A Prayer for the Dying (v5) Page 5

  There was a knock at the door and Anna appeared. 'Superintendent Miller to see you, Uncle Michael.'

  Miller moved into the room, hat in hand. 'There you are, Superintendent,' da Costa said. 'Have you met my niece?'

  He made a formal introduction. Anna was remarkably controlled. In fact she showed no nervousness at all, which surprised him.

  'I'll leave you to it.' She hesitated, the door half-open. 'You'll be going out, then?'

  'Not just yet,' Father da Costa told her.

  Miller frowned. 'But I don't understand, Father, I thought ....'

  'A moment, please, Superintendent,' Father da Costa said and glanced at Anna. She went out, closing the door softly and he turned again to Miller. 'You were saying?'

  'Our arrangement was that you were to come down to the Department to look at some photos,' Miller said.

  'I know, Superintendent, but that won't be possible now.'

  'May I ask why not, Father?' Miller demanded.

  Father da Costa had given considerable thought to his answer, yet in the end could manage nothing more original than, 'I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to help you, that's all.'

  Miller was genuinely puzzled and showed it. 'Let's start again, Father. Perhaps you didn't understand me properly. All I want you to do is to come down to the Department to look at some photos in the hope that you might recognise our friend of this morning.'

  'I know all that,' Father da Costa told him.

  'And you still refuse to come?'

  There wouldn't be any point.'

  'Why not?'

  'Because I can't help you.'

  For a moment, Miller genuinely thought he was going out of his mind. This couldn't be happening. It just didn't make any kind of sense, and then he was struck by a sudden, dreadful suspicion.

  'Has Meehan been getting at you in some way?'

  'Meehan?' Father da Costa said, his genuine bewilderment so perfectly obvious that Miller immediately dropped the whole idea.

  'I could have you brought in formally, Father, as a material witness.'

  'You can take a horse to water but you can't make him drink, Superintendent.'

  'I can have a damn good try,' Miller told him grimly. He walked to the door and opened it. 'Don't make me take you in formally, sir. I'd rather not but I will if I have to.'

  'Superintendent Miller,' Father da Costa said softly, 'men of a harsher disposition than you have tried to make me speak in circumstances where it was not appropriate. They did not succeed and neither will you, I can assure you. No power on earth can make me speak on this matter if I do not wish to.'

  'We'll see about that, sir. I'll give you some time to think this matter over, then I'll be back.' He was about to walk out when a sudden wild thought struck him and he turned, slowly, 'Have you seen him again, sir, since this morning? Have you been threatened? Is your life in any kind of danger?'

  'Goodbye, Superintendent,' Father da Costa said.

  The front door banged. Father da Costa turned to finish his whisky and Anna moved silently into the room. She put a hand on his arm.

  'He'll go to Monsignor O'Halloran.'

  'The bishop being at present in Rome, that would seem the obvious thing to do.' he said.

  'Hadn't you better get there first?'

  'I suppose so.' He emptied his glass and put it on the mantel-piece. 'What about you?'

  'I want to do some more organ practice. I'll be all right.'

  She pushed him out into the hall and reached for his coat from the stand with unerring aim. 'What would I do without you?' he said.

  She smiled cheerfully. 'Goodness knows. Hurry back.'

  He went out, she closed the door after him. When she turned, the smile had completely disappeared. She went back into his study, sat down by the fire and buried her face in her hands.

  Nick Miller had been a policeman for almost a quarter of a century. Twenty-five years of working a three-shift system. Of being disliked by his neighbours, of being able to spend only one weekend in seven at home with his family and the consequent effect upon his relationship with his son and daughter.

  He had little formal education but he was a shrewd, clever man with the ability to cut through to the heart of things, and this, coupled with an extensive knowledge of human nature gained from a thousand long, hard Saturday nights on the town, had made him a good policeman.

  He had no conscious thought or even desire to help society. His job was in the main to catch thieves, and society consisted of the civilians who sometimes got mixed up in the constant state of guerrilla warfare which existed between the police and the criminal. If anything, he preferred the criminal. At least you knew where you were with him.

  But Dandy Jack Meehan was different. One corruption was all corruption, he'd read that somewhere and if it applied to any human being, it applied to Meehan.

  Miller loathed him with the kind of obsessive hate that was in the end self-destructive. To be precise, ten years of his life had gone to Dandy Jack without the slightest hint of success. Meehan had to be behind the Krasko killing, that was a fact of life. The rivalry between the two men had been common knowledge for at least two years.

  For the first time in God knows how long he'd had a chance and now, the priest . . .

  When he got into the rear of the car he was shaking with anger, and on a sudden impulse he leaned across and told his driver to take him to the headquarters of Meehan's funeral business. Then he sat back and tried to light his pipe with trembling fingers.

  5

  Dandy Jack

  Paul's Square was a green lung in the heart of the city, an acre of grass and flower-beds and willow trees with a fountain in the centre surrounded on all four sides by Georgian terrace houses, most of which were used as offices by barristers, solicitors or doctors and beautifully preserved.

  There was a general atmosphere of quiet dignity and Meehan's funeral business fitted in perfectly. Three houses on the north side had been converted to provide every possible facility from a flower shop to a Chapel of Rest. A mews entrance to one side gave access to a car park and garage area at the rear surrounded by high walls so that business could be handled as quietly and as unobtrusively as possible, a facility which had other uses on occasion.

  When the big Bentley hearse turned into the car park shortly after one o'clock, Meehan was sitting up front with the chauffeur and Billy. He wore his usual double-breasted melton overcoat and Homburg hat and a black tie for he had been officiating personally at a funeral that morning.

  The chauffeur came round to open the door and Meehan got out followed by his brother. 'Thanks, Donner,' he said.

  A small grey whippet was drinking from a dish at the rear entrance. Billy called, 'Here, Tommy!' It turned, hurled itself across the yard and jumped into his arms.

  Billy fondled its ears and it licked his face frantically. 'Now then, you little bastard,' he said with genuine affection.

  'I've told you before,' Meehan said. 'He'll ruin your coat. Hairs all over the bloody place.'

  As he moved towards the rear entrance, Varley came out of the garage and stood waiting for him, cap in hand. A muscle twitched nervously in his right cheek, his forehead was beaded with sweat. He seemed almost on the point of collapse.

  Meehan paused, hands in pockets and looked him over calmly. 'You look awful, Charlie. You been a bad lad or something?'

  'Not me, Mr Meehan,' Vatley said. 'It's that sod, Fallon. He ...'

  'Not here, Charlie,' Meehan said softly. 'I always like to hear bad news in private.'

  He nodded to Donner who opened the rear door and stood to one side. Meehan went into what was usually referred to as the receiving-room. It was empty except for a coffin on a trolley in the centre.

  He put a cigarette in his mouth and bent down to read the brass nameplate on the coffin.

  'When's this for?'

  Donner moved to his side, a lighter ready in his hand. 'Three-thirty, Mr Meehan.'

  He spoke with an Austral
ian accent and had a slightly twisted mouth, the scar still plain where a hair lip had been cured by plastic surgery. It gave him a curiously repellent appearance, modified to a certain extent by the hand-tailored, dark uniform suit he wore.

  'Is it a cremation?'

  Donner shook his head. 'A burial, Mr Meehan.'

  Meehan nodded. 'All right, you and Bonati better handle it. I've an idea I'm going to be busy.'

  He turned, one arm on the coffin. Billy leaned against the wall, fondling the whippet. Varley waited in the centre of the room, cap in hand, the expression on his face that of a condemned man waiting for the trap to open beneath his feet at any moment and plunge him into eternity.

  'All right, Charlie,' Meehan said. 'Tell me the worst.'

  Varley told him, the words falling over themselves in his eagerness to get them out. When he had finished, there was a lengthy silence. Meehan had shown no emotion at all.

  'So he's coming here at two o'clock?'

  'That's what he said, Mr Meehan.'

  'And the van? You took it to the wrecker's yard like I told you?'

  'Saw it go into the crusher myself, just like you said.'

  Varley waited for his sentence, face damp with sweat. Meehan smiled suddenly and patted him on the cheek. 'You did well, Charlie. Not your fault things went wrong. Leave it to me. I'll handle it.'

  Relief seemed to ooze out of Varley like dirty water. He said weakly, 'Thanks, Mr Meehan. I did my best. Honest I did. You know me.'

  'You have something to eat,' Meehan said. 'Then get back to the car wash. If I need you, I'll send for you.'

  Varley went out. The door closed. Billy giggled as he fondled the whippet's ears. 'I told you he was trouble. We could have handled it ourselves only you wouldn't listen.'

  Meehan grabbed him by the long white hair, the boy cried out in pain, dropping the dog. 'Do you want me to get nasty, Billy?' he said softly. 'Is that what you want?'

  'I didn't mean any harm, Jack,' the boy whined.

  Meehan shoved him away. 'Then be a good boy. Tell Bonati I want him, then take one of the cars and go and get Fat Albert.'

  Billy's tongue flicked nervously between his lips. 'Albert?' he whispered. 'For God's sake, Jack, you know I can't stand being anywhere near that big creep. He frightens me to death.'

  'That's good,' Meehan said. 'I'll remember that next time you step out of line. We'll call Albert in to take you in hand.' He laughed harshly. 'Would you like that?'

  Billy's eyes were wide with fear. 'No, please, Jack,' he whispered. 'Not Albert.'

  'Be a good lad, then.' Meehan patted his face and opened the door. 'On your way.'

  Billy went out and Meehan turned to Donner with a sigh. 'I don't know what I'm going to do with him, Frank. I don't really.'

  'He's young, Mr Meehan.'

  'All he can think about is birds,' Meehan said. 'Dirty little tarts in mini skirts showing all they've got.' He shivered in genuine disgust. 'I even found him having it off with the cleaning woman one afternoon. Fifty-five if she was a day - and on my bed.'

  Donner kept a diplomatic silence and Meehan opened an inner door and led the way through into the Chapel of Rest. The atmosphere was cool and fresh thanks to air-conditioning, and scented with flowers. Taped organ music provided a suitably devotional background.

  There were half-a-dozen cubicles on either side. Meehan took off his hat and stepped into the first one. There were flowers everywhere and an oak coffin stood on a draped trolley.

  'Who's this?'

  'That young girl. The student who went through the windscreen of the sports car,' Donner told him.

  'Oh yes,' Meehan said. 'I did her myself.'

  He lifted the face cloth. The girl was perhaps eighteen or nineteen, eyes closed, lips slightly parted, the face so skilfully made up that she might only have been sleeping.

  'You did a good job there, Mr Meehan,' Donner said.

  Meehan nodded complacently. 'I've got to agree with you there, Frank. You know something. There was no flesh left on her left cheek when she came to me. That girl's face was mincemeat, I'm telling you.'

  'You're an artist, Mr Meehan,' Donner said, genuine admiration in his voice. 'A real artist. It's the only word for it.'

  'It's nice of you to say so, Frank. I really appreciate that.' Meehan switched off the light and led the way out. 'I always try to do my best, of course, but a case like that - a young girl. Well, you got to think of the parents.'

  'Too true, Mr Meehan.'

  They moved out of the chapel area into the front hall, the original Georgian features still beautifully preserved, blue and white Wedgwood plaques on the walls. There was a glass door leading to the reception office on the right. As they approached, they could hear voices and someone appeared to be crying.

  The door opened and a very old woman appeared, sobbing heavily. She wore a headscarf and a shabby woollen overcoat bursting at the seams. She had a carrier bag over one arm and clutched a worn leather purse in her left hand. Her face was swollen with weeping.

  Henry Ainsley, the reception clerk, moved out after her. He was a tall, thin man with hollow cheeks and sly, furtive eyes. He wore a neat, clerical-grey suit and sober tie and his hands were soft.

  'I'm sorry, madam,' he was saying sharply, 'but that's the way it is. Anyway, you can leave everything in our hands from now on.'

  'That's the way what is?' Meehan said, advancing on them. He put his hands on the old lady's shoulders. 'We can't have this, love. What's up?'

  'It's all right, Mr Meehan. The old lady was just a bit upset. She's just lost her husband,' Ainsley said.

  Meehan ignored him and drew the old lady into the office. He put her in a chair by the desk. 'Now then, love, you tell me all about it.'

  He took her hand and she held on tight. 'Ninety, he was. I thought he'd last for ever and then I found him at the bottom of the stairs when I got back from chapel, Sunday night.' Tears streamed down her face. 'He was that strong, even at that age. I couldn't believe it.'

  'I know, love, and now you've come here to bury him?'

  She nodded. 'I don't have much, but I didn't want him to have a state funeral. I wanted it done right. I thought I could manage nicely what the insurance money and then this gentleman here, he told me I'd need seventy pound.'

  'Now look, Mr Meehan, it was like this,' Ainsley cut in.

  Meehan turned and glanced at him bleakly. Ainsley faltered into silence. Meehan said, 'You paid cash, love?'

  'Oh yes,' she said. 'I called at the insurance office on the way and they paid me out on the policy. Fifty pounds, I thought it would be enough.'

  'And the other twenty?'

  'I had twenty-five pounds in the Post Office.'

  'I see.' Meehan straightened. 'Show me the file,' he said.

  Ainsley stumbled to the desk and picked up a small sheaf of papers which shook a little as he held them out. Meehan leafed through them. He smiled delightedly and put a hand on the old woman's shoulders.

  'I've got good news for you, love. There's been a mistake.'

  'A mistake?' she said.

  He took out his wallet and extracted twenty-five pounds. 'Mr Ainsley was forgetting about the special rate we've been offering to old age pensioners this autumn.'

  She looked at the money, a dazed expression on her face. 'Special rate. Here, it won't be a state funeral will it? I wouldn't want that.'

  Meehan helped her to her feet. 'Not on your life. Private. The best. I guarantee it. Now let's go and see about your flowers.'

  'Flowers?' she said. 'Oh, that would be nice. He loved flowers, did my Bill.'

  'All included, love.' Meehan glanced over his shoulder at Donner. 'Keep him here. I'll be back.'

  A door had been cut through the opposite wall giving access to the flower shop next door. When Meehan ushered the old lady in, they were immediately approached by a tall, willowy young man with shoulder-length dark hair and a beautiful mouth.

  'Yes, Mr Meehan. Can I be of service?' He spoke
with a slight lisp.

  Meehan patted his cheek. 'You certainly can, Rupert. Help this good lady choose a bunch of flowers. Best in the shop and a wreath. On the firm, of course.'

  Rupert accepted the situation without the slightest question. 'Certainly, Mr Meehan.'

  'And Rupert, see one of the lads runs her home afterwards.' He turned to the old lady. 'All right, love?'

  She reached up and kissed his cheek. 'You're a good man. A wonderful man. God bless you.'

  'He does, my love,' Dandy Jack Meehan told her. 'Every day of my life.' And he walked out.

  'Death is something you've got to have some respect for,' Meehan said. 'I mean, this old lady. According to the form she's filled in, she's eighty-three. I mean, that's a wonderful thing.'

  He was sitting in the swing chair in front of the desk. Henry Ainsley stood in front of him, Donner was by the door.

  Ainsley stirred uneasily and forced a smile, 'Yes, I see what you mean, Mr Meehan.'

  'Do you, Henry? I wonder.'

  There was a knock at the door and a small, dapper man in belted continental raincoat entered. He looked like a Southern Italian, but spoke with a South Yorkshire accent.

  'You wanted me, Mr Meehan?'

  'That's it, Bonati. Come in.' Meehan returned to Ainsley. 'Yes, I really wonder about you, Henry. Now the way I see it, this was an insurance job. She's strictly working class. The policy pays fifty and you price the job at seventy and the old dear coughs up because she can't stand the thought of her Bill having a state funeral.' He shook his head. 'You gave her a receipt for fifty, which she's too tired and old to notice, and you enter fifty in the cash book.'

  Ainsley was shaking like a leaf. 'Please, Mr Meehan, please listen. I've had certain difficulties lately.'

  Meehan stood up. 'Has he been brought in, her husband?'

  Ainsley nodded. 'This morning. He's in number three. He hasn't been prepared yet.'

  'Bring him along,' Meehan told Donner and walked out.

  He went into cubicle number three in the Chapel of Rest and switched on the light and the others followed him in. The old man was laying in an open coffin with a sheet over him and Meehan pulled it away. He was quite naked and had obviously been a remarkably powerful man in his day with the shoulders and chest of a heavyweight wrestler.