Dark Undertakings

by Rebecca Tope

  Dark Undertakings

  REBECCA TOPE

  This edition is for my sister, Jo and my mother

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  CHARACTER LIST

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  About the Author

  By Rebecca Tope

  Copyright

  Advertisement

  CHARACTER LIST

  DREW SLOCOMBE – working at Plant’s undertakers

  KAREN – his wife

  The Lapsford family

  JIM – deceased

  MONICA – his wife

  PHILIP and DAVID – their sons

  NERINA – Philip’s wife

  SARAH and DOTTIE – their neighbours

  Staff at Plant’s

  DAPHNE PLANT

  PAT – funeral conductor

  SID HAWKES – mortician

  BRENDA – his wife

  VINCE

  ALICIA – his wife

  BIG GEORGE

  LITTLE GEORGE

  OLGA – receptionist and office worker

  Staff at Capital Printworks

  AJASH, JODIE and JACK MERRYWEATHER

  Medical personnel

  DR JULIAN LLOYD – GP

  SUSIE HAWKES – his receptionist, daughter of Sid and Brenda

  GERALD PROCTOR – dentist

  LAZARUS – pathology department of the hospital

  SAM – mortuary attendant

  DESMOND – superintendent of the crematorium

  Others

  ROXANNE GIBSON

  PAULINE RAWLINSON – her sister, and Monica Lapsford’s friend

  CRAIG RAWLINSON – Pauline’s son

  LORRAINE DUNLOP

  FRANK – her husband

  CINDY – their daughter

  CHAPTER ONE

  Tuesday

  Jim Lapsford made an unusually healthy-looking corpse. His hair was springy, his skin lightly tanned and unblemished and his open eyes were clear, despite the terrible emptiness of death. Vince and Drew, undertaker’s men, said nothing, but their faces made comment enough.

  ‘He’s always been so well,’ confirmed Jim’s wife, pale enough to be taken for the deceased herself. ‘Hasn’t seen a doctor for years and years. He used to boast about it.’ Her teeth chattered with the shock, and she held a small white wriggling dog tightly to her chest. Drew glanced at the older man doubtfully and waited for him to react. Vince paused in his deft wrappings and zippings.

  ‘Not seen a doctor?’ he queried. ‘I thought you said …’

  ‘Not until last Friday – four days ago – when he did call in about his knee. There wasn’t anything the matter with it.’

  ‘But he’s … satisfied? The doctor, I mean?’ The need for delicacy sometimes made meaning obscure; the question, however, was too crucial to evade.

  ‘Oh yes.’ Monica Lapsford nodded emphatically, grasping at one of very few certainties. ‘He said it was a classic case. Died in his sleep, of a massive heart attack. It seems he was at a dangerous age.’ She paused, wistful, the fine features blank. ‘Massive heart attack,’ she repeated. ‘He was never a smoker, you know. Kept up his vitamins. Looked after himself. Always so well.’

  Drew watched her face, acutely aware of her shock and distress. He had yet to feel comfortable with his role at this moment of transition from life to death.

  Monica stared intently at the body of her husband, the rosy cheeks and relaxed lips, as if searching for an explanation. ‘I really can’t believe it,’ she summarised, with a helpless finality. ‘This was never going to happen to us.’ In her arms, the dog whined, and strained to get to its master. The widow clutched it closer, like a child with a doll. She had a nice face, Drew observed, even when pale and pouched with shock. They must have made a good-looking couple, her and Jim, surging cheerfully through life until everything collapsed. Later, he was to wince at his simplistic assumptions, based on no more than the tilt of a chin.

  Normally, the relatives would wait downstairs while the men performed the awkward business of removing the body, but Monica had insisted on being there. Down in the living room her two sons behaved more conventionally, hiding away from any unsavoury mysteries there might be. Drew had seen them only for a moment, but one of the faces remained with him. The younger son, he supposed, was in his early twenties. He had been shaking, teeth chattering and hands clutched tightly together, suggesting a struggle for control. His head was held on one side, and a shoulder was raised to meet it, in a frozen flinch of pain and apprehension. Drew had seen people in shock many times before, but never quite as dramatic a case as this. The house seemed to be full of a kind of stunned horror.

  They had been greeted on arrival by the family GP, Dr Lloyd, who had hurriedly introduced them to Monica, and then muttered, ‘Can’t see any point in a post-mortem. Obvious heart attack. Tell Daphne I’ll be along tomorrow to do the papers, if it’s a cremation.’ Together the three men had smiled reassuringly at Mrs Lapsford, and then Dr Lloyd pointed the way to the bedroom, reminding Monica as he left that she could collect the Medical Certificate for Registration any time after about eleven. ‘But I’d leave all that till tomorrow, if I were you,’ he added, on the doorstep. ‘You’ll have your hands full without that, today,’ and he glanced at the closed living room door.

  From a natural curiosity Drew inspected the bedroom while Vince continued with his task. It was moderately tidy, though a disorderly pile of clothes lay on a chair on the male side of the room. Above the chair was a bookshelf, fixed into the corner. A row of paperbacks stretched from end to end, of a uniform size and colour. With a quickly suppressed smile, he realised what they were. On the wife’s side was a wardrobe and a small chest of drawers. The top drawer was not properly closed, and something made of bright red satin could be seen hurriedly stuffed into it.

  Vince cleared his throat, and tipped his head towards the job in hand. He was growing accustomed to Drew’s vacant moments when he’d be too busy watching and thinking to get on with his work. With a little jerk, Drew’s attention returned. He grinned quickly at Vince, apologetic. He knew Vince was unhappy about the widow being present – the next part of the process could be disconcerting.

  ‘Now, then.’ Vince gave the signal and they embraced the dead man around the shoulders and knees, making it look easy. With a body not yet in full rigor, there were more pitfalls than might be imagined. Clasped under the arms, for example, it would seem to come alive, elbows flinging up and out, and torso slipping horribly to the floor. In the presence of family members, this could not be allowed to happen.

  Vince turned to Monica, trying to smile reassuringly in the midst of the breathless manoeuvre as they deposited the body onto the waiting stretcher. ‘Not long now,’ he puffed. His gaze fell on the struggling terrier, and the widow glanced down at it.

  ‘Poor old Cassie,’ she sighed. ‘I don’t know how she’ll survive without him. She goes everywhere with him. She went everywhere with him, I mean. She and I don’t get on very well, as a rule.’

  Vince pushed out his lips in judicious sympathy. ‘They say it’s best if you show them exactly what’s happened,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, I did that,’ she replied, carelessly. ‘Didn’t really have any choice. As soon as I went downstairs to the phone, she ran up and jumped onto the bed. She seemed to know something was wrong. When the doctor arrived, she was lying on Jim’s chest, licking his face. It was quite pathetic.’ Abruptly, her voice cracked, and she struggled against a flurry of tears. Funn
y, thought Drew, why people fight so hard not to cry. The image of the puzzled little dog, loyally trying to revive the dead man, brought a lump to his own throat.

  Lapsford now safely on the stretcher, they performed the delicate negotiation of stairs, hallway and front door, before stowing him away invisibly in the specially modified Espace. Vince took the wheel, sedately driving away from the house, leaving the stunned widow watching from behind the front room curtains. The white dog was still in her arms, its bright black eyes following every move. Beside Vince, Drew blew out a long noisy breath.

  ‘Would you believe that?’ he burst out. ‘Saw the doc about his knee, and then died a few days later of a heart attack. Is that weird or what?’

  ‘No big deal,’ Vince corrected him calmly. ‘Happens all the time. Did I tell you about the woman – an artist, she was – who’d gone to the doctor’s to ask them if they’d display some of her pictures in the waiting room, and then dropped dead in the doorway? Classic symptoms of aortic aneurism, so they signed her up, believe it or not. Said the doctor had seen her before and after death, because he was chatting to a receptionist when the woman came in.’

  ‘Makes you wonder, doesn’t it.’

  Vince’s broad, amiable features turned for a moment to examine Drew. ‘Now what might you be meaning, lad?’

  ‘Well – about fate, I suppose. As if he brought bad luck onto himself by going to the doctor after such a long time. And that doctor – seemed in a rush to go, didn’t he?’

  ‘More like random chance,’ Vince responded, ‘as our Daphne would say. One of her favourite phrases, that is. Great believer in random chance is our boss lady. Still, mustn’t grumble if it saves the taxpayer. Nothing people hate more than a post-mortem when there’s no need. Keep it simple, I say. Sid’ll tell you the same thing. Nobody likes the thought of that pathologist getting his hands on you, if it’s not necessary.’

  ‘Mmmm.’ Drew was thoughtful. ‘Did you see those books he had?’

  ‘Books?’

  ‘Erotic stuff. A whole shelf of it. Looked pretty well thumbed to me. Needed help to get it up, I shouldn’t wonder. The wife’s got something saucy in red satin, too. Hanging out of the drawer, it was. Hey! D’you think that was what killed him? Up to something strenuous with his old lady?’

  Vince guffawed. ‘Wouldn’t be the first time,’ he agreed. ‘Wouldn’t blame her for trying to keep it quiet, if so.’

  ‘But he’s got his jim-jams on, all nicely buttoned. Could she have seen to that?’

  ‘Maybe the doctor lent a hand.’

  Drew lapsed into another spell of thoughtfulness, and then said, ‘That son – didn’t he look a wreck. Must be something wrong with him, don’t you think? Not quite right in the head.’

  Vince nodded absently; curiosity was not one of his strong features. Just get the job done and don’t ask too many questions, was his motto. To Drew this attitude was incomprehensible: finding out about people was what drove him through life.

  ‘Wonder what the Coroner would make of this one, if he knew?’ he mused.

  ‘He’d tell us not to waste his time. Like he did the other week when Dr James refused to sign up the woman of ninety-six because he hadn’t seen her for sixteen days. You have to use your common sense. After all, this one’s been seen, in a proper consultation, only last week. And who are we to say he didn’t complain of chest pains then, and didn’t want the wife to know?’

  Drew let the matter drop. He’d only been in the job a month or so, and was slowly learning when to keep his mouth shut. He took a pad of printed forms from the dashboard in front of him. ‘I’ll fill in the chitty, shall I? Number 24, wasn’t it? Primrose Close. Eight-forty, near enough.’ He was also still learning his way around Bradbourne, having moved in three months earlier. He and Karen, after three years of marriage, had left the nearby city for a quieter life in a smaller town. They were banking on ‘New house, new baby’ being true, after many months of disappointment on that front.

  Vince nodded, and ducked his head to get a fuller view of the surrounding streets. ‘Nice area this,’ he remarked. ‘Alicia would give her right arm – well, left thumb, at least – to live here.’ Around them the land sloped away southwards towards an impressive river, curving its way protectively around two sides of the town. A row of hills enhanced the distant view to the north. Between the river and the hills, the sprawl of more recent housing estates seemed intent on bridging the gap between Bradbourne and Woodingleigh, six miles away. On old maps, Bradbourne was substantially bigger than its neighbour; now Woodingleigh had grown to city status, thanks to government intervention, and the combined employment opportunities of a huge hospital and a good railway link to Bristol, while Bradbourne rested on whatever meagre laurels it may once have had.

  ‘Watch out!’ Drew gave an alarmed cry as a young couple, oblivious to everything but the fierce argument they were clearly having, stepped off the pavement without looking. The youth had spiky bleached hair, the girl was small with a look of suppressed energy. Vince swerved with a hiss of annoyance. In the back, the body shifted on its stretcher. Drew caught a clear view of both faces as the startled pair pulled back.

  ‘Idiots,’ he said.

  ‘The girl looked familiar,’ Vince commented. ‘I’ll remember who she is, in a minute.’

  ‘That’d look good in the papers, wouldn’t it,’ Drew chuckled. ‘Couple killed by undertaker’s vehicle. They’d think we’d done it on purpose, to get the business.’

  ‘Shhh,’ advised Vince. ‘Don’t even suggest it.’ He drove carefully for the next few minutes, shaken by the near miss. ‘I know!’ he announced suddenly. ‘That was Susie. Sid’s girl.’

  ‘What? His daughter? Are you sure?’

  ‘Yeah. She comes to the Christmas party most years – as well as dropping in to see Sid now and then. Seen her loads of times. Must be having boyfriend trouble. Wonder who he is. Can’t see Sid approving of someone with hair like that.’

  Drew turned to catch another glimpse of the couple. The girl had started walking away, leaving the boy standing alone, a picture of desolation. ‘Looks as if she’s dumped him,’ he remarked, with a pang of sympathy.

  Sid met them in the mortuary. ‘Jim Lapsford!’ he said, his pale eyes bulging a little. ‘My God. He’s not a day over fifty-five.’ He hovered watchfully as Vince motioned Drew to take the feet end of the tray. They placed it on the hydraulic lift, and then slid it smoothly into the refrigerator, on a top slot. ‘Stiffening up now,’ observed Vince. ‘Must’ve happened this side of midnight, by the looks of him.’

  Sid felt-tipped the name on the door and rubbed his cold hands. ‘Played darts with Jim, many a time, in the King’s Head,’ he told the others, shaking his head. ‘Handsome bugger, women all over him. What did for him?’

  ‘Heart.’ Vince shrugged. ‘Lucky it’s not Coroner’s.’

  Drew stood back, waiting, thinking. ‘I still think it’s a bit iffy,’ he said. ‘Signing him up without any proper proof. How does he know?’

  ‘Experience,’ Vince offered carelessly. ‘I told you already, it’d be daft to send him for a post-mortem, when he can see at a glance what’s happened. And he’d lose his cash for the papers, if it’s a cremation. Man dies in his sleep, or while having it off with the missis – this sort of age, what else is it going to be?’

  ‘Plus,’ added Sid heavily, ‘it doesn’t do to question a doctor. That medical certificate is Holy Writ, and don’t you forget it. That side of things is none of our business.’

  ‘But—’ Drew couldn’t just let it drop. ‘It’s so sloppy. It makes nonsense of the rules.’

  Sid’s face darkened, and he rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. Vince sighed noisily, knowing what was to come. ‘Now listen to me, Drew Slocombe,’ began Sid, stabbing the air an inch from Drew’s chest. ‘You’re new here, and you’ve come from a medical background, where for all I know you did post-mortems for your own amusement. But this is the real world now. This is what happ
ens. Look at Lapsford – a drinker, womaniser, stressed-out at work, I shouldn’t wonder. Carrying some extra weight, on top of all that. It’s a textbook case. Now leave me in peace, I’ve got some embalming to do.’

  * * *

  When he’d answered the ad for a job in an undertaker’s workshop, and been selected from amongst seven applicants, Drew had felt little emotion other than relief. Four months on income support, after leaving his last job in uncomfortable circumstances, had been a time of limbo verging on panic. Only gradually did some of the implications associated with the funeral business sink in. Karen had gone carefully at first.

  ‘Dead bodies?’ she said neutrally. He nodded his head, slightly sheepish. ‘I’m not sure how I’m going to feel about that,’ she went on, looking at his hands.

  He read her thoughts with ease. ‘We’ll get used to it,’ he assured her. ‘It’s just a disposal job, when you think about it. A service. I’ll be driving the hearse, carrying the coffins into church. Smart clothes. Grateful families. It’s …’ he paused, lost for the right word.

  ‘Different,’ she supplied bravely.

  ‘A challenge,’ he corrected.

  The challenge had been there all right, but not from the corpses. He quickly came to appreciate the passivity, the sheer uncaring malleability of dead bodies. Treated with an almost ludicrous reverence in the presence of their families, once into the mortuary with them, they became embarrassingly insignificant. It was an effort, sometimes, to remember that they had been living breathing people, only hours before. No, Drew had no difficulty with the bodies; it was the other men who made him watch himself constantly and resist any temptation to drop his guard.