final few metres up to the chapel entrance. Saracen watched the pathetic sight impassively through flicking windscreen wipers.
Saracen had no idea how to go about checking crematorium records; he would have to play it by ear. He parked the car well away from the funeral party and waited till everyone concerned had entered the chapel and the polished wooden doors were closed behind them then he got out and made for the door in the building opposite that said, ‘Administration’. He knocked once on the frosted glass door and entered immediately, wanting to be in out of the rain.
A middle aged woman looked up from her typewriter and said, “The chapel is across the courtyard and to your left.” She suffixed the remark with the kind of tight lipped smile that people behind desks reserve for the ‘general public’.
Saracen shook the rain from his hair and said, “Thank you. It’s not the chapel I’m interested in. I wanted to enquire about the cremation of a man called Leonard Cohen.”
The woman was instantly on the defensive. “All our files are confidential,” she said with smug complacency.
“Why?” asked Saracen.
The woman appeared to take the question as a personal insult. “They just are that’s all,” she said, bristling with indignation.
Saracen took a deep breath and said, “All I want to know is, was Leonard Cohen cremated here yesterday? Surely there can be nothing confidential in that?”
“I am not at liberty to divulge any information at all,” recited the woman primly.
“Then can I see the manager?”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Of course I don’t have a blood…No, I don’t have an appointment.”
The woman picked up one of her two telephones and pressed a button. Saracen looked at the other one and thought it was probably a direct line to Washington.
“Mr Posselthwaite? There’s a man here asking questions about our files. I’ve told him they are confidential but he won’t accept it…Yes sir…Thank you sir.” She replaced the receiver and turned to Saracen. “Mr Posselthwaite is coming out,” she announced. She said it as if Saracen should be filled with awe.
A door opened behind the woman and a small, rotund man wearing pinstripes emerged. “Now then Miss Bottomley, what’s all this about?”
“This is the man sir,” said Miss Bottomley in triumph.
The little man pretended to notice Saracen for the first time and said, “May I be of some assistance?”
Saracen saw all the signs he associated with lesser officialdom in Posselthwaite and knew that the majesty of the little man’s position was about to be maintained by sheer bloody mindedness but he went through the motions anyway and said what he wanted to know.
“Are you a relative?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Then what might I ask?…”
Leonard Cohen’s body was transferred to the premises of Maurice Dolman and Sons two nights ago from Skelmore General Hospital. I understand that it was then brought here for cremation. I would like to know if the cremation has been carried out yet. If not I would like to see the body.”
“See the body?” repeated Posselthwaite.
“I’m Dr Saracen from Skelmore General.”
“I see,” said Posselthwaite slowly, his face registering disapproval of Saracen’s appearance in faded jeans and jerkin. He rubbed his chin and pretended to be deep in thought but Saracen suspected that he was thinking up some other way to be obstructive. “I think perhaps I should see some formal identification.”
Saracen had reached the limit of his patience. “Identification? What for? All I want to know is did you cremate a man called Leonard Cohen yesterday? Where’s the problem? Watch my lips, YES…NO.”
“This is intolerable!” stormed Posselthwaite. “Never in my career have I been spoken to in this fashion. Just what do you think I am!”
“You don’t want to know that,” said Saracen. “Let’s just forget the whole thing.”
All the frustration of the past twenty four hours welled up inside Saracen as he hurried back to the car, bending his head against a wind that drove rain into his face with relentless accuracy. Although many factors were involved, Posselthwaite was the immediate target of his anger. “Stupid little man,” he muttered as he gripped the steering wheel tightly and stared out at the rain through the glass. He noticed a flight of steps leading down behind the chapel and could see from the position of the chimney nearby that they must lead to the furnace room. It gave him an idea.
Saracen got out the car and ran across to the steps. At the foot he came to a door marked, ‘NO ADMITTANCE’ but he went in anyway. The room was long and dark for there were no windows. Two men were working there and both held long-handled fire rakes. They were removing the ash contents from one of the ovens. One turned in surprise as Saracen entered. “What’s your game then?” he demanded.
Saracen reached inside his jacket for his wallet and drew out two five pound notes. “All I want is the answer to a simple question,” he said, holding the money up.
“Here, you’re one of these reporter blokes,” protested the smaller of the two men. “We don’t know anything about any racket! All of the coffins get burned! Understand? All of them! Now bugger off!”
The other man put a restraining arm on his colleague and said, “Wait a minute George. He hasn’t asked us anything yet.” He looked to Saracen.
“Did you or did you not cremate the remains of a man called Leonard Cohen yesterday? That’s all I want to know.”
The two men looked at each other. “That’s all?” asked one.
“That’s all.”
“From Dolman’s, a man with no relatives?”
“That’s the one.”
“Yes we did.”
Saracen handed over the money and left. At the head of the steps he came face to face with Posselthwaite. There was no mistaking the anger in the little man’s face although it made him look more ridiculous than impressive as he stood there, hands deep in the pocket of an oversized raincoat, spectacles dappled with rain. “Just what do you think you are playing at?” he fumed, hands shaking with temper. Saracen, with disappointment now added to his frustration, brushed past him without saying anything.
“You haven’t heard the last of this!” shouted Posselthwaite as Saracen got into his car. Saracen drove off as if he had not noticed that he was there.
Chapter Eight
“I wish I had never suggested it now,” said Jill when Saracen told her.
“Not your fault, it was a good idea.”
“I hate to keep asking this,” Jill began tentatively, “But what are you going to do now?”
“The theory is simple,” replied Saracen. “If I can’t see Leonard Cohen’s body, I have to see Myra Archer’s.”
Jill looked astonished and said, “But surely she was cremated long before Cohen?”
Saracen shook his head. “No, Garten was about to have her cremated when her husband turned up and insisted that she should be buried. She was interred in St Clement’s churchyard.”
“But could you get an exhumation order?” asked Jill as if she already knew the answer.
Saracen smiled wryly and said, “I said the theory was simple.”
“Surely there must be another way of exposing Garten,” said Jill.
“If there is I can’t think of it,” said Saracen. “As far as I can see the only chink in Garten’s armour lies six feet
