“I asked why only one body had been removed and two left behind,” said Saracen, feeling intimidated.
“Could it be that the undertakers’ vehicle can only accommodate two bodies at the one time? Three bodies equals…two trips?”
“Could be,” agreed Saracen quietly and now feeling absolutely ridiculous. He got to his feet and started to brush himself down for his clothes were in a mess. Garten looked at him distastefully and said curtly, “I’ll bid you good-night. Lock up before you go.”
Saracen went back to the locker room in A amp;E to change his clothes for he kept a spare set there as necessary insurance against periodic dousing with blood, vomit or whatever. Mercifully he met no one and was able to leave again without having to offer an explanation to anyone. As he left the building a posse of policemen were escorting four drunken men through the swing doors. They had been involved in some kind of violent confrontation by the look of them and two were still trying to get at each other. “All the best Nigel,” said Saracen under his breath as he got into his car and started the engine.
When he had got over the burning embarrassment of having been discovered in the mortuary by Garten, Saracen saw that he could still be right. The removal of the circuit breaker might still have been the only thing wrong with the refrigeration unit. Garten’s glib explanation might have been nothing more than a lie. It could still all have been an excuse for the quick removal of Cohen’s body. But why? Unlike Myra Archer Cohen was definitely dead when he arrived at Skelmore General so there was no question of any mistake having been made or any delay being involved this time. What was Garten afraid of? Saracen decided that there was now a second post-mortem report he would have to take a look at.
Sudden death demanded an inquest unless the victim’s general practitioner felt able to sign the death certificate. A hospital doctor could also sign but would not in the case of a patient who was dead on arrival. In that instance a post-mortem would be a sine qua non for establishing the cause of death and the subsequent issuing of a death certificate. With luck Dave Moss would get a look at the PM report on Myra Archer in the morning and let him know what it said. Maybe that would shed some light on things.
Saracen had an idea. If he got a move on in the morning he could contact the undertakers, Maurice Dolman and Sons, and arrange to examine Leonard Cohen’s body himself! That would be better then just waiting for the report on the autopsy. To hell with Garten and to hell with the consequences. He had to know what was going on.
Saracen phoned Dolman’s at nine in the morning. “This is Dr Saracen at Skelmore General. I understand you have custody of the body of Leonard Cohen?”
“That is correct,” said the sombre voice, “We were asked to assist when your refrigeration system broke down.”
“I’d like to see the body,” said Saracen.
There was a pause then Dolman said, “Of course Doctor. When would you like to come?”
Saracen looked at his watch. “Twenty minutes?”
“I’ll expect you.”
Saracen put down the phone and felt deflated for the man had shown no surprise at all. It was almost as if he had been expecting the call. Was that a possibility? he wondered. Could Garten have warned him? Saracen picked up the phone again and contacted the hospital switchboard. He asked for the number of the contract engineer for refrigeration equipment in the hospital and jotted it down on the pad in front of him. He called it.
“I take it you have been informed of the compressor failure in the mortuary at Skelmore General last night?” he asked.
“No,” replied the puzzled voice. “This is the first we have heard of it.”
“My mistake,” said Saracen and put the phone down. At least he had been right about one thing.
“Is that you phoning your stockbroker again?” joked Alan Tremaine who was passing.
“I have to go out for about half an hour,” said Saracen. “Look after the shop will you.”
“Sure. Are you going up to see Chenhui?”
Saracen told Tremaine that he was going up to Dolman’s to have a look at the body Chenhui was asked to certify.
“He was a DOA wasn’t he?”
Saracen nodded.
“Do you think that had something to do with her breakdown?”
“I don’t know but I think it’s worth checking out.”
“Garten has it down in the book as a straight-forward cardiac case,” said Tremaine.
“I know,” said Saracen.
“And if our leader should call?”
“Tell him,” said Saracen.
Getting parked near Ventnor Lane in mid-morning stretched Saracen’s patience to the limit. He could not get into the lane itself because two hearses and a black Bedford van were already parked there and all the surrounding streets were etched with double yellow lines. This in itself had not prevented a caravan of lorries from stopping there with their wheels half up on the pavement as their drivers made their deliveries and obstructed traffic in both directions.
The streets in this area, the oldest part of town, were narrow and overhung with an odd assortment of two and three storey buildings which huddled together as if in mutual support, each cemented to the other with the dirt and grime of centuries.
Saracen saw a space among the rubble of a recently demolished warehouse and risked the anger of traffic behind by stopping suddenly and attempting to reverse into it. A red faced man, driving a Rover, blew his horn angrily and made a rude gesture at Saracen. Saracen noted the florid complexion as he smiled an apology and said quietly through his teeth, “See you soon old man.”
The premises of Maurice Dolman and Sons were painted black and grey and fronted with double shop windows, each blanked out to just above eye level with smoke grey paint. This had the effect of making the inside of the building artificially dark even in mid-morning and required that the lights — crystal wall lights — be kept on all the time.
There was no one at the counter when Saracen went in so he took time to take in his surroundings. A tape of solemn organ music was playing and it irked him. Unwilling to accept its celestial origins he looked for the concealed speakers and found one grille above a photograph of a hearse captioned, ‘1933’. There was another in a peg board screen on the other side of the room that carried yet more photographs of hearses and the dates when they had served with the company.
Saracen saw the polished brass bell on the counter. It sat beside a leather bound edition of the Bible and a small plate which invited him to ‘Press for Attention.’ He slapped it hard with his palm, not that he was annoyed that no one was about. He just wanted to destroy the bogus aura of reverence.
There was a movement from somewhere at the back. A series of slow footsteps seemed to go on for ever before a short man wearing black jacket and striped trousers appeared at the counter. He had his hands clasped together as if he had been disturbed at prayer.
“May I be of assistance sir?” The man inquired in a voice full of practised sympathy and concern.
“I’m Saracen. I telephoned.”
“Oh yes,” said the man, affecting an immediate change of tone. “This way.”
Saracen followed the man, whom he took to be Maurice Dolman himself, through a narrow corridor flanked by partitioned cubicles. Each was furnished in similar fashion with a desk and three chairs and was where Saracen deduced the ‘loved ones’ decided which of Dolman’s wares should accompany their departed on the final journey. An elderly typist sat in the last cubicle, her spectacles perched on her nose, hands poised above the keyboard as she read her notes before committing her fingers to the keys.
They left the front shop and descended some stairs to a basement which joined with that of a neighbouring building. There was a strong chemical smell in the air and the rooms were now lit by fluorescent fittings that filled every corner with cold, hard, shadowless light.