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Chapter One
TUESDAY
1
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 called in about his knee. There wasn't even anything the matter with that.'
`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. He was 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 now, when everything had 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, sheltered from any unsavoury mysteries. Drew had seen them for only 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 her sons, and then muttered, `Can't see any point in a postmortem. Obvious heart attack. Tell Daphne I'll be along tomorrow to do the papers, if it's a cremation.' Together the three men 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 next to the male side of the bed. 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. Drew examined the titles with a quickly suppressed smile. On the wife's side was a wardrobe and a small chest of drawers. The top drawer was not properly closed; something made of bright red satin had been 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 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, 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 went everywhere with him. Only had eyes for Jim.'
Vince pushed out his lips in judicious sympathy. `They say it's best if you show them just what's happened,' he said.
`Oh, I did that,' she replied dismissively. `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 pathetic.' Abruptly, her voice cracked, and she struggled against a flurry of tears. Funny, thought Drew, why people fight so hard not to cry. The picture 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 frontroom 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 for the first time in years, 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 face 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 on himself by going to the doctor after such a long time. And that doctor -- seemed in a rush to leave, 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 postmortem 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 twenty-four, 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 hand, 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.
`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, 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 postmortem 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. `Now listen to me, Drew Slocombe,' he began, 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 postmortems for your own amusement. But this is the real world. Look at Lapsford -- a drinker, womaniser, stressed out at work, I shouldn't wonder, and 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 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 a ludicrous reverence in the presence of their families, once in the mortuary corpses became almost 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.
`Drew's a funny name,' said Big George, on his second day. `Where's that from, then?'
Drew made the mistake of a small sneer of contempt. ` An drew, of course,' he said. From that moment on, Big George had called him Andy , with an air of innocent sincerity.
`Lost your last job?' Vince had queried. `What'd you been doing?'
`Nursing,' Drew replied readily, his story well prepared. `They cut the budget. Offered me permanent nights, but I knew I couldn't take that. Worked for an agency for a bit, but it was too insecure. Never liked it much, anyway. Thought I'd find something new right away, but it took a bit longer than that.'
`Nurse Drew,' carolled Pat, a handsome Irishman who was normally the Conductor of the funerals: the widow's darling. Too late, Drew realised that despite Casualty 's cast of hunky male nurses, the job had not yet achieved full credibility amongst coffin makers and pallbearers.
Four weeks into the new job, he was slowly and painfully establishing himself as a good sport, a willing butt of jokes and teasing. He earned credit by cheerfully assisting Sid with mortuary work, putting in dentures, stitching up lips and removing pacemakers with a deftness never before witnessed by his new colleagues.
`It's going to be okay,' he told Karen. `It's obvious that the newest and youngest one is going to get some stick.'
`Well, don't let them bully you,' she said, running her fingers lightly the wrong way along the hairs of his arm. She had found to her surprise that living with a man who worked with the dead was seriously erotic. `As if I have to prove we're both alive,' she'd laughed. Every time she did that to his arm, he felt raw and naked: nerve endings sprang to attention in all kinds of places.
`That baby's going to be here in no time at this rate,' he'd said, pulling her to him. She was almost as tall as him, and slightly heavier. Her forebears had been Polish, and she had the shoulders and cheekbones to prove it. She made him feel safe and important and lucky.
I must have a thing about shoulders , Drew said to himself now, as he followed Vince out of the mortuary. The other man was working his muscular upper arms in dramatic circles, a habit that Drew had noticed in his first week. Vince was due to carry a coffin later that morning, and had long ago established a routine in preparation. His shoulders were naturally built for the job, although he regularly remarked that pallbearing had further flattened them into neat shelves -- `undertaker's ledges', he'd dubbed them.
`Hey, Sid,' Vince remembered, turning back for a moment. `We saw your Susie just now, having a right old ding-dong with some boy.'
Drew felt a moment of anxiety. Maybe the girl didn't want her father to know her business. Wasn't Vince being thoughtless? It was a generation thing, he realised. He automatically identified with the girl; Vince with her father.
`Must have been that Craig she's seeing,' shrugged Sid. `She says she's fed up with him. Who'd be young, eh?'
Vince glanced at Drew with a smirk. `It has its compensations, I reckon. You don't get so stiff, for a start, after doing an early removal.'
II
In Primrose Close, the news of Jim Lapsford's death was rippling outwards by fits and starts. Over half the houses were empty on a workday morning, and few of the neighbours had been alerted by the arrival of, first Dr Lloyd, then the Lapsford sons, and finally Vince and Drew. Neither had anyone witnessed the discreet and hurried removal of the body, swathed in black and smoothly rolled into the back of the undertaker's vehicle in seconds.
There had, however, been a witness to the arrival of Philip, the elder son, when he drove urgently up to the house. His mother had met him on the doorstep, flinging her arms around him as if finally rescued from some unendurable torment. This witness was Sarah Simpson from next door, who had hurried upstairs to tell Dottie, with whom she lived, that something very odd was going on in number twenty-four. The two women -- respectable widows both -- wondered what emergency could have assembled no fewer than four vehicles outside one house between seven and eight o'clock on a Tuesday morning. They soon came to the conclusion that something really serious had happened.
`You don't think Jim might have died , do you?' Dottie whispered, eyes wide. `That did look awfully like an undertaker's vehicle, now I come to think of it.'
Sarah opened her mouth to dismiss the idea, but closed it again, the words unspoken. `We'll have to wait till the sons have gone. Then we could pop round. If something terrible has happened, we should do what we can to help.' Small and determined, Sarah usually made the decisions for them both.
`But wouldn't there have been an ambulance? Police cars?' Dottie pursued. She peered out of the window again, over Sarah's head. Dottie was tall and tending to vagueness: she had a long face, and eyes which had somehow stretched with age, like a bloodhound's. `When Arthur died,' she went on, `we had the whole panoply of emergency services.'
`But he did fall downstairs, dear,' Sarah reminded her. `It's different when it's natural causes.'
`How do you know?'
Sarah shrugged. `I just pay attention, I suppose. I never understand how it is you don't know.'
`Well, but Jim wasn't ill. I saw him on Sunday, in the garden. Laughing and putting up that new trellis thing. The picture of health. And I saw him last night, when I was putting the milk bottle out. He waved to me, cheerful as can be. No, no. He can't possibly be dead.'
`It was probably a heart attack,' pursued Sarah, as if Dottie had never spoken. `Isn't that what they say? Never a day's illness, and then dead in seconds.' Sarah seemed to relish the idea. `Lovely way to go.'
Dottie shuddered. `Not to my mind. Too much of a shock for everyone. Think of poor Monica.'
Sarah frowned repressively. `Poor Monica has plenty of friends to see her through.'
`Like us, you mean?'
`I was thinking more of a certain gentleman friend. A certain very attentive gentleman friend.'
`Oh, Sarah, how could you? That's just gossip. And anyway, she works for him, if you're talking about who I think you're talking about. He probably comes round about business things.'
Sarah swept across the living room to the kitchen, where she had a large bowl of blackberries waiting to be turned into jam. `I know what I know,' she said meaningfully.
Dottie considered letting the matter drop, then decided against it. `Sarah, the woman's at least forty-five, not some silly young thing. I really don't think--'
`That's nonsense and you know it. She might be forty-five -- more, I'd say, judging by the age of those sons of hers -- but that means nothing. Goodness, Dottie, you seem to live in quite a different world from the rest of us.'
`Well, it's no business of ours. And if something's happened to Jim, then we have to be good neighbours. Offer to help. We could take the little dog for a walk -- I'm fond of that little dog.'
(Continues...)
Excerpted from DARK UNDERTAKINGS by Rebecca Tope. Copyright © 1999 by Rebecca Tope. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
