Pestilence (18 page)

So that was it, thought Saracen. PC Super Sleuth had come to the conclusion that he and Wylie had been fighting because of the state of his clothes and the mark on his face. He said evenly, “It was common knowledge that Dr Wylie had a drink problem. He was due to retire soon.”

“I see sir. I dare say the Post Mortem will reveal all.”

Post Mortem? thought Saracen. He looked down at Wylie again and said softly, “The final irony was even more bizarre than you thought, old man.”

“What was that sir?”

“Nothing.”

Saracen did what he could for the distressed occupants of the car until the ambulance arrived and then continued his own journey back to Skelmore. It was only then that the full implication of Wylie’s death became apparent and it made a depressing thought. His chance of implicating Garten had gone. The Post Mortem reports on Myra Archer and Leonard Cohen could not now be shown to be false. He was back at square one.

Saracen looked at his watch; it was a quarter to midnight. Too late or not, depression made him head for Jill’s place.

“I thought you had changed your mind,” said Jill as she opened the door cautiously. “Good God, what happened to you?” she added as she undid the chain and opened the door so that the light fell on Saracen’s face.

“It’s quite a story. Can I clean up first?”

Jill finished cleaning Saracen’s graze and said, “I’m all ears.” Saracen told her all that had happened and watched as Jill’s eyes grew wider. “This is incredible!” she protested.

“But it’s true,” said Saracen.

“But if Wylie is dead surely that means that…”

Saracen interrupted her. “I’ve got nothing against Garten.”

Jill poured two whiskies and handed one to Saracen. She squatted down at his feet in front of the fire. “What about the death certificate?” she asked.

“Garten has a PM report that can’t be challenged now. He had every right to sign it.”

“Of course. I forgot. What about Cohen’s body?”

“It was cremated this morning. Garten told me.”

“Do you believe him?”

Saracen looked down and Jill and confessed that he had not thought to doubt it.

“Perhaps he was just trying to stop you looking for it?” suggested Jill.

“Now there’s a thought.”

“How could you find out?”

Saracen thought for a moment. “I could go up to the crematorium and check the records. I could do that in the morning. I’ve nothing else to do.” Saracen ran his fingers through Jill’s hair and thanked her for the idea.

“Do you have to go?”

Saracen smiled and said softly, “No.”

It rained all night and it was still raining when Saracen left Jill’s apartment to set off for Skelmore Municipal Crematorium. It had now been raining for so long that storm drains had failed to cope and several sections of the road were flooded. The worst was only a few hundred metres from the crematorium where the road dipped and then rose sharply to approach the granite walls and black iron gate of the crematorium itself.

Saracen had to wait while the vehicles in a funeral procession took turns to cross the lake in the dip with caution and high engine revs to keep the water out of their electrics. When he finally did reach the gates he had to wait again when the hearse up ahead spluttered to a halt and blocked the entrance. The drivers of three black limousines behind got out to help but, after failing to re-start the engine, they resorted to pushing the hearse the final few metres up to the chapel entrance. Saracen watched the pathetic sight impassively through flicking windscreen wipers.

Saracen had no idea how to go about checking crematorium records; he would have to play it by ear. He parked the car well away from the funeral party and waited till everyone concerned had entered the chapel and the polished wooden doors were closed behind them then he got out and made for the door in the building opposite that said, ‘Administration’. He knocked once on the frosted glass door and entered immediately, wanting to be in out of the rain.

A middle aged woman looked up from her typewriter and said, “The chapel is across the courtyard and to your left.” She suffixed the remark with the kind of tight lipped smile that people behind desks reserve for the ‘general public’.

Saracen shook the rain from his hair and said, “Thank you. It’s not the chapel I’m interested in. I wanted to enquire about the cremation of a man called Leonard Cohen.”

The woman was instantly on the defensive. “All our files are confidential,” she said with smug complacency.

“Why?” asked Saracen.

The woman appeared to take the question as a personal insult. “They just are that’s all,” she said, bristling with indignation.

Saracen took a deep breath and said, “All I want to know is, was Leonard Cohen cremated here yesterday? Surely there can be nothing confidential in that?”

“I am not at liberty to divulge any information at all,” recited the woman primly.

“Then can I see the manager?”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Of course I don’t have a blood…No, I don’t have an appointment.”

The woman picked up one of her two telephones and pressed a button. Saracen looked at the other one and thought it was probably a direct line to Washington.

“Mr Posselthwaite? There’s a man here asking questions about our files. I’ve told him they are confidential but he won’t accept it…Yes sir…Thank you sir.” She replaced the receiver and turned to Saracen. “Mr Posselthwaite is coming out,” she announced. She said it as if Saracen should be filled with awe.

A door opened behind the woman and a small, rotund man wearing pinstripes emerged. “Now then Miss Bottomley, what’s all this about?”

“This is the man sir,” said Miss Bottomley in triumph.

The little man pretended to notice Saracen for the first time and said, “May I be of some assistance?”

Saracen saw all the signs he associated with lesser officialdom in Posselthwaite and knew that the majesty of the little man’s position was about to be maintained by sheer bloody mindedness but he went through the motions anyway and said what he wanted to know.

“Are you a relative?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Then what might I ask?…”

Leonard Cohen’s body was transferred to the premises of Maurice Dolman and Sons two nights ago from Skelmore General Hospital. I understand that it was then brought here for cremation. I would like to know if the cremation has been carried out yet. If not I would like to see the body.”

“See the body?” repeated Posselthwaite.

“I’m Dr Saracen from Skelmore General.”

“I see,” said Posselthwaite slowly, his face registering disapproval of Saracen’s appearance in faded jeans and jerkin. He rubbed his chin and pretended to be deep in thought but Saracen suspected that he was thinking up some other way to be obstructive. “I think perhaps I should see some formal identification.”

Saracen had reached the limit of his patience. “Identification? What for? All I want to know is did you cremate a man called Leonard Cohen yesterday? Where’s the problem? Watch my lips, YES…NO.”

“This is intolerable!” stormed Posselthwaite. “Never in my career have I been spoken to in this fashion. Just what do you think I am!”

“You don’t want to know that,” said Saracen. “Let’s just forget the whole thing.”

All the frustration of the past twenty four hours welled up inside Saracen as he hurried back to the car, bending his head against a wind that drove rain into his face with relentless accuracy. Although many factors were involved, Posselthwaite was the immediate target of his anger. “Stupid little man,” he muttered as he gripped the steering wheel tightly and stared out at the rain through the glass. He noticed a flight of steps leading down behind the chapel and could see from the position of the chimney nearby that they must lead to the furnace room. It gave him an idea.

Saracen got out the car and ran across to the steps. At the foot he came to a door marked, ‘NO ADMITTANCE’ but he went in anyway. The room was long and dark for there were no windows. Two men were working there and both held long-handled fire rakes. They were removing the ash contents from one of the ovens. One turned in surprise as Saracen entered. “What’s your game then?” he demanded.

Saracen reached inside his jacket for his wallet and drew out two five pound notes. “All I want is the answer to a simple question,” he said, holding the money up.

“Here, you’re one of these reporter blokes,” protested the smaller of the two men. “We don’t know anything about any racket! All of the coffins get burned! Understand? All of them! Now bugger off!”

The other man put a restraining arm on his colleague and said, “Wait a minute George. He hasn’t asked us anything yet.” He looked to Saracen.

“Did you or did you not cremate the remains of a man called Leonard Cohen yesterday? That’s all I want to know.”

The two men looked at each other. “That’s all?” asked one.

“That’s all.”

“From Dolman’s, a man with no relatives?”

“That’s the one.”

“Yes we did.”

Saracen handed over the money and left. At the head of the steps he came face to face with Posselthwaite. There was no mistaking the anger in the little man’s face although it made him look more ridiculous than impressive as he stood there, hands deep in the pocket of an oversized raincoat, spectacles dappled with rain. “Just what do you think you are playing at?” he fumed, hands shaking with temper. Saracen, with disappointment now added to his frustration, brushed past him without saying anything.

“You haven’t heard the last of this!” shouted Posselthwaite as Saracen got into his car. Saracen drove off as if he had not noticed that he was there.

“I wish I had never suggested it now,” said Jill when Saracen told her.

“Not your fault, it was a good idea.”

“I hate to keep asking this,” Jill began tentatively, “But what are you going to do now?”

“The theory is simple,” replied Saracen. “If I can’t see Leonard Cohen’s body, I have to see Myra Archer’s.”

Jill looked astonished and said, “But surely she was cremated long before Cohen?”

Saracen shook his head. “No, Garten was about to have her cremated when her husband turned up and insisted that she should be buried. She was interred in St Clement’s churchyard.”

“But could you get an exhumation order?” asked Jill as if she already knew the answer.

Saracen smiled wryly and said, “I said the theory was simple.”

“Surely there must be another way of exposing Garten,” said Jill.

“If there is I can’t think of it,” said Saracen. “As far as I can see the only chink in Garten’s armour lies six feet under the earth in St Clement’s grave yard, a body that never underwent Post Mortem examination, a body that holds the key to this whole affair.”

“But if you can’t get an exhumation order, I don’t see what you can do about it,” said Jill.

“There is another way,” said Saracen.

Jill looked at him strangely and said, “You can’t be serious?”

“I can and I am.”

Jill was speechless for a moment then she shook her head in disbelief. “But you can’t!” she exclaimed. “That would be positively ghoulish. People don’t dig up graves any more! That stopped with Burke and Hare!”

Saracen waited until Jill had calmed a little then said, “Look at it from my point of view. If I don’t come up with something against Garten he is going to get away with it and I am never going to practise medicine again. I have to prove that a PM was never carried out on Myra Archer. I have to.”

Jill still had no stomach for the notion but she could understand Saracen’s predicament. She said, “And what happens when you open up the grave? Do you call the police?”

“No, I call Peter Clyde at the Pathology Unit. I’ll have a copy of the death certificate and the false PM report with me. I’ll show him the body and the papers. He, as senior forensic man for the area, will be able to get a legal exhumation order authorised.”

Jill nodded silently. “When?” she asked quietly.

“As soon as possible. All that rain must have made the earth soft.”

“I…I don’t think I can offer to help,” said Jill.

“Of course not,” said Saracen softly. “This is something I’ll do alone.”

Saracen had lunch with Jill before driving her to the hospital to begin her duty shift at two o’clock. He then drove round to St Clement’s Church and parked the car in a cobbled lane that ran along the back of it. He had to see where Myra Archer’s grave actually was before he could formulate any plan for the disinterment. He entered the churchyard by a small wicker gate about fifty metres west of the main church entrance and flanked on either side by Juniper trees.

Saracen walked slowly through the oldest part of the burial ground where moss-covered stone slabs guarded ancient lairs and rusted railings protected body vaults from intruders of another age. To his relief he found that modern day burials were carried out in land well to the rear of the church and out of sight of the road. He found Myra Archer’s grave in front of a little copse of pine trees. A temporary headstone said simply Myra Archer. In front of it, in a little glass jar, were a few Spring flowers but the mouth of the jar was too wide; the flowers lay almost horizontal.