‘No idea.’
‘Had he mentioned that he wasn’t feeling well?’
‘Not to me. Come to think of it, he’s not usually the type to be sick, or skiving either. Vernon’s the most reliable bloke we’ve got, in his way.’
‘Perhaps he had a hard night,’ said Cooper. ‘I don’t suppose it’s the best thing in the world to turn up at a funeral with a hangover.’
‘Well, I don’t know,’ said McGowan. ‘A few pale faces and sunken eyes would probably suit the occasion. A touch of the undead, if you get what I mean? As long as you don’t actually throw up in the hearse.’
Cooper smiled politely. He’d heard worse comments at scenes of violent crime - the ghoulish humour of people who had to laugh in the face of death, because they met it every day.
‘Anyway,’ said McGowan, ‘Vernon doesn’t drink.’
Ironically, it was something Vernon Slack had said that was bothering Cooper. And that puzzled him. After all, it wasn’t as if Vernon had actually told him anything - certainly nothing he didn’t already know. But he did see Melvyn Hudson and Christopher Lloyd and the others on a day-to-day basis, when
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they were off guard. Perhaps they weren’t too careful about what they said when Vernon was nearby with his head under a bonnet. In a way, Vernon might be the very person to see through the facades and know the truth.
Cooper went back over his conversations with Vernon. They’d been limited and brief. Awkward and unhelpful, in fact. He shook his head. There was nothing jumping out at him. So maybe it wasn’t anything Vernon had said, but the way that he’d said it. If he hadn’t registered it at the time, he’d probably never recall it now.
‘There isn’t any need for it, you see,’ Vernon had said. ‘We do the job and look after the grievers, and then we go home. Sometimes, you don’t even know the details of a call until you turn up at the house to do a removal. The boss sees to everything else.’
Cooper’s pace slowed a little as the memory came to him. He could hear Vernon saying it now, word for word, yet he hadn’t taken any notice of it at the time. It was probably nothing, of course. But it was something to mention, when the moment was right.
Gavin Murfin collapsed into his chair with a sigh, threw a paper bag into the bin and ripped open a plastic sandwich box.
‘Getting these names was like pulling teeth,’ he said.
Fry looked up. Was this an early lunch or a late breakfast? She could never tell with Gavin.
‘What names?’ she said.
‘The staff who worked at Hudson and Slack eighteen months ago.’
‘The whatr
Startled by her tone, Murfin stopped with a sandwich halfway to his mouth. ‘What’s up?’
‘Did you say you had a list of staff who worked at Hudson and Slack?’
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‘Yeah. You asked me to get the background on Richard Slack’s RTA. Well, some clever bugger at the time thought it was a bit funny that Slack was doing a call-out on his own. What with that and the woman who thought she saw someone running off, this DC decided to check with everyone at the firm, in case Slack had contacted them before the accident. A waste of time, as it happens, but you’ve got to admit it’s thorough.’
‘Gavin, you’re wonderful.’
Murfin bit into his sandwich with satisfaction.
‘Cheers. Do you want to phone my missus and tell her that? She’d appreciate it.’
‘We lost Hudson and Slack’s personnel records in the fire last night,’ said Fry. ‘Very convenient for Mr Hudson, it seems. He tried to make out his records weren’t comprehensive, because some of his staff were casual workers.’
‘Presumably he must have known who they were, though. He had to pay them, after all.’
‘Well, I suppose that might have been the problem. Cash with no questions asked.’
‘And nothing going to the tax man, like?’
‘Well done anyway, Gavin. Is there anyone we know on the list?’
‘Not that jumps out at me. But I’ll get them run through the PNC and do an intelligence check.’
‘Let me see.’
Murfin passed across the list. Fry was glad to have it in her hand before any more crumbs landed on it. She glanced quickly down it, noting a few familiar names, but several that were new to her. Eighteen months wasn’t all that long ago, but there seemed to have been quite a turnover, particularly among the bearers and drivers.
‘Oh, wow,’ she said.
‘What’s up now?’
‘That’s one name I didn’t expect. Thomas Edward Jarvis, Litton Foot. This is the man with the dogs, isn’t it, Gavin?’
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‘You’re right,’ said Murfin. ‘Didn’t one get shot?’
Fry put down the list. ‘Who would have guessed that Mr Jarvis once worked for Hudson and Slack? Not his friend Ben Cooper, I bet.’
‘Are you going to tell him, Sarge?’
But Fry only stared at him again as he finished off his sandwich.
‘Gavin,’ she said, ‘what do you mean “the woman who thought she saw someone running off”?’
This morning, the bereaved had opted for traditional music. Cooper could hear the sound of an electronic
