A Prayer for the Dying - Jack Higgins [19]
When the big Bentley hearse turned into the car park shortly after one o'clock, Meehan was sitting up front with the chauffeur and Billy. He wore his usual double-breasted melton overcoat and Homburg hat and a black tie for he had been officiating personally at a funeral that morning.
The chauffeur came round to open the door and Meehan got out followed by his brother. 'Thanks, Donner,' he said.
A small grey whippet was drinking from a dish at the rear entrance. Billy called, 'Here, Tommy!' It turned, hurled itself across the yard and jumped into his arms.
Billy fondled its ears and it licked his face frantically. 'Now then, you little bastard,' he said with genuine affection.
'I've told you before,' Meehan said. 'He'll ruin your coat. Hairs all over the bloody place.'
As he moved towards the rear entrance, Varley came out of the garage and stood waiting for him, cap in hand. A muscle twitched nervously in his right cheek, his forehead was beaded with sweat. He seemed almost on the point of collapse.
Meehan paused, hands in pockets and looked him over calmly. 'You look awful, Charlie. You been a bad lad or something?'
'Not me, Mr Meehan,' Vatley said. 'It's that sod, Fallon. He ...'
'Not here, Charlie,' Meehan said softly. 'I always like to hear bad news in private.'
He nodded to Donner who opened the rear door and stood to one side. Meehan went into what was usually referred to as the receiving-room. It was empty except for a coffin on a trolley in the centre.
He put a cigarette in his mouth and bent down to read the brass nameplate on the coffin.
'When's this for?'
Donner moved to his side, a lighter ready in his hand. 'Three-thirty, Mr Meehan.'
He spoke with an Australian accent and had a slightly twisted mouth, the scar still plain where a hair lip had been cured by plastic surgery. It gave him a curiously repellent appearance, modified to a certain extent by the hand-tailored, dark uniform suit he wore.
'Is it a cremation?'
Donner shook his head. 'A burial, Mr Meehan.'
Meehan nodded. 'All right, you and Bonati better handle it. I've an idea I'm going to be busy.'
He turned, one arm on the coffin. Billy leaned against the wall, fondling the whippet. Varley waited in the centre of the room, cap in hand, the expression on his face that of a condemned man waiting for the trap to open beneath his feet at any moment and plunge him into eternity.
'All right, Charlie,' Meehan said. 'Tell me the worst.'
Varley told him, the words falling over themselves in his eagerness to get them out. When he had finished, there was a lengthy silence. Meehan had shown no emotion at all.
'So he's coming here at two o'clock?'
'That's what he said, Mr Meehan.'
'And the van? You took it to the wrecker's yard like I told you?'
'Saw it go into the crusher myself, just like you said.'
Varley waited for his sentence, face damp with sweat. Meehan smiled suddenly and patted him on the cheek. 'You did well, Charlie. Not your fault things went wrong. Leave it to me. I'll handle it.'
Relief seemed to ooze out of Varley like dirty water. He said weakly, 'Thanks, Mr Meehan. I did my best. Honest I did. You know me.'
'You have something to eat,' Meehan said. 'Then get back to the car wash. If I need you, I'll send for you.'
Varley went out. The door closed. Billy giggled as he fondled the whippet's ears. 'I told you he was trouble. We could have handled it ourselves only you wouldn't listen.'
Meehan grabbed him by the long white hair, the boy cried out in pain, dropping the dog. 'Do you want me to get nasty, Billy?' he said softly. 'Is that what you want?'
'I didn't mean any harm, Jack,' the boy whined.
Meehan shoved him away. 'Then be a good boy. Tell Bonati I want him, then take one of the cars and go and get Fat Albert.'
Billy's tongue flicked nervously between his lips. 'Albert?' he whispered. 'For God's sake, Jack, you know I can't stand being anywhere near that big creep. He frightens me to death.'
'That's good,' Meehan said. 'I'll remember that next time you step out of line. We'll call Albert in to