by Ken McClure
“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.
Chapter Eight
“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.
Saracen looked around to get his bearings and to determine the best way to get there at night. He decided on parking in the lane again. From there he could climb over the back wall and reach the grave through the pine trees without having to walk through the churchyard at all.
There was a small wooden hut just past the pine trees. When he was sure that no one was about Saracen went over and had a look inside. He saw three spades, a tarpaulin and various sections of wooden shuttering. It was the gravediggers’ hut. He would not have to bring his own shovel.
There were times during the afternoon and early evening when Saracen himself could hardly believe what he was about to do. These moments passed but only to re-occur with growing frequency as the time neared. He was relieved when night fell and the waiting was over.
The lane behind the church was deserted, just as he hoped it would be. He parked the car on the concrete apron of a bank of old lock-up garages, hoping that a car standing there would not look out of place although the condition of the lock-ups suggested that they were no longer used. As he walked along the lane he had the constant feeling that he was being observed and accordingly invented a series of casual reasons for looking round. Each time he did he saw no one. The feeling was born of guilt.
The top of the cemetery wall was wet and covered with moss. Saracen could smell the green dampness as he rolled over its rounded crown and dropped down on the other side to crouch there for a moment, listening for any sign that he had been seen. All was quiet. He was about to get to his feet again when a sudden movement up on the wall made him freeze. Iron fingers clutched at his stomach until he saw with relief that it was a cat, its green eyes burning in the dark. Saracen swore under his breath and moved away from the wall to court the shelter of the pine trees as he made his way to the gravediggers’ hut.
Wet rust from the hasp came off on his hands as he pulled the door open and took out what he needed, two blocks of wood, a tarpaulin and a spade. He closed up the hut again and opened out the tarpaulin on the ground. In addition to what he had taken from the hut Saracen had brought with him a torch, a screwdriver and a tyre lever. There was too much to carry along to the grave so he placed everything on the tarpaulin and dragged it along the ground behind him like a sledge. A cold wind touched his cheek; it rustled the needles of the pines, disturbing the sepulchral silence and making him feel a little less vulnerable.
The earth, as he had hoped, was soft after all the rain. It put up little resistance after he had removed the top layer of turf. As he dug down he piled the wet earth up on the spread-out tarpaulin, occasionally cursing as wet clods stuck to the face of the shovel forcing him to shake it free and thereby induce painful protests from his back. After twenty minutes he stopped suddenly as the spade hit wood. He had reached the coffin.
All the pangs of guilt and self doubt of the afternoon flooded back to make the sweat on Saracen’s forehead go quite cold. His conscience screamed at him. This is desecration! Stop this madness! but there was no going back now. He cleared away the earth from the lid and shone the torch down on the brass plate. ‘Myra Archer RIP’ Requiescat in Pace…in pace…in pace…repeated his conscience as his pulse rate climbed ever higher. He worked on the screws holding down the lid until his trembling fingers had extracted the last one and pushed it clumsily into the pocket of
his jerkin with the others. Saracen paused to steel himself for the sight of Myra Archer’s shrouded body and then he levered up the lid.
All feelings of guilt and remorse and the accusing finger of a long lost faith disappeared in an instant. The coffin contained four sandbags and nothing else. Saracen stared dumbly at the dirty hessian sacks, unable to make sense of it all. Surely Garten could not have beaten him to it? No, that was ridiculous, he decided. That left the other possibility. Myra Archer’s body had never been there in the first place! The burning question now was whether or not an empty grave would be enough to nail Garten. He could not be sure. It would certainly be enough to instigate all sorts of official investigations but where would they lead? He could reach no firm conclusion.
Becoming increasingly anxious at his own indecision Saracen decided that he must seek a witness to what he had found. He would phone Jill and ask her to come down. He left everything as it was and climbed back over the wall into the lane where there was a telephone box at the end. He ran towards it, only slowing to a walk when reaching the junction with the main road so as not to attract attention. The phone seemed to ring for an age before Jill answered.
“Is it over?” she asked before Saracen had had a chance to say anything.
“No, I need you here.”
“James, I couldn’t face it…”
“It’s nothing like that. The coffin is empty. I need a witness, that’s all”
“You did say empty?”
“Yes. There isn’t much time. Can you get over here now?”
“Claire Tremaine is here at the moment. She invited herself over.”
Saracen cursed softly.
“We could both come. She knows all about the goings on at the hospital, her brother told her.”
Saracen thought for a moment then saw he had no option. “All right,” he said. “Quick as you can.”
Ten minutes later the girls arrived in the lane. Claire was driving and she parked her green Metro next to Saracen’s car in front of disused garages. From where he was waiting by the wall Saracen could see that Jill seemed nervous but noted the Claire was her usual confident self. They hurried towards him and he helped them over the wall and led the way through the pines to the open grave.
Jill just nodded when Saracen shone the torch down into the coffin. Claire grinned and said, “Not much doubt about that.”
“That’s all I wanted you to see.” said Saracen. “You can go now if you want.”
To Saracen’s surprise it was Jill who said, “We’ll wait for you. Is there anything we can do to help?”
Claire looked at her and added, “Good idea. I like all this spooky stuff. It’s like some black magic ritual.” She qualified her assertion by dancing a few steps round the edge of the grave to Jill’s embarrassment and Saracen’s annoyance. Saracen lowered himself into the hole and replaced the lid of the coffin before climbing out again to begin filling in the earth.
“Shouldn’t you call the Police or something?” asked Claire.
“I’m going to confront Garten first,” said Saracen. “It will short circuit a lot of red tape.”
“There’s a car coming!” whispered Jill as headlights swung into the lane and lit up the middle branches of the pines. The three of them crouched and froze as the car passed slowly along Church Lane, its engine murmuring quietly.
“It’s gone,” whispered Claire.
“No,” cautioned Jill, holding up her hand. “It’s stopped!”
Saracen closed his eyes briefly and swore.
“I’ll take a look,” whispered Claire and made for the wall before anyone could stop her. She was back within moments. “It’s the Police!” she whispered. “They’ve stopped beside the cars.”
“They’re going to start looking for us shortly,” said Saracen.
There was a moment’s silence before Claire said, “Leave it to me.” She got to her feet and ran off across the churchyard to leave by the gate. A few moments later the sound of Claire’s voice came from the other side of the wall. “Good evening Officer. Is anything wrong?”
The policeman’s reply was muffled and Saracen guessed that Claire had deliberately spoken loudly to let them know what she was doing.
“Not at all Officer. I’ve been visiting friends in Trinity Road. It seemed sensible to park round here rather than on the main road. That’s all right I hope?” Claire’s Oxford accent was suffused with solicitous concern. Once again Saracen and Jill failed to hear the reply.
“Oh I see!” exclaimed Claire loudly, “The warehouse! You thought we were burgling the warehouse!” She burst out laughing. “No, things aren’t quite as bad as that!”
Saracen heard the policemen join in the laughter and then heard Claire say, “Yes, that car too. I just had to leave the party early.”
There was some more laughter before the sound of slamming car doors told Saracen that the crisis was over. Claire’s Metro drove off followed moments later by the police car.
Saracen continued with the infill of the grave while Jill held the torch. He finished by trampling down the surface as hard as he could before replacing the turf. There was a pile of earth left over on the tarpaulin because of the lack of ground compaction. He dragged it over to the trees and scattered it evenly before returning the borrowed implements to the gravediggers’ hut and fastening the door. “Right, that’s it,” he sighed. “Let’s go.”
As they walked back to the car Jill said, “I still don’t understand why you didn’t call the police and let them see that the grave was empty.”
“If I had to start explaining everything from the beginning and things start going through official channels it will take for ever but if I confront Garten directly and tell him that I have two witnesses to the fact that Myra Archer’s grave is empty then he will see that the game’s up and he will have to tell me everything.”
“If you say so,” said Jill, far from convinced.
They returned to Jill’s apartment and found Claire sitting outside in her car. “Everything all right?” she asked.
“Thanks to you,” said Saracen. Jill agreed with him.
“Anyone want a drink?” asked Jill, closing the door of the flat behind them. Saracen and Claire said yes without hesitation.
“Can I ask what you are going to say to this man Garten” asked Claire.
“I’m going to tell him exactly what we found out tonight and make him tell me what’s been going on,” said Saracen.
“Garten isn’t going to like it,” said Jill.
Saracen’s silence said that she was stating the obvious.
“I mean, you might be pushing him too far. It could be dangerous.”
“Depends how awful his secret is I suppose,” said Claire.
Saracen had not seriously considered the possibility of being in any physical danger from Garten but could see that Jill and Claire had a point. If the secret was big enough there was no way of telling how far Garten would go to protect it. The actions of a man under extreme pressure could be wildly unpredictable. The spectre of the drunken, embittered Cyril Wylie standing over his own paralysed body flitted through Saracen’s mind and chilled him to the marrow.
Saracen phoned A amp;E at nine thirty in the morning to be told by Alan Tremaine that Garten was probably at home for he was not due on duty until two in the afternoon. “Claire told me about last night,” said Tremaine. “Good luck.”
Saracen put down the phone and considered for a moment whether or not he should wait until the afternoon. The alternative was to go round to Garten’s house and have it out with him there and then. He decided against waiting.
Nigel Garten and his wife lived in the Croft Valley district of Skelmore. Every town has its Croft Valley, where the influential and wealthy tend to flock together for solidarity and reassurance. Such areas usually have nicknames given them by the more humble inhabitants of the town and Skelmore was no exception. In the pubs and clubs Croft Valley was Toffee Town.
The population
living inside Croft Valley was further stratified into ‘Just Money’ and ‘Real Class’. Despite the strenuous efforts of Matthew Glendale to elevate his daughter to the latter category Mildred Garten had consistently failed to gain acceptance to the top echelons of Skelmore society. This was construed bitterly by Mildred’s father as blind prejudice against a lass from an honest working background and, by Mildred herself, as a result of what she believed was her basic shyness and over-sensitivity. People just did not understand her. In truth they understood her only too well. That was why they detested her.
Mildred’s capacity for antagonising people was quite unbounded and totally independent of race, creed and colour. From the milk-boy to the Mayor of Skelmore she was universally loathed.
Saracen walked up the path to the front door, his feet crunching on the gravel. The house, a red sandstone town house had a pleasing air of solidity about it, as if it knew that people would come and go but it would go on for ever. He was about to ring the bell when he heard Mildred’s voice and it sounded angry, but then, as Saracen mused, it usually did. Angry, whingeing or disgruntled.
The sound was coming from the back garden. Saracen opened the little wooden gate that led round the side of the house to the back garden.
“I wanted them over there!” screeched Mildred’s voice.
Saracen could now see that it was the gardener she was berating.
“But it makes more sense to plant them over here Mrs G.”
“I want them over there!” insisted Mildred, “And what’s more, if I’ve told you once I’ve told you a hundred times that I do not wish to be called ‘Mrs Gee.’”
“Yes Madam,” said the man.
“Excuse me,” said Saracen.
Mildred turned abruptly. “Oh, it’s you,” she said with distaste.”
“Yes it’s me Mildred, or is it Madam?”
Mildred’s face darkened. “What do you want?” she snapped with characteristic charm.