by Dick Francis
“OK, I suppose so,” he said, clearly reluctantly.
“Good,” I said briskly before he could think of another excuse. “I’ll call you back in fifteen minutes.”
While I waited, I used the Internet to look up funeral directors close to Wexham Park Hospital. There were loads of them. I’d never realized that dying was so popular in that part of Berkshire.
I’d also never realized how expensive dying could be. A basic, no-frills funeral would cost about a thousand pounds, and that didn’t include the substantial price of a grave plot or the charge for the use of the crematorium. Add to that the cost of the necessary certificates, as well as a fee for someone to conduct the service, and it soon became a hefty sum indeed. To say nothing of the extras that could be incurred if I wanted an eco-friendly cardboard coffin or a choir. I began to wish I’d taken a bit more from the blue-plastic-wrapped packages to cover the expenses.
What, I wondered, would have happened if I hadn’t been here?
I called back the official at the coroner’s office.
“The police are happy, after all, that a cremation of Mr. Talbot’s remains can take place,” he said. “And the CPS doesn’t seem to be bothered at the moment because no one has been arrested yet for the crime.”
“Great,” I replied. I had discovered that the cost of a cremation was much less than that for a grave plot. “Tell me,” I went on, “who organizes and pays for a funeral of someone who turns up from abroad and dies in England without any family or friends?”
“The local Environmental Health Department would have to see to it,” he said.
“And they pay?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “But they then try and recover the money from the family or from the deceased’s estate. But that won’t happen here because you are the next of kin and you’re here, so you can pay for it.” He made it sound so easy.
“How about if I couldn’t afford to?” I asked.
“You could apply to the Social Fund for help,” he said. “But you’d have to be receiving some sort of state benefit to qualify.”
Somehow it didn’t seem quite fair that my father had turned up out of the blue when I had thought he’d been dead for thirty-seven years only for me to be saddled with his funeral expenses, especially when his death was due to someone else sticking him in the guts with a carving knife. But I could tell that it was going to be no good arguing about it. There wouldn’t be a huge amount of sympathy for someone who had murdered his wife even if he himself had been the victim of a violent end. I would just have to shut up and pay up.
I called the first funeral director on the Internet list.
“We could fit you in this coming Friday,” the man said. “We’ve had a cancellation at Slough Crem. It’s a bit short notice, though.”
I amusingly wondered how a funeral director could have a cancellation for a cremation. Perhaps the deceased had miraculously returned to life.
“What time on Friday?” I asked.
“Three o’clock,” he said.
Friday was just two days away, but I didn’t think that really mattered. It wasn’t as if there would be anyone else coming. I wondered if I should try to contact his family in Australia to ask if any of them would want to attend. But I didn’t even know who to contact, and no one from there had been in touch with me during the past two weeks, either directly or through the Coroner’s Court, and they had my address.
“Three on Friday will be fine,” I said.
“Right,” he said. “Where is your father’s body?”
Good question, I thought. “I presume he’s still at Wexham Park Hospital,” I said. “But I’m not sure. The coroner’s office will know.”
I started to give him their number.
“Don’t worry, we’ve got it,” he said. “We’ll fix everything.”
For a fee, no doubt, I thought rather ungraciously.
“Do I need to book someone to take the service?” I asked.
“We can also fix that if you like, but you don’t have to have anyone religious if you don’t want to,” he said. “Anyone can take the service. You can officiate yourself, if you want to.”
“No,” I said. “I think he would have wanted a vicar or something.”
I couldn’t imagine why I thought that. Perhaps it was me who would rather have a clergyman. I wasn’t a very religious person, but I did think it would be slightly odd if I officiated at the service and, at the same time, was the only mourner present. Better to have an expert, so to speak.
“Any special request for music or hymns?” he said.
“No,” I said. “Whatever the vicar thinks is fit will be fine by me.” I didn’t exactly say that just a couple of quick words and straight into the fiery furnace would be ideal, but I made it clear that all I wanted was a simple funeral. The minimum that was acceptable would do well, I told him. It wasn’t as if I’d had a lifelong affection for my father.
“Do you want any flowers placed on the coffin?” he asked.
“I think not,” I said. Historically, cut flowers were placed on and around coffins to provide a sweet scent to cover any other unwelcome aromas that might emanate from the decomposing corpse within. I assumed my father’s body had been stored in appropriate refrigeration since his death, so flowers should be unnecessary.
“As it’s such short notice,” the man said, “could we have full payment up front by credit card?”
“Is that normal?” I asked.
“Quite normal,” he assured me. “Especially as the deceased was not resident in this country, with no estate to be probated by the courts.”
As it was the custom in Britain to cremate the coffin with the body, I could see that it would be rather difficult for the funeral director to take it back due to lack of payment once the event had occurred.
I gave him my credit card number and my address.
“Thank you, Mr. Talbot,” he said. “Of course, we will send you an itemized account after the day.”
“Thank you,” I said.
The business of life and death went on.
I thought that it must be difficult to be a good salesman in the undertaking trade. There had to be a line where selling a higher-class, and hence more expensive, coffin to a bereaved family became exploitation rather than acceptable good corporate practice. Especially if the coffin was almost immediately to be incinerated to ashes in a crematorium at a temperature in excess of eight hundred and fifty degrees centigrade.
“Is there anything else I need to do?” I asked.
“The death will need to be registered with the registrar,” he said. “But if it’s still subject to an inquest, that will have to wait until after the inquest is over. In the meantime, the coroner will issue a temporary death certificate, and you will have to sign Form A.”
“Form A?” I asked.
“Application for a cremation. It has to be signed by the executor or the next of kin. But you can do that just before the service. Everything else we need we’ll get from the coroner.”
“Right,” I said. “I’ll see you on Friday afternoon.”
I sat in my office for a while wondering who I should tell. I expect the police would want to know, but was I required to inform them? And should I tell my grandmother that her son’s funeral was on Friday? Perhaps not, I thought. It would be far less distressing for her if I didn’t.
And how about Sophie?
We had never really discussed my parents as I’d never had any memories of either of them. She still thought they had both died in a car accident when I was a baby. Should I now explain to her that Alan Charles Grady, the man who had owned the black-and-red rucksack, the man who had been murdered in the Ascot racetrack parking lot, had actually been Peter James Talbot, my father? Not dead for the past thirty-seven years, as Sophie had thought, but dead for just fifteen days? And did I tell her that my mother had also not died in a car crash but had been strangled on the beach under the pier at Paignton? And did I further tell her
that it had been my father who was responsible?
I decided that I would, in time, tell Sophie all about the events of the past two weeks, but not just yet. She had enough to deal with at the moment, having just come home from the hospital. I certainly didn’t want to upset the balance of her life, not while she was still adapting to her drug regime.
I decided I would go to my father’s funeral alone.
Luca arrived at Station Road, Kenilworth, at noon, and he had a spiky-haired boy with him. Douglas Masters, I presumed. He looked about sixteen. He was wearing a red-checked shirt with rolled-up sleeves, fawn denim trousers that looked like they were about to fall down off his hips and dirty white trainers over yellow socks.
“Hello,” I said cheerfully, holding out my hand.
“Hi,” he replied without any humor. He shook my hand but warily, leaning forward to grasp it.
“Is he old enough?” I asked Luca. Eighteen was the minimum age for working as a bookmaker or as a bookmaker’s assistant.
“I’m eighteen,” the boy assured me.
“I’m sorry to ask, but I’ll have to see some ID,” I said.
He pulled a dog-eared driver’s license from his pocket and held it out to me. According to the license, he was indeed eighteen and two months. The photo on it made him look about thirteen.
“OK, Douglas, thank you,” I said. “And welcome.”
“Duggie,” he said. “Or Doug. Not Douglas.”
“OK,” I repeated. “Duggie it is.”
He nodded. “How about you?” he asked.
“Call me Mr. Talbot for now,” I said.
“And him?” he said, nodding at Luca
“That’s up to Mr. Mandini,” I said.
“Luca will be fine,” Luca said.
He nodded once more. “Just so I know,” he said.
I think it was fair to say that young Mr. Masters was economical with his words and his expressions. I raised my eyebrows at Luca in silent question.
“Duggie will be fine,” said Luca, sticking up for his young friend. “I think he’s just a little shy.”
“No, I’m not,” said Duggie with assurance but no grace. “I’m just careful. I don’t know you.”
“Are you always careful with people you don’t know?” I asked him. My dying father had told me to be careful of everyone.
“Yup,” he said, being ultracareful.
“Good,” I said overexuberantly. “That’s exactly what’s needed in bookmaking. You can’t be too careful because you never really know your customers or what they might be up to.”
He looked at me, cocking his head to one side. “Are you taking the mick?” he said slowly.
“Something like that,” I replied.
He smiled. It was a brief smile, but a vast improvement while it lasted.
“That’s all right, then,” he said.
“Come on, let’s go,” I said with a smile, “or we’ll be late.” The three of us loaded up into my Volvo, with Luca sitting up front next to me and Duggie in the back. Sophie came to the door to wave as we set off for the Worcester races.
“How’s she doing?” Luca asked me, waving back at her.
“Fine,” I said, not really wanting to discuss things in front of Douglas, but the young man was very quick on the uptake.
“Is she ill?” he asked from behind me.
“She’s fine at the moment, thank you,” I said, hoping to end the conversation at that point.
“Cancer, is it?” he said.
“No,” I said.
“My mum had cancer,” he said. “It killed her in the end.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said wistfully. “Everyone’s sorry. Doesn’t bring her back, though, does it?”
There was no answer to that, so we sat in silence for a while, and I warmed to the boy.
“Duggie,” I said, “how well do you know the others in the electronics club?”
“I know some of them,” he said. “Why?”
“Are you careful of them as well?” I asked. “Or would you trust them?”
“Maybe I’d trust them not to grass to the cops, none of them is snitches,” he said. “That’s about all.”
“How many of them are there?”
“Dunno,” he said. “Quite a lot.”
“There must be sixty of them at least, if you count them all,” said Luca. “But they’re not all there on any one night. Most come out of choice these days, but some still don’t come unless they are told to by the courts, and others disappear from time to time, you know, when they get sent off to young offenders’ institutions.”
“So how many of those sixty would you actually trust, Duggie?” I asked.
“With what?” he replied.
“With some money,” I said. “Say, to go and buy something for me or to place a bet.”
“Maybe half,” he said.“The rest would just spend it on themselves. On drugs, mostly.”
Half of them would be enough, I thought.
“Would you know which are the ones to trust?” I asked him.
“Sure,” he said with confidence. “The ones who are my mates.”
“What did you do, Duggie?” I asked, changing the subject. “To be sent to the club?”
There was a long pause.
“Stole cars,” he said finally.
“For money?” I asked.
“Nah,” he said. “For fun.”
“Do you still steal cars?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
“Do you have any recorded convictions?” I asked.
There was another long silence from the back of the car.
“Duggie,” I said. “I’m not asking so that I can judge you myself, but I need to know under the conditions of my bookmaking license.”
Under the terms for the issuing of licenses in the mammoth Gambling Act 2005, prior convictions did not, in themselves, mean an individual was not a fit and proper person to hold a bookmaker’s license. Equally, they didn’t preclude someone from working as a bookmaker’s assistant. But I needed to know. Convictions for violence would be a no-no.
“Yes,” Duggie said.
“Just for stealing cars?” I asked.
Convictions for fraud were also not permitted.
“Yes,” he said reluctantly. “But I never really done it. I was told to plead guilty.”
“Who by?” I asked.
“Our poncey lawyer,” he said. “There was a group of us. We all got done for it. The lawyer said we would get a lesser sentence if we pleaded guilty. So I did.”
“But why if you didn’t do it?” I asked.
“I was in the car, wasn’t I?” he said. “But I didn’t know it was stolen. The poncey lawyer said I would get done anyway, so I should plead guilty.”
I wasn’t sure whether to believe him.
“Is that all?” I said. “Only the once?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“OK,” I said.
I drove on in silence for a while.
“I won’t steal your money, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Duggie said eventually.
I wasn’t, but I might keep a close eye on him anyway.
The Wednesday racing at Worcester was quiet compared with the previous evening at Towcester. There were not really enough runners in each race, and, in spite of the closeness of the racetrack to the city center, not that many punters had actually turned up. Those who had seemed to have little cash with them to gamble, and overall it was not a very profitable afternoon for us and hardly covered the cost of the petrol to get there.
One of the plus points, however, had been Duggie. He had gradually opened up as the day progressed and had clearly enjoyed himself. The more responsibility I gave him to pay out the winning tickets, the more confident I became in his ability.
“Where are we on Monday?” I asked Luca as we packed up after the last race.
“Nowhere,” he said. “It’s a day off.”
“Not
anymore,” I said. “We’re going to Bangor-on-Dee.”
“That’s a long way for a small meeting.”
“Nevertheless, we’re going,” I said. “I’ve looked at the race entries. Tell Larry Porter he’s going too. And tell him to bring the box of tricks.”
Luca stopped loading the trolley, stood up and looked at me.
“Right,” he said, smiling. “I will.”
“And Luca,” I said. “I need you to do something for me on Friday.”
“We’re at Warwick on Friday,” he said.
“Not anymore, we’re not,” I said. “Friday is now a day off from racing. I want you to go and see some of your electronics club delinquents, the trustworthy ones, Duggie’s friends. I need their help.”
I explained fully what I wanted him to do and his enthusiasm level went off the scale. I didn’t mention to him, however, that I’d be spending Friday afternoon at my father’s funeral in Slough Crematorium.
“Duggie here will help you,” I said as we loaded the equipment into the back of the Volvo. “He seems to know them pretty well.”
Duggie smiled. “Does that mean I’ve got the job?” he asked.
“You’re on probation,” I said. “Until Monday.”
He looked at me uncertainly.
“Not that sort of probation,” I said with a laugh.
We discussed our plans as I drove back around the M42 in the rush-hour traffic, and then on to my house in Kenilworth.
“Warwick tomorrow evening, then?” said Luca.
“Definitely,” I said. “Do you want to come here first or go straight there?”
“We’ll come here first,” Luca replied. “First race is at six-thirty. Here at five?”
“Five will be fine,” I said.
“I hope your wife will be all right, Mr. Talbot,” Duggie said as he climbed into Luca’s car.
“Thank you, Duggie,” I said.
He would do well, I thought.
You could have cut the air in the house with a knife, such was the tension between the sisters. The truce, it seemed, was over.
Sophie met me in the hallway tight-lipped, with angry-looking eyes. She nodded her head in the direction of the stairs at the same time as looking up. I understood immediately that she wanted me to go up. So I did. And she followed.
