Viridian Tears. Rachel Green

      Edward Burbridge looked perfectly fine, right up until the moment his face fell off.

      Until then he’d had a succession of visitors coming to pay their last respects. Most were relations and friends of the family, though there were several people Eden recognized from the business community and others who’d turned up hoping for free booze at the wake.

      The shriek of horror from the chapel alerted Eden to a problem she’d dreaded all morning. She hurried to the front and closed the casket lid, sealing the horror away from view. She used the remote control to mute Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto in D. “My apologies, ladies and gentleman. The circumstance of Mr. Burbridge’s death and his choice of an ecological burial precluded the use of preservatives. If you’d bear with me for just a moment, refreshments will be served in the Eulogy room. The memorial celebration will begin in thirty minutes.”

      She gave a short bow and nodded to one of the ushers, who opened a door to one side of the chapel where glasses and bottles of alcohol had been laid out ready for the mourners. It was supposed to be reserved for after the service, but nothing cushioned the sight of your loved one’s gleaming cheekbones than a triple brandy on the house. She watched them file through the door and cluster at the liquid buffet where the deceased’s son and his wife took control. She wondered if he was as aggressive in the boardroom, or the bedroom, for that matter. Not that she’d be interested in finding out.

      “I take it that wasn’t planned.” A tall man in a dark suit and light brown mackintosh had approached from the right.

      “Of course not. We don’t use formaldehyde here, you see, and with the state of the body…” She caught herself. “I’m sorry. Are you a relative of the deceased?”

      “An interested party.” The man took out a small plastic wallet and flipped it open. “DI White, Laverstone police.”

      “Oh dear. Having a deceased's face fall of isn't an arrestable offense is it?”

      “It depends on the business, I suppose.” White smiled. “Restaurateur, yes. Funeral director, not so much.”

      “Then how can I help you?”

      “Is there somewhere private we can talk? Away from the mourners?” He indicated several of the local businessmen who watched them with what seemed to be excessive interest.

      “Certainly. Come through to my office.” She led the way through a doorway half-concealed by a tall vase of fresh flowers. It led to a utilitarian corridor, quite different from the quarry tile and oak veneers of the public areas. She stopped a woman carrying a clipboard. “Emily? Would you ring Michael, please? He should have been here by now.”

      “Certainly.” The girl flashed a smile at the inspector and went through a doorway, offering them a glimpse of white tiles and stainless steel.

      “Michael?” The inspector caught up with her.

      “The minister. He travels here from Plymouth.”

      “Why not use one of the local ones?”

      “We do if the client requests it, but in those cases the service is generally held in one of the churches. Here I use a humanist minister more often than not. Non-denominational. We can get through the service without mentioning God.”

      “I thought that was the whole point.”

      “The point is to celebrate the deceased’s former life.” Eden opened a door and led the inspector into a well-appointed office. Dark carpet and oak panels gave the room a somber air, lifted by a series of large framed watercolors in abstract patterns. She sat behind a large oak desk and motioned him to take one of the seats in front of it. “We can do that with or without reference to God, according to the wishes of the client and the beliefs of the deceased.”

      “I see.” White sat and took out a notebook. “About the deceased?”

      “Yes? You had him first, Inspector, so I doubt there’s anything I can tell you about the body.”

      “How much do you know about Edward Burbridge’s past, Ms. Maguire?”

      “Call me Eden, unless you’re making an arrest.” She smiled. “Not much, really. Just what’s in the eulogy. He grew up in the East End, made his money with a string of betting shops then retired to Laverstone when his doctor told him to stop drinking before his liver made a dash for freedom.”

      “That’s certainly the gist of it.” White leaned forward and lowered his voice. “What’s not generally known is that his betting shops were the public front of a number of less desirable businesses.”

      “Such as?”

      “Money laundering, drugs, prostitution rings. Even a spot of kidnapping I shouldn’t wonder, but nothing was ever proved. Someone tipped him off and he got out just in time. Another fortnight and we’d have had enough to put him away for good. Instead of which he closes up shop and scarpers. A week later he turns up here.”

      “So what has all this got to do with me?”

      The inspector removed a piece of lint from his trouser leg. “Mr. Burbridge came to Laverstone a very wealthy man indeed. We suspect the bulk of his money is still in existence, buried somewhere in his estate.”

      “Buried in his estate? What? Do you want to borrow my tractor to dig up his lawn?”

      “Ah, no.” White gave her a forced smile. “That came out wrong. I meant buried in a figurative sense, among the disbursal of his possessions.”

      Eden sat back. “I’ll ask again, then. What has this got to do with me? It sounds like you’re looking for a forensic accountant. Have you tried asking his solicitor for the will?”

      “Alas, we have no evidence with which to obtain a warrant. All I need is for you to keep an ear out, particularly when all this…” He waved a hand to indicate the funeral arrangements, “…is paid for. Account numbers would help.”

      “I see.” Eden steepled her hands, a habit she’d learned from her husband when he was about to win an argument. “You want me to casually investigate the family and associates of a suspected crime boss who died under mysterious circumstances on the off-chance it leads you to millions in drug money.”

      “I wouldn’t put it quite like that.”

      “How would you put it?”

      “I’d have missed