like his, he could have been the new David Copperfield if he’d gone straight.

He flipped the book open in front of me. I stared at a modest granite slab, letters stuck on it like Letraset rather than incised in the stone. ‘This is the most basic model we offer,’ he said. ‘But even that is finest Scottish granite, quarried by traditional methods and hand-finished by our own craftsmen.’ He quoted a price that made my daily rate seem like buttons. He placed the file on my lap.

‘Is that with or without the discount?’ I asked.

‘We always quote prices without discount, Mrs Barclay. So you’re looking at a price that is twenty per cent less than that. And if you want to go ahead and you’re prepared to pay a cash deposit plus cheque for the full amount tonight, I am authorized to offer you a further five per cent discount, making a total of one quarter less than the quoted price.’ His hand had moved to cover mine, gently patting it.