Текст книги "A Prayer for the Dying"

Автор книги: Jack Higgins

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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 Australian 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.

Meehan looked at him in awe. 'He was a bull this one and no mistake. Look at the dick on him.' He turned to Ainsley. 'Think of the women he pleasured. Think of that old lady. By God, I can see why she loved him. He was a man, this old lad.'

His knee came up savagely. Henry Ainsley grabbed for his privates too late and he pitched forward with a choked cry.

'Take him up to the coffin room,' Meehan told Donner. 'I'll join you in five minutes.'

When Henry Ainsley regained his senses, he was lying flat on his back, arms outstretched, Donner standing on one hand, Bonati on the other.

The door opened and Meehan entered. He stood looking down at him for a moment, then nodded. 'All right, pick him up.'

The room was used to store coffins which weren't actually made on the premises, but there were a couple of workbenches and a selection of carpenter's tools on a rack on the wall.

'Please, Mr Meehan,' Ainsley begged him.

Meehan nodded to Donner and Bonati dragged Ainsley back across one of the workbenches, arms outstretched, palms uppermost.

Meehan stood over him. 'I'm going to teach you a lesson, Henry. Not because you tried to fiddle me out of twenty quid. That's one thing that's definitely not allowed, but it's more than that. You see, I'm thinking of that old girl. She's never had a thing in her life. All she ever got was screwed into the ground.'

His eyes were smoking now and there was a slightly dreamy quality to his voice. 'She reminded me of my old mum, I don't know why. But I know one thing. She's earned some respect just like her old fella's earned something better than a state funeral.'

'You've got it wrong, Mr Meehan,' Ainsley gabbled.

'No, Henry, you're the one who got it wrong.'

Meehan selected two bradawls from the rack on the wall. He tested the point of one on his thumb then drove it through the centre of Ainsley's right palm pinning his hand to the bench. When he repeated the process with the other hand Ainsley fainted.

Meehan turned to Donner. 'Five minutes, then release him and tell him if he isn't in the office on time in the morning, I'll have his balls.'

'All right, Mr Meehan,' Donner said. 'What about Fallon?'

'I'll be in the preparation room. 'I've got some embalming to do. When Fallon comes, keep him in the office till I've had a chance to get up to the flat, then bring him up. And I want Albert up there as soon as he comes in.'

'Kid glove treatment, Mr Meehan?'

'What else, Frank? What else?'

Meehan smiled, patted the unconscious Ainsley on the cheek and walked out.

The preparation room was on the other side of the Chapel of Rest and when Meehan went in he closed the door. He liked to be alone on such occasions. It aided concentration and made the whole thing somehow much more personal.

A body waited for him on the table in the centre of the room covered with a sheet. Beside it on a trolley the tools of his trade were laid out neatly on a white cloth. Scalpels, scissors, forceps, surgical needles of various sizes, artery tubes, a large rubber bulb syringe and a glass jar containing a couple of gallons of embalming fluid. On a shelf underneath was an assortment of cosmetics, make-up creams and face powders, all made to order.

He pulled away the sheet and folded it neatly. The body was that of a woman of forty – handsome, dark-haired. He remembered the case. A history of heart trouble. She'd died in mid-sentence while discussing plans for Christmas with her husband.

There was still that look of faint surprise on her face that many people show in death; jaw dropped, mouth gaping as if in amazement that this should be happening to her of all people.

Meehan took a long curved needle and skilfully passed a thread from behind the lower lip, up through the nasal septum and down again, so that when he tightened the thread and tied it off, the jaw was raised.

The eyeballs had fallen into their sockets. He compensated for that by inserting a circle of cotton wool under each eyelid before closing it and cotton wool between the lips and gums and in the cheeks to give a fuller, more natural appearance.

All this he did with total absorption, whistling softly between his teeth, a frown of concentration on his face. His anger at Ainsley had disappeared totally. Even Fallon had ceased to exist. He smeared a little cream on the cold lips with one finger, stood back and nodded in satisfaction. He was now ready to start the embalming process.

The body weighed nine and a half stones which meant that he needed about eleven pints of fluid of the mixture he habitually used. Formaldehyde, glycerine, borax with a little phenol added and some sodium citrate as an anti-coagulant.

It was a simple enough case with little likelihood of complications so he decided to start with the axillary artery as usual. He extended the left arm at right angles to the body, the elbow supported on a wooden block, reached for a scalpel and made his first incision halfway between the mid-point of the collarbone and the bend of the elbow.

It was perhaps an hour later as he tied off the last stitch that he became aware of some sort of disturbance outside. Voices were raised in anger and then the door flew open. Meehan glanced over his shoulder. Miller was standing there. Billy tried to squeeze past him.

'I tried to stop him, Jack.'

'Make some tea,' Meehan told him. 'I'm thirsty. And close that door. You'll ruin the temperature in here. How many times have I told you?'

Billy retired, the door closing softly behind him and Meehan turned back to the body. He reached for a jar of foundation cream and started to rub some into the face of the dead woman with infinite gentleness, ignoring Miller completely.

Miller lit a cigarette, the match rasping in the silence and Meehan said without turning round, 'Not in here. In here we show a little respect.'

'Is that a fact?' Miller replied, but he still dropped the cigarette on the floor and stepped on it.

He approached the table. Meehan was now applying a medium red cream rouge to the woman's cheekbones, his fingers bringing her back to life by the minute.

Miller watched for a moment in fascinated horror. 'You really like your work, don't you, Jack?'

'What do you want?' Meehan asked calmly.

'You.'

'Nothing new in that, is there?' Meehan replied. 'I mean, anybody falls over and breaks a leg in this town you come to me.'

'All right,' Miller said. 'So we'll go through the motions. Jan Krasko went up to the cemetery this morning to put flowers on his mother's grave. He's been doing that for just over a year now – every Thursday without fail.'

'So the bastard has a heart after all. Why tell me?'

'At approximately ten past eleven somebody put a bullet through his skull. A real pro job. Nice and public, so everyone would get the message.'

'And what message would that be?'

'Toe the Meehan line or else.'

Meehan dusted the face with powder calmly. 'I had a funeral this morning,' he said. 'Old Marcus the draper. At ten past eleven I was sitting in St Saviour's listening to the vicar say his piece. Ask Billy – he was with me. Along with around a couple of hundred other people including the mayor. He had a lot of friends had old Mr Marcus, but then he was a gentleman. Not many of his kind left these days.'

He brightened the eyebrows and lashes with Vaseline and coloured the lips. The effect was truly remarkable. The woman seemed only to sleep.

Miller said, 'I don't care where you were. It was your killing.'

Meehan turned to face him, wiping his hands on a towel. 'Prove it,' he said flatly.

All the frustration of the long years, all the anger, welled up in Miller threatening to choke him so that he pulled at his tie, wrenching open his collar.

'I'll get you for this, Meehan,' he said. 'I'll lay it on you if it's the last thing I do. This time you've gone too far.'

Meehan's eyes became somehow luminous, his entire personality assumed a new dimension, power seemed to emanate from him like electricity.

'You – touch me?' He laughed coldly, turned and gestured to the woman. 'Look at her, Miller. She was dead. I've given her life again. And you think you can touch me?'

Miller took at involuntary step back and Meehan cried, 'Go on, get the hell out of it!'

And Miller went as if all the devils in hell had been snapping at his heels.

It was suddenly very quiet in the preparation room. Meehan stood there, chest heaving, and then reached for the tin of vanishing cream and turned to the woman.

'I gave you life again,' he whispered. 'Life.'

He started to rub the cream firmly into the body.