Dark Undertakings (7 page)

Slowly, she lay down in Jim’s place, on his side of the bed, and tried to capture a sense of him. His smell was faintly there, the pillow indented by his head. Something slightly abrasive rubbed her cheek, and she sat up to look. There was a dried stain, greenish-brown, a few inches long, on the pillow. It must have dribbled from Jim’s dead mouth; she rubbed her cheek fiercely, disgustedly, at the thought. Then she picked up the pillow and quickly stripped the case from it, trying not to look at the stain. But as she
threw it into the washing basket, it stared up at her. There were flecks of something brownish sticking to the cotton, amongst the dried crust. Had he actually been sick, she wondered?

Taking a deep breath, she went back and pulled the sheets off the bed. No place for sentiment now. Clean sheets; blankets tucked well in. If she was to sleep at all tonight, she would need to be comfortable. After all, tomorrow would be a busy day.

In the morning, Monica woke to a disturbing noise. Downstairs, shut firmly in the kitchen, the dog was squeaking, as if it wanted to go out. Before she could gather her wits, she was stumbling downstairs to see to it. She had no real feelings of affection towards Cassie; soon, she would have to make a decision about the animal’s future. For now, she just wished it would keep quiet and out of her way.

‘What’s the matter?’ she demanded, blearily searching out the little white body. The dog was under the table, shivering, a pool of vomit a little way away. ‘Oh, no!’ She opened the back door and scooted the dog out with one bare foot. ‘Go out, will you!’ she said.

Averting her face, she fetched the mop bucket, and clumsily removed the offending sick.
Darn dog
, she thought.
Whatever next?
She shook out a double-page of last week’s local paper and trod it down delicately, to soak up any residual dampness. By the time she’d got dressed, it could be thrown away.

By half past nine, she had pulled herself together enough to go along to the Registrar, via the doctor’s surgery, where she collected Dr Lloyd’s certificate from Susie on reception. Susie smiled at her, meeting her eye full on, and said, ‘I am so sorry, Mrs Lapsford, at your sad loss.’ She had been on a one-day training course about patient relations, and had been advised to confront death and terminal illness calmly but honestly.
Avoidance helps no one
, they said.

Monica was surprised. She hadn’t expected any recognition or acknowledgement, and the near-intimacy of Susie’s words felt warm and consoling. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘That’s really nice of you.’ The girl struck her as pale; the smile contained pain, which surely couldn’t all be for Monica’s plight.

‘Doctor Lloyd asked me to say that he’d be very happy to talk to you if you feel you need him,’ Susie continued. ‘You know – if you have trouble sleeping, or anything. It must have
been an awful shock for you.’ She paused and swallowed. ‘And he wondered whether it’s to be a cremation?’

‘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 do 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.