by James, Peter
Branson continued, ‘In addition, boss, knowing that we still have the Paternoster car, there is a chance he may hire another vehicle, so we’ve put out an alert with local hire companies.’
‘Nice work.’
‘See, boss? You don’t need to be here, just leave it all to me.’
‘Yeah, thanks. That trial – that’s the Kosmos Papadopoulos one, right?’
‘It is, and it’s not looking good for him.’
‘What a shame.’
In the past year there had been two very large drug network busts in Sussex, one from a fake classic car that had come into Newhaven Port packed with several million pounds’ worth of cocaine. The other had been an equally sophisticated operation, which involved drugs being dropped into the English Channel attached to floats marked by lobster pot buoys and collected by a fishing boat, concealing them at the bottom of its huge cargo of dead mackerel, sole and other fish.
This ring had been masterminded by Kosmos Papadopoulos, a nasty, violent Greek Cypriot known to the police for a long time, who always laundered his money through a string of small but legitimate cash businesses in Brighton and in several other seaside towns in the county. But, as fortunately happened with many successful villains, Papadopoulos had grown overconfident and let down his guard, trying to hire an undercover police officer to arrange a severe beating for a drug-dealing rival in a turf war. The case was high profile, making the local news most days.
There was a silence.
‘But, seriously,’ Branson said, ‘I just want you to know how sorry I am – and Siobhan, who sends her love. If you want to chat, any time, bell me.’
‘I will, thanks.’
‘Don’t worry about anything, it’s all in hand. OK?’
Suddenly, Grace’s voice stalled. He could barely utter his reply. ‘Thanks. Appreciate – it.’
Ending the call, he stood up and went out into the garden, accompanied by a solemn-looking Humphrey who had clearly picked up on their sadness. He walked over to the hen house. Unhooking the door, he entered, closing it behind him to keep out the dog.
As Cleo had said, Bruno’s two favourite hens, Fraulein Andrea and Fraulein Julia, lay motionless, side by side, their heads at unnatural angles.
He knelt and touched the birds. They were stiff and cold.
And so neatly laid out, juxtaposed against each other.
They hadn’t been killed by a fox, which would have ripped them to shreds or just bitten off their feet or heads. Nor could they have died from being egg-bound – not in this perfect symmetrical position.
They had been deliberately killed, almost certainly by having their necks wrung.
Again, he went back to that conversation with Bruno yesterday morning – which now seemed an aeon ago.
Did you know that the ancient Egyptians, when they died and were mummified, had their favourite pets killed and mummified, to go in the tomb with them?
Knowing how much the sight of the hens had distressed Cleo, he picked both of them up, took a spade from the garden shed, then, holding them aloft, out of reach of Humphrey who kept jumping up at them, carried them out through the garden gate, shutting it on the dog. He climbed part way up the hill, stopping when he reached a large gorse bush, and put the two hens down gently on the ground.
Then, striking the spade into the hard, dry soil and pushing down on it with his foot, he began the laborious task of digging, wanting to make a hole deep enough so the unfortunate creatures would not easily be dug back up by a fox.
As he worked away, perspiring heavily from his exertions, he was thinking about both his conversation with Glenn Branson and with the hospital team, who had given him a helpful step-by-step postmortem leaflet for the loved ones of organ donors.
First up, tomorrow morning, he had to go to the Brighton Register Office to register Bruno’s death and obtain the death certificate. Then he and Cleo needed to appoint a funeral director. A huge number of decisions would have to be made about Bruno’s funeral, starting with what kind of coffin, what kind of service. His one certainty was that the boy should be buried in the same graveyard as his mother and as close to her as possible. Bruno’s grandparents had agreed with his thinking.
But all of this was for tomorrow, not now.
He stood staring at the sky and soaking up the beautiful evening, remembering the good times with his eldest son.
He continued to dig until he felt the hole was deep enough. He knelt and laid each of the hens into it. Close by, he saw a pink wild flower. He walked over and picked it, then laid it on top of the birds, before beginning to shovel the earth back onto them.
68
Friday 6 September
Arrangements had been made for Bruno’s postmortem to be carried out at Worthing mortuary, instead of Brighton, and it had taken place the previous afternoon. With the agreement of the Coroner and Christopher Goodman’s solicitor, the defence proffered their own pathologist, Ashley Brown, who was also present alongside the local pathologist to avoid the need for a second postmortem. After close and careful liaison with the transplant team surgeons, the cause of death was confirmed as injuries sustained as a result of the accident. Brown informed the Coroner that he was happy for the body to be released for burial.
On Thursday, Cleo had accompanied Roy for the grim task of arranging his death certificate, and then they had made an appointment to see the funeral director today. Neither of them had gone into work, both wanting to be there to support each other.
They’d taken some comfort from the huge number of emails and social media messages of condolences that had poured through from family, friends and colleagues, including the Chief Constable, the Police and Crime Commissioner, the Headmaster of St Christopher’s School and several other teachers, and one, less welcome and more mealy-mouthed, from Cassian Pewe. Grace had also been surprised to receive a couple expressing their sympathy from criminals he was known to from over the years.
A Facebook memorial page set up by the Lippert family, who had taken care of Bruno after his mother’s accident, already had messages of sympathy from a number of people Grace was not even familiar with and was headed up by a heartfelt message from Erik Lippert, who was Bruno’s best friend in Germany. Grace was surprised to see a post from Cassian Pewe written in German. He wondered what that was about.
For the second time in eighteen months, Grace now found himself back in a funeral home. The last time he had been in one was to discuss the arrangements for Sandy, whom he’d decided to have buried here in England, so that Bruno would have a place to go and mourn his mother whenever he wanted.
He’d never, ever imagined he would be having to make funeral decisions about Bruno.
They’d already decided on burial, rather than cremation – Roy wanted Bruno to be laid to rest in the churchyard of All Saints, Patcham, in a plot as close to Sandy as possible.
They had also decided on the same firm that had handled Sandy’s arrangements, and Grace was pleased, as they entered the curtained-off front of the establishment, to be greeted by the proprietor himself, with whom he’d had the previous dealings, Thomas Greenhaisen.
A tall man in his late fifties, with a shock of grey hair and sparkly blue eyes, the sombre-suited funeral director managed somehow to have found the right balance between being both warm, almost jolly, and reverential and respectful. He looked like he was capable of throwing off his work togs at weekends and picking up a banjo, or maybe a ukulele, and joining a band, Grace thought.
Greenhaisen greeted them both with a sincere bow, before shaking their hands, in turn, taking Cleo’s first then Roy’s, holding each of them for several moments as if taking possession of them, before saying, ‘Mr and Mrs Grace, may I say first how terribly sad I am to be seeing you again so soon. My very deepest condolences for your terrible loss. An eleven-year-old boy.’ He shook his head. ‘I doubt there is anything I can say to console you at this time, but I can assure you we will do everything we can to take as much pressure off
you as we can.’
Cynically and irreverently, Grace was reminded for a moment of his former boss in the police, some years back, Dick Jackson. He’d been a Detective Sergeant and Jackson had been his Inspector. The poor sod had planned to cash in his pension on his retirement and open a funeral parlour because, Dick had said, a little smugly, the two businesses you could never lose money on were food and death. People were always going to have to eat and they were always going to die. He’d joked that he was going to call the business Yours Eventually.
But Dick had dropped dead from a heart attack, swimming in Tenerife, just two months after his retirement. The grim reaper, Grace thought, had yanked the poor man’s chain just a bit too hard.
It had been a timely reminder that retired police officers used to have one of the highest mortality rates of almost any profession. One moment you had your warrant card – which an old copper had described to him as ‘a free pass to the greatest show on earth’ – and the next, the day you handed it in, you were suddenly a civilian again. Joe Public. Joe Shmow.
A lot of officers felt lost after retirement. For thirty years, and sometimes more, they’d held a position of unique power – and respect. But then those thirty years vanished in a flash and they were having their retirement party in the upstairs room of a pub – the more generous ones sticking money behind the bar. A former colleague would give a speech, joking about their blunders, praising their achievements. Maybe show a video of the highlights – and lowlights – of their career. And that was it. Wake up in the morning with a hangover to find you were a – a what? A was-copper?
It came to everyone. Some had made good plans and were fine, picking up well-paid jobs fighting the virulent menace of cybercrime or going back into areas of policing as civilians. But others were left bewildered. Like pot plants that had once flowered magnificently, but now had been left in permanent shade, wondering where the sunshine had gone.
Yours eventually. The phrase had lodged in Grace’s mind. Was Thomas Greenhaisen looking at him and Cleo and thinking the same – that one day they, too, would become customers of Greenhaisen & Sons? Hopefully not until it was ‘& Grandsons’.
Just how sad to see them was Greenhaisen really? Was the first qualification to be a funeral director that you had to be a good actor? Or was he being too cynical?
‘Thank you,’ Roy Grace said politely.
‘Please, come through into my office. May I offer you some refreshments, tea, coffee perhaps?’
‘I’d like a strong coffee with some milk, please,’ Grace said.
‘If you have a peppermint tea?’ Cleo asked.
‘Of course, no trouble.’
As they followed him through into a small office, with a large, opaque window obscuring the view, no doubt, of the hearses parked out back, he picked up the desk phone and asked a man called John to bring in the drinks. Then he ushered them to a round table at which were four comfortable-looking chairs. As Cleo sat, Grace saw a framed certificate on the wall above her, proclaiming Thomas Edward Greenhaisen to be a member of the British Institute of Embalmers.
When the funeral director was seated, with an iPad in front of him, he began by confirming Bruno’s details – his full name, date of birth and home address, and the place where he had died – tapping in all the details assiduously with an immaculately manicured forefinger.
‘May I ask next if Bruno had an affiliation with a particular church or religious group that he might have wished to officiate at his funeral?’
Grace thought fleetingly about how, from his limited knowledge of Sandy’s activities after her disappearance, she had spent some time with the Scientologists, then a further brief time with another sect in Germany.
‘No,’ he said. ‘But I never had the chance to discuss religion with him. That may sound odd, but he has only been with us since his mother died. I don’t think he had any religious views – but my wife and I have decided we would like a Christian funeral, a lightweight one. With some rousing music – perhaps something in German?’
‘Exactly, sir,’ Greenhaisen said. ‘And if I might suggest, in view of Bruno’s age, some of his own favourite music – are there any singers or bands he particularly loved?’
‘Yes, good point,’ Grace said. ‘We’ll have a think about that.’
The funeral director nodded. ‘I’m sure that would go down well, especially as there are bound to be many of his young friends attending.’
Roy and Cleo shot each other a glance. But neither commented.
‘As I told you over the phone, we would like the service and committal to take place in the same church where his mother and I were married, and where she is buried, All Saints, Patcham,’ Grace said.
‘Well, we are very fortunate in that choice, the current vicar is quite an enlightened man – unlike some,’ he said. ‘If you know what I mean?’
Cleo smiled. ‘He’s not a Bible thumper?’
‘Precisely. Now, are there any pressing questions you have?’
‘I guess,’ Grace said, ‘because Bruno’s organs have been donated, will that cause any problems or delays in his funeral?’
‘Well, that will depend on the Coroner. As I understand – and please correct me if I am wrong – the driver of the car in the collision with your son has been interviewed in relation to his driving?’
‘That’s correct,’ Grace said.
‘In which case, there is the possibility of a prosecution and criminal trial.’
Roy interrupted. ‘I understand the postmortem was carried out yesterday afternoon with the defence pathologist, Mr Ashley Brown, present as agreed with the Coroner. The cause of death has been ascertained and Bruno’s body will be released straight away for burial.’
‘That’s good news then, we can fix a date. If it is any small consolation,’ Greenhaisen said, ‘on the subject of costs for a child of this age, we would make no charge for the basic funeral arrangements.’
‘Really?’ Cleo said, astonished.
‘I assure you, we understand a little of the grief that parents like you must be going through. We would not make any charge for the basic funeral, which would include bringing your son into care, providing the hearse, a standard coffin, the bearers and the funeral director. Most churches also waive their fees, although I’m afraid not the gravediggers. Music is provided free of charge. It’s only the extras you would be required to pay for.’
‘This is very generous of you,’ Roy Grace said.
‘It is the very least we can do,’ Greenhaisen said, almost simpering.
‘But I want Bruno to have the best funeral we can give him,’ Grace continued.
‘And the extras would be?’ Cleo asked.
‘That would be the flowers, newspaper announcements and printed order-of-service sheets. The monumental masons would also charge for any headstone, and perhaps, if you so wished, for altering the inscription on your late wife’s headstone to include your son. Then there are special requests, such as releasing doves, a horse-drawn hearse – or anything of that nature.’
The couple were silent for some moments. Then Grace asked, ‘When you say “standard coffin”, what is that, exactly?’
‘A choice of any of our wood veneer finishes. Although for a young person, parents sometimes prefer to go for a paper veneer, which we do have to make a charge for. These can be painted a bright colour – a favourite colour, perhaps – or they can be printed with virtually anything: photographs, views, scenes, characters. I can give you links to a few websites that might give you ideas. If he had a favourite toy or TV show, or football team, perhaps?’
Roy turned to Cleo. ‘What about the colours of Bayern Munich?’
She nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said distantly. ‘That could be nice.’
‘Another thing,’ the funeral director said, ‘I don’t know whether you or anyone else would like to visit Bruno? If so, we would suggest our embalmer has a look at him to make sure he is at his best?’
‘We’ve alread
y said our goodbyes,’ Grace said.
Again Cleo turned to Roy. ‘What about his grandparents?’
‘No, they’ve said their goodbyes at the hospital. We won’t be seeing them until the funeral, which is probably for the best.’ He had a long, difficult history with Sandy’s parents, who had, for all the years Sandy had been missing, made out that they believed he had murdered her. They’d taken their suspicions to the highest level of Sussex Police, resulting in Cassian Pewe ordering a ground-penetrating radar search of the garden of his and Sandy’s former house in Hove. He would never forget how this twisted, horrible couple had lied to him rather than tell him she had been alive and living in Munich in Germany.
‘Once you’ve made your choice of coffin,’ Thomas Greenhaisen said, ‘you might consider whether you would like a framed photo or a favourite toy or book to go in it with him. Also, if I may suggest, youngsters are usually dressed in their own clothes. And a final thing for you both to consider is the frill colour of the coffin. It’s usually cream, but we can accommodate any other colour – whatever you would like. With a small extra cost,’ he added and nodded, his face the very picture of phoney sympathy, Grace thought. And remembered an expression he’d once heard: If you can fake sincerity, the rest is easy.
‘OK, Mr Greenhaisen, thank you,’ Grace said, cutting his spiel short. ‘My wife and I will go away and have a think about all these options.’
‘Of course, of course, decisions of this nature must never be hurried.’
‘Indeed,’ Grace said.
Mr Greenhaisen raised a perfect, soft hand that had clearly never actually dug a grave. ‘I would just say that – very sadly in our city – there is always a waiting list for venues and officiates, so the sooner you and Mrs Grace can make your decisions, the sooner we can make the necessary bookings – subject, of course, to the Coroner.’
