Culpepper strode the length of the grim, dingy church to deliver his eulogy. It took hardly any time at all to cover the distance, the place was tiny. A week had passed since Hershey’s death, during which time the police had completed the paperwork stating expiration was by his own hand and had released the body. There’d be an inquest, but it was expected to be a case as crystal clear-cut as one of Culpepper’s whisky glasses.
In the interim Hershey’s finances had been thoroughly delved into (by the police and by Culpepper). No will and no family could be found. Hershey did have a lawyer, as any half-powerful American would, and he revealed Hershey was flat broke. The grand house was rented (unsurprising) and his bank account yawned empty except for a few pennies. It appeared Hershey had lived a double life of extravagance (expensive meals out, holidays and clothes) and benevolence (a huge donation to a cat charity). The latter had surprised the hell out of the Culpepper. As a result of the paucity of Hershey’s financial position the funeral was necessarily low cost — a ramshackle crematorium was all the budget would stretch to, because Culpepper was damned if the Bank would pick up the balance.
He reached the lectern, which was on the extreme right of the draughty rectangular area of worship. Front and centre was a cheap pine coffin, the lid tightly closed because of the damage to Hershey’s skull. It sat on a conveyor, ready to be processed by the furnace that Culpepper imagined smouldered at the rear of the mouldy drapes, the gates of Hades.
Culpepper nodded at the nervous-looking vicar and wobbled up the two rickety steps to face the congregation, his elevation slight. The description ‘congregation’ was somewhat of an embellishment, however. Five people stared back at Culpepper, spread out across the little worship area of the building. They were Hershey’s secretary Elodie, Mr Lamb, some computer guy he didn’t recognise but claimed to have known Hershey (Culpepper had just shrugged whenever they’d met), a woman who had introduced herself as a PR consultant, but she was so plain Culpepper had promptly forgotten her name, and a tramp on the back row who’d slipped in as everyone had taken their seats.
“Hershey Valentine was a highly valued member of our organisation,” Culpepper said, reading from the first of two pages covered with densely packed script that he’d spent the days since Valentine’s death honing. It had taken so long because he’d found it hard to be positive about someone he hated so much. “He contributed in more ways than it’s possible to count. His friends were many and he was highly valued by his colleagues.” He ignored the fact that few of his colleagues and none of friends were actually present. “He had an unusually analytical mind, highly capable of rooting out opportunities and capitalising on them.” Strictly this was true, but Culpepper now knew them to be entirely self-motivated.
There was plenty more like this to come, but a quick glance up at the congregation and their highly sceptical expressions showed Culpepper his false words were known to be so. Even the tramp looked unmoved, a broad grin on his face, like Culpepper was in the midst of telling some great joke.
Which actually he was.
He looked back down at the script, opened his mouth to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. They stuck in his throat like a fishbone. He balled up his fist, scrunching the paper into a lump.
“Oh, what the hell,” Culpepper said, tossing the lies away and regarding the five people. “If truth be told there’s very little, if any, good that can be said about Hershey Valentine. Frankly I didn’t like him very much. He was a self-serving, lying little shit who only looked out for himself and lived solely off the reputation and hard work of others. Hershey was simply far more trouble than he was worth, and that so few of us are here to see him off is testament to that fact. Unless anyone else has anything else to say I suggest we burn his worthless bones.”
Elodie stood up, three rows back. “I hated him. He treated me like a whore,” she said, then returned to her seat.
“He told me I was worthless and friendless,” said Jack, two rows back, “whereas now I know he was talking about himself, not me.”
“Hershey showed me there was more to my life than I thought. He changed me utterly forever. But he lied to me, cheated me and cost me my job,” said Claire, who sat to Jack’s right.
As Claire slowly returned to her seat Culpepper looked to Mr Lamb, who just shook his head. Culpepper noticed the tramp slipping out of the door. Perhaps he’d got bored.
“Then on that note, why don’t we get shot of him,” Culpepper said. He nodded at the vicar who stood next to the lectern.
“Wouldn’t you like me to say a few words?” the vicar said. He looked terribly young and rather awed by the Chairman, who shook his head.
“No point reverend. No one’s listening up there.”
Culpepper descended the two steps, which creaked with his weight. The coffin jerked its way along the conveyor belt as if it were a prize on a cheesy 1970’s game show. He strode out of the worship area to the sagging doors at the rear without looking back and stepped gratefully into the daylight. Mr Lamb silently followed.
“Thank fuck that’s over,” Culpepper said. It was a short walk to the Jaguar, which already had its engine silently running and the door open to return him to the real world.
“Can you excuse me a moment,” Mr Lamb said, his eyes fixed on something in the graveyard.
“I’m not hanging around this shithole any longer.”
“As you wish.”
Culpepper climbed into his car without another word. The chauffeur closed the door, got in himself and drew carefully away. Mr Lamb waited for the Jaguar to be completely out of sight before walking over to face the music of the damned.