‘Ex-aunty.’ Johnny took his nip from Lauren. ‘He didn’t even know the old boy was dead.’
Lauren’s eyes widened.
‘You do know your uncle’s funeral’s this afternoon?’ She turned to Wee Johnny. ‘You did tell him?’
The old man put a hand protectively around his drinks, as if afraid they might be confiscated.
‘I never thought.’
Lauren glanced at the five-minutes-fast clock above the bar.
‘Seafield Crematorium. If you get a cab, you might just make it.’
Murray shoved some money on the bar and headed for the door. Behind him Wee Johnny said, ‘Haud on while I finish these, son, and I’ll hitch a ride with you.’
But Murray let the door swing shut. He headed back out into the murk of the alley, then down towards the station taxi rank, hoping to be in time to see Bobby Robb make the big fire.
Chapter Fifteen
MURRAY FELT THE taxi driver taking in his scuffed trainers and worn jeans and attempted a joke. ‘My mother always said I’d be late for my own funeral.’ He handed over a tenner. ‘Keep the change.’
The driver rattled some coins onto the little tray set in the grille dividing them.
‘There are times when it doesn’t hurt to show some respect.’
He waited until Murray shut the door, then spun the cab round and away, a look of disgust pasted to his face. Murray pocketed his change. As insults went, ‘keep your money’ was a good one. But it lacked sting when the sum involved was fifty pence.
The crematorium looked like a solid place to transform flesh into dust. It had been built sometime in the 1930s, when white facades and art deco symmetry were in vogue. Five frosted glass windows flanked a door wide enough for a coffin and pall-bearers; a giant mouth bounded by milky eyes. There was something grimly cinematic about the whole arrangement; a sombre invitation to a show you might not want to see. Virginia creeper covered the building’s front, a shaggy hairdo at odds with otherwise dignified features. The ivy seemed in bad taste to Murray, a graveyard escape reaching out its tendrils to the living, who had only come to bid goodbye.
A few mourners had gathered a short distance from the front door, waiting on the next event. The dark suits, black ties and cupped cigarettes made the men look like members of a pale-faced Mafia family. The women’s mourning clothes were less assured, combinations of grey, navy and black, outfits pieced together with emphasis on colour rather than style, as if the occasion was unexpected and they had been forced to rifle their wardrobes for something suitable at the last moment, which Murray supposed they probably had.
The name Robb was on a little sign outside the chapel. He shouldered his rucksack, took a deep breath and climbed the entrance steps, feeling the waiting mourners’ disinterested eyes on his back.
Inside it was strangely bright after the grey of the cemetery. He slipped quietly into the back row, his trainers silent against the polished oak floor. The minister was reciting a prayer, but the two pints he had sunk with Wee Johnny seemed suddenly to be working on him and Murray couldn’t make out the words. He bowed his head, clasped his hands and focused on his interlocked fingers.
Here’s the church, here’s the steeple, look inside and there’s all the people.
No one else had come to see Bobby Robb off. Murray glanced down the chapel, past the empty regiment of seats, to where the coffin still waited. Bobby was inside it, his scar grinning on into death, his secrets destined to be consigned to the fire with him.
It was too warm and there was a bad taste in his mouth. Murray was almost sure he could feel the grit of burnt cinders beneath the savour of stale malts. He wondered if the crematorium powered their heating from the bodies. It would make good sense, though he guessed it was an ecological triumph they might not want to advertise. The minister’s words were familiar now.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no eviclass="underline" for thou art with me;
Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
Murray’s head began to nod. He dug his knuckles into his forehead and blinked his eyes open.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies;
Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
How much credence did he give to George Meikle’s theory? The bookfinder was sincere, but that didn’t make him right. His story was based on a bad feeling he’d had under the influence forty years ago and a few unsubstantiated rumours. Odds were Bobby Robb was just another waster who’d grown into a lonely old man. There were enough of those in the city.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life:
And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
The minister was asking him to rise now. Murray unclasped his hands as the organ croaked into a suitably sombre tune. Murray felt a weight of self-pity in his chest. Was this his ‘Ghost of Christmas yet to come’, a foretaste of his own funeral, the empty chairs and uninterested minister?
He stood up as the tasselled velvet curtain drew magically across the coffin, veiling it from view. A decision forced itself on him.
It was stupid to waste time on quarrels. He would phone Jack.
Down in the front row a short figure he hadn’t noticed also got to her feet. Murray slipped from his place and silently left the chapel as the boxed remains of Bobby Robb slid into the furnace.
The waiting mourners’ number had expanded while he’d been inside. Murray crossed the pathway and stood a little away from the main body of the group, distant enough not to be accused of gate-crashing, but close enough to be mistaken for one of their number.
He’d only caught a glimpse of the back of the woman’s head as she rose from her chair. If Bobby Robb was as bad as Meikle painted him, then odds were the lone mourner was some unfortunate soul Bobby had leeched onto, to look after him in his final years. But a scintilla of excitement had slid into his chest at the sight of her.
An elderly man in the waiting crowd gave Murray a quizzical look, as if trying to place him. Murray straightened his jacket, wishing he didn’t look so scruffily conspicuous, then pulled his phone from his pocket and put it to his ear, the ideal alibi.
He called Jack on speed dial, but a robotic female voice primly told him the number was unavailable and cut the call without giving him the opportunity to leave a message. The woman emerged from the chapel and limped painfully down the stairs, resting her weight on a walking stick. She was shorter than he’d imagined. He supposed her height, combined with the chapel’s high-backed chairs, had conspired to hide her from him. It certainly wasn’t the sobriety of her outfit.
Bobby Robb’s only mourner was dressed in a pale lilac trouser suit, with a pink scarf tied loosely at her neck. The colours should have clashed with her hair, but the ice-cream pallet cleverly set off its russet tones. It would only take a posy of flowers to make her look like a tastefully dressed, mature bride. Murray overheard an elderly female mourner whisper, in tones that seemed to hold an equal share of admiration and disapproval, ‘The merry widow.’