TAXI

More readers than the rest put together! 26 JANUARY 2016 | TAXI 33
Two Fingers
AL FRESCO
A BODY
OF EVIDENCE
Detective Al Fresco discovers some clues as to the whereabouts of his dear old uncle’s savings
My Uncle Mo didn’t attend
a recent family celebration
– sadly, he’d died about
a year-and-a-half earlier, and his
funeral was last week.
It all started with a telephone
call at 3.30am from the staff nurse
at the Star and Garter Home in
Richmond informing me that Uncle
Maurice had died.
I promised to be there first thing
in the morning. I was wondering
aloud what to do with poor old
uncle Mo’s body when the phone
rang. “It’s your Uncle Maurice’s
friend, Arnold”, said the staff nurse,
“he wants you”.
“Hello?” I enquired. “Hello”, said
a soppy voice at the other end.
“I’m your Uncle Maurice’s friend,
Arnold.” Arnold, an insurance
agent, I remembered, had worn
a beige mackintosh with a wide
belt, like Frank Spencer, which he
did up tight around his middle,
the surplus beltage hanging down
limply around his nether regions.
He saved foreign stamps, not just
any old stamps; foreign stamps
from all around the world, of every
denomination - featuring pictures
of fungi. Arnold said: “Your Uncle
Maurice made me his executor. In
his will, he asked to leave his body to
medical science. Is that all right with
you?”
“If that’s what my uncle wanted, then
it’s OK by me,” I said.
“There is just one thing”, said
Arnold. “After three years, as your
uncle’s next of kin, you get the body
back.” I took a deep breath and
pondered the implications of his
statement. “And what do I do with
it then?”
He added: “That’s what I’d like to
talk to you about.”
Epic journey
Uncle Mo’s medical science trip
ended early, which was the reason
the kids and I were outside the
Eastern Chapel of Golders Green
Crematorium recently. My oldest
son, Gavyn, was there, too. Danny,
my younger son, was absent. He was
on a “stag weekend’ - in Barcelona.
Barcelona for a stag night? I had
mine in a pub on the Isle of Dogs.
My mates clubbed together and
bought me three vodka and limes.
My lips went numb, I poked a
plastic twizzle stick in my eye and I
peed on my new shoes. I remember
the singers had short tight dresses,
big hands, big feet and tattoos.
They looked like dockers and most
probably were.
However, Barcelona, was
where I had my first grown up
uncle/nephew bonding session
with Maurice. He was on a
Mediterranean cruise. He loved
his annual cruise. He was a single
man and remained so. As a young
man, he was smart and good
looking, a bit of a “ladies man”.
He’d come back from his annual
cruise, eyes sparkling and address
book bulging. I’d driven to Spain
in my green Mini, with my mates
Ivor, and the two Micky’s, to see
my (ex) girlfriend Vanessa (she
was my girlfriend when I planned
the holiday, but by the time we
set off on our epic journey, she’d
ditched me for an accountant son
of her mum’s friend). Anyway, you
should have seen her face when
me and the boys fetched up at her
hotel. “Oo!” she screamed to her
friend, Shelley, “he’s come a fousand
miles for a bit of nookie.” I hadn’t,
and I didn’t, but me and the boys
did get to go on board Uncle Mo’s
cruise liner for a slap-up lunch.
But as he got older, and retired
from work, Uncle Mo became
a recluse. I hardly saw him. He
lived in the end flat on the top
floor of a six story council block
in Bethnal Green. He didn’t have
a telly or a phone. Still, he was
rumoured to have tucked away
a tidy sum - he’d hardly spent
any money over the years. His
only luxury was an old Bakerlite
radio on which he listened to
the world service and radio four.
In his younger days he’d been a
dedicated communist when the
Communist Party had been a
political force in the East End.
So, there we were: Joanne,
Gavyn and me outside Golders
Green Crematorium, waiting for
nerdy Arnold. The undertaker,
crematorium manager and
reverend had already introduced
themselves. Uncle Mo was inside,
waiting for his last short journey.
With two minutes to spare
he turned up accompanied by
a striking young woman who
he introduced as “his second
wife, Tiffany.” Her face looked
familiar. She was wearing a neat,
black, Chanel number. There was
something inexplicably different
about Arnold. Perhaps it was his
shiny, silk whistle, or perhaps it
was the Oyster Rolex he raised
a silk shirted cuff to examine;
or the voice, that had deepened.
“Sorry we’re late” he said, smoothly,
shaking hands all round, “that
navigating gizmo on the car had us
driving round and round in circles.
I was thinking of dragging it out of
the car and popping it inside the box
with Uncle Maurice to help him on his
journey, except he’d never get where he
was supposed to.”
Page 3 model
It was a dignified service. Arnold
had done all the arranging, and he’d
done Uncle Mo proud.
Back outside, in the hot
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afternoon, we reminisced,
before going our separate ways.
“Can I give you a lift..?” I said
automatically, forgetting he’d
said he’d come in his car with
the duff navigating system.
“It’s all right thanks, Al. My car’s
parked over there.” He nodded his
head in the direction of a large,
gleaming, saloon. Tiffany clung
on to Arnold’s arm. I strained
to remember if it was a red top
paper I’d seen her in. Anyway, I
thanked Arnold for all he’d done.
“Think nothing of it, Al. After all,
it was the least I could do.” I had to
ask. “Shame nothing came of that
rumour that Uncle Mo had squirreled
away a pile of cash over the years.”
“Oh!” smiled Arnold, “the
rumour. It wasn’t a rumour” he
turned to his page three model
wife, “was it Tiff?” n
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