the locks on the slim black briefcase he’d placed next to him on the sofa. ‘An excellent choice, if I may say so, Mrs Barclay. It’s important to have a place where you can mourn properly, a focus for the communication I’m sure you’ll feel between yourself and Mr Barclay for a long time to come. Now, because we’re still in the trial period of this new way of communicating with our customers, we are able to offer our high quality memorials at a significant discount of twenty per cent less than the prices quoted on our behalf by funeral directors. So that means you get much better value for your money; a memorial that previously might have seemed out of your price range suddenly becomes affordable. Because, of course, we all want the very best for our loved ones,’ he added, his voice oozing sympathy.
I bit back the overwhelming desire to rip his testicles off and have them nickel-plated as a memorial to his crass opportunism and nodded weakly. ‘I suppose,’ I said.
‘I wonder if I might take this opportunity to show you our range?’ The briefcase was as open as the expression on his face. How could I refuse?
‘I don’t know…’
‘There’s absolutely no obligation, though obviously it would be in your best interests to go down the road that offers you the best value for money.’ He was on his feet and across the room to sit next to me in one fluid movement, a display file from his briefcase in his hand as if by magic. Sleight of hand like his, he could have been the new David Copperfield if he’d gone straight.
He flipped the book open in front of me. I stared at a modest granite slab, letters stuck on it like Letraset rather than incised in the stone. ‘This is the most basic model we offer,’ he said. ‘But even that is finest Scottish granite, quarried by traditional methods and hand-finished by our own craftsmen.’ He quoted a price that made my daily rate seem like buttons. He placed the file on my lap.
‘Is that with or without the discount?’ I asked.
‘We always quote prices without discount, Mrs Barclay. So you’re looking at a price that is twenty per cent less than that. And if you want to go ahead and you’re prepared to pay a cash deposit plus cheque for the full amount tonight, I am authorized to offer you a further five per cent discount, making a total of one quarter less than the quoted price.’ His hand had moved to cover mine, gently patting it.
That was when the front door crashed open. ‘Careful with that bag, it’s got the hot and sour soup in it,’ I heard a familiar voice shout. I closed my eyes momentarily. Now I knew how Mary Magdalene felt on Easter Sunday.
‘Kate? You in here?’ Richard’s voice beat him into the room by a couple of seconds. He arrived in the doorway clutching a fragrant plastic carrier bag, a smoking spliff in his other hand. He looked around his living room incredulously. ‘What the hell’s going on? What have you done to the place?’
He stepped into the room, followed by a pair of burly neopunks, each with a familiar Chinese takeaway carrier bag. It was the only remotely normal thing about them. Each wore heavy black work boots laced halfway up their calves, ragged black leggings and heavy tartan knee-length kilts. Above the waist, they had black granddad shirts with strategic rips held together by kilt pins and Celtic brooches. Across their chests, each had a diagonal tartan sash of the kind worn on television on Hogmanay by the dancers on those terrible ethnic fantasias the Scottish TV companies broadcast to warm the cockles of their exiles’ hearts and make the rest of us throw up into our champagne. The one on Richard’s left had bright red hair left long and floppy on top. The sides of his head were stubbled. The other had a permed, rainbow striped Mohican. Each was big enough to merit his own postcode. They looked like Rob Roy dressed by Vivienne Westwood. Will Allen goggled at the three of them, aghast.
Richard dropped the bag of Chinese food and his jaw as the transformation to the room really sank in. ‘Jesus, Brannigan, I turn my back for five minutes and you trash the place. And who the hell are you?’ he demanded, glowering at Allen.
Allen reassembled his face into something approaching a smile. ‘I’m Will Allen. From Greenhalgh and Edwards, the monumental masons. About Mr Barclay’s memorial?’
Richard frowned. ‘Mr Barclay’s memorial? You mean, as in gravestone?’
Allen nodded. ‘That’s not the term we prefer to use, but yes, as in gravestone.’
‘Mr Richard Barclay, would that be?’
‘That’s right.’
Richard shook his head in disbelief. He stuck his hand into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a press card with his photograph on it. He thrust it towards Allen. ‘Do I look dead to you?’
Allen was on his feet, his folder pulled out of my grasp. He threw it into the briefcase, grabbed it and shouldered past Richard and the two Celtic warriors. ‘Ah shit,’ I swore, jumping to my feet and pushing through the doorway in Allen’s wake.
‘Come back here, Brannigan, you’ve got some explaining to do,’ I heard Richard yell as I reached the door. Allen was sprinting down the path towards the car-parking area. I didn’t have my car keys on me; the last thing I’d anticipated was a chase. But Allen was my only lead and he was getting away. I had to do something. I ran down the path after him, glad that the only respectable pair of black shoes in my wardrobe had been flat pumps. As he approached a silver Mazda saloon, the lights flashed and I heard the doors unlock. Allen jumped into the car. The engine started first time. Another one of the joys of modern technology that makes life simpler for the bad guys. He reversed in a scream of tyres and engine, threw the car into a three-point turn and swept out of the cul-de-sac where I live. Anyone seeing him burn rubber as he swung on to the main drag would only mark him down as one of the local car thieves being a little indiscreet.
Dispirited, I sighed and walked back to the house. I’d got the number of his car, but I had a funny feeling that wasn’t going to take me a whole lot further forward. These people were too professional for that. At least I had the whole thing on tape, I reminded myself. I stopped in my tracks. Oh no, I didn’t. In the confusion of Alexis’s visit and the fallout from her shock announcement, I’d forgotten to switch on the radio mikes I’d planted in Richard’s living room. The whole operation was a bust.
Not only that, but I was going to have to deal with an irate and very much alive Richard, who was by now standing on his doorstep, arms folded, face scowling. Swallowing a sigh, I walked towards him. If I’d been wearing heels, I’d have been dragging them. ‘I know you think being on the road with a neo-punk band is a fate worse than death, but it doesn’t actually call for a tombstone,’ Richard said sarcastically as I approached.
‘It was work,’ I said wearily.
‘Am I supposed to be grateful for that? There’s a man in my living room—at least, I thought it was my living room, but looking at it, I’m not so sure any more. Maybe I walked into the wrong house by mistake? Anyway, there’s some smooth bastard in my living room, sitting on my settee discussing my gravestone with my so-called girlfriend—’
‘Partner,’ I interjected. ‘Twenty-nine, remember? Not a girl any more.’
He ignored me and steamrollered on. ‘Presumably because I’m supposedly dead. And I’m supposed to be calm and laid back about it because it was work?’ he yelled.
‘Are you going to let me in, or shall I sell tickets?’ I asked calmly, gesturing over my shoulder with my thumb at the rest of the close. I didn’t have to look to know that half a dozen windows would be occupied by now. TV drama’s been so dire lately that
