Ashes to Ashes Read online

  ‘What bothers me, as obviously there has been a mistake, is where’s Archie now?’ Mrs Peters continued, showing signs of getting upset again. ‘I know he was a miserable old sod when he got old, but I still want to know what really happened to him.’

  ‘Of course you do,’ John murmured.

  ‘And if these things had been his I’d have buried them in the garden somewhere. A bit more fitting, wouldn’t you say? Not that he liked gardening – I did it all.’

  I still couldn’t understand, after what she’d said, why she wouldn’t have wanted him to end up as a road sign. Still, she didn’t seem to be very bright.

  ‘I’ve really been thinking about this,’ the woman went on. ‘I mean, it could be some kind of crime, couldn’t it? Getting rid of people like that, murdering them and, after swapping them over, chucking the right bodies off a cliff somewhere or just into a hole in the ground like so much rubbish.’

  ‘I’ll make some enquiries for you,’ soothingly promised the one without much imagination, having observed his father looking at him desperately, willing him to do just that.

  His wife, the one overburdened with such a characteristic, found herself going tingly all over.

  ‘I think we must keep this conversation to ourselves,’ John said after I had let Mrs Peters out.

  ‘Tell Mum,’ Patrick suggested. ‘Otherwise it’ll be awkward to talk about it en famille.’

  John picked up the bag, which clinked, and held it out to his son. ‘You’re right; I’ll mention it to her. And you can have this lot. I’m surrounded by plenty of old bones and relics as it is.’

  ‘What did you make of that?’ Patrick asked me a little later as we were getting ready to go out.

  ‘I think that if you don’t get any satisfactory answers we need to seriously consider if something illegal’s going on.’

  ‘It could be a scam.’

  I handed over a silver pendant on a chain for him to do up for me. ‘It could.’

  ‘But not involving the crem.’

  ‘I simply can’t believe it was. It would be a good way for criminals to dispose of awkward corpses if they could get round the practicalities. Rival mobsters, kidnap victims whose families couldn’t, or wouldn’t, pay up, drunk pedestrians mown down on main roads at night …’

  ‘But, come to think about it, why bother? Why not, as the woman said, just chuck the murder victim, or whoever, off a cliff or down a disused mine shaft?’

  ‘Because if the substitute body, like Archie’s, was ever found, there would be nothing, no evidence, to lead to the killers. Just a corpse, and possibly, if some years had elapsed, an unidentifiable one.’

  ‘I can actually hear your imagination racing in overdrive,’ he teased. ‘Perhaps you ought to use it for the plot of your next novel.’

  ‘You refer to me as your oracle,’ I retorted. ‘I’ve just oracled all over you. And I’m starving.’

  He deliberately annoyed me then by kissing me smoochily, smudging my lipstick.

  After breakfast the next morning, we stared soberly at the pile of metal pieces before us. Patrick had tipped them out on to a sheet of newspaper on my desk. Ash still adhered to the items.

  ‘Things like any tooth fillings and the handles of the coffin would have been removed,’ Patrick said, drawing back a little to avoid tiny pieces of bone and ash being blown away by his breath.

  ‘Gold fillings and teeth?’ I wondered.

  ‘It would probably melt but still be recoverable. The thinking is that folk find that too distressing to be returned.’

  ‘But valuable, though.’

  ‘Too right,’ he acknowledged with a wry expression, poking around under the three larger pieces of metal to reveal a couple of thin strips. ‘These are probably plates from dentures. It’s a bit more evidence, I suppose. I gather it’s just about impossible to get DNA from cremated bones.’ He glanced up. ‘Are we making mountains out of molehills and getting involved in this because I’ve run out of things to do?’

  ‘Pass,’ I said. ‘But, speaking personally, I’m very curious. For now, why not just call it giving your father a hand with parish matters?’

  He glanced at his watch. ‘Perhaps you can phone the crem and make an appointment to see the manager. I’m due to cut the lawn of another cottage by the green in twenty minutes. Mrs Jones’s husband’s in hospital. I won’t let her pay.’

  ‘Don’t you have to have number plates, insurance and a crash helmet to take that thing on a public road?’

  ‘All I have to do, as you well know, is cross the road and then ride it across the green.’

  ‘But what about The Poplars? That’s about a quarter of a mile away.’

  ‘No problem. Jim has a Land Rover and a trailer with a ramp.’

  OK, I’d mind my own business.

  Bath has two crematoriums – one to the south of the city and this new one some miles to the north. It was set discreetly in a fold of hills, the outside resembling a very upmarket stable block and carriage house, complete with clock tower. Constructed of stone with a slate roof, the supporting woodwork of a covered way that led to the side entrance for mourners and the large canopy at the front were made of green oak. We followed the arrow signs to the office.

  As one might have expected, the manager, Robin Williams, was softly spoken and charming. After Patrick had introduced us we were invited to seat ourselves in the comfortably furnished office: pale turquoise walls, pink and cream gently patterned chairs and matching curtains, the pictures those washed-out floral prints on the walls that were so fashionable a few years ago.

  ‘I’m here partly on behalf of my father, the Reverend John Gillard,’ Patrick began, no doubt gently reminding the man that keeping on good terms with the local clergy was a good idea. ‘And partly because a lady who worships at St Julian’s church in Wellow has been to see him with a problem she has concerning her husband’s cremation. I’m sure you know who I mean – Mrs Anne Peters.’

  Williams, wearing an expensive and suitable suit, visibly braced himself. He was very young, perhaps only in his mid-twenties, good looking and had a post-gradulate-but-failed-to-find-a-job-yet-in-his-particular-field look about him. ‘She has been to see me twice,’ he observed with a faintly injured air. ‘We tried to set her mind at rest but I’m afraid I seem to have failed. Frankly, I don’t see that there’s anything else I can do.’

  Patrick continued, ‘The other reason I’ve come to see you is that the lady is determined to go to the police if there isn’t a satisfactory outcome to the matter, and in that respect, and although obviously there’s nothing official in my visit, I have connections with Bath CID.’

  His was referring to his friendship with Detective Chief Inspector James Carrick, of course, with whom he has worked on several cases.

  ‘Surely—’ Williams began in horror, but Patrick was already making soothing hand movements.

  ‘I’m merely explaining my involvement in this,’ Patrick said. ‘I’m on leave and my father is overburdened with work so I promised him, and Mrs Peters, that I’d make enquiries. It’s nothing more than that.’

  ‘I see,’ said Williams, looking relieved but also baffled. ‘I have to tell you that I’ve made my own enquiries into this and nothing appears to be amiss. The funeral directors are a local much-respected and long-established firm and—’

  ‘Who?’ Patrick interrupted.

  ‘Stevens and Sons.’

  ‘Thank you. Please go on.’

  ‘And they’re adamant that everything was absolutely above board.’

  ‘Look,’ Patrick said, ‘Mrs Peters can’t be accused of making a mistake when the items presented to her consisted of two hip replacements plus a plate that had, according to the doctor whom she showed all this to, been used to repair a serious injury to someone’s head. There were also a couple of pieces of metal that I’ve confirmed with my dentist came from a set of dentures. I rang Mrs Peters about that and she said he may well have had some kind of dental treat
ment in the past – before they met – but hadn’t been to the dentist in years and his teeth were awful. Sorry, but there has been some kind of mistake.’

  ‘I simply don’t know what to say,’ Williams murmured. ‘And I don’t see how any mistakes on that dreadful scale could have taken place here. The funeral directors give us the relevant documents: a copy of the death certificate and the permission to cremate. The technicians here check those again and make sure that the name on the lid of the coffin exactly matches that on the paperwork. Anything remaining after cremation is also labelled with the same nameplate that is fixed to the window of the particular cremator used. Errors are impossible!’

  ‘I take it no one asked to say a last farewell before the coffin lid was screwed down.’

  ‘No. Very few British, or rather English people want to do that.’

  ‘I must suggest to you that there was a certain cavalier attitude in giving these articles to Mrs Peters. Didn’t anyone query it? Didn’t anyone wonder about all these bits and pieces that she’d said, when asked beforehand, her husband hadn’t had?’

  ‘In hindsight, I agree. I’ll change our procedures so more checks are done.’

  ‘Did someone just go to her house and hand them over?’

  ‘We’d hardly put something like that in the post,’ replied Williams, aghast. ‘And she was asked if she wanted them.’

  ‘She feels that she was treated like someone with dementia who, frankly, had lost the plot.’

  ‘If true, that’s very regrettable. But all I can do now is offer my fullest cooperation. We have nothing to hide, Mr Gillard, and if this is found to be our fault I shall offer my sincere apologies. And even offer to resign,’ he gallantly added.

  ‘You must appreciate that Mrs Peters is mainly concerned, if somehow another body was cremated instead, with discovering where her husband’s body is now,’ Patrick said, not about to dish out any medals.

  Williams went pale. ‘Oh, God. I hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘There might be nothing more sinister in this than a present or one-time employee with a grudge swapping the labels or name plates around to bring this establishment into disrepute.’

  ‘But no one might find out for almost ever,’ Williams pointed out.

  ‘That’s true, but some people, criminals especially, aren’t very intelligent.’

  The other shook his head. ‘I have every faith in those who work in the cremator area. Any personal details concerning the deceased are kept here in the office and handled only by me and my secretary – who is out at the moment.’

  ‘Has anyone been dismissed who might harbour a grudge?’

  ‘Well – no. We’ve only been operating here for six months and have the same staff we opened with. Everyone seems to be very happy. Jobs are hard to come by, you know.’

  ‘What about security?’

  ‘No one – and by that I mean members of the public – can just walk in to this part of the building. Doors are locked with keys or have security devices on them. There is no access from the outside to those who shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘May I have a copy of the list of the other funeral services that were held on that day?’ When Williams looked reluctant, Patrick added: ‘It’ll save me contacting all the local newspapers.’

  This was done.

  ‘Is there a foreman I could have a word with?’ Patrick then went on to enquire.

  ‘Indeed. But he’s not here today as he’s not well and I’m overseeing things. Which I shall have to do now, I’m afraid, as our next service is due.’

  ‘First, please tell me how long metal from cremations has been recycled.’

  ‘I’m not sure of the exact date it started, but it’s not been going on for long. It’s a pilot scheme in this area.’

  Patrick rose to go. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You will keep me informed, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  We obtained the foreman’s address and left, meeting a sad trail of people mostly wearing black coming from the direction of the car park.

  TWO

  I did not go with Patrick to speak to the foreman, who lived in Timsbury, as we had both become convinced that the trouble lay elsewhere and he was only ensuring that there were no grey areas left in his enquiries. As it was, the man in question was due to retire in about a year and had been taken on by the new facility because of his experience and, as Williams had emphasized as we were going out of his door, his references were impeccable. This caused Patrick merely to ask for the man’s opinion on the matter and not give the impression that he was under any kind of suspicion. He learned nothing new – the crematorium’s systems seemed infallible and the only advice he received was to double-check with the undertaker.

  Over a period of three days, Patrick visited several undertakers, including Stevens and Sons, who had handled the Peters funeral, regarding cremations that had taken place at the same place on the same day. There had been only five more, none of which appeared to have possible links with our metal horde. They had been of a young couple who had been killed on holiday in Africa in an accident involving a light aircraft, a youth who had received fatal injuries when his motorbike had hit a bridge support – no other vehicles involved, a woman of forty who had never had hip replacements or suffered from serious injuries – someone asked her family, and lastly a child. All very tragic and upsetting but nothing that helped us at all.

  ‘I can’t do a lot more until someone makes this official,’ Patrick commented, coming into the kitchen on the evening of the day he had obtained the last of this information. ‘Obviously I can’t ask questions waving my NCA ID as it isn’t their business. So far I’ve had to rely on people’s goodwill and by telling them that Dad needs a bit of help with the problem.’

  ‘You’ve had to explain then.’

  ‘Well, yes. There was much drawing in of breath through teeth but no real help or possible explanations. Suggestions from the oracle, please.’

  ‘I am cooking dinner,’ I told him.

  ‘OK, I’ll stir while you think.’

  I handed over the cooking of the risotto – a large one, several hungry mouths to feed – poured us both a glass of wine, took a sip of mine and said, ‘Phone James Carrick.’

  ‘He’ll have far too much on his plate already.’

  ‘Just ask for his advice.’

  ‘He’ll say that Mrs Peters will have to make an official complaint before anything can be done.’

  ‘Then persuade her to complain.’

  There was silence for a few moments, then Patrick said, ‘This is going a bit stodgy.’

  I sloshed in some wine.

  ‘All right, I’ll give him a ring.’ By the door, he paused. ‘D’you always cook risottos like that? Just chuck stuff in?’

  ‘No, I usually drink the wine.’

  He laughed and went away. Two or three minutes later he reappeared to pick up his wine glass and say, ‘We’re invited over for a dram after dinner.’

  Which had to be a result for him, of course, I thought, tipping in the rest of the ingredients: cooked chicken and mushrooms, plus a little cream. No, quite a lot of cream actually.

  ‘I’m drowning in paperwork – directives, initiatives, schedules, outlines, proposals and a thousand other stupidities,’ James Carrick said, ‘only don’t quote me.’

  This hands-on policeman had to give far more attention to this kind of thing now Detective Inspector David Campbell had arrived after a long period during which Bath’s CID department had had no permanent DI, just people on occasional loan from HQ in Portishead. After an extremely shaky start when the new boy had actually arrested his boss on suspicion of murder – a mobster had done a very good job of framing him – life had recently carried on a lot more smoothly. And dully. Bath is normally the kind of place where it makes newspaper headlines if someone falls off a bus.

  ‘Something slightly crazy is bound to grab you then,’ Patrick said, raising his whisky glass. ‘Your heal
th, and may all your lums for ever reek.’

  ‘Reeking into the house actually,’ said Joanna, his wife and one-time CID sergeant. ‘We can’t get a chimney sweep.’

  I promised to give them the phone number of ours.

  Patrick produced the bag of cremated metal bits and pieces and gave them the gist of the story.

  ‘Now that’s what I call a conversation stopper,’ the Scotsman muttered, turning them over wonderingly. ‘But aren’t we talking about an awful mistake?’

  ‘No other cremations that day were of people with surgical replacements,’ I said.

  ‘And if folk don’t want them they’re just chucked in a bin for recycling?’

  ‘That’s about it,’ Patrick said.

  ‘Someone’s idea of a sick joke then?’

  ‘Apparently all the staff are very happy, if that’s the right way of putting it, and the place has only been up and running for a short time. No one’s had the sack either.’

  ‘It must be difficult to walk off the street into establishments like that and make mischief.’

  ‘That’s right and, as well as being out in the sticks, security’s very tight. You can’t have funerals being disrupted.’

  ‘I’ve been to Scottish funerals where fights broke out among the mourners,’ Carrick said reflectively. ‘But they were pickled in whisky before they turned up.’

  Joanna turned a wide-eyed stare on to him. ‘You said that as though you miss that kind of thing!’

  ‘Aye, once in a while there’s nothing like a good shangie.’

  ‘I’ll fix something up for you,’ Patrick promised with a smile.

  ‘And, meanwhile, what do we do about this?’ Joanna asked, tossing her long auburn hair away from her face with both hands. It was a very warm evening and we were sitting out in the garden of their restored farmhouse home.

  ‘If anything?’ Patrick wondered aloud.

  ‘You promised Mrs Peters you’d look into it,’ I reminded him.