coming back. They gave you a different view of the deceased from what the vicar said in his eulogy. Vernon was the same as everyone else – he liked to earwig on the grievers. But if he was going to go all moody and yonderly on a removal, it was the last straw.
A few minutes later, they drew up to the back door of their own premises, got the body into the mortuary and slid it into one of the lower slots of the refrigerator. Even Vernon would have to admit a corpse was just a thing once it was removed from the house, away from the half-drunk glass of water and the hair on the razor. There was no other way to think about it, not when you did the things you had to do to prepare a body – putting in the dentures, stitching up the lips, pushing the face back into shape. It never bothered Hudson any more. Unless it was a child, of course.
‘Watch it, don’t let that tray slide out.’
Vernon jerked back into life. His attention had been drifting, but so had Hudson’s. Even at this stage, it wouldn’t do to spill the body on to the floor.
Vicky, the receptionist, was in the front office working on the computer, but there were no prospects in, no potential customers. The last funeral was over for the day, though the next casket was waiting to go in the morning, and one of the team was already attaching the strips of non-slip webbing to hold wreaths in place.
Hudson knew that some of the staff thought he fussed too much. They sniggered at him behind his back because he got obsessed about timing, and was always worrying about roadworks or traffic jams. But he wanted things to be just right for every funeral. It was the same reason he spent his evenings on the phone to customers, advising them on what to do with their ashes, getting feedback on funerals, hearing how the family were coping.
It was all part of the personal service. And personal service was Hudson and Slack’s main asset. Probably its last remaining asset.
Ben Cooper drove his Toyota out on to the Sheffield ring road, just beating a Supertram rattling towards the city centre from Shalesmoor. Technically, he was off duty now, but he plugged his mobile into the hands-free kit and called the CID room at E Division to check that he wasn’t needed. He didn’t expect anything, though. In fact, it would have to be really urgent for somebody to justify his overtime.
‘Miss is in some kind of meeting with the DI,’ said DC Gavin Murfin. ‘But she didn’t leave any messages for you, Ben. I’ll tell her you checked in. But I’m just about to go home myself, so I wouldn’t worry about a thing.’
‘OK, Gavin. I’ve hit rush hour, so it’ll take me about forty minutes to get back to Edendale anyway.’
Brake lights had come on in front of him as scores of cars bunched at the A57 junction. A few drivers were trying to take a right turn towards the western suburbs of Sheffield. But most seemed intent on crawling round the ring road, probably heading for homes in the sprawling southern townships, Mosborough and Hackenthorpe, Beighton and Ridgeway. Some of those places had been in Derbyshire once, but the city had swallowed them thirty years ago.
‘Gavin, what’s the meeting about?’ said Cooper, worried that he might be missing something important. Everything of any significance seemed to happen when he was out of the office. Sometimes he wondered if Diane Fry planned it that way. As his supervising officer, she wasn’t always quick to keep him informed.
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Murfin. ‘She didn’t tell me. I’ve got some files to give her, then I’m hoping to sneak away before she finds another job for me to do.’
‘There’s no overtime, Gavin.’
‘Tell me about it.’
Cooper had come to a halt again. Clusters of students were standing near him, waiting for the tram to re-emerge from its tunnel under the roundabout. They all wore personal stereos or had mobile phones pressed to their ears. The main university campus was right across the road, and he could make out the hospital complexes in Western Bank. The one-way system in central Sheffield always baffled him, so he was glad to be on the ring road. He didn’t want to stay in the city any longer than necessary.
‘I don’t suppose you fancy going for a drink tomorrow night?’ said Murfin.
‘Don’t you have to be at home with the family, Gavin?’
‘Jean’s taking the kids out ice skating. I’ll be on my own.’
‘No, I’m sorry. Not tomorrow.’
‘You’re turning down beer? Well, I could offer food as well. We could have pie and chips at the pub, or go for an Indian. The Raj Mahal is open Wednesdays.’
‘No, I can’t, Gavin,’ said Cooper. ‘I’ve got a date.’
‘A what?’
‘A date.’
‘With a woman?’
‘Could be.’
At last, Cooper was able to take his exit, turning right by the Safeway supermarket and the old brewery into Ecclesall Road. Ahead of him lay a land of espresso bars, Aga shops and the offices of independent financial advisors. In the leafy outer suburbs of Whirlow and Dore, the houses would get bigger and further away from the road as he drove into AB country.
‘Are you still there, Gavin?’
Murfin’s voice was quieter when he came back on the phone.
‘I’m going to have to go. Miss has come out of her meeting, and she doesn’t look happy. Her nose has gone all tight. You know what I mean? As though she’s just smelled something really bad.’
‘I know what you mean.’
‘So it looks as though I’ve blown it. I just wasn’t quick enough.’
‘Good luck, then. Speak to you in the morning.’
Cooper smiled as he ended the call. Murfin’s comment about Diane Fry had reminded him of the forensic anthropologist’s report on the human remains from Ravensdale. The details in the document had been sparse. Like so many experts’ reports, it had seemed to raise more questions than it answered. But he’d made a call to Dr Jamieson anyway, mostly out of optimism. In the end, there was only one person whose job it was to find the answers.
‘The nasal opening is narrow, the bridge steepled, and the cheekbones tight to the face. Caucasian, probably European. An adult.’
‘Yes, you said that in your report, sir.’
‘Beyond that, it’s a bit more difficult. We have to look for alterations in the skeleton that occur at a predictable rate – changes in the ribs where they attach to the sternum, or the parts of the pelvis where they meet in front. We can age adults to within five years if we’re lucky, or maybe ten. So you’ll have to take the age of forty to forty-five as a best guess.’
‘And the chances of an ID?’ Cooper had asked.
‘To a specific individual? None.’
Dr Jamieson had sounded impatient. Probably he had a thousand other things to do, like everyone else.
‘Look, all I can give you is a general biological profile – it’s up to you to match it to your missing persons register. I’m just offering clues here. I don’t work miracles.’
‘But it’s definitely a woman?’ Cooper persisted.
‘Yes, definitely. That should narrow it down a bit, surely? You don’t have all that many missing women on the books in Derbyshire, do you?’
‘No, Doctor, we don’t.’
And Jamieson had been right. The problem was, no one had ever filed a missing person report answering the description of Jane Raven.
Fry got herself a cup of water from the cooler and waited a few moments before she went back into the DI’s office. She was vaguely aware of Gavin Murfin lurking rather furtively in the CID room, sitting down again when she looked his way. But the rest of the place was already