Dark Undertakings (9 page)

‘Oh, you men,’ Jodie huffed. ‘You’ll never let yourselves have any feelings; never talk about what really matters.’

‘Get away with you.’ Jack’s anger was barely under control. ‘Don’t give us that. There’s things about nice Mr Lapsford you’d be shocked to discover, if some of us men chose to start talking.’

‘Shut up!’ Ajash shouted, from where he’d returned to watch over his whirling press. ‘I heard that. Just you shut up, Jack Merryfield. You’ll be sorry if I hear you speaking ill of the dead like that again.’

‘Silly old fool,’ muttered Jack, and threw himself down in front of one of the monitors, hammering murderously at the keyboard.

Doctor Lloyd’s last patient left morning surgery at ten-thirty. He spent a few minutes completing the notes on his computer, and sifting through accumulated papers on his desk. Susie would have coffee ready for him promptly at ten forty-five, and then he’d have to go out on the home visits. Wednesdays were generally relaxed, though less so than Thursdays. People didn’t fall ill on a Thursday, for some reason. Probably because the weekend was in sight, and to waste it being ill would be very bad planning. One or two accidents, children with mysterious fevers, but mainly midweek was a time for catching up with paperwork.
Which reminds me
, he said to himself.
I’d better get those crem papers for Jim Lapsford over to Daphne. She’ll be chasing me, otherwise
.

Susie hovered over him while he filled in the medical papers in the general office, sipping his coffee. ‘Myocardial infarction, eh?’ she said, reading over his shoulder. ‘Last seen five days before death.’ She sucked in a sceptical breath.

Doctor Lloyd sighed. ‘Don’t start that again, Susie. I’ll be glad when the blasted man is safely cremated. Why doesn’t anybody believe me?’

‘Who doesn’t believe you? I only said—’

‘The Registrar phoned me just now. Didn’t feel too happy about it. Stupid woman. The whole thing is bureaucracy gone mad, if you ask me.’

She tutted sympathetically. ‘Well, you’d better ask Ginnie Parton to do Part Two then.’

‘Why?’ He looked up at her, pretending innocence. ‘What’s special about her?’

‘Come on,’ she widened her eyes at him, and he noticed that she was no less pale today than she had been yesterday. If she hadn’t been speaking so accusingly to him, he’d have asked her whether anything was the matter. As it was, she elaborated her point, before he could fully acknowledge his concern. ‘She’ll sign anything, sight unseen. It’s a disgrace, if you ask me.’

‘Not my problem, is it? She wouldn’t thank me for telling her how to do her job. Actually I was going to ask her, anyway. I don’t think I can face any more hassle over this chap. Anyone would think somebody had murdered him. Since I’m entirely satisfied that they didn’t, I’m sure I did the right thing.’

‘I like
entirely satisfied
. That has a very convincing ring to it. Now, here’s your list for home visits. You could drop in and look at Mrs Sinclair’s foot, as well.’

‘I only saw her on Monday.’

‘I know. But you’ve got loads of time, and she’s so miserable, poor thing. It would be a good deed. And who knows – she might drop dead in the night like Lapsford, and then you can do her papers without any qualms, as well.’

‘Susie! That’s going too far. If you’ve got something you want to say, then spit it out, without all this sniping. Are you saying Lapsford should have gone for a post-mortem? Do you want me to throw everything into reverse, and call in the Coroner? Do you?’ He leant towards her, intimidatingly, his eyes full on hers. She backed away from him.

‘You don’t have to shout at me,’ she sniffed, and without warning, burst into tears. ‘I’ve got enough trouble without you bawling me out,’ she wept. ‘I was only joking about the papers. I didn’t mean anything.’

Briefly he closed his eyes. ‘I’m sorry I shouted. Do you want to tell me about this … trouble? I’ve got plenty of time.’

She shook her head, and grabbed a tissue from the box that sat permanently on the windowsill. ‘Just the usual—’ she mumbled. ‘Bother with the boyfriend.’

‘Well he ought to know better,’ said Dr Lloyd, firmly. ‘He doesn’t know when he’s well off.’

She shook her head again, with despairing emphasis. ‘You don’t
understand
,’ she said. ‘It’s totally the other way round.’

‘Ah,’ he nodded, with complete incomprehension.

She flapped a hand at him, and applied the tissue again. ‘Go and do your good turn,’ she told him. ‘Mrs Sinclair’s foot, remember.’

With some relief, he went to collect his bag and car keys. Whatever problems she was having with her boyfriend, he didn’t really want to delve into them. He knew very little about her private life, except that her dad worked at the undertakers; it seemed somehow fitting that there was that connection. Sid was always efficient and polite in the mortuary, when Dr Lloyd had to go and view a body; it somehow gave Susie an air of responsibility by association. He hoped she wasn’t going to present him with some crisis, like being pregnant or moving off to the Orkneys with the bothersome boyfriend. Susie was an asset in more ways than one. The patients often commented on her friendly demeanour and the improvements she’d brought to the surgery.

‘Don’t forget to phone Ginnie,’ she called after him, causing him to turn back with a sigh. Ginnie Parton was everyone’s favourite backup for cremation papers, asking no questions, and gratefully pocketing the payment.

The conversation took barely two minutes. ‘Ginnie? Julian Lloyd here. Can you do a Part Two for me? The body’s at Plant’s. Jim Lapsford. Heart … Yes. Oh, did you? Well, I saw him last week, providentially, so there’s no Coroner involvement. I’ve written him up for MI … Yeah. Well, the signs were all there. Have a look if you like … That’s up to you. I’m
taking the papers round now, so any time after lunch, he’s all yours. Great. Thanks. Everything all right, is it? … Good. Bye, then.’

Susie watched him stride out to his car, the battered doctor’s bag firmly gripped in his left hand.
I wonder if he’ll remember Mrs Sinclair
, she mused.

In the workshop, the men were hurrying over their mid-morning coffee, before getting ready for an eleven-thirty funeral. Pat, the handsome Irishman, was brushing invisible specks from the shoulders of his black coat, prior to putting it on. He stood at his locker in boxer shorts and black socks. Changing clothes was a regular part of the job. Each man had at least three different outfits: formal funeral wear; smart but less formal for collecting bodies from private houses or nursing homes; and very casual for carpentry or mortuary work. Poor Olga had never quite grown easy with the way semi-naked men greeted her almost every time she came out to their part of the building with a message or instruction. Drew knew that none of the men was entirely comfortable with it, either. They made very sure that their underpants were all-concealing, and they listened intently for the sound of women’s heels on the corridor outside. Gaynor, the local florist, was another 
regular visitor; a coarse woman, she seemed to make a point of catching them half-clothed, and making some withering comment. Daphne, always needing to be in control, took care to limit her appearances to times when she knew they would not be changing. She carried in her head a precise schedule of their movements, absorbed from a careful analysis of the day’s commitments every morning.

‘Drink up,’ Pat encouraged the others. ‘Six minutes to go, that’s all, and you’re none of you’s changed yet.’

Vince, Sid, Drew and Little George completed Pat’s team. It was to be a simple funeral, an old woman with few relatives or friends. Drew had ‘made’ the coffin without any assistance – stapling a plain piece of white satinised nylon all around the inside of the ready-made shell, with a frill of the same material along the upper edge, and then engraving a name plate which was tacked onto the lid. Nobody was coming to see the old dear, so it didn’t much matter if the stapling went a little squiffy. But Drew had done his best and was pleased with the result.

He still felt a shiver of excitement when he climbed into the great shining hearse to sit alongside the coffin, with its flowers on top. ‘It’s just a disposal job,’ he’d said to Karen, in the early days, but he knew it was more than
that. He was present at a real event of extreme significance, the end of someone’s life, the start of a new phase for the survivors.

He sat behind Sid, with Vince driving. Little George made the fourth, and Pat had to get himself to the Crematorium independently. They chatted, inconsequentially as usual, the presence of the dead body in the car with them a matter of little import to the more experienced men.

‘Saw Mrs Lapsford coming out of the office a while ago,’ said Vince. ‘Had a friend with her. Must’ve been to make the arrangements. Bet you it’ll be Monday.’

‘Tuesday,’ said Sid, heavily. ‘The best times are taken on Monday, and Daphne’ll steer her onto Tuesday.’

‘Long time to wait,’ said Drew. ‘A whole week.’

‘It’ll soon pass. Plenty to do, you know. Specially when it’s so unexpected. All those people to tell, for a start-off.’ Vince adopted his tutorly tone, instructing Drew, the new boy. ‘Registrar must have taken the doctor’s word for it, then,’ Vince continued. ‘You’ll be surprised at that, Drew, my lad?’

Drew ducked his head, anticipating scorn, but couldn’t refrain from comment. ‘It’s a scandal, I reckon. Nothing’s going to change my mind on this. There is no way that doctor could
be sure what the man died of. No way at all, without a post-mortem.’

Vince smiled. ‘Anyone with a grain of sense could see what the story was. Like I keep telling you.’

‘I know. But it niggles me. What’s the point of having regulations, if nobody takes any notice of them?’

‘Nobody broke any regulations,’ Sid interposed. ‘What’re you talking about?’

‘That doctor ought never to have written up a death certificate,’ Drew insisted doggedly. Even to himself, he was beginning to sound like a cracked record.

‘Just give it a rest, boy, or you’ll have us all down on you,’ advised Vince. ‘Enough’s enough, now. The funeral’s arranged by this time, and you’d only upset everyone if they could hear you going on this way. If you’re going to be like this every time there’s a dodgy doctor’s paper, you’ll be in the doghouse with a whole lot of people, just see if you’re not.’

Drew gave this some thought. ‘You make it sound like a – well, like some sort of mafia.’

He looked round at the others, wondering whether they’d laugh. He rather hoped they would. But all the faces were serious.

‘Don’t be a fool,’ said Vince. ‘It’s not like that at all. Nobody’s out to break the law. They just
want an easy life, save some time. I don’t know what’s got into you, but whatever it is, you’d best get rid of it, quick. Right?’

Drew scowled, but said no more. Vince had a point. It was what everyone was saying. He could see there was sense in it. And yet – nobody could be certain that Jim Lapsford had died of a heart attack. And that was not right. Especially when he was to be cremated; there’d never be any hope of putting things straight once that was done with. He was both glad and scared at the thought of the little bag of stomach contents tucked in his jacket pocket, back in the changing room. The prospect of finding it full of some unmistakable toxin, which he could flourish with a triumphant ‘I told you so!’ was appealing, despite the implications.

It seemed a good idea to change the subject. ‘Hey, Sid,’ he threw over his shoulder, twisting to glimpse the other man’s face, ‘what happened about your Susie? Did you hear what the problem was yesterday?’

Sid stared antagonistically at him. ‘You know,’ Drew insisted. ‘The boyfriend trouble.’ He watched the other man’s frown, and gradual comprehension.

‘Oh, that,’ he said dismissively. ‘She hasn’t said anything about it.’

Drew pressed on. ‘But you don’t like the boyfriend, do you?’

‘She could do better. She’s wasted there.’ The tight lips made it clear that there was nothing more to say.

Pauline finally left Monica on her own halfway through the afternoon. ‘I’ll be all right,’ the new widow assured her friend. ‘I’ll give Phil a call and tell him what we’ve decided. He can help me choose a hymn.’

Pauline hugged her, in a long squeeze that stopped Monica’s breath. ‘Anything I can do – just shout,’ she said. ‘That’s what friends are for. If you’re
sure
you’ll be okay, then there are a few things I’m supposed to be doing. Always somebody to see …’ She stopped herself.

‘Thanks again for coming with me. You’re being a real friend.’

‘I was glad to do it,’ Pauline reassured her. ‘I’ll see you soon, then.’

When she’d gone, Monica sat for a few minutes in the lounge, thinking about her friend. It was a lopsided relationship. Pauline was always the one giving time, attention, a listening ear, and Monica had always been the taker, the one who needed help; the one who was flawed. There was something slightly demeaning in the way her friend always went straight for the weak
points in her life: the trouble with David, the hollowness of her marriage, the sheer awfulness of being fifty. All year she had moaned to Pauline about the oncoming birthday and its ghastly implications. In vain had Pauline pointed out the multitude of glamorous fifty-year-old women at every turn, the sixties’ generation matured but not grown dull. Pauline, at forty-six, had done her very best to insist that fifty was nothing. Even
sixty
was young these days, she said.

It wasn’t as if Pauline had no troubles of her own, either. Her son Craig was almost as difficult in his way as Monica’s David had been. Sometimes it seemed that the two boys had been a decidedly bad influence on each other, plunging together into gloom and nihilism, no doubt making use of illegal substances to further confuse their muddled minds. It was a relief to both mothers that they’d survived to
twenty-four
without serious medical problems. David now had a job as a car mechanic, and Craig was half-heartedly training to be a computer operator. Slowly, and with many setbacks, they seemed to be dragging themselves into some semblance of adulthood.