“He couldn’t give an exact figure?”
“No, they’re none too fussy about log books, it seems.”
“Will Bradlaw be there now, do you think?”
“Should be, sir. He has a job at the Crem. at twelve, though.”
“Only the one?”
“Aye, that’s all. Ben was rather taken up with it, as a matter of fact. Said he’d never known things so slack in what he calls good felling weather like this. And even the one they have got was only staying here temporary, he said.”
“That applies to all of us by Nab’s reckoning.”
Malley grunted.
“A visitor, was he?” asked Purbright.
“Seems he was an uncle of that housekeeper, or whatever you’d call her.”
“Bradlaw’s housekeeper?”
“Yes, sir. I spoke to her, as well. She told me the same as Ben. Only the one funeral—her uncle’s. He must have been ill here for a bit and under a local doctor, else they’d never have got a certificate straight off like that.”
“Was the girl upset about her uncle?”
Malley scratched his chin. “Well, not as you might say prostrate with grief.”
“She didn’t mention the man’s name, by any chance?”
The sergeant shook his head, then looked thoughtful. “Wait a bit...Charlie was the one who called him something. He’s a bit disrespectful, is Charlie. Now what was it he said?” Malley gazed at the ceiling and made little popping sounds as if expelling invisible smoke rings.
Purbright watched him patiently for a while, then glanced at the clock. It was a little after half-past ten. He suppressed a yawn and rubbed his face.
Distracted by the movement. Malley looked down again. Suddenly he chuckled. “That’s it. Of course. Fuzzy- chops!”
“I beg your pardon?”
Malley waved a plump hand. “No, sir. Not you. The uncle bloke. Charlie called him that. Fuzzy-chops. He must have...”
The inspector, uttering something between a neigh and a groan, pushed past him, seized hat and coat from the peg, and disappeared through the door.
Ten minutes later, Purbright, Love and a couple of uniformed constables descended by car upon the place of business of Mr Bradlaw.
They entered by the side gate, and Purbright and Love left the constables in the yard staring around at the stacks of elm and oak, while they went into the workshop.
At first it appeared to be empty. Then the joiner, Ben, who had been nodding in a corner until the sound of footsteps penetrated his doze, rose suddenly and bade them a challenging “Good morning”.
“We are looking for Mr Bradlaw,” announced Purbright sternly.
Ben blinked. “Ain’t ’ere,” he retorted unhelpfully.
“Where is he, then?”
“Down at Crem., ’less he’s back.”
Purbright gave Love a quick, anxious glance, then to Ben: “Are you sure of that?”
“Course. Why not?”
“I thought he had only one funeral today.”
“S’right.”
“At eleven o’clock.”
“Was to ha’ been. The missus was that upset though, they put it forrard a bit. The boss said grief like ’ers ’d take the nature out of ’er and oughter be got over quick. So that’s...” He stopped. His audience had gone.
Those of Mr Bradlaw’s near neighbours who happened to be watching the street were intrigued to see two purposeful-looking men in raincoats shoot out of the undertaker’s yard, followed, but not pursued, by a pair of policemen. All four piled into the car that had brought them two or three minutes earlier, and drove away, the men in uniform crouching like big blue frogs in order to keep their helmets from penetrating the roof.
As he urged the suffering vehicle forward at what speed it would make, Purbright said to Love: “I am a thickheaded, complacent fool.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” replied Love, a little doubtfully.
“Yes, I am. If what I think has happened—and I could have prevented it easily enough—we might as well drive straight over that parapet.”
Love stared apprehensively at the river wall on their right. “We can only hope for the best,” he said, adding, “whatever that may be.”
“Do you know anything about the crematorium?” Purbright asked him.
