He’d nailed it. I was giving the stadium a last look when my phone buzzed. “Hello.”
“Mr. Solomon, this is Dr. Giles Cage, Coroner’s Office.” I’d almost forgotten about the guy. “Yeah.”
“Well, it’s the most peculiar thing. Initially, I’d thought the freezing waters of the Thames had preserved Mr. Wilkinson’s body. But even amongst others of your kind who’ve crossed my tables . . . Mr. Wilkinson’s body never did exhibit any lividity or rigor mortis.”
I’d read something about it, hadn’t I? The thanatist’s body, as it awaits its soul’s return, remains uncorrupted. Then I remembered standing at Dr. Cage’s table and touching Henry’s arm—not cold or stiff.
“That’s great!” I screamed into the phone. Henry’s soul was still out there somewhere. And that meant we hadn’t lost him after all. We’d get him back, and he could lead us through this whole business with Brach and the Shiguan war threat.
“Is he still there?” I asked.
Cage hesitated a moment. “That’s why I’m calling, Mr. Solomon. His body was transferred this morning, by order, to Golders Green Crematorium.”
My chest went tight.
I hung up and dialed the crematorium. Eight rings and it went to voicemail. “Whoever gets this, please donotcremate Henry Wilkinson. Don’t do it. This is Jack Solomon, next of kin. I’m on my way.”
I took off at a dead sprint for Old Lada. Cassius raced behind me to keep up.
We rolled to a stop in a little courtyard outside Golders Green Crematorium—a long, redbrick building. Old Lada was still coughing when I jumped out and headed for a door that read reception. A sign in the adjacent window said out to lunch. back at noon sharp. Beyond the window sat a moon-faced woman with mustard on her chin behind a counter, eating a sandwich. I slammed through the door, rattling the glass window, and ran up to her.
“Henry Wilkinson,” I said, “his body was brought here this morning.” “Excuse me, but this is my lunch hour?—”
“Please, you have to stop the cremation. We’ve changed our minds about it.”
The woman stared at me, her mouth open, chewed ham sandwich sitting on her tongue. “Oh, dear.”
“What, tell me, please.”
“Well, the technicians have been processing?—”
A door at the back corner of the reception room read authorized personnel only. I rushed to it. Locked.
Cassius pulled me back and booted it open. I pushed through as the woman called after us to stop.
We swept down a short hall to a steel door. It was unlocked. I pulled it open, and we rushed into a wide room with a high ceiling. A couple of antiquated computer banks stood on the right next to three huge stainless steel furnaces framed with green panels. Upper drawers looked like they’d house a body. Lower drawers were small, like ash-collecting troughs.
Two men next to the computer banks whirled and stared at us. The larger of the two stepped forward. “You can’t be in here, gentlemen. Back the way you came, or I’ll call the police.”
I went straight up to him. “Henry Wilkinson. We don’t want him cremated.”
The man looked at the other guy, then back at me, his lips pursed. “Oh, mate.” He gestured toward the incinerator on the left side.
I staggered toward it. The second fellow stepped over to gently intercept me.
Staring at the large furnace felt like losing Henry all over again. But if he hadn’t returned, and hadn’t moved on yet, either, then wherever he was, he now had no body to return to.
“The instructions said to prioritize Mr. Wilkinson,” said the first man. “Who ordered that?” I asked, still staring at the furnace, listening to the low roar of fire inside.
The guy shrugged his shoulders. “Just on the sheet, mate.”
Cassius pulled me away. We walked back through the reception area and out to the car. Around a mouthful of sandwich, the receptionist called out something about paying for the broken door. I reached into the back seat of Old Lada and grabbed Henry’s drumstick bag, then marched back in to the woman at reception. “Put his ashes in this. Hang it next to Keith Moon’s marker on your wall. I’ll send money for that and the door.”
When I got back outside, Cassius was waiting. “Henry’s soul persists, then.”
The idea helped me breathe a little easier. But what did it mean? I needed to find him, help him, but where and how? I was sitting in the driver’s seat, trying to make sense of it, when my phone buzzed again. I thought twice about answering it—my luck was running low, and I didn’t think I could take one more bit of bad news.
I finally answered it. “Hello.”
