Chapter Two
‘We seem to be haemorrhaging money across the entire northern businesses. The profits are dropping off, cash withdrawals I can’t trace.’
I read the email again, the clacker clack of the train heading north calming despite the urgency I could read in my father’s words.
The call had come three days ago. A panicked feminine voice, one I didn’t instantly recognise. One that barely spoke to me unless it was absolutely necessary. But there she was on the other end of the phone, telling me my father had been rushed to hospital with a suspected heart attack.
The train sped on, fields and trees, houses and cars, everything streaming past the windows.
“Another coffee, miss?” the waitress offered, wheeling her trolley through the first-class section.
“Thank you.” I nudged the cup and saucer towards the end of the table, the thick brown liquid glugging in, its aroma rising on the steam, filling the cabin with a deep, woody smell.
“Can I get you a sandwich or anything else to go with that?”
Was it too early for wine?
“No, I’m fine thanks.”
My laptop sat in front of me, the curser flashing patiently as it waited for me to type something else. Something meaningful. Something reassuring to the old man lying in the hospital bed, worrying more about the performance of his business than the heart that had been re-started numerous times only days ago.
‘I’ll be there in an hour.’ I typed. ‘I’ll go straight to the Newcastle office and get started straight away.’
My stomach rumbled; I should have taken that sandwich after all.
‘Mark will be there to meet you. He’ll drive you where you need to be.’
Ever reliable Mark. The youngest of a family littered with half-siblings, all because my father couldn’t keep it in his pants. At least he’d stayed with his third wife, and Mark seemed to be the last of us.
The last hour ticked torturously slow, the loud telephone conversation from the man three rows away not distracting enough to pass the time. Seemed he was having a hard time getting his contracts signed and had told the entire first-class carriage all about it, over and over. I could neither bury my attention into the accounts that sat open on the laptop in front of me or think about anything else other than why my father’s business, that had been passed down through generations, was going broke, fast.
There was someone taking money out. Skimming the profits, leaving a trail of withdrawals behind them. My father’s refusal to involve the police meant he suspected it was someone close to the business. But with four funeral homes across the north east of England, it was going to be a real job to work out where the money was going or who was taking it. And that’s why he had called me. Two days before his heart attack. My stomach tightened. I was never one for sensationalism or drama. Life was black, or it was white. Simple. But that little note of anxiety in my stomach hinted at something I was trying not to entertain.
The train lurched sideways; the corner coming unexpectedly, my coffee sliding towards my laptop. Shit. Mercifully, it stopped against the computer; the contents sloshing furiously, but not enough to spill over the brim. I didn’t believe in luck, but for once, that was it.
“You’ll shortly be arriving in Newcastle,” the tannoy broke through the whir of the train as it sped ever north. “Please take all your bags and belongings when you leave the train. And mind the gap.”
Passengers spilled out of the carriages the moment the train doors slid open, crowding onto an already busy station side, jostling and pushing. I stepped out too, missing the gap that you could lose a small child between and lifting my case down after me. And then I moved into the surge of bodies, scanning the overhead signs for a clue to the exit, and hesitating a little too long as someone ran over my foot with a heavy case.
I hated Newcastle already. For a place an eighth the size of London, the station was bustling, everyone moving like frenzied ants, and I was being carried along with them. The air was already cold, even amongst the bodies, but as I stepped out of the station’s main gates, it was even icier, a strong wind forcing the chill into my face. A queue of taxis sat alongside the pavement, doors opening and people clambering in, a conveyer belt of activity, but there was no sign of my car and driver amongst it.
I scanned up and down the road, watching taxis approach from one side and drive out the other. A private car passed through, a dark blue amidst the murky, dirty white of the cabs. But it didn’t slow. Pulling out my phone, I glanced at the screen, seeing no messages, no sign that Mark was here to pick me up.
Minutes passed. The wind grew stronger, picking up the crisp packets and discarded food wrappers and whipped them round my ankles. The surge of people slowed; the station quiet for a few minutes between trains. And then the rain started. Heavy drops of almost freezing water, striking my cheek and running down my face. I dragged my phone out of my pocket once more, checking the time, seeing no messages from anyone. A taxi pulled up in front of me, the cab empty apart from the driver.
“Where to?” He asked as I clambered into the back seat, dragging my case and laptop bag in with me.
“Fischer Family Funerals in Walker.”
*****
The chime above the door squawked as I pushed it open, catching my toe on the much too high step and almost falling inside. The interior was dated. Flowery wallpaper bleached a pale yellow from years of exposure to sunlight and cheap settees that dipped in the middle from countless arses.
The manager needed firing just for letting this place look less inviting than a hospital waiting room. I wouldn’t want to have my dead guinea pig brought here, let alone a dead relative. The receptionist was young, barely looking up from whatever held her attention below a too high desk against the far corner. I cleared my throat.
“How can I help?” she asked politely, a forced smile pasted on her face.
“Dave Bradley,” I dropped my eyes to my mobile, double checking the name on the email in front of me. “I’m here to see Dave.”
The young woman nodded, plucking a phone from the stand.
“And you are?”
“Heidi Fischer.”
“Oh,” she paused, her finger hesitating over a number. “I, err, nice to meet you, Ms Fischer. Dave was expecting you.”
Her finger dropped, punching on a couple of numbers and then muttering into the handset. I didn’t listen. Instead, I turned away, scanning over the space at the front of the office. Not only was someone skimming from my father’s company, but whoever was supposed to have been managing the funeral business was failing miserably.
“Dave, I need you to provide me with all your accounts,” I instructed from inside the office that felt like I’d been transported thirty years back in time.
He nodded stiffly and shuffled to a filing cabinet on the far wall, tugging out a tatty brown folder. The corners were dog-eared, and the sides split from too many documents.
“You don’t have them electronically?”
“No. They’re all here.” He patted the folder gently.
This was going to be a longer, harder job than I’d envisaged. I held my hand out as he pushed it towards me, the weight of the folder making my arm sink.
“You’re gonna want a coffee to read those.”
I was going to need a gin. But coffee would do.
“Yes, please. That would be great,” I answered, pulling out a handful of papers.
Invoices, receipts, handwritten notes. Nothing was typed, everything scribbled in the most handsome handwriting I had ever seen. The words were formed carefully, meticulously, and unrushed, making every piece of paper look like something from the Victorian era.
The computer on the corner of the desk was old and boxy, looking like one of the first ones ever to have been made. And the desk itself was exceptionally tidy. Nothing scattered on it. No pens or paper, as tidy as the handwriting on the documents in the file.
“How old are you, Dave?” I asked as he backed through the door, holding a tray of cups with a small plate of biscuits between them.
“Sixty-seven.”
“And what’s your plan for the next couple of years?”
He paused, the tray he was about to slide onto the desk, suspended in the air. Dave stared silently for a while, saying nothing, just looking at me with a mix of surprise and a hint of resentment. And then, stiffly, he let it slide across the desk, his eyes fixed on mine.
“I have no plans,” he answered eventually.
“Then it might be a good time to think of some. Thanks for the coffee,” I continued, ignoring the awkwardness filling the office.
“Excuse me, Ms Fischer. I’ve some funerals to prepare for.”
Turning, he left his coffee on the tray, moving to the doorway.
“Dave, one more thing,” I called, my eyes scanning over the invoice in front of me. “This doesn’t look right.”
I waved the piece of paper with the meticulously neat handwriting on it in the air in front of me.
“How so?”
“The prices you’ve itemised. I can see that this is not our normal rates.”
“That’s the invoice for the Northern Kings. The funeral of their president,” he continued when I stared at him blankly.
When he didn’t provide more information, I shrugged at him.
“That still doesn’t explain why it’s half the amount it ought to be. There’s a lot of arrangements here. More than a normal funeral. We’re hiring a motorcycle hearse? And I can’t see that we are charging the full amount back to the client. What’s going on here, Dave?”
“I…err…I must have miscalculated the invoice.”
“Well, that won’t do. You’d better reissue it at the correct amount.”
Dave stared at me, a flash of unfathomable emotions crossing his face before the dice landed on tension. He clenched his jaw, a muscle in his neck twitching. Then he nodded his head and left the office.