Aftermath by Peter Turnbull Page A

to attend to the recovery of the body and convey it to the Chapel of Rest. No one came forward to instruct another undertaker, and so we made all arrangements and will send our invoice to Mr Hoursecarl’s solicitors . . . they have contacted us and asked us to do that. We have no instructions to cremate Mr Housecarl and so we will inter the gentleman’s remains as is the established procedure. You can always dig up a coffin if, at some future point, a next-of-kin comes forward and instructs a cremation, but you can’t un-cremate if a next-of-kin wants a burial.’
    â€˜Fair enough.’
    â€˜So we will always bury, it’s the rule, always bury in the absence of a clear request from the family to cremate.’
    â€˜So, when you recovered the body from the house—’
    â€˜Amazing old building.’
    â€˜Yes . . . you didn’t notice anyone taking an interest in the removal of the body?’
    â€˜No, we didn’t . . . I didn’t . . . it was myself and three of our employees, a police constable and the doctor. All very normal, no suspicious circumstances, natural death, old boy just expired.’
    Reginald Webster walked out of the air-conditioned chill of the premises of the undertakers and into the heat of the midday sun. He made a mental note that that evening he would tell Joyce that should she ever have to arrange his funeral, she should not engage the services of Canverrie & Son. He did not want to be planted by an uninterested man who would rather be selling yachts on the Mediterranean coast of Spain or Greece.
    The Goodwin home on Cemetery Road revealed itself to be a stone-built villa, dating from the late Victorian era, within a terrace of similar houses. It had a small and neatly kept front garden which abutted the pavement. The house itself was painted white; white door and white window frames, the rest was left as naked stone. The street on which the house stood was quiet and sun drenched, causing heat hazes to rise above the asphalt surface of the road. Carmen Pharoah parked the car close to the Goodwin home though not directly outside it. She and Thomson Ventnor exited the vehicle, leaving the windows open by a matter of an inch or two, thus allowing the passenger area of the vehicle to ‘breathe’ in their absence. They then walked solemnly up to the door of the house of Goodwin. They stood for a moment before the front door as Carmen Pharoah turned to Ventnor and whispered, ‘Here we go’, and then pressed the doorbell, which made a harsh continuous buzzing sound, ceasing only when she retracted her finger.
    â€˜Prefer the “ding dong” type myself,’ she commented, half turning to Ventnor, ‘the ones powered with batteries rather than this type which is wired to the mains.’
    â€˜So do I,’ Ventnor paused. ‘In fact, I have a tale to tell about a battery powered doorbell.’
    â€˜Oh?’
    â€˜Yes, it defies logical explanation, so it’s going to form the in-flight entertainment for the journey back to Micklegate Bar.’
    â€˜Sounds intriguing . . .’ Carmen Pharoah’s voice trailed off as the sound of a security chain was heard being unhooked from within the house.
    The door was opened calmly and clearly, in her own time and on her own terms by a tall, though finely built middle-aged woman whose complexion drained of colour as she realized that Carmen Pharoah and Thomson Ventnor were police officers.
    She collected herself, took a deep breath and said, ‘Veronica?’
    â€˜Possibly,’ Carmen Pharoah replied, she paused for a second and then added, ‘in fact it’s more than possible . . . we can say highly probable.’
    The woman glanced downwards and then briefly closed her eyes. ‘You’d better come in.’ She stepped aside with a lightness of step, which both officers noticed, and allowed them to