Lee Child: MatchUp

“Her name is Sarah O’Hara, twenty-three, a waitress in Brighton, who was trying to become a fashion model. Tragically broke her neck when her boyfriend crashed his motorcycle.”

“What about the break-in during the night?” Glenn Branson asked.

“When I first got here to deal with the alarm, and everything, I thought it was vandals. Drunks. Kids. We do get a bit of trouble here in this area. I thought maybe they’d just been fooling around with the coffins.” He broke off for an instant. “How rude of me, I’ve not offered you gentlemen anything. Tea, coffee?”

“I’m fine, thanks,” Grace said.

Branson smiled at him. “I’m good.”

“But the thing is after finding this terrible thing, this dreadful desecration of this poor young lady’s body, I’ve begun to change my mind.” Houlihan cradled his head in his hands and fell silent for some moments. “How am I going to tell her family? What am I going to say? This will ruin my business. One hundred and forty-nine years my family has run this company, and we’ve never had a problem, ever. We were planning big celebrations for next year. Now will we even be in business?”

“I’m sure there’ll be ways through this for you. But if we could just focus for now on establishing the facts we need.”

“Of course.”

Grace pulled out his notebook. “You don’t believe it was vandals, you said? What are your reasons for that?”

“I was called out because the alarm was ringing. But I’m not the first keyholder contact. That is my embalmer, Rodney Tidy. I have a deal with him. I pay him a little bit of cash to come out if the alarm goes off. It’s worth it not to have a disturbed night. Usually it’s something silly, mice chewing through the wire, or a spider’s web across a sensor that’s set it off—that sort of thing.”

“Mr. Tidy’s away, is he?” Branson asked.

“No, he is not. So this is the strange thing. I got telephoned by the alarm company because they said they could not get an answer from Rodney.”

“This was around 2 a.m.?” Grace asked.

Houlihan nodded.

“Late for someone to be out on a midweek night,” Branson commented.

“Extremely unusual behavior for him.”

“What do you know about him?” Grace asked.

“He’s a bit of an oddball. But then again, embalming isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, so to speak. He’s somewhat of a loner. Not married and he really does not have good social skills.”

“You haven’t been to check up on his address, to see if he’s ill or anything?” Ken Anakin asked.

“I did. About 4 a.m. I waited here just to ensure whoever had done this didn’t come back, but I was careful not to touch anything, as I was instructed by the officers who attended. Then I went to his address over in Portslade, but I couldn’t find his house.”

Grace carefully watched the man’s face and his body language. It wasn’t surprising he was in an agitated state, but it seemed there was something the undertaker was holding back.

“Couldn’t find it?”

“I thought I must have written it down wrong. But when I got back here and checked it, I had it down correctly.”

Grace let it go for a moment. “How many people do you employ here?”

“Just a few. We are a real family business. My wife, Gudrun, my son, Kevin, his wife, Gemma, my bookkeeper—her name’s Eleanor Walker—and Rodney Tidy.”

“This may be a difficult question for you to answer,” Grace said, continuing to watch him carefully. “Could this have been done by a member of your staff.”

Houlihan leaned forward, lowered his voice as if scared he might be overheard, and said, “There is only one person who could possibly have done this. Actually, there is something odd. When I was called here, because the alarm was ringing, the first thing I did was switch it off. Then I went around the entire premises with the two police officers and we couldn’t find any unlocked outside doors, or open or broken windows.”

“Meaning someone either had a door key or picked a lock?” Grace said.

“After the officers left, I checked the alarm. I know a bit about technology. On the control panel you can access the history of when it has been switched on and off.” He raised a finger in the air, conspiratorially. “Here’s the strange thing: The alarm was switched off at 1:10 a.m. this morning, a full fifty minutes before it was set off.”

“Someone came in, switched the alarm off, did the damage, perhaps including sawing off the feet, then activated the alarm and left. Is that what you’re saying?” Glenn Branson asked.

“Either activated the alarm accidentally, or perhaps deliberately to make it look like there had been a break-in.”

“What time is Rodney Tidy due in for work?” Grace asked.

Houlihan checked his ornate antique watch. “He should have been in over an hour ago. We start early here, because sometimes relatives or partners want to come in on the morning of a funeral to view their loved one just one more time before they are interred or cremated.”

“Did you ever check on Rodney Tidy’s address previously?” Grace asked.

“Never had any reason too. He had excellent references when he applied for the job. Like I said, he’s an oddball, but always a hard worker.”

Grace looked at Branson. “I think we should go and pay Rodney Tidy a visit.”

Houlihan provided them the address.

“I know roughly where that is,” Branson said.

“In the meantime, I’d appreciate you not touching anything in the room where the coffins and the bodies are,” Grace said. “We’re going to need to seal your premises.”

“Seal them?”

“I’m afraid so. This is potentially connected to a murder inquiry, so I’m declaring it a crime scene.”

“But I’ve got funerals today, Detective.”

“And I have a murdered young woman who may be connected to this.”

“At least let me ship the bodies out that I have here.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t allow anything to be moved. But what we’ll do is check those due for funerals today first, and see if we can get them released, although I can’t promise anything at this stage.”

“I can’t tell six families there’s going to be no funeral today.”

“I’m sorry, you’ll have to. I’m sure the dead bodies won’t mind waiting.”

Instantly he regretted making such an insensitive remark.

“This is outrageous. I want to speak to your superior, at once.”

“His name is Assistant Chief Constable Cassian Pewe. Good luck with him, sir.”

The three police officers left the building. Grace asked Anakin to remain until a scene guard was in place and to ensure Houlihan followed instructions.

Moments later Grace and Branson approached their car.

“You drive, Glenn,” he said. “I need to make some calls.”

“Okay, boss.”

“And no jokes about legging it?”

“Absolutely not. I’d hate to do what you just did and put my foot in it.”

CAROL LOOKED OVER TONY’S SHOULDER.

He’d logged into what seemed to be the most popular foot fetishist forum as Doctor Sole and was browsing the comments. There seemed to be three or four others online, swapping resources for podiatric porn.

“I’ve just had Roy Grace on from Brighton,” she said, filling him in on the raid at the undertaker’s. “The embalmer seems to be on the missing list. Name of Rodney Tidy.”

“Nobody uses their real names on here,” Tony said. “But an embalmer would fit the bill. He’d have access to bodies. Most funerals are closed-coffin affairs, so he could help himself to the best feet after the lid was screwed down and nobody would be any the wiser. He could have been doing this for years.”