Never Can Say Goodbye Page 11

  Checking everything again, Frankie locked the kitchen, set the alarm, switched off the lights and opened the door. Oooh, it was a really awful night. The fog hung, a sulphurish yellowy-grey blanket, blotting out almost everything in the market place. The thought of heading home to Featherbed Lane, and having a bath, hot chocolate and snuggling into bed with a good book until sleep swept over her, had never seemed so appealing.

  ‘Goodnight, duck.’ Ernie’s voice wavered from somewhere behind her. ‘And please, if you’ve got any compassion in your soul after what I’ve told you about me and Achsah, go and see Slo Motion, tell him I said “Whoops, Ern, there you go. Can’t have people thinking you can’t hold your ale, can we?” and get this lot sorted out for me.’

  Frankie swirled round in the darkness. How the hell had he got back into the shop? ‘No. No way. Absolutely not. This has gone too far. Get out of my shop!’

  ‘Please, duck. You seem like a nice girl. I miss Achsah so much. I want to be with her again. I can’t spend eternity alone like this. You can help me if you want to.’

  ‘Enough!’ Frankie slammed the lights on again and marched angrily across the shop, looking between, under and over the rails. ‘I like a joke as much as anyone, but this isn’t funny any more. I don’t know where you are or where you were hiding, but enough’s enough! Get out!’

  But, despite searching every inch of Francesca’s Fabulous Frocks, from top to bottom again, Frankie could find no sign of Ernie Yardley.

  The shop was completely empty.

  Chapter Eleven

  Her heart thundering, Frankie hurtled into the Toad in the Hole. It was, as usual, practically deserted.

  Frankie looked round the minimalist decor in despair. There was no one here who could help her. No one she could talk to.

  A few couples sat awkwardly on the high stools, and a lone man was picking at what looked like a plate of entrails-in-jus, but there was no sign of Lilly or the others. They must have decided against the Jägerbombs-fest and gone their separate ways. And Dexter had gone out for a night of passion with the nubile Ginny. Even Brian and his kebab van were still touting their Saturday night cholesterol-fest round the villages.

  And Ernie Yardley’s so-called ghost was possibly still in Francesca’s Fabulous Frocks.

  Not that she believed it for a moment. She didn’t, simply didn’t, believe in ghosts.

  Was someone playing a cruel trick on her? Someone who resented her inheriting Rita’s shop and wanted to drive her out? It seemed highly unlikely, but then so did Ernie Yardley’s so-called ghost …

  There was only one thing for it. Tired as she was, Frankie knew now she’d never sleep until this was sorted out. She pulled out her mobile phone.

  ‘Oh, hi, Phoebes, sorry to bother you. I mean, I know you said you and Rocky were having a cosy night in and I hope … What? You’re dressed as who? Really? Wow. OK … A bit too much information there, probably … Please don’t let me stop you … Oh, yes, I can hear AC/DC in the background. I thought you were seriously into Take That? Does it? OK … No, no – what I really wanted to ask you is Slo in downstairs? Is he? Oh, great … And do you think it would be too late … ? Oh, don’t they? Never before midnight? Yes, the late-night films on Sky can be quite … OK, lovely. No, I don’t want to arrange a funeral, thanks. I just need to ask him something. What? Yes, it was. A really great day. Thanks again for all your help, Phoebes. I really couldn’t have done it without you. Oh, no, don’t worry, I won’t pop up tonight. You and Rocky carry on. See you soon … Bye … ’

  Frankie snapped her phone shut, dug into her handbag for her car keys and stepped out of the Toad into the cold, clammy, foggy night.

  Thirty-five slow, tortuous minutes later she pulled her bright blue Mini into the parking space outside the Edwardian house in Winchester Road where both Phoebe and Slo had flats. It normally took about ten minutes to drive between Kingston Dapple and Hazy Hassocks but tonight it had been like driving blindfolded. It had been petrifying, not being able to see the road markings, or, in some cases, even the road.

  She was still shaking as she carefully locked the Mini, skirted the various cars parked on the driveway, and rang the ‘Motion and Rivers’ bell just beneath the ‘Lancaster and Bowler’ one. She could hear the muffled sounds of AC/DC rocking away at the top of the house.

  Of course, she thought, as she shivered violently in the freezing fog, it was all nonsense. Slo, bless him, was going to laugh at her, and she still had to drive all the way back to Kingston Dapple in the worst fog Berkshire had seen for years. She must be completely mad. She should have waited until the morning at least and –

  ‘Hello, love.’ Essie Rivers, still beautiful in her eighties, elegantly wrapped in a very pretty powder-blue dressing gown and with her hair tied up in a mass of trailing floaty scarves, opened the door and smiled at her. ‘Young Phoebe phoned down and said you were on your way. Come along in and get warm. What a filthy night.’

  Frankie stared, embarrassed, at Essie. ‘Oh, no – I’m sorry. You’re ready for bed. I mustn’t disturb you.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Essie ushered her into the welcoming, peach-lit hallway. ‘I’m just popping in the bath ready to settle down and watch a nice George Clooney film later. Pop your coat on the hook there, dear, otherwise you won’t feel the benefit when you go out, will you?’

  Frankie shed her coat and scarves and, having struggled with the zips on her long boots, kicked them off and left them by the front door.

  Essie shook her head. ‘There’s no need to take your boots off – you should see the mess that Slo tramps in. I’ve made some sandwiches and put the coffee pot in the living room. Slo’s waiting for you, dear. In you go.’

  ‘Thank you, but—’

  ‘No buts.’ Essie beamed, opening the living room door. ‘You go and chat to Slo while I wallow nicely in my bubble bath. Might see you later if you’re still here, dear.’

  ‘Yes, yes … thank you so much.’

  The living room was cosily snug, with a real coal fire, long crimson velvet curtains closed against the foggy night, and softly lit by red-shaded table lamps.

  ‘Hello, Mr Motion.’ Despite her misgivings about the wisdom of this visit, Frankie looked around in delight. ‘Oh, what a lovely room.’

  ‘Nice to see you again, young Frankie. And call me Slo, please. Mr Motion makes me feel right old. And thank you, duck. My Essie certainly knows how to make a home homely.’ Slo, who had been sitting in a deep and many-cushioned armchair, with the opening of Ocean’s Eleven frozen on the screen in front of him, stood up. ‘Come along in and get warm.’

  Frankie sighed blissfully in the warmth, and scuttled towards the fire, holding out her hands. ‘I’m really sorry if this is messing up your plans for the evening. I should have left it until … ’

  ‘You’re not messing up anything.’ Slo indicated to the television where George Clooney was silently but glamorously poised, ready for action. ‘Sky Plus, you see. So clever. We’re all ready to go when Essie has had her bath. Now settle yourself down in that chair and grab a sandwich while I pour the coffee. Cheese and chutney. OK with you?’

  ‘Fantastic.’ Frankie sank into the billowy cushions and stared greedily at the small mountain of fat sandwiches on the coffee table. ‘I didn’t think I was hungry, but now I think I’m absolutely starving.’

  ‘Good girl. I like to see a lass with a good appetite.’ Slo heaped sandwiches onto two plates and poured two mugs of coffee. ‘Now, get stuck in and tell me what this is all about.’

  ‘Well,’ Frankie mumbled round her deliciously squishy cheese and chutney, ‘it all sounds a bit mad now, but … but well, I really need to know if you believe in ghosts.’

  Slo chuckled throatily, the chuckle turning into a full-blown chesty cough. When he’d recovered, he chuckled again. ‘Well, I wasn’t expecting that one. And no, duck, I don’t. Mind you, I do believe in magic. But that’s something else entirely. Me and Essie got together through magic you know.’<
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  ‘Yes, Phoebe told me. It was a lovely story. So, you believe in something? I mean, things that can’t really be explained?’

  ‘Ah.’ Slo nodded. ‘I do. But not in ghosts, duck.’

  ‘I didn’t think you would somehow.’

  ‘No one would, not in my business, duck. See, in my line of work I hear a lot of nonsense about ghosts and so forth. But when you’re dealing with the mortal remains of the dead, you quickly realise that all that’s left of the living person is just that. Mortal remains. A shell. The spirit, the thing that made ’em them, is gone. And hopefully to a better place. And it’s over. But I don’t believe in ghosts, duck. Never have, never will. But there’s plenty of them as does – and you’re one of them?’

  ‘No,’ Frankie said quickly. ‘That’s just the point.’

  Slo looked puzzled. ‘It’s lovely to see you, but did you come all this way tonight in this weather to ask me if I believed in ghosts?’

  ‘No, well, yes … Oh, look, this is probably going to sound really weird, I want to ask you about someone you, er, buried … that is, cremated recently, but, thinking about it, I don’t suppose you’ll be able to tell me anything because of client confidentiality.’

  Slo spluttered cheerfully through his sandwich. Crumbs mingled with the cigarette ash lingering on the front of his dark-red sweater. ‘Not much of a problem in our business, client confidentiality, given that most of our clients are dead. Mind you, if it’s something to do with money, or funeral costs of a particular person, I can’t tell you, of course, but – well, you try me, duck. If I can help you, I will.’

  Frankie, toasting her toes in front of the fire and making inroads into Essie’s exquisite sandwiches, explained that she wanted to know about Ernie Yardley – leaving out the fact that he was now, allegedly, hanging around in Francesca’s Fabulous Frocks, of course.

  It all sounded pretty lame now, Frankie thought, especially with the muffled sounds of AC/DC interspersed with laughter from upstairs, and the sensuous wafts of apple-blossom-scented steam drifting from the bathroom. Normal life going on as, well, normal.

  But she’d started so she might as well carry on. ‘What I really want to know –’ she leaned forward, ‘is if you can maybe show me a picture of him. Oh, and tell me if his nieces were really called Thelma and Louise, and if they insisted that he was cremated rather than buried.’

  Slo nodded, wheezing cheerfully. ‘Ah, that’s easy enough. I’ve got the photo we used for the order of service somewhere – I’ll dig it out for you later, duck. And yes, you’re right about Ernie’s nieces – nasty pair they were. Mean as weasels. Wanted the cheapest possible funeral. I happened to know Ernie had put a bit away so he could be buried in Tadpole Bridge churchyard with his Achsah, being a mate, he’d told me, but, of course, dying sudden like he did, and leaving nothing written down, it was left to them nieces to sort out the final arrangements.’

  ‘So he was cremated?’ Frankie reached for another delicious sandwich. ‘He is definitely dead?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Slo nodded. ‘And his ashes were just left at the crem. Them nieces wouldn’t listen to me when I told them I knew what Ernie wanted. They wouldn’t even pay for the ashes to be interred in Achsah’s grave. At least poor old Ernie would have been with her as he’d always wanted. But no, they just left ’em at the crem. I picked ’em up a few days later and brought ’em back to the chapel of rest.’

  ‘So –’ Frankie lifted her mug of coffee ‘– Ernie Yardley’s ashes are still here, or rather, wherever you keep them?’

  ‘They are, duck. Such a shame. Poor old Ernie not laid to rest proper like. I wasn’t happy with that Thelma and Louise right from the start. I knew they were after whatever he’d left. You see it a lot in my business. Money –’ He shook his head. ‘You wouldn’t believe what the relatives get up to … Anyway, duck, I still don’t see why you’re that interested in Ernie Yardley. Nice bloke, one of the best, and never happy since Achsah passed on, poor soul, but really –’

  Frankie swallowed a mouthful of hot, strong coffee. The fire crackled and hissed. She took a deep breath. ‘Can you tell me about a car journey? Something to do with a car journey and the traffic lights.’

  Slo coughed, then stared at her, his sandwich suspended. ‘You can’t know about that.’

  Frankie felt the shivers run down her spine. Despite the heat from the fire she was suddenly cold. ‘You mean, there was something?’

  Slo put down his plate. ‘Aye, duck, there was. But there’s no one in the world what knows about it. I’ve not breathed a word to anyone. More than my life’s worth. Not even to Essie. And certainly not to Constance and Perpetua – my cousins, duck, and co-directors in the business, you know them, don’t you? They’d have me guts for garters, they would. How the devil did you get wind of it?’

  Frankie tried to stop the goosebumps crawling across her flesh. ‘He told me.’

  ‘What?’ Slo leaned forwards. ‘Who did?’

  ‘Ernie Yardley.’

  ‘Ernie Yardley’s dead, duck.’

  ‘I know. But, OK, maybe the person who told me isn’t really Ernie Yardley. In fact –’ she stared at Slo ‘– he can’t be Ernie Yardley, because he’s dead. But, this … this … person who says he’s Ernie, told me that something happened after he was dead – with you and a car and … ’

  Slo shook his head. ‘Now you’re scaring me, duck. Now you’re really scaring me. Go on, tell me what Ernie, er, this person told you.’

  ‘OK. Look, I know you’re obviously not going to believe this, but … ’ And haltingly she told him everything.

  ‘Well, blow me down.’ Slo exhaled nosily, his chest sounding like a symphony of bellows. ‘I don’t know what to say and that’s a fact. Now you’ve got me right mixed and muddled.’

  ‘And,’ Frankie said quickly, ‘there’s something else. He, Ernie, or whoever he is, said I had to tell you something. I know it sounds daft, and you’ll probably laugh, but he said I had to say, “Whoops, Ern, there you go. Can’t have people thinking you can’t hold your ale, can we?”’

  ‘Dear Lord in heaven!’ Slo sank back against his cushions. ‘Dearie, dearie me.’

  ‘Did you say that? To Ernie Yardley?’

  ‘Not to Ernie Yardley as he lived and breathed, no,’ Slo said faintly. ‘OK, Frankie, duck, I’ll tell you what happened, but you must promise me you’ll never, ever repeat it.’

  ‘Promise. Cross my heart and hope to, er, well, you know. And will you promise me you’ll never tell anyone anything about our conversation tonight, either?’

  ‘You have my solemn word on that, duck.’ Slo nodded. ‘Thank you. And when it’s all, um, sorted out I’ll tell you, OK?’

  ‘Righty-ho. And I hope you’re not squeamish – I’m going to just give you the plain facts, I’m not going to dress it up in any sort of pretty Disney-fied way. OK?’

  Frankie nodded.

  Slo took a deep, wheezy breath. ‘Right, after Ernie died in the shop, the paramedics took his body to Winterbrook Hospital where he was certified as dead on arrival. Cardiac arrest. Plain and simple. The hospital contacted me as the local funeral director, and I collected him from the mortuary and brought him back to the chapel of rest. That’s normal. Happens all the time. With me so far?’

  Frankie nodded again.

  ‘Some nosy-parkering do-gooder from the seniors group was quick off the ball and contacted Ernie’s nieces to tell them he’d died, and they came hot-footing down to see me to arrange the funeral, and, if I’m not mistaken, to start raking through whatever he had left, but that’s neither here nor there. As there wasn’t a will, that’s when the nasty nieces, Thelma and Louise, said they wanted the quickest and cheapest send-off possible at the crem. Still OK?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘Right, now for a body to be cremated there needs to be two death certificates issued. Ernie had the one from the duty doc at the hospital, and as he’d been seeing his own GP regularly for his heart probl
ems there wouldn’t be no need for a coroner nor none of that stuff, but his own doctor had to certify, to put it bluntly duck, that Ernie was Ernie and that he was dead, and issue the second certificate. Am I making sense?’

  Frankie nodded again. It all sounded a bit long-winded to her, but she didn’t want to interrupt.

  ‘Good, duck. So, I rang the crem to book a slot – sorry, I know that sounds right disrespectful to anyone not in the business, but really you have to get in as quick as possible otherwise the funeral can be delayed for ages and them nieces wanted it done and dusted – and then phoned old Doctor Harman at the Tadpole Bridge surgery. He was Ern’s GP. Well, he runs a oneman-band practice, so he’s everyone’s GP out there. Anyway, I told him I needed him to get over here to the chapel of rest and certify Ernie as dead then and there, so as I could get the paperwork to the crem that day and make sure the funeral was going ahead as planned.’

  Slo paused and Frankie nodded again.

  ‘Right, duck. Well, blow me, old Doc Harman waffled and puffed and said he was off duty and couldn’t drive over to Hazy Hassocks because he’d had a “hearty lunch” with some pals and was over the drink–drive limit.’

  Frankie frowned. ‘Oh, that was a bit unfortunate. Did that mean you had to delay everything?’

  Slo shook his head. ‘Not an option, duck. It happens. Not often, but if the nieces wanted the cremation to go ahead without waiting nearly two weeks I had to have the right paperwork that day. So, I thought, we’ll have to go down the old Mountain and Mohammed route.’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t understand.’

  ‘If Doc Harman couldn’t come to Ern, then Ern would have to go to Doc Harman.’

  Slo stared at her in the firelight. Frankie stared back.