A tall man in his late fifties, with a shock of grey hair and sparkly blue eyes, the sombre-suited funeral director managed somehow to have found the right balance between being both warm, almost jolly, and reverential and respectful. He looked like he was capable of throwing off his work togs at weekends and picking up a banjo, or maybe a ukulele, and joining a band, Grace thought.
Greenhaisen greeted them both with a sincere bow, before shaking their hands, in turn, taking Cleo’s first then Roy’s, holding each of them for several moments as if taking possession of them, before saying, ‘Mr and Mrs Grace, may I say first how terribly sad I am to be seeing you again so soon. My very deepest condolences for your terrible loss. An eleven-year-old boy.’ He shook his head. ‘I doubt there is anything I can say to console you at this time, but I can assure you we will do everything we can to take as much pressure off you as we can.’
Cynically and irreverently, Grace was reminded for a moment of his former boss in the police, some years back, Dick Jackson. He’d been a Detective Sergeant and Jackson had been his Inspector. The poor sod had planned to cash in his pension on his retirement and open a funeral parlour because, Dick had said, a little smugly, the two businesses you could never lose money on were food and death. People were always going to have to eat and they were always going to die. He’d joked that he was going to call the business Yours Eventually.
But Dick had dropped dead from a heart attack, swimming in Tenerife, just two months after his retirement. The grim reaper, Grace thought, had yanked the poor man’s chain just a bit too hard.
It had been a timely reminder that retired police officers used to have one of the highest mortality rates of almost any profession. One moment you had your warrant card — which an old copper had described to him as ‘a free pass to the greatest show on earth’ — and the next, the day you handed it in, you were suddenly a civilian again. Joe Public. Joe Shmow.
A lot of officers felt lost after retirement. For thirty years, and sometimes more, they’d held a position of unique power — and respect. But then those thirty years vanished in a flash and they were having their retirement party in the upstairs room of a pub — the more generous ones sticking money behind the bar. A former colleague would give a speech, joking about their blunders, praising their achievements. Maybe show a video of the highlights — and lowlights — of their career. And that was it. Wake up in the morning with a hangover to find you were a... a what? A was-copper?
It came to everyone. Some had made good plans and were fine, picking up well-paid jobs fighting the virulent menace of cybercrime or going back into areas of policing as civilians. But others were left bewildered. Like pot plants that had once flowered magnificently, but now had been left in permanent shade, wondering where the sunshine had gone.
Yours eventually. The phrase had lodged in Grace’s mind. Was Thomas Greenhaisen looking at him and Cleo and thinking the same — that one day they, too, would become customers of Greenhaisen & Sons? Hopefully not until it was ‘& Grandsons’.
Just how sad to see them was Greenhaisen really? Was the first qualification to be a funeral director that you had to be a good actor? Or was he being too cynical?
‘Thank you,’ Roy Grace said politely.
‘Please, come through into my office. May I offer you some refreshments, tea, coffee perhaps?’
‘I’d like a strong coffee with some milk, please,’ Grace said.
‘If you have a peppermint tea?’ Cleo asked.
‘Of course, no trouble.’
As they followed him through into a small office, with a large, opaque window obscuring the view, no doubt, of the hearses parked out back, he picked up the desk phone and asked a man called John to bring in the drinks. Then he ushered them to a round table at which were four comfortable-looking chairs. As Cleo sat, Grace saw a framed certificate on the wall above her, proclaiming Thomas Edward Greenhaisen to be a member of the British Institute of Embalmers.
When the funeral director was seated, with an iPad in front of him, he began by confirming Bruno’s details — his full name, date of birth and home address, and the place where he had died — tapping in all the details assiduously with an immaculately manicured forefinger.
‘May I ask next if Bruno had an affiliation with a particular church or religious group that he might have wished to officiate at his funeral?’
Grace thought fleetingly about how, from his limited knowledge of Sandy’s activities after her disappearance, she had spent some time with the Scientologists, then a further brief time with another sect in Germany.
‘No,’ he said. ‘But I never had the chance to discuss religion with him. That may sound odd, but he has only been with us since his mother died. I don’t think he had any religious views — but my wife and I have decided we would like a Christian funeral, a lightweight one. With some rousing music — perhaps something in German?’
‘Exactly, sir,’ Greenhaisen said. ‘And if I might suggest, in view of Bruno’s age, some of his own favourite music — are there any singers or bands he particularly loved?’
‘Yes, good point,’ Grace said. ‘We’ll have a think about that.’
The funeral director nodded. ‘I’m sure that would go down well, especially as there are bound to be many of his young friends attending.’
Roy and Cleo shot each other a glance. But neither commented.
‘As I told you over the phone, we would like the service and committal to take place in the same church where his mother and I were married, and where she is buried, All Saints, Patcham,’ Grace said.
‘Well, we are very fortunate in that choice, the current vicar is quite an enlightened man — unlike some,’ he said. ‘If you know what I mean?’
Cleo smiled. ‘He’s not a Bible thumper?’
‘Precisely. Now, are there any pressing questions you have?’
‘I guess,’ Grace said, ‘because Bruno’s organs have been donated, will that cause any problems or delays in his funeral?’
‘Well, that will depend on the Coroner. As I understand — and please correct me if I am wrong — the driver of the car in the collision with your son has been interviewed in relation to his driving?’
‘That’s correct,’ Grace said.
‘In which case, there is the possibility of a prosecution and criminal trial.’
Roy interrupted. ‘I understand the postmortem was carried out yesterday afternoon with the defence pathologist, Mr Ashley Brown, present as agreed with the Coroner. The cause of death has been ascertained and Bruno’s body will be released straight away for burial.’
‘That’s good news then, we can fix a date. If it is any small consolation,’ Greenhaisen said, ‘on the subject of costs for a child of this age, we would make no charge for the basic funeral arrangements.’
‘Really?’ Cleo said, astonished.
‘I assure you, we understand a little of the grief that parents like you must be going through. We would not make any charge for the basic funeral, which would include bringing your son into care, providing the hearse, a standard coffin, the bearers and the funeral director. Most churches also waive their fees, although I’m afraid not the gravediggers. Music is provided free of charge. It’s only the extras you would be required to pay for.’
‘This is very generous of you,’ Roy Grace said.
‘It is the very least we can do,’ Greenhaisen said, almost simpering.
‘But I want Bruno to have the best funeral we can give him,’ Grace continued.
‘And the extras would be?’ Cleo asked.
‘That would be the flowers, newspaper announcements and printed order-of-service sheets. The monumental masons would also charge for any headstone, and perhaps, if you so wished, for altering the inscription on your late wife’s headstone to include your son. Then there are special requests, such as releasing doves, a horse-drawn hearse — or anything of that nature.’