black jacket and tie, white shirt pristine, striped trousers immaculate. The gold-painted name plate on his desk said: Asa Bird.
‘Mrs Davies. I can assure you that here at Deepdene, your husband will receive only the very best attention. His ashes may be strewn in our own garden of rest if you wish.’
The room was half in shadows on that dull November afternoon but the flowers massed in the corners, the oak panelling, were reassuring, as was his soothing, slightly avuncular voice that had a touch of the parson about it.
‘That would be wonderful.’
He patted her hand. ‘Just a few formalities, forms to fill in. Regulations, I’m afraid.’
He pressed a bell on his desk, sat back, selected a handkerchief and proceeded to polish his glasses, standing up and peering out of the window into the immaculate garden. It always filled him with conscious pleasure. Not bad for a boy born on the wrong side of the blanket in the worst slum in Liverpool that had fitted him for nothing but a life of petty crime. Eighteen offences by the age of twenty-four. Everything from larceny to, although he preferred to forget about it now, male prostitution, which had led him to the chance of a lifetime, his relationship with the ageing Henry Brown, an undertaker with his own long-
established firm in Manchester.
He’d taken young Asa in, not that that was his name then, and groomed him in every way. Asa had loved the death business at once, taken to it like a duck to water, soon becoming an expert at every aspect, including embalming. And then old Mr Henry had died leaving only Mrs Brown who had never had a son of her own and doted on Asa, making perhaps only one mistake. Told him that she had made him her sole heir, an error which had led to her untimely death from pneumonia, helped on her way by Asa’s unfortunately leaving the windows of her room wide open on a December night after first removing the bedclothes.
Mrs Brown’s thoughtful bequest had taken him to Deepdene and his own establishment, developed from an eighteenth-century country house. A garden of rest, with its own cremation facilities. You wouldn’t find better in California, and his association with the mysterious Mr Smith hadn’t done him any harm.
The door opened and a handsome young black man entered. He was tall and muscular and the well-cut chauffeur’s uniform showed him to advantage. ‘You rang, Mr Bird?’
‘Yes, Albert. The package from France. It will be later than we thought.’
‘That’s a shame, Mr Bird.’
‘Oh, I expect we’ll manage. Is the transport ready?’
‘In the rear garage, sir.’
‘Good. I’ll just have a look.’ Bird turned to Mrs Davies. ‘I’ll leave you for a few minutes to complete those forms and then I’ll help you choose a suitable coffin.’
She nodded gratefully. He patted her shoulder and went out. Albert opened a large umbrella and held it over his head as they crossed the cobbled yard.
‘Bloody weather,’ Bird said. ‘Always seems to be pissing down these days.’
‘Dreadful, Mr Bird,’ Albert agreed and got the garage door open. When he pulled a dustsheet away a gleaming black hearse stood revealed. ‘There you are.’
Beautifully painted on the side in gold was the legend: Hartley Brothers, Funeral Directors.
‘Excellent,’ Bird said. ‘Where did you get it?’
‘Knocked it off myself in North London, Thursday. The log book and tax disc are from a write-off I found in a scrapyard in Brixton.’
‘You’re certain you won’t be remembered?’
Albert laughed. ‘In Brixton? You, they’d remember, but me? In Brixton, just another brother, just another black face. Do we go the usual way?’
‘Yes, you take the hearse. I’ll follow in the Jaguar.’
Which Albert knew meant just in case anything went wrong, which really meant that he would be left carrying the can while the old bastard did a runner. Not that it mattered. His day would come, Albert was certain.
‘That’s fine, Mr Bird.’
Bird patted his face. ‘You’re a good boy, Albert, a lovely boy. I must think of some way to reward you.’
‘Not necessary, Mr Bird.’ Albert smiled as he opened the umbrella. ‘Serving you is reward enough,’ he said and they started back across the yard.
Agnès and Valentin arrived back at Vigny at four to discover that the plane had already departed. She watched Valentin hurry across to the hangar and speak to the mechanic again. She lit a cigarette and waited. Valentin returned in a little while.
‘Left fifteen minutes ago.’
‘Did you phone?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ he said as he switched on the engine. ‘And a funny thing happened. You know how sometimes an answering tape stays on even though someone has picked up the receiver?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, as my usual man answered, I heard a tape playing.’
‘What did it say?’
‘It said: This is Deepdene Garden of Rest. We regret there is no one here at the moment, but leave your number and we’ll get back to you.’
‘Now that is interesting, chéri.’ Agnès smiled, managing to look quite vicious. ‘A chink in Monsieur Jago’s armour that could be worth a great deal.’
Woodchurch Airfield was not much bigger than Vigny. An aero club really, used occasionally for charter or freight flights. Situated in the depths of the Kent countryside, it had no customs facilities which meant that the customs officer who received the Cessna with Eric Talbot’s coffin had to drive all the way from Canterbury. He was not pleased by the delay, wanted only to be on his way. Formalities were of the briefest. The necessary papers were signed and he and the pilot helped Albert load the coffin into the hearse.
As Albert drove through the gate and turned into the country road the Cessna roared down the runway and lifted into the sky. Behind him, Bird, who had stayed discreetly out of the way, took up station in the black Jaguar. Albert reached for the half-pint of vodka in the glove compartment, then shook a couple of his special pills from a bottle, driving one-handed. He washed them down with the vodka and within a few minutes was on a marvellous high.
He checked out the Jaguar in his rear-view mirror. It was already dusk and Bird had turned on his lights. Always a cautious one, Albert thought. Never took a chance if someone else could take it for him and, usually, that someone else was Albert.
‘Albert this, Albert that,’ the chauffeur said softly, glancing into the mirror again. ‘I sometimes wonder what the silly old bugger thinks I am.’
He took another swig from the bottle, then realized, too late, that he was running into a bend. He dropped the bottle and swung the wheel. His offside front wheel mounted the grass bank, collided with a block of granite which had fallen from a low wall. The hearse careered across the road, went straight through a wire fence and ploughed down a slope, uprooting young
