The moment came. Bruno had composed himself. Grace whispered good luck, and watched his son stand up, walk solemnly up to the lectern, and climb up onto the box Smale had placed there for him.
Then he began.
‘Sometimes I’m sad and I don’t know why. It’s just a cloud that comes along and covers me up. It’s not just because my mama’s gone. It’s just because things now aren’t like they were.’ He faltered and then went on, reading the rest of his chosen words slowly and flawlessly.
When he had finished he walked back, stiffly, very upright. It was now Grace’s turn. He stood, a bag of nerves, fastening the middle button of his jacket.
‘Well done!’ he whispered as Bruno sat down again.
As he stepped up to the pulpit the clergyman gave him a reassuring pat on the arm. He climbed the steps, took his short speech from his pocket and laid it down in front of him.
As he glanced up, momentarily taking in the sea of faces, he noticed both the Chief Constable, Lesley Manning, and the Police and Crime Commissioner, Nicola Roigard. It was deeply respectful that they’d made the effort to come.
Then, suddenly, seated alone towards the back of the church, he saw Cassian Pewe, in full dress uniform. He was surprised the ACC had come. Perhaps he did have a heart after all. He took a couple of deep breaths, something he had learned long ago, to calm down before giving any talk. Even so he began reading in a shaky voice, staring rigidly down at the text, not trusting his emotions if he caught anyone’s eye.
He allowed himself to look down at the front row of pews, at Cleo and Bruno. His son was staring up at him, staring with that same look he had seen in his eyes a short while earlier before he had got out of the car. Anger at his mother’s death? Anger at him for causing it?
By contrast, Cleo was smiling, a sweet, sad smile.
‘All of us have to find and take our own paths in life,’ he said, his voice stumbling. ‘Sandy was a beautiful woman and I was lucky enough to spend so many years of my life with her. She was funny, smart and she had a great interest in so many things, as well as a real talent for interior design, which was her passion. As many of you here today know, she chose some years ago to take her own, different path in life, and had many adventures, some great, some perhaps more challenging for her. Her legacy is our delightful son, Bruno, of whom I’m immensely proud.’
He glanced up and, nearly choking with emotion, looked quickly back down at his script.
‘Sandy loved books, and she loved to read me quotes from authors. One of her favourites was a somewhat irreverent line from Kurt Vonnegut. “Listen, we are put on this earth to fart around and don’t let anyone tell you any different.”’
There was a small ripple of laughter.
‘Another, very different and much deeper, was from John Fowles’s The French Lieutenant’s Woman: “Life is not a symbol, is not one riddle and one failure to guess it, is not to inhabit one face alone or to be given up after one losing throw of the dice; but it is to be, however inadequately, emptily, hopelessly into the city’s iron heart, endured. And out again, upon the unplumb’d salt, estranging sea.”’
He paused and took another deep breath.
‘We don’t know, none of us, what is around the corner. Life is short, and for some of us far too short. It was far too short for Sandy. But I feel lucky to have spent those years with her, and I was always proud of her. As were her parents, Derek and Margot. I hope this hugely talented and lovely woman is now at peace.’
As he climbed back down the wooden steps from the pulpit, tears were rolling down his face.
76
Thursday 28 April
All these dead people under these crumbling, weather-beaten gravestones. Their sad little epitaphs. My granddad has this on his tombstone:
Gone but not forgotten.
Well, that’s bollocks. Not forgotten by who? They say you only truly die when the last person who knew you dies. After that you are totally forgotten. There’s no one left in the world to remember you. Does it matter?
It mattered to Einstein. He was actually a bit pissed off about it. He told a friend that despite all he had to offer mankind, how sad it was that one day he, like everyone else, would just be food for worms.
Yep, Albert, I’m with you on that one.
You’re not much more than one step from that when you’re banged up on a life sentence in jail. That would happen if I left matters unchecked.
But that’s just not an option.
77
Thursday 28 April
The voice startled him.
‘My deepest condolences, Roy.’
He turned. Cassian Pewe was standing right behind him, holding out his hand, rain dripping from the peak of his ceremonial cap, the silver braiding looking, as ever, freshly buffed.
‘Thank you, sir,’ he replied, stiffly. Then out of courtesy added, ‘I appreciate your coming.’
Cleo, beside him, was standing facing the grave, with an arm round Bruno, who was holding his bunch of white lilies.
There was an awkward moment of silence between the two men. ‘Yes, well, Roy, we’re one big family, the police. We look out for each other, don’t we?’
Their eyes met. Grace could hear the man’s pitiful screams of terror, the year before last, when he’d hung over a 500-foot drop, held just by his feet entangled in the webbing of Grace’s upturned Alfa’s seat belt, pleading with Roy to save his life. Which he had done, at great risk to himself. And regretted at times since.
‘We do, yes.’
Pewe lowered his voice. ‘Just a word, Roy — our friend Mr Tooth. In view of his prognosis I’ve removed the twenty-four-hour guard on him. It’s my job to think about the police budget.’ He gave Grace a condescending smile, and moved away, leaving the detective speechless.
Grace was soaked through, despite his raincoat, but he was so incandescent with rage at the ACC he barely noticed, staring around the expanse of graves in this vast cemetery and listening momentarily to the distant hum of traffic along the busy Old Shoreham Road. He watched the last of the mourners, heads bowed, hurrying towards them. He saw Glenn, standing a respectful distance away, alongside Jon Exton. Guy Batchelor, beside him, looked silent and sombre. Respectful.
Derek and Margo Balkwill stood almost pointedly several yards distant from him, staring stonily at the grave, but he could see no real sadness in their faces at all. They had avoided all eye contact with him since arriving at the church. If he never saw them again after today, it would be too soon, Grace thought. But he would have to see them again, they’d made it clear they would be wanting time with their grandson. Poor Bruno, he thought, inflicting those wretched misers on him.
He was surprised and pleased to notice forensic podiatrist Haydn Kelly had come along, down from London. Another person he was happy to see here was Sandy’s attorney, Andreas Thomas. A bulky, genial man in his forties, with long hair and a buzz of stubble, the Munich lawyer was wearing a crumpled grey suit that looked like it had spent the night in a laundry bag, and an equally crumpled cream shirt; the top button was undone, and the knot of his black tie hung a few inches below. Grace was unsure whether he had forgotten to do it up, or whether the shirt did not fit.