Saracen had slowed to a crawl by the time he had come to the first sign of activity. A policeman in reflective clothing was waving him down with a long-handled torch.
“There’s been a bit of an accident sir,” said the officer, looking in through Saracen’s open window.
Saracen’s priorities changed. “I’m a doctor. Can I help?” he asked.
The policeman looked rather surprised for a moment and it made Saracen realise how dishevelled he must be. His hair was soaking wet, his face, he thought, must be filthy and he had congealed blood on his cheek from the graze.
“You’d have to be Jesus Christ to do something for the poor sod who got hit sir but perhaps you could take a look at the driver of the car. He’s elderly and a bit upset. You know how it is.”
Saracen got out, more than ever aware of the policeman’s appraising looks.
“Been in a bit of an accident ourselves have we sir?” the man asked.
Saracen was expecting the question. “Puncture,” he said, “Had to change a wheel in this damned rain then the wheel brace slipped and I hit my face on the side of the car.”
“Always the way sir, “laughed the policeman, “You never get punctures on sunny afternoons.”
Saracen saw the body lying by the side of the road; it was covered by a tarpaulin. Two policemen were standing beside it waiting for the ambulance to arrive. One was stamping his feet and swinging his arms across his body to keep warm. Saracen went across and was aware of the sound of the rain on their plastic jackets as he bent down to draw back the cover. It was Wylie! His eyes were open and lifeless.
“You old bastard,” said Saracen under his breath.
“Can I take it you know this man?” asked one of the policemen.
There was a long pause before Saracen said flatly, “I know him. This is Dr Cyril Wylie, consultant pathologist at the County Hospital.”
“I thought he looked vaguely familiar,” said one of the policemen to the other. “I’ve seen him in court.”
Saracen pulled back the tarpaulin a bit more and saw that Wylie’s chest had been completely crushed where the car had gone over him. He put back the cover and stood up.
“Was Dr Wylie a friend of yours sir?” asked the policeman who had flagged Saracen down. He was puzzled at Saracen’s behaviour.
“No,” replied Saracen, unable to take his eyes off the crumpled heap on the ground.
“You wouldn’t happen to know what Dr Wylie would be doing out here on foot on a night like this?”
“Perhaps his car broke down,” said Saracen.
“Had a puncture you mean sir?”
Saracen heard the inflection in the policeman’s voice and read scepticism about his own story into it. It put him on his guard. “Possibly,” he said.
“We’ve put out an alert for his car,” said one of the other policemen but Saracen’s man was reluctant to let the moment go. “The driver of the car that hit him says that Dr Wylie weaved out in front of him as if he were drunk…or had been in a fight or something?”
So that was it, thought Saracen. PC Super Sleuth had come to the conclusion that he and Wylie had been fighting because of the state of his clothes and the mark on his face. He said evenly, “It was common knowledge that Dr Wylie had a drink problem. He was due to retire soon.”
“I see sir. I dare say the Post Mortem will reveal all.”
Post Mortem? thought Saracen. He looked down at Wylie again and said softly, “The final irony was even more bizarre than you thought, old man.”
“What was that sir?”
“Nothing.”
Saracen did what he could for the distressed occupants of the car until the ambulance arrived and then continued his own journey back to Skelmore. It was only then that the full implication of Wylie’s death became apparent and it made a depressing thought. His chance of implicating Garten had gone. The Post Mortem reports on Myra Archer and Leonard Cohen could not now be shown to be false. He was back at square one.
Saracen looked at his watch; it was a quarter to midnight. Too late or not, depression made him head for Jill’s place.
“I thought you had changed your mind,” said Jill as she opened the door cautiously. “Good God, what happened to you?” she added as she undid the chain and opened the door so that the light fell on Saracen’s face.
“It’s quite a story. Can I clean up first?”
Jill finished cleaning Saracen’s graze and said, “I’m all ears.” Saracen told her all that had happened and watched as Jill’s eyes grew wider. “This is incredible!” she protested.
“But it’s true,” said Saracen.
“But if Wylie is dead surely that means that…”
Saracen interrupted her. “I’ve got nothing against Garten.”
Jill poured two whiskies and handed one to Saracen. She squatted down at his feet in front of the fire. “What about the death certificate?” she asked.
“Garten has a PM report that can’t be challenged now. He had every right to sign it.”
“Of course. I forgot. What about Cohen’s body?”
“It was cremated this morning. Garten told me.”
“Do you believe him?”
Saracen looked down and Jill and confessed that he had not thought to doubt it.
“Perhaps he was just trying to stop you looking for it?” suggested Jill.
“Now there’s a thought.”
“How could you find out?”
Saracen thought for a moment. “I could go up to the crematorium and check the records. I could do that in the morning. I’ve nothing else to do.” Saracen ran his fingers through Jill’s hair and thanked her for the idea.
“Do you have to go?”
Saracen smiled and said softly, “No.”
It rained all night and it was still raining when Saracen left Jill’s apartment to set off for Skelmore Municipal Crematorium. It had now been raining for so long that storm drains had failed to cope and several sections of the road were flooded. The worst was only a few hundred metres from the crematorium where the road dipped and then rose sharply to approach the granite walls and black iron gate of the crematorium itself.
Saracen had to wait while the vehicles in a funeral procession took turns to cross the lake in the dip with caution and high engine revs to keep the water out of their electrics. When he finally did reach the gates he had to wait again when the hearse up ahead spluttered to a halt and blocked the entrance. The drivers of three black limousines behind got out to help but, after failing to re-start the engine, they resorted to pushing the hearse the final few metres up to the chapel entrance. Saracen watched the pathetic sight impassively through flicking windscreen wipers.
Saracen had no idea how to go about checking crematorium records; he would have to play it by ear. He parked the car well away from the funeral party and waited till everyone concerned had entered the chapel and the polished wooden doors were closed behind them then he got out and made for the door in the building opposite that said, ‘Administration’. He knocked once on the frosted glass door and entered immediately, wanting to be in out of the rain.
A middle aged woman looked up from her typewriter and said, “The chapel is across the courtyard and to your left.” She suffixed the remark with the kind of tight lipped smile that people behind desks reserve for the ‘general public’.
Saracen shook the rain from his hair and said, “Thank you. It’s not the chapel I’m interested in. I wanted to enquire about the cremation of a man called Leonard Cohen.”
The woman was instantly on the defensive. “All our files are confidential,” she said with smug complacency.