She introduced herself to the woman at the reception desk — Phoebe Palmer, according to her name badge — and showed her ID.
‘Mr Foxwell’s waiting for you in his office. First door on the left,’ Phoebe said politely.
Toby Foxwell was seated at his desk, clutching a mug of coffee. He got up as Siv entered and held out his hand. She took it.
‘I’m DI Siv Drummond. Difficult start to the day for you, Mr Foxwell.’
‘Indeed. Unexpected. It’s a challenge. The kind of thing that tests our mettle and keeps us on our toes.’
That was an interesting response to a dead man on your doorstep. Siv accepted the offer of coffee, reading the laminated mission statement on Toby Foxwell’s desk while he prepared it.
We provide a peaceful space where you can pay respect to and commemorate your loved one.
He wasn’t going to be managing a peaceful space in the coming days, that was for sure.
Foxwell didn’t seem thrown by his grim discovery. He crackled with energy. He might have been putting on an act, needing to appear the professional manager, or perhaps he’d been on one of those management courses about turning threats into opportunities. His name suited him. He was lean and smartly dressed. He had burnished, tawny hair, parted just so, and a narrow, sharp nose. His desk was neat, pens in a straight row. Siv guessed that he ran a streamlined, efficient outfit, despatching the dead sympathetically, albeit promptly.
‘Do you have an identity for that poor man yet?’ His accent was modulated cockney and his voice made her think of melting treacle. It was emollient. Handy for working with the bereaved.
‘We haven’t established that,’ Siv replied. ‘What time is your first funeral?’
He glanced at his watch and bounced a little in his chair. ‘Ten thirty. Inspector, I need to know if we can cremate our dead today. I’ve checked with my manager and she said I have to be guided by you. If you say we can proceed, that’s fine. If we can’t go ahead, I have to issue instructions immediately and get my team on the phones. You can imagine the disruption and the anguish for families that would cause. I need to consider our public profile and reputation—’
‘I understand. I’m supposed to be attending a service myself — Lisa Flore’s. I need to check a few things with you.’
He blinked his sandy lashes. ‘Oh, of course. Ms Flore was one of your colleagues. I’m so sorry, Inspector.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Yes, dreadful event indeed. Well, I suppose you want to clarify exactly what happened when I found the body. I drove through the gates just after half seven—’
Siv waved a hand, cutting him off. ‘That can wait for now — we’ll get to those details later. Do you unlock the central foyer door and the side doors to the chapels each morning?’
He seemed annoyed at her interruption. ‘Oh, um . . . yes. That’s always my task. I like to inspect the chapels and anterooms personally.’
‘But you didn’t today.’
‘No. I saw the body at around a quarter to eight before I managed to do my rounds. I rang the police immediately.’
‘And what about other parts of the crematorium — are different staff responsible for them?’
‘The caretaker opens the main gates around seven, as well as the pedestrian access gate off Barker’s Way, at the top of Bluebell Copse. It’s called Emmeline’s Gate, after the wife of the cemetery’s designer. The cremation technician unlocks the back gate and the door to the retort at eight.’
‘The retort?’
‘The cremation chamber, at the back of the chapels. Diane Lacey, the technician, checks the equipment and the day’s schedule on arrival.’ He put his shoulders back and leaned forward, spreading his hands flat on the desk. A clear I’m-in-charge pose. ‘I’ve checked with the caretaker and Diane. They say that they didn’t see anything suspicious, and they confirmed that the front and back gates and the pedestrian access were locked when they arrived at their usual times. Diane is my excellent deputy manager, by the way, as well as senior technician. She’s highly qualified in her field. She covered for me last year when I was unwell.’
‘Do you have any burials scheduled for today or in the next couple of days?’
‘We have none this week. Just cremations.’
‘Give me a moment, please. I need to consult with my colleagues about the crematorium’s functioning.’
She stepped outside into the corridor and rang Rey Anand, who’d since arrived at the scene. As always, she appreciated the pathologist’s precise, no-nonsense approach. His view was that the body could now be taken to the mortuary. Other arrangements were her responsibility. With less enthusiasm, she phoned her boss, DCI Will Mortimer. He’d need to make the final call on this one. It was a longer conversation, as she described the grounds and the layout and the potential complications they could create. He ummed and ahhed before he made a decision. Siv leaned on a window ledge and jotted quick notes, making sure they’d covered all the bases. She returned to Foxwell’s office. He looked up anxiously.
‘I’m afraid you have to cancel this morning’s funerals, Mr Foxwell, so that we have time to secure the scene, but you’re OK to go ahead with this afternoon’s from one o’clock,’ she told him. ‘But there are conditions. There will be a police cordon and presence around the grounds, at the front and back gates and all the other areas with public access. The public can’t visit graves or memorial areas until further notice. Mourners must enter and exit via the paths leading directly from the car park to the chapels’ side doors. The central door and anterooms have to remain locked, and the steps and roadway outside will be cordoned off. You need to make sure that visitors go straight to the chapels from their cars and leave immediately after the services. No loitering. Have you got the staff to marshal them in and out?’
He blew his cheeks out, slowly releasing the air while he thought. ‘This will be difficult, with no access to refreshments or toilets . . .’
Like it or lump it, Siv thought. If it wasn’t for Lisa, she’d have been tempted to advocate closing the place down completely. ‘I expect mourners can go without a cuppa and hold onto their bladders for the sake of saying goodbye to their loved ones.’
He gave her a shrewd glance. ‘Very well. I’ll inform the staff.’
‘A few more things, Mr Foxwell. Have there been any problems here recently? Difficulties between staff or any of the people who use your services?’
‘No, I’m pleased to say. The whole operation has been running smoothly.’
‘You can’t think of anyone who’d want to bring the crematorium into disrepute?’
He tweaked his tie. ‘Absolutely not.’
‘I’d appreciate a map of the site and a staff list as soon as possible.’
He handed her an envelope. ‘All ready for you.’
Before Siv left his office, he was already on the phone, issuing instructions. It was clear he was enjoying tackling the adversity the day had brought, despite the disruptions involved.
* * *
The gates accessing the rear of the crematorium were similar to the main ones, but on a smaller scale, and the door into the retort area was robust and had a mortice lock. In contrast to the industrial bank of steel, the technician’s office was warm and homely. A huge vase of roses, lilies and freesias stood on the desk, scenting the room. Reds, yellows, purples, pinks and creams. Unseasonal colours for January. Diane Lacey picked out a couple of blossoms that were drooping as Siv watched.
‘Families insist on giving us bouquets by way of thanks. We’re not really supposed to accept gifts, but Toby says flowers are OK. We get so many I never need to buy flowers for home now,’ Diane commented.
Siv listened to the low background hum of the cremation chambers. It was soothing. Lisa would be in there soon, crumbling to ash in the furnace. Then she recalled reading that it was bone fragments that remained after cremation, and they were then ground to a fine powder like ash. She’d sprinkled Ed’s ashes in the Thames a
t Greenwich, below the Old Royal Naval College, and watched them merge with the ebbing tide.
Diane shuffled the flowers and moved the vase to one side. She was in her mid-forties, had an earnest manner, spiky brown hair and soft down on her top lip. With her long fingers and slightly hunched shoulders, Siv would have guessed she was a musician — a violinist.
‘We’re all stunned and disgusted by what’s happened,’ Diane continued. ‘We deal with death every day, but for someone to place a body on the steps and abandon it in the open like that . . . It’s a bit like desecrating a church.’
She looked as if she’d been crying and gave the impression that she was of a shy, nervous disposition, so Siv started with easy questions.
‘How long have you worked here?’
‘Fifteen years, almost.’
‘Talk me through what you do.’
Diane was a slight woman, very pale and serious. Her blouse and skirt were in a dowdy fawn, baggy and shapeless, and as she sat back, her high office chair swallowed her up. ‘I meet families and guide them through the process. I check coffins when they arrive and the ID of the deceased, make sure that regulations are followed to the letter when bodies enter the retort and keep records. Every morning I check that the equipment is working correctly. If families want to watch the actual cremation, I assist them with that. Then, post cremation, I have to make sure that remains are identified and disposed of correctly.’
Siv’s attention had been snagged by one sentence. ‘Families can watch a body being cremated in the furnace?’
‘Of course. We have a small viewing room. Some people want, need, to complete the journey as part of the ceremony. Keeping their loved one company to the end. It’s not that much different to standing by a graveside to pay your last respects.’
Keeping company. Last respects. The room dimmed.
‘Can I have a glass of water?’
Siv watched Diane unscrew the bottle on her desk. Had she failed Ed at the last, not staying by him as he burned away? She’d been clueless about his funeral arrangements, had wandered through the weeks after his death as if she were having an out-of-body experience. She’d agreed to whatever Ed’s parents had suggested, wanting them to go away and leave her alone.
‘Are you OK?’ Diane was holding out the glass to her. ‘A crematorium can often be upsetting. I could get you a hot drink, if you want.’
Siv shook her head and drank half the glass. After a moment, her vision cleared. ‘Just thirsty. Have there been any problems at the crematorium, between staff or with the bereaved?’
‘None that I’m aware of.’
‘What’s Mr Foxwell like as a boss?’ Siv imagined he’d be a tad snappy, a keen bureaucrat. Some staff might resent that.
Diane measured her words. ‘He likes things run well. So do I. This is such a responsible job. We deal with people who are in a vulnerable state and we have to get it right.’
Siv took the staff list from her bag. ‘Saul Robbins is a general support worker and a retort assistant. Is he working with you this morning?’
‘It’s his day off today. Most of the time, he meets and greets families, accompanies visitors to the chapels and memorials and helps the caretaker with maintenance of the grounds. Saul helps out in the retort at busy times. I’ve given him on-the-job training to provide him with some more stimulating, responsible tasks and get him a little bit more pay. He doesn’t actually want to stay in this kind of work, and he certainly has academic potential. I’ve encouraged him to study for an MBA.’
Then Diane took Siv through her arrival that morning. Straightforward, nothing unusual.
‘Where were you late last night?’
‘At home. I live with my grandfather. We watched TV until around eleven, then I made him some cocoa and we went to bed.’
Siv finished the water and shook her head when Diane offered a refill.
‘Do you want to see around the facility?’ she asked. ‘It can help, especially those who find the idea of cremation daunting or upsetting. We have open days a couple of times a year for that reason. Many people find it fascinating.’
That must make for a jolly day out.
Siv flinched at the compassion in Diane’s eyes. She resented having her discomfort noted. ‘I’ll pass on that, thanks.’
‘I understand. Something a bit less full-on that might interest you, if you’ve never done it, is this.’ She took a flyer from her drawer and handed it over. ‘This has details of some regular talks I give here. You’ll see the days and times and a bit of background information. I have a particular interest in thanatology. It formed part of my MA. I conduct tours of the nineteenth-century sector of the cemetery once a month, year round. There are some fascinating graves and monuments, as well as strange stories of the families who lived in Berminster then. ’
‘Thanatology?’
‘It’s the scientific study of death and loss. The tours are very popular. I never tire of doing them.’ Diane beamed.
Siv glanced at the flyer and tucked it into the side pocket of her bag, smiling weakly.
On the way out, she stopped at a retail area to the side of Diane’s office, where you could sit on an example of an engraved memorial bench. There were a couple of cabinets holding urns and keepsakes. The bereaved could choose from classical-style metal urns in gold, black or cream, blue ceramic with brass details, rose china shaped like a teardrop or grey smoked glass. If you wanted to have your loved one by you always, there were porcelain keepsake urns with the inscription, I’ll carry you with me until we meet again, marble boxes and a collection of teal and silver-painted egg-shaped stones with hollowed centres.
It didn’t occur to me, but I wouldn’t have wanted to cart your ashes around with me. Seems a bit naff, Siv said to Ed. No reply. Did that mean it was a touchy subject and he’d have liked to be kept by her side, maybe zipped in her bag or sitting on her bedside table? Too late now.
Outside, the air was brisker, nipping at her face and neck. A hearse arrived, its windows filled with lilies spelling LISA. Tears sprang to her eyes and she blinked hard as she watched the coffin being unloaded and carried in through the rear of the building.
Chapter 3
An hour is too long for a funeral service. Ali would tell Polly to keep it short and sweet when he popped off.
Lisa’s mum had spared no expense. The coffin was top of the range, elegantly crafted in cherry wood with braided trim and gold handles. Ali had seen the details on Patrick’s kitchen table. It had cost over three thousand pounds, and that was before all the flowers and wreaths that were surrounding it — enough to fill a florist’s shop. The funeral business must make a mint out of people’s grief and vulnerability.
He stood sturdily between the guv and Patrick, feet planted apart, aware of the tension radiating from Siv. He was a touchy-feely man and would have liked to have put an arm around her, hold her steady. Back in Derry, folk were more demonstrative at funerals, sharing publicly in their grief. Here, everything was restrained and muted. Polite. There’d been no wake before the funeral and there’d be no singing at Nutmeg afterwards. At least the grub would be good. Ali’s wife, Polly, was the chef there. She’d spent last night prepping the buffet and as soon as the service finished, she’d be leaving the chapel to make final tweaks. Every so often, he could hear her clear, high voice behind him, joining in the singing.
He pictured the sausage rolls, pasties, cheese twists and savoury tarts that Pol had slaved over the night before. His stomach grumbled, and he reprimanded himself for letting his mind wander to food when he should be paying attention. But Lisa would have laughed. She’d had a hearty appetite, and she’d egged him on to eat the naughty carbs a diabetic should avoid. Sometimes, when they’d worked late, she’d ordered in double-crust pizzas and he’d tucked in, picturing his blood sugar heading out of control and Nurse Keene’s frown at the diabetic clinic.
Ali glanced at the guv. She was as pale as paper, one hand gripping the back of the chair in
front of her, the other clutching the order of service. Another funeral would be a tough call after you’d been to your husband’s. It wouldn’t help that Crista, the guv’s mother, was at the service on the arm of DCI Mortimer. Heads had turned when she walked in. She resembled a fashion model in her elegant black coat, lacy mantilla and huge dark glasses. Ali had first seen her at the Halloween party last year. He gathered that she was Finnish, had arrived in town recently and there was no love lost between mother and daughter. He was dying for the full story, but you didn’t ask the guv that kind of stuff unless you wanted your head bitten off.
He was fond of Siv. She was a cracking detective, but he wished she’d let people in a bit more. Polly said she just needed time, that she must still be in shock over her husband, and Pol was usually right. Patrick sighed as Noah spoke about Lisa’s love of marathon running and dim sum. Ali gave his arm a light squeeze.
The chapel was packed with police colleagues, Lisa’s friends and her small family, just her mother and uncle. Now the celebrant was praising the lively woman they’d been friends with, who’d had so much to give before she was cut down in the bloom of youth. Ali liked that phrase, ‘the bloom of youth’. It reminded him of the song ‘Tir na nÓg’. Like the lover in the song, Lisa’s hair had been the colour of barley and she’d had pale, almost silvery eyes. He hummed it silently to himself and pictured the other young corpse who’d been removed from the steps outside. Steve had estimated that he was in his twenties. This really was turning out to be a strange, sad day.
When the service ended, Ali, Siv and Patrick hurried to Ali’s car, shivering after the warmth of the chapel. The sun was pale and lemony in a faded blue sky. The guv sat in the back for a minute. They were all silent, watching the cars pull away. The chapel bells were clanging. Ali’s stomach made a noise like a drain emptying and he pressed a hand against it. He reached into the glove compartment for his stash of sugar-free jelly bears and offered them round. The guv passed and Patrick took a green one.
MURDER IN MALLOW COTTAGE an addictive crime thriller with a twist you won’t see coming (Detective Inspector Siv Drummond Book 3) Page 3