Dark Undertakings (34 page)

Drew shook his head. ‘She didn’t say. Somebody stole the dog, by the way.’

Karen leant back carefully against her pillows and put both hands flat across her belly. Then she laughed. It was a quiet laugh, but she soon lost control of it. Tears began to shake loose and she grabbed her lower lip between her teeth
when her bruises complained. Drew watched with irritation and mild alarm.

‘Don’t worry,’ she spluttered. ‘I wouldn’t be able to explain. It’s just the look on your face, that’s all.’

He tried to smile, but puzzlement made it difficult. Karen took his hand again. ‘Drew,’ she wheedled, ‘can’t you take me home tonight? I don’t want to be here with all these people.’ She glanced round at the elderly women patients surrounding her. ‘They’re so
noisy
.’

‘I’ll ask,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose they’ll object.’

‘Thanks,’ she sighed. ‘And Drew, that visit from Daphne had more to it than meets the eye. She was trying to tell me something. It sounded threatening and unpleasant, but I wonder if she was actually trying to prompt us into keeping at it. Confirm our suspicions, lead us in the right direction. I wonder if she knows something – or suspects – and wants us to do the dirty work, because of her so-called professional reputation. She can’t afford to upset anybody. I think you ought to try and talk to Dr Lloyd, or at least his receptionist.’

Already he could see the light of victory in her eye, and wondered whether he had it too. The fact of the pregnancy had shifted his focus on the world: anything was possible, now
they’d finally achieved a conception. And in some obscure, half-embarrassed way, it made the quest for the truth about Jim Lapsford even more urgent. Some chaotic, unconscious reasoning insisted that if there was a murderer loose in the world, then as a new parent, he had a duty to identify and remove him. He wanted life to be just that tiny bit safer for his child than it would be otherwise.

‘Susie’s got enough to worry about already,’ he pointed out. ‘But I’ll watch out for any chance to get this whole business straight. Now I’ve got to go. We’re taking Lapsford home for his last night. I’ll come and collect you after that, okay?’

She nodded. ‘Thanks,’ she said again.

‘See you, then,’ he said, kissing her lingeringly. ‘Don’t do anything silly now, will you?’

‘Don’t you worry about me,’ she told him.

On an impulse, he turned in the opposite direction from the car park, outside the main entrance, and headed for the hospital mortuary. Sam, the attendant, was eating a large chicken and tomato sandwich in the partially
walled-off
area that was his office. He nodded a casual greeting to Drew, his mouth full. He was thin and small, with nothing to betray his daily tasks apart from a greyness under the eyes which had little to do with weariness. It was as if all the
noisome smells and evidence of pain and misery accumulated there, having passed through his retina and optic nerve. Sam saw the suicides and the sudden devastating heart attacks and the car crash victims. Children and women in their prime, vagrants who’d lain for weeks in a ditch, and young lads shattered by coming off their motorbikes at ninety miles an hour.

‘All right?’ Drew asked him, routinely.

‘Rawlinson’s not ready for you,’ Sam said. ‘Should have been by now, but it was a heavy morning. Typical Monday. They’re not doing him till tomorrow now.’

‘I’m not here officially. My wife’s upstairs, so I just dropped in to say hi.’

‘Nothing serious?’ Sam cocked his head on one side, unsure how much more to ask.

‘Could have been. My boss’s car tried to kill her.’ Drew hadn’t known how angry he felt with Daphne until this moment: Karen might have been killed.

‘What?’

‘One of those crazy coincidences. It was raining, and Karen started to cross the road without looking properly. Daphne was coming along, much too fast, and skidded sideways. No real harm done, thank goodness.’

‘And the car?’

‘Did a brilliant ram-raid attempt on a shop
and is unlikely to recover. Daphne’s okay, though.’

‘Yeah, I know.’

‘You what?’

‘She was in here this morning. Had a look at young Rawlinson. Passed the time of day with His Majesty and Stanley. Never misses a trick, that boss of yours. They say the local Post Office is the place to get all the gossip in a small town. Well, if you ask me, the local undertaker’s even better.’

‘I’m beginning to think you might be right about that,’ Drew nodded thoughtfully. His Majesty was the epithet used to refer to the Pathologist, Mr Metherington, and Stanley was the Coroner’s Officer, to whom all sudden deaths were to be reported. Drew had so far only met the latter.

‘Does the name Jim Lapsford mean anything to you?’ he asked on a sudden impulse.

Sam pursed his lips. ‘Saw it in the paper. I gather the doctor signed him up and convinced the Registrar that there was no need to take it any further. There’s been talk, of course, behind the scenes. Officially, we’re all relieved it didn’t come to us. As I say, it’s busy, and the taxpayer’s bill is growing all the time.’

‘That’s about what I thought,’ nodded Drew. ‘But unofficially?’

‘It’s one that got away. There’s a dozen or so every year, signed up when they shouldn’t be. It’s not worth worrying about. The odds must be a thousand to one that it was his heart. When does he go?’

‘Tomorrow. It’s been getting to me, just between you and me. Too many loose ends. The family’s acting strangely. Even our Sid doesn’t seem happy about it. Embalmed him right away.’

Sam shrugged. ‘That’d make our job pretty hard, then, even if someone did throw a spanner in the works. You’ll get used to it, mate. Just get the job done and don’t rock the boat. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow, if you come for Rawlinson.’

‘Maybe,’ said Drew. He found that he wasn’t ready to think about tomorrow, for a variety of reasons.

Philip and David let themselves into the Primrose Close house at three o’clock that afternoon. Monica was on the sofa with a mug of coffee, her feet stretched along its length. She didn’t budge when her sons came in.

‘Mum? Are you okay?’ asked Philip. ‘Look, I’ve brought David to see you. Nerina sends her apologies. She couldn’t face it after all.’

Alerted by the stilted care in his voice, she inspected her younger son comprehensively. He
looked tired, but determined. He wore a clean sweatshirt and his hair was well brushed. He’d shaved recently and was making an effort to square his shoulders and be a reliable support to her. She gave him a grateful smile and patted both her sons on their arm. ‘You look very smart, both of you,’ she said. ‘We’ve got an hour or so before they arrive. If you could just move a few things out of the way for me – take the coffee table up to the spare room, and probably Dad’s big chair will have to go.’ All three cast uneasy glances at the chair, in which Jim had reclined, and which carried the marks of his body still. Taking it out of the room would be awkward both physically and emotionally.

‘Are you really sure you want to do this, Mum?’ Philip asked. ‘There’s still time to change your mind. It might be okay this afternoon – but what about tonight? How will you feel in the early hours, knowing he’s down here? I must say, I wouldn’t like it.’

‘I’m not frightened of my husband’s dead body,’ she said gently. ‘And don’t forget, I’ve seen it already. I’ve slept in bed beside it. I’ve got to make my peace with him, and I think this is one way to do it. Don’t worry about me, darling. It’s sweet of you, but there isn’t any need.’

‘Make your peace?’ demanded David, a warning harshness in his voice betraying his
unease. ‘Why? What have you done?’

‘Nothing that need concern you. Jim and I were married for twenty-nine years. We haven’t always played it by the rules – middle age isn’t as quiet and boring as it used to be. But we understood each other, and I don’t mean that I’ve anything to feel guilty about. I just want to tell him – to tell him—’ Without warning, she broke into a storm of tears, taking herself by surprise. It felt as if the knowledge that Jim was really and permanently gone for ever had been waiting behind a thin veil of calm, which had now torn and released a tidal wave of unexpressed misery and loss.

To tell him I loved him
was all she’d intended to say. Little words which amounted to something uncontrollably vast.

‘Oh, Mum,’ sighed Philip, with something close to satisfaction. ‘Here.’ He handed her a large white hanky, and put his arm around her shoulder. David hovered, outside the circle they made, watching with a mixture of anger and grief.

She was still crying when Vince rang the doorbell, having parked the hearse outside. Pat, Drew and Sid were climbing out and moving to the back of the vehicle. Monica recoiled at the sight of the hearse and the coffin inside. It seemed enormous,
filling the whole street and signalling death in all its most Victorian splendour. Inappropriately, the sun was shining, glinting on the polished black surface and the brass handles of the coffin as they began to carry it in.

‘We weren’t sure about the lid,’ said Vince. ‘Whether you wanted it on or off.’

Monica closed her eyes. ‘Off,’ she said, much more firmly than she felt. It wasn’t a difficult decision – what would be the sense of having Jim home if she couldn’t look on his face again?

She watched as they lowered the heavy box onto the trestles which they had brought with them. The manoeuvre was deftly choreographed, but cumbersome nonetheless.
They must have very strong arms and shoulders
, she thought, remembering how Vince and Drew had carried Jim downstairs on the stretcher, sliding him around corners with genuine skill.

The coffin lid, held in place by large screws with decorative brass-effect tops, was removed and propped against the wall. Inside, Jim’s body was covered with a neatly-folded sheet of white material, which made Monica think more of a pram than a bed; something to do with the care with which it had been laid over him, and his helpless acquiescence in what happened to him. The difference, horrible and intensely sad, was the
square of thin but opaque white satin covering his face.

With a fingertip delicacy, Vince leant over and took the cover away. He laid it on Jim’s chest and stood back. Without thinking, Monica reached out both hands sideways, to grasp a son in each, and together the three took a few hesitant steps forward. Despite her earlier brave words, Monica was afraid.

Since waking up to find him dead beside her, Jim had undergone a mysterious absence which had removed a lot of his familiar identity. His face was pinker than she remembered it, his hair brushed at an angle that was very slightly wrong. His chin was tilted up just too much, making him look uncomfortable and oddly defiant. And yet the features were all too obviously those of her husband. Those lips had kissed her, talked to her, eaten the food she cooked. The face had been animated by the powerful force of Jim himself. The endlessly insoluble mystery of where that Jim had gone was terrible in this moment. ‘Oh dear,’ she said.

Watching her, Drew cast away any slight lingering doubts that she might have deliberately killed her husband. Even though she was obviously agitated, even afraid, he felt sure she was genuinely sorry that the man was dead. Slowly she advanced until her hands rested on
the side of the coffin and her sons stood at either shoulder. She stared as if fascinated at the cold face, but made no attempt to touch it. Vince made a slight movement, trying to catch Drew’s eye. Having succeeded, he tipped his head very slightly towards the door in a familiar signal. Pat and Sid were ready to leave, working their shoulders slightly and swinging their arms.

‘Will you be all right, madam?’ Vince asked, with impeccable formality.

‘What? Oh, yes, of course. Thank you very much. I’ll see you tomorrow. We’ll be fine now, won’t we boys?’

Philip and David reacted in their different ways. Philip nodded briefly, with a vague smile. his head turned stiffly away from the sight of his dead father. David pulled a grimace of mocking agreement. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, in a choked voice. ‘Just fine.’ Unlike his brother, he could hardly take his eyes off the body. He seemed greedy for the sight, avid to understand what his eyes were seeing.

Sid opened the door, and Drew’s attention was quickly drawn by a shocked intake of breath. Coming up the garden path were two people. Drew recognised them as the girl Jodie, and one of the men from the printworks; the man who had brought flowers to Monica; he had forgotten his name. Sid had gone pale, his 
light blue eyes bulging, but he quickly recovered himself. ‘You gave me a shock,’ he said with a laugh, before turning back to Monica. ‘You’ve got visitors, Mrs Lapsford,’ he said.

‘Jodie! Jack!’ she said, with little discernible pleasure in her voice. ‘I didn’t expect to see you two so early.’

Vince determinedly tried to shepherd his crew out of the house, before they could get trapped by the greeting of the visitors and their unpredictable reactions to the sight of their dead colleague in the middle of the living room.

Drew, however, was very curious to observe exactly that. He had taken little notice of the man – Jack, he now remembered – during his visit to the printworks, but now he gave him more attention. Lean, in his early fifties, he seemed to wish himself somewhere far away. Jodie was clearly in charge of him, flapping a firm hand at him to direct him into the house ahead of her.

As Jack passed Sid, Drew happened to notice a look that passed between the two men. He could see Jack’s face more clearly, but the awkwardness of the clustering on the doorstep necessitated that both men turn slightly sideways, so Drew could see three-quarters of Sid’s face, too. Each man ducked his head in
a complex exchange, suggesting recognition, agreement, reassurance.

It was not on the face of it surprising that they knew each other. Bradbourne was a small town, and the men of roughly the same age. Doubtless Jack too drank in the King’s Head. But the suggestion of complicity, Sid’s shock at seeing Jack – or was it perhaps Jodie? – coming up the path, had been strange. The peculiar nods were definite grounds for misgivings. Once again Drew felt a surge of helplessness, having no idea how to make use of his suspicion. How did police detectives ever manage, going into a strange community, interviewing complicated families who were determined to hide a morass of dark secrets? It was impossible. Despondently, he followed Vince, Sid and Pat out to the hearse.