Lost Souls by Jenny O'Brien (android e book reader txt) 📕

band the only jewellery on display apart from discreet diamond studs in her earlobes.

‘Go on, help yourself.’ She pushed the plate of biscuits in his direction.

‘Thank you.’

‘Now, how can I be of help?’

‘I’m afraid this is a little delicate, Mrs Prince.’

‘Well, Detective, we’re used to dealing with delicate situations within these walls. You’d be surprised by the requests from some of the relatives and that’s not even touching on the family dynamics that get revealed.’

‘I can imagine. We have a situation going on with regards to one of your recent clients, shall we say?’

‘I’m listening.’

‘There was a ceremony on Saturday over at the Welsh Hills Memorial Gardens that I believe you arranged?’

‘Saturday, you say? The one just gone?’ She rose and made her way across the room to the desk before flipping through the large black leather-bound diary. ‘It’s just that, despite our size, we’re a very busy firm. Last Saturday we had one interment of ashes and one cremation?’ she continued, the inflection in her soft voice matching her raised eyebrows.

‘The cremation. A Mr Broome, I believe.’

‘Ah yes. Mr Duncan Broome – Broome with an E. His family were very particular about us not forgetting to leave out the E on his headstone,’ she confirmed, one hand resting against the polished surface of the desktop.

Owen started, nearly spilling his tea. ‘But I thought that he was cremated?’

‘He was, but his two daughters particularly specified that his wishes were for his ashes to be interred along with his wife, who’s buried in Llanrhos Cemetery.’

‘Okay. You’ll have to excuse me. I’m not that au fait with what goes on with regards to burials and the like.’

‘No need to apologise, Detective. It’s not something people need to know about until it happens to a family member.’

‘Indeed.’ He gave an embarrassed laugh. It wasn’t the time to think about his parents, happily living out their retirement in Llandudno. ‘So, getting back to Mr Broome, what else can you tell me?’

‘Hold on a minute while I check.’ She settled into her chair and, reaching out a manicured fingertip, flipped open her laptop. It didn’t take her long to bring up the correct file. ‘Here it is. Mr Duncan Broome, aged eighty-five, died on July 1st. His daughter contacted us by phone on the same day but we had to wait a few days for the body to be released. We picked him up from St Asaph’s on the 5th.’

‘And it’s taken all this time for him to be cremated?’

‘Well yes. I did say that we were very busy. It’s not like the old days where you could get buried within the same week, sadly.’

‘And why the delay at the hospital?’

‘Oh, that’s easy. Mr Broome was an in-patient at St Asaph’s and, as the verifying doctor was unable to confirm the cause of death, his family agreed to an autopsy.’

Owen turned away from the already depleted pile of ginger nuts, lifting a hand to wipe the crumbs from his beard. ‘And that’s usual practice, is it?’

‘It’s a regular occurrence, sadly, although relatives can argue against the importance of knowing the exact cause of death – an autopsy is distressing for everyone concerned.’ She lifted a hand to tuck a stray tendril of hair behind her ear. ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’

‘Going back to the funeral and his interment …’ He paused. ‘How does that even happen?’

‘It’s a very simple process, Detective. Usually the family have a member of the clergy attending the graveside to say a few words. Then the ashes, contained within an urn, are placed in a specially dug hole.’

‘Okay. So, getting back to Mr Broome, was there anything else unusual in the instructions?’

‘In what way?’

‘I’m not really sure,’ he said, with a disarming expression. ‘In any way?’

She returned to the computer screen. ‘Nothing. He had a pacemaker but that was removed by the hospital.’

‘And why was that?’

‘Because they explode when the cremator reaches temperature, Detective,’ she replied, her eyes twinkling.

‘Really? Not something I’ve ever heard about.’

‘Probably on a need-to-know basis. There’s nothing else. He was a nice old boy. We did our best to follow both his wishes and that of his family.’

He met her gaze over the rim of his cup. ‘You didn’t say that you knew him?’

‘Does that make a difference?’ She closed the lid of her laptop and returned to the sofa, picking up her cup, which must have been cold by then. ‘He signed up to one of our PAYG schemes following the death of his wife. Funerals can place a huge financial burden on families so he decided to spread the cost of his own by paying a little each month.’

‘Oh, I see. What an amazing thing.’

‘Isn’t it just? We’re so pleased that we’re able to offer it.’ She placed her barely touched drink back on the tray, her intention obvious. ‘Well, if you have everything you came for, Detective, I’ve a few things I need to be getting on with.’

‘Yes. Thank you. Oh, there is just one thing. Nothing to do with the case or anything,’ he added, feeling a flush creep up to warm his neck. ‘That scent you’re wearing. I think it’s something my wife might enjoy.’

‘I’m sure she would.’ She smiled. ‘It’s d’Orage by Chanel. My husband lacks imagination in the present-giving department so he keeps to a few set gifts, this perfume being one of them.’

‘I’d better write that down.’ Owen had an encyclopaedic brain full of all sorts but there was very little hope of him remembering the name of some random perfume. Removing his diary from his pocket, he frowned down at the blunt end of the attached pencil, another of the little tasks that had evaded his memory with his recent disturbed nights.

‘Here, take mine,’ she said, sliding her pen across. ‘They stock the scent in Boots. A little pricey but then I’m sure that she’s worth it.’

Chapter 11

Gaby

Monday 3 August, 12.45 p.m. St Asaph

Gaby watched her team walk through the door of