The Word Is Murder(44)
And then, quite suddenly, music began to play. It was a song. A children’s song.
The wheels on the bus go round and round,
Round and round
Round and round
The wheels on the bus go round and round
All day long.
The sound quality was thin and tinkly and my immediate thought was that it was somebody’s mobile phone. The mourners were looking among themselves, wondering whose it was and who was going to be embarrassed. Irene Laws stepped forward, alarmed. Damian Cowper was standing closest to the grave. I saw him look over the edge with an expression that was somewhere between horror and fury. He pointed down and said something to Grace Lovell. That was when I understood.
The music was coming from inside the grave.
It was inside the coffin.
The second verse began.
The wipers on the bus go swish, swish, swish
Swish, swish, swish,
Swish, swish, swish …
The four pall-bearers had frozen, not knowing whether to drop the coffin the rest of the way and hope that the depth of the grave would muffle the sound or whether to pull it out again and somehow deal with it. Could they actually bury the dead woman with this hideously inappropriate song accompanying her? It was quite obvious now that the source of the music was some sort of digital recorder or radio inside the coffin. Had Diana Cowper chosen a more traditional material, mahogany for example, there’s every chance that we would have been unable to hear it. The dead woman might have been left to rest in peace … at least, once the battery ran out. But the words were leaking out of the twisted willow branches. There was no escaping them.
The driver on the bus goes ‘Move on back’
On the far side of the cemetery, the photographers raised their cameras and moved forward, sensing that something was wrong. At the same time, Damian Cowper lashed out at the vicar, not physically but ferociously. He needed someone to blame and she was close by. ‘What’s going on?’ he snarled. ‘Who did this?’
Irene Laws had reached the edge of the grave, moving as fast as her short, stubby legs would allow. ‘Mr Cowper …’ she began, breathlessly.
‘Is this some sort of joke?’ Damian looked ill. ‘Why are they playing that song?’
‘Raise the coffin.’ Irene had taken charge. ‘Lift it back out again.’
‘Move on back, move on back …’
‘I want you to know I’m going to sue your fucking company for every penny—’
‘I’m most dreadfully sorry!’ Irene was talking over him. ‘I just don’t understand …’
The four men pulled the coffin back out rather faster than they had lowered it. It came clear over the edge of the grave and bumped onto the grass, almost toppling onto its side. I could imagine Diana Cowper inside, being rocked to and fro. I examined the other mourners, wondering if one of them was responsible, for presumably this had been done deliberately. Was it a sick joke? Was it some sort of message?
Raymond Clunes was clutching on to his partner. Bruno Wang was staring, his hand over his mouth. Andrea Kluvánek – I could have been wrong but she seemed to be smiling. Next to her, the man with the handkerchief was gazing at the coffin with an expression I couldn’t make out at all. He brought his hand to his mouth as if he was going either to throw up or to burst into laughter, then twisted round and backed away. I watched him as he hurried out of the cemetery, heading up the path that would lead him to the Brompton Road.
The driver on the bus goes ‘Move on back’
All day long.
It wouldn’t stop. That was the worst of it. The music was so trite, the voice full of that hideous cheerfulness that adults put on when they sing for children.
‘I’ve had enough of this,’ Damian announced. From the look of him, he was in total shock. It was the first real emotion he had shown since the funeral began.
‘Damian …’ Grace reached out to take his arm.
He shook her off. ‘I’m going home. You go to the pub. I’ll see you at the flat.’
I was aware of the photographers snapping with their cameras, their long-distance lenses protruding obscenely over the gravestones. The personal-trainer-cum-bodyguard was doing his best to stand in their way but the lenses swivelled to follow Damian as he stormed off.
The vicar turned to Irene, helpless. ‘What should we do?’ she asked.
‘Let’s take the coffin back to the chapel.’ Irene was trying not to lose her composure. ‘Quickly,’ she snapped in an undertone.
The pall-bearers picked Diana Cowper up and carried her back across the grass, away from the grave, moving as quickly as they could without actually running, still trying to display some measure of decorum. They weren’t succeeding. They looked ridiculous, I thought, moving out of sync, bumping into each other and almost tripping over in their haste to get away. The tinkling music faded into the distance.
The horn on the bus goes …
Hawthorne watched them disappear. I could almost see the different thoughts turning over in his head.
‘Beep, beep, beep,’ he muttered tunelessly, then set off at a brisk pace, following the coffin back towards the chapel.
Twelve
The Smell of Blood