The crematorium was a nondescript building near the Mecca Bingo. As Brant and Roberts entered, a couple were coming out with their urn. Brant said,
Roberts didn’t answer, a wave of nausea hit him and he put out a hand to touch the wall. Brant got him a chair, produced a hip flask, said,
He did.
It burned like a bastard. He said,
‘No, it’s all the same deal. You’re saving a few bob, she’d be glad.’
‘She’s shacked up with an Asian guy in Coldharbour Lane.’
Brant knew a great joke involving curry but felt he might hold on to it. A man emerged from an office, approached, said,
‘We’re ready for you, Mr Roberts.’
They entered a small room. There was a row of pews and what appeared to be a miniature assembly line. A coffin was placed on it, near smothered in white roses. Roberts asked,
‘Who got the flowers?’
Brant near smiled, said,
‘Guy on the stalls in Streatham owed me a favour; does a clean line in the fruit and veg.’
In fact, he’d also sent over a dozen pineapples but the crematorium caretaker had had those away. A tape began to play; it sounded like a Welsh choir-gone-boy band. Obviously well used, as it skipped in parts, startling the listener. Brant said,
‘Me, I like a nice Moody Blue.’
The attendant began to remove the flowers and signalled: ‘It’s time.’
Brant nudged Roberts, said,
‘Couple of last words, guv.’
Roberts couldn’t move so Brant led him over, took his hand and placed it on the coffin. The wood felt warm. Roberts tried to speak but no words came. Brant said,
‘We’ll miss you, love.’
And they stepped back.
A muted whirring and the casket began to move. A steel shutter opened in the wall, a red glow momentarily visible, then the coffin was gone. Tears slid down Roberts’ cheeks. Brant took his arm, said,
‘We’ll wait outside.’
The attendant showed them into an office and withdrew. Brant produced the flask, said,
‘We’ll get legless today.’
Roberts nodded, drank deep. Brant produced his packet of Weights and the Zippo. Cranked up. His brand of cigarettes were getting harder to find. Now he had to travel to the West End for them, ordering a month’s supply each visit. The proprietor had said,
‘You’ll need to change, soon they’ll be unavailable.’
Normally, Brant leaned a little on shopkeepers. More out of habit than need. But West End guys answered to a different drummer. He’d taken his supply, paid in full. Boy, he hated to shell out top whack for anything, felt it blunted his edge. He’d have to find an angle on this guy but hadn’t found it yet. Not unduly worried, sooner or later he got them all by the balls. Roberts said,
‘Gimme one of those.’
‘Sir?’
‘Come on, Brant, one cigarette won’t kill me.’
‘They’re kind of strong, guv.’
‘Give me the bloody thing.’
Brant fired him up, expecting Roberts to erupt in a fever of coughing and spittle.
Nope.
After a time, the funeral director approached; he was carrying an urn, solemnly, in both hands, said,
‘Mr Roberts, your wife.’
Roberts had the hysterical impression he was being introduced, wanted to shout:
‘How can I greet her? She’s no bloody hands.’
Brant, that extra sense — as always — attuned, said,
‘I’ll take that.’
The director whispered:
‘There’s the matter of... ahm... the bill.’
‘We are The Bill.’
A slight titter from the director, though he was far from amused. The burn-and-bury business will smash that right out of you. He said,
‘Things proved a tad more costly than anticipated.’
Brant led him to a corner, said,
‘You gave a price, got paid, and now you’re upping the ante, shaking down the dead?’
‘It’s the unforeseen extras, how they do mount up; every enterprise is prey to them.’
Brant gave him the look, asked,
‘You know what enterprise I’m in?’
‘Of course... sergeant.’
‘Trust me pal, you don’t want to fuck with me.’
Now Brant gave him the smile; it reminded the director of the corpses, before they’d been made up. He said,
‘I see.’
‘I bloody hope you do, pal.’
Then he rummaged in his jacket, found some crumpled change, said,
‘Bit of a drink in it for you, eh?’
The director turned frosty, said,
‘I don’t drink.’
‘You fuck with me again, you’ll wish you did.’
They got a minicab to Camberwell. The driver, from Rawalpindi, got lost twice. As they got out, Brant said,
‘On me, guv.’
He leaned into the driver, flashed his warrant card. The man sighed, said,
‘Not even a tip?’
‘A tip is it? Here’s one, buy a flogging A to Z.’
They got seriously wasted in a pub frequented by the staff and patients from the Maudsley Mental Hospital, formerly known as the infamous Bedlam. Sometime during the evening, they lost the urn. Or one of the patients nicked it.
Either way, Mrs Roberts was history.
In the early 1980s, a member of the notorious Dunne drugs family was led away in handcuffs. Just before he got into the prison van, he turned to the pack of reporters, said, ‘If you thought we were bad, just wait till you see what’s coming next.’
