Grave Concerns (25 page)

The state Karen was in, he felt confident that she’d go along with the idea. Despite her irritation at his going out on Saturday, she liked
the prospect of his becoming a regular alternative officiant, and Drew knew it.

‘Working out fine for you maybe,’ was all she said, before allowing herself to be ushered into the house and onto the settee. Drew made her a mug of tea and a honey sandwich, earning himself a warmer smile than he’d had for many a week.

Drew hadn’t been prepared for the smirks and oblique comments in the office at the crematorium, when he arrived fifteen minutes ahead of the scheduled time for the Hankey funeral.

‘Is this going to be a regular thing – or did you know the bloke?’ Desmond asked him.

‘I didn’t know him. It’s all part of my new venture, in a way.’ He was fiddling with a stack of slim service books, which the crem provided. They contained a number of variations of the basic Funeral Service, along with a selection of the most popular hymns. He realised they’d been removed from the chapel when it became clear that this was to be a non-religious funeral. He didn’t know whether to be pleased or unnerved.

‘I thought you only did burials,’ Desmond pursued. Another realisation hit Drew: the manager of the crematorium was unlikely to be favourably disposed towards someone actively working to diminish the proportion of cremations to burials.

‘That’s right,’ he agreed. ‘But this is something extra. Non-religious officiant. It came out of the blue, to be honest, but if this one goes well, I might try and get some more. You could help spread the word for me.’

Desmond pursed his lips. ‘We’ll see about that,’ he said sceptically.

The chapel was fuller than Drew had expected. Five rows were filled completely, on both sides of the aisle, and a scattering of mourners occupied some seats nearer the back. A huge clock hung on the rear wall, over the door, so there could be no excuse for over-running. Drew had already ascertained that there was a funeral following directly after this one. He breathed deeply, and tried to remember everything he’d learnt from his time working at Plant’s.

The funeral conductor and bearers were all strangers to him. He’d exchanged a brief word with the conductor, agreeing that the mourners should be seated before the coffin was carried in, and that Drew would take all responsibility for playing the music at the selected intervals. Two switches were discreetly hidden under the lectern – one to operate the sound system, one to close the curtains around the catafalque. Normally, the minister only used the latter – an organist was usually in charge of the music. But Marjorie Hankey had dispensed with organ music. ‘Harold hated it,’ she said.

The ceremony passed in a whirl for Drew. After his brief introduction and the opening burst of taped music, the son spoke haltingly of his father, with two or three small family anecdotes, and a nicely worded acknowledgement of how hard it was to sustain a successful father-son relationship. Everyone looked moved.

Drew embarked on his eulogy. Without notes, he looked from face to face, gesturing now and then at the coffin, making no attempt to avoid the reality of why they were there. The widow kept her eyes on his face, serious but tearless. Other people were nodding, a few frowning, but he thought he could sense a growing relaxation, a gathered feeling as if they trusted him. A glance up at the clock told him he had spoken for six minutes, which was more than enough. He finished, with the words, ‘We will say goodbye to Harold now, each in our own way, as we listen to a piece of his best-loved music. At the end of the music, the curtains will close, and we will take our leave.’

He let them sit for just over a minute after the curtains had done their jerkily automated turn. The symbolism was unavoidable, especially after Drew’s closing words, and the people in the chapel all seemed to exhale at once. That was that, then. They’d done their best to mark the moment and follow the dead man’s wishes – now
they could get on with the rest of their lives. Drew began to walk towards the side door, where the conductor was standing, ready to throw it open. Between them, they escorted everyone outside – an awkward part of the proceedings in most cremations. Everyone waited to see if there was a strict sequence – whether close family should line up to shake hands with the rest – what they were supposed to do once outside.

Flowers were laid out in alcoves, with the names of the day’s dead on little labels. It was the one and only chance the family had to inspect them, and knowing how much money could be spent on a simple tribute, it was incumbent upon them to at least go through the motions. Drew stood self-effacingly beside the conductor. He was slightly surprised when the man palmed a small brown envelope into his own hand, with a tight smile and nod. It dawned on him that this was his fee. At Plant’s, the ministers had all been sent a cheque for their services at the end of each month. Cash in hand seemed oddly quaint and patronising.

Marjorie Hankey was surrounded by friends, most of them of a similar age to herself, and the great majority female. Drew hadn’t thought to ask whether she’d like him to announce that there would be refreshments served somewhere afterwards – on the whole he believed it was bad
taste anyway to make any such reference. Was it permissable to slip away now, he wondered. He couldn’t think of any reason why he might still be needed – but neither did he want to look impatient to be off.

As he dithered, the widow broke out of the enclosing group and came up to him. ‘You did that marvellously,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how I’ll ever thank you. It was
exactly
what Harold would have wanted. I could feel his approval. Nobody could ask for anything better.’

Drew blinked. ‘Well—’ he began, ‘I’m glad you’re satisfied.’

She leant towards him and lowered her voice. ‘You’re going to be in great demand, you know. You have a rare talent for capturing the right tone. Don’t let anything spoil it, will you?’

He smiled. ‘I’ll do my best,’ he said.

‘I mean it,’ she said, louder, her natural asperity winning through. ‘At your age, you’ve got everything still ahead of you. You could really make something out of this work you’re doing. All it needs is for the word to spread, and for a few people to take the plunge, and you’ll be setting the tone for all funerals in a few years. Most of us hate what the American undertakers are doing, but not many of us have the courage to do anything about it. I can’t tell you what a difference you’ve made to me. When Harold was
ill, I found myself dreading the funeral, with all the insulting platitudes and dreadful insincerity. I bless the day I found you, Drew Slocombe. And if you ever want a testimonial, you know where to come.’

Drew could do little more than shake her hand and depart. The sense of satisfaction was like being coated in warm honey, and he wanted to go away and savour it. And Marjorie’s words had excited him; if she was right, and his ideas did take root in the general community, he might well find his life taking a dramatic turn for the better.

It was close to four o’clock when he got home. Calling in at the office first, he found Maggs with a shorter list of phone calls than on the previous day, but a look of agitation on her face.

‘There’s a man here,’ she hissed. ‘Look!’ She pointed out of the small back window, overlooking the field. Drew could see a figure in a long brown coat, standing beside the new grave. The head was bowed, hands clasped, and as he watched, the man clumsily knelt down on the grass near the head of the grave.

‘I think I know who that is,’ Drew said. ‘If I’m right, then we’ve got quite a bit to talk about. I’ll give him a few minutes and then stroll out for a chat.’

‘He’s been here nearly half an hour already. He
walked up and down the field a bit, to start with, and then seemed to decide it was the new grave he wanted. I’ve been keeping out of the way – I don’t want to put my foot in it by telling him something he’s not supposed to know.’ She looked at Drew searchingly. ‘You haven’t been keeping me very well informed on this, you know,’ she reproached. ‘I thought we were supposed to be working on it together.’

Drew sighed. ‘There hasn’t been much time. And you haven’t asked me how the funeral went.’

‘I can see it was OK. You’re practically glowing.’

‘It was
fantastic!
’ he told her, exultantly. ‘You should have heard what Mrs Hankey said. She was as pleased as anyone could possibly be. And they paid me, look.’ He dug out the brown envelope and opened it. Five twenty-pound notes were neatly folded inside. ‘She’s given me more than I asked. We’ll be rich, Maggs, if this catches on. Your faith will be rewarded.’

‘I never doubted it,’ she said casually. ‘But maybe there’s just a few hurdles to jump before we’re earning a thousand quid a week.’

‘Each!’ he said wildly.

‘
Obviously
, each.’ She folded her arms majestically. ‘Meanwhile, you’d better go and interview your witness, or whatever he is. He looks as if he might be leaving.’

The man outside had got to his feet, and
was rubbing his hands slowly together. Drew made for the door. ‘Hello!’ he called, hoping he sounded more friendly than challenging. The man was still fifty yards away, and although he looked right at Drew, he made no sign that he’d heard him speak.

The long brown coat turned out to be made of leather, very creased and stained, but nonetheless genuine. It confirmed Drew’s conjecture that this was Trevor. Trevor who lived in Luxor, who had known Gwen Absolon and written to her about runes and plans and past romances. He was bearded, thin, hollow-cheeked. He walked carefully down the slope towards the road, glancing briefly from Drew’s face to the ground and back again.

When the distance between them was four or five feet, the man stopped. ‘You the owner of this place?’ he asked. Then, before Drew could answer, he added, ‘You’ll have to shout. I’m very deaf.’

Drew nodded wordlessly and wondered how to paraphrase all the things he wanted to ask. ‘Come into the office,’ he invited loudly, with an exaggerated sweep of his arm towards the building. ‘We could have some tea.’

The man cocked his head on one side consideringly. ‘Why?’ he said.

At least it looks as if he heard me
Drew thought. ‘Why not?’ he said.

The visitor smiled at that, and ducked his head in a jerk of acceptance. Drew led the way. He fished teabags out of the filing cabinet, and reached milk down from a shelf. The cool room had a tap, and he quickly went to fill the kettle, which also lived on the shelf, well out of Stephanie’s reach.

He clattered with mugs for a few moments while the man sat on one of the chairs, leaning an elbow on the desk. Drew remembered how agitated Daphne Plant would become if a customer strayed into the office – where they might read letters to ministers, or funeral accounts. No such paranoia here, he thought smugly.

‘You know whose grave that is?’ Drew said, looking out of the window at the spot where the man had knelt.

‘I hope it’s my friend Gwen’s,’ he replied. ‘Otherwise I’ve just said goodbye to the wrong person. Not that it would matter much,’ he added.

‘You didn’t come to the burial. I assume you read about it in the paper.’

‘What? Oh – the burial. No.’ He looked at the floor until Drew produced a mug of tea which he took in both hands. ‘Did anybody?’

Drew shook his head. ‘Not really,’ he said.

‘She died last year – is that right? I did see the
papers. Mrs Fielding showed them all to me, on her computer. Damned clever, that – pictures and everything. Even showed me her necklace – the one poor old Habergas bought her. I felt a bit bad about him – seeing he was so keen on the old girl. I buggered off to Tangiers, anyway, after that business at Saqqara. Should have left him with a clear field from the start. She’d probably have done all right with him.’

So: another piece of confirmation that the body had indeed been that of Gwen Absolon. But then, he’d stopped doubting it a long time ago.

There was something strangely anachronistic about his visitor. The coat, the old Etonian accent, even the mention of Tangiers, all seemed redolent of the thirties. And yet he was probably only just over fifty, at most. Drew sipped his own tea and tried to move things along a bit.

‘I think I found a letter of yours,’ he said, trying to speak distinctly. ‘Amongst her things.’

‘You know who I am then?’

‘I think so. But I could be wrong.’

‘My name’s Trevor Goldsworthy. And yes, I wrote to Gwen. She was a good friend.’

‘Your letter didn’t mention Saqqara,’ Drew observed.

‘No. I didn’t want to upset her.’

Drew reminded himself that this could very easily be Gwen’s killer. He also remembered
Maggs’s caution about revealing the identity of the body in the grave. Reasons for suspecting Trevor’s motives were legion, and yet Drew found himself compelled to trust him. Impatiently, he tried to resist. The man could be a spy, or a drug dealer, for heaven’s sake. That was certainly what he most resembled.

‘I last saw her in Saqqara, though,’ Trevor continued obligingly. ‘The day of that shooting. She was in an awful state, of course, and came to me for comfort. I like to think I rose to the occasion, in my own small way. So much work involved when something like that happens.’ He grimaced expressively, conveying the tedium and frustration as well as the emotional suffering. ‘Not that she seems to have had much feeling for the girl,’ he added.

‘Oh?’

‘Well, she couldn’t conceal a certain grim sort of satisfaction.
At least it wasn’t any of the others
, she said.
Maybe there’s something in religion after all. Allah seems to have got it right for once, anyway
. Afterwards she decided to take a break from the tours. Said she’d see if she could straighten things out with her daughters, once and for all.’

‘How long had you known her?’ Drew asked loudly. It appeared that the question had come across clearly enough.

‘Ages,’ said Trevor. ‘On and off, mind you. ‘We’d meet up in North Africa, Cyprus, Turkey – that sort of area. My old stamping grounds.’

Drew adopted an encouraging, interested expression, hoping for more detail. He was only partially gratified. ‘I really wanted to see her again,’ Trevor groaned, with a glance out of the window. ‘I never thought she’d go and die on me.’ For the first time, he showed signs of grief. ‘I can’t believe I won’t see her again,’ he said wonderingly. His eyes filled with tears.