Picture You Dead

32

Monday, 30 September

The service ended with Bob Dylan’s ‘Blowin’ in the Wind’, which Erik had said was another favourite of Bruno’s. Thomas Greenhaisen and another of his funeral directors marched down the aisle, solemnly side by side, followed by Roy and Cleo.

Grace stared straight ahead, occasionally giving a slight nod of acknowledgement to a friend or colleague. He was looking for Cassian Pewe, although he wasn’t sure what he would say when he reached the smug bastard. Why the hell was he here?

But when they reached the final row of wooden benches, there was a gap where he thought he’d seen the former ACC sitting. He was gone. Or had he walked past him and not noticed?

Outside, as they’d planned in advance, he and Cleo took up their positions a short distance from the porch, ready to greet and thank everyone for attending. But as the mourners filed out into the bright sunlight he was distracted and angry that Pewe had dared to show up, dared to intrude on this deeply personal service. It was as if this was some act of defiance from Pewe – You might have got me suspended, Roy, but you don’t get me out of your life that easily.

Then the Chief Constable, in full dress uniform, was standing in front of him. A fair-haired woman, with a warm, kindly face that belied the steel behind it when needed. He and Cleo each shook her hand.

‘That was a beautiful eulogy, Roy. I’m so very sorry for your loss,’ she said.

‘It’s very good of you to come, ma’am.’

‘We’re family, Roy, you know that. Perhaps more than ever these days, and we all support each other, not out of any sense of duty but because we want to.’ Looking at them both, she added, ‘If there’s anything I can do for either of you, just pick up the phone, and if you need any time out, please take it, as long as you want.’

Feeling her sincerity, he thanked her. ‘You’re probably busy, ma’am, but we are having drinks and bites back at ours after the interment – the address and directions are on the back of the service sheet.’

She smiled. ‘Thank you. I’ve got the National Police Chiefs’ Council conference call in an hour. If it doesn’t go on too long I will try to make it.’

Next was one of Roy’s team, Emma-Jane Boutwood, then Glenn Branson, who flung his arms around him and, pressing his cheek against Roy’s, said, in a voice barely above a whisper, ‘You did really well, mate.’

Roy Grace closed his eyes, crushing away tears, loving this man even more than ever. ‘Thanks,’ he managed to croak.

‘Seriously, if I fall off the perch before you do – unlikely, I know, because of your great age – promise me you’ll do my eulogy?’

‘You seriously want me to tell the world what you’re like?’

‘Maybe not, on second thoughts.’

As Branson moved on, followed by Siobhan Sheldrake and Norman Potting, Grace saw his old police colleague Dick Pope and his wife Leslie. They’d first alerted him to the possibility that Sandy was living in Munich after they reckoned they’d seen her there while on holiday.

Next was Ray Packham, a former guru of the High Tech Crime Unit, now renamed Digital Forensics, and his wife, Jen, who worked as an ambulance despatcher. ‘We’re so sorry for your loss, Roy,’ he said.

Aware the couple had recently lost their beagle, Hudson, Grace replied, ‘And I’m so sorry for yours. Hudson was a character.’

‘Yeah,’ Ray Packham said. ‘A fat thief. But we loved him.’

Jen nodded. ‘He had a good heart, but he was so damned greedy!’

Behind them was Forensic Gait Analyst Haydn Kelly and his partner, whose name Grace was forever getting wrong. And he couldn’t remember now – was it Emma or Gemma?

He extended the invitation to drinks and bites back at their cottage, where they had a heated marquee erected.

Finally, the queue of people ended. Thomas Greenhaisen approached them respectfully. ‘Are you ready for the interment?’

Roy turned to Cleo, who nodded.

‘Yes,’ he said.

And a short while later, as the same four pall-bearers who had carried the little coffin into the church came back out with it, Roy Grace felt like the loneliest man in the world.