A Season in Hell

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 fir trees on its way, sliding to a halt in a gully below, half on its side.

Only the seat belt had saved him from going through the windscreen. He got the driver’s door open and pulled himself out. He stood there, slightly dazed, aware of the Jaguar pausing on the road above. Bird appeared at the top of the short slope.

‘Albert?’ There was genuine fear in his voice.

‘I’m all right,’ Albert called.

At the same moment he saw that the coffin had smashed through the glass side of the hearse, the lid bursting open so that the corpse hung out, still swathed in the shroud. He dropped to his knees and peered under the vehicle and saw that the bottom end of the coffin was caught underneath.

Bird scrambled down the slope to join him. ‘Just get him out. We’ll put him in the boot of the Jaguar, but for God’s sake hurry. Someone might come.’

Albert reached under the hearse. There was a slight, uneasy creaking and it swayed slightly. He jumped back. ‘This damn thing could topple over at any moment and he’s pinned by the feet.’

Bird stooped and when he straightened he was holding the vodka bottle. ‘Drinking again,’ he said furiously. ‘What have I told you?’ He slapped Albert across the face and threw the bottle into the trees.

Albert cowered away, a hand raised, a child again. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Bird. It was an accident.’

Bird took a penknife from his waistcoat pocket and opened it. ‘Cut his stitches. Open him up. We’ve got to get that heroin.’

‘I couldn’t do that, Mr Bird,’ Albert said.

‘Do it!’ Bird cried and hit him in the face again. ‘I’ll get a bag from the car.’

He thrust the penknife into the chauffeur’s hand, turned and scrambled up the slope. Albert, terrified, dropped to his knees and pulled the shroud away. The boy’s eyes were open, staring at him. He averted his own eyes as best he could and started to hack at the stitches.

On the road above, Bird got the boot of the Jaguar open and found a canvas bag he used for shopping. He went back to the top of the slope and peered down into the gathering darkness. ‘Have you got it?’

‘Yes, Mr Bird.’ Albert’s voice was strained and muffled.

‘Put it in this.’

Bird tossed the canvas bag down and looked anxiously along the road. Thank God it had happened on a side road and the flat farmland beyond the bend meant that he could see some considerable distance. His heart was pounding and there was sweat on his face. What would Smith say? The prospect was too awful to think about.

He slid down the slope. ‘Are you ready, for God’s sake? Have you got it all?’

‘I think so, Mr Bird.’

‘Right, let’s get out of here.’

‘But they’ll still find the body, Mr Bird. Certain to.’

‘Even if they do, they can’t trace any of us. Not in France, not here, and there is such a thing as destroying the evidence. Go on! Get up there and get the car started!’

Albert scrambled away and Bird unscrewed the cap on the fuel tank. Petrol spilled out onto the ground. He took out his handkerchief and soaked it, then went halfway up the bank. He found his lighter, touched it to the handkerchief and tossed it down onto the hearse. For a moment, he thought it was going to go out and then a yellow tongue of flame flickered into life. By the time he reached the top of the slope, the hearse was beginning to burn. He had a glimpse of the corpse’s eyes staring at him accusingly, then turned and got into the Jaguar and Albert drove away.

Later, at his desk at Deepdene, waiting for Smith to return his call, he sipped brandy and tried to pull himself together. It was going to be all right. It had to be. Smith would understand. The telephone rang as Albert entered the room with the tea things on a silver tray. Bird held up a hand, motioning him to silence, and picked up the phone.

‘Smith here.’

‘It’s Bird, sir.’ Bird’s hands were shaking. ‘Actually we’ve had a bit of a problem.’

Smith’s voice didn’t change in the slightest. ‘Tell me about it.’