‘I at number forty-six on the High Road in Wood Green. The Aphrodite restaurant, opposite the shopping centre.’
‘Fine.’
‘You come at five, before we open, okay?’
‘Yes. See you then. Thanks, Mr Cyrapopolis.’ Joanna put the telephone down. She made herself a coffee and a peanut-butter sandwich and spent the next hour calling every funeral home listed in central and north London. No Rose was recorded, either on that day, or two days after. ‘Then where on earth did they take her?’ she mused, before calling Muriel once more.
‘Hello, Muriel. It’s Joanna. Sorry to bother you again.’
‘That’s all right, love. Any joy findin’ your aunt?’
‘No, nothing. I just wanted to double-check who it actually was that took Rose away.’
‘I told you, an ambulance came for her. Said they were taking her to the local morgue.’
‘Well, they didn’t. I’ve tried that and the police station and every single funeral home in the district.’
‘Oo-er. A lost body, eh?’
‘Seems so, yes. And they didn’t ask you if you knew of any family?’
‘No. But I did tell ’em the old duck had mentioned they lived abroad.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Tell you what, though,’ Muriel chirped. ‘Have you tried the local registrar’s office? I had to go there after my Stanley passed away. Someone would have had to register Rose’s death.’
‘That’s a good idea, Muriel. I’ll try it. Thanks.’
‘Any time, love.’
Joanna hung up, then looked up the address of the local registrar’s office, grabbed her coat and left the flat.
Two hours later, she emerged from Old Marylebone town hall feeling completely bemused. She slumped down on the steps outside and leant against one of the large columns. At the registrar’s office, she had tried every possible permutation that her information would allow. There had been three dead Roses registered in the two weeks after the tenth of January, but none at the right address and certainly not of the right age. A young baby, only four days old – just reading of her death had brought a lump to Joanna’s throat – as well as a twenty-year-old and a forty-nine-year-old, none of whom could even conceivably be the Rose she was looking for.
The woman who had helped her said there was usually a five-working-day deadline to register a death, unless the coroner had not released the body. But as there had been no record of Rose’s body at the morgue either, this seemed unlikely.
Joanna shook her head in agitation as she headed for the tube station. It was as if Rose had never existed, but her bodyhadto be somewhere. Was there an avenue she still hadn’t explored?
Emerging from the tube, Joanna walked along Wood Green High Street – a mishmash of betting shops, restaurants and thrift stores – looking for the Aphrodite restaurant. It had already grown dark, and she pulled her coat more tightly around her to ward off the biting chill. She caught sight of the restaurant’s neon sign and opened the entrance door.
‘Hello?’ she called, seeing the small, brightly decorated interior was deserted.
‘’Ello.’ A balding, middle-aged Greek man emerged from behind the beads strung across the doorway at the back of the restaurant.
‘Mr Cyrapopolis?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m Joanna Haslam, Rose’s great-niece.’
‘Okay. Sit down?’ He pulled two wooden chairs out from the table.
‘Thanks.’ Joanna sat. ‘I am sorry to bother you, but as I explained over the telephone, I’m trying to find my great-aunt.’
‘What? You ’ave lost the body, ees it?’ George could not stop himself from grinning.
‘It’s a complicated situation. All I wanted to ask you is whether my aunt Rose signed a tenancy agreement with you. I’m trying to discover her married name, you see. And I thought it might have been on the agreement.’
