It made all the tabloid front pages the next day, although the dark glasses made her look slightly sinister, more like the wife of a serial killer than that of an innocent national hero. Because that was what Jock Murray had become.
Casey Mullins had started it with her poignant firsthand account, but by the next morning it had been taken over by the national big boys, her original contribution lost in a welter of column inches and big pictures with headlines screaming for the blood of the IRA terrorists who had killed their new-found hero.
One reporter wheedled his way into the household in the guise of a representative of Jock’s life insurance company; after gleaning what he could about the family’s finances, he stole a photograph of Jock, his wife and children.
A police constable was put on the door of the Murray house, ‘ so the hounds resorted to telephoning at all hours of the day and night until the receiver had to be left permanently off the hook. They took over the local pub and quizzed neighbours for snippets of gossip. Then, getting bored the day before the funeral, some hacks began asking if Jock had been having an affair? Was that why his mind wasn’t fully on the job at Seven Dials? It was splashed by one paper on the morning of the funeral.
When Casey arrived at the village with Eddie Mercs and Hal Hoskins, she had difficulty in finding a place to park, finally abandoning her Porsche at the edge of the village. It was difficult walking in the black high heels that matched her flared skirt, jacket and wide-brimmed hat. Nevertheless she turned down offers to carry the simple wreath.
‘You look good in black/ Mercs remarked. ‘I always think widows look sexy.’
‘Don’t be vulgar, Eddie.’
‘And brides. Widows and brides.’
‘I’m neither, Eddie.’
‘Just an observation.’
Cars were parked all along the grass verge that bordered the churchyard, many with photographers standing on the bonnets, trying to peer beyond the trimmed hawthorn hedge. A small knot of reporters and villagers were gathered at the lych gate where a police sergeant stood with a clipboard of names.
‘Sorry, folks, only those on my list.’
‘This is supposed to be a place of public worship,’ one hack complained.
‘Not today, it isn’t,’ the policeman countered. ‘There’s a security aspect to this, the IRA and all. And if we catch any of you scaling the walls or hedges…’
‘Trespass isn’t criminal, Sergeant, it’s a civil matter.’
‘…then you’ll be charged with causing a breach of the peace. Now, please give Mrs Murray a break, eh? You’ll get your chance when she leaves.’ ^
Casey turned to Mercs. ‘There’s no way he’s going to let me in.’
‘Bluff it out, sweetheart,’ he urged. ‘You’re dressed for the occasion, these oiks aren’t. And put your sunglasses on in case anyone recognises you.’ As she fumbled in her handbag, Mercs pushed her forward through the bystanders. ‘Step aside, gents, let the lady through.’
‘Hello, Eddie,’ someone said. ‘Long time no see.’
He ignored the man. ‘Morning, officer. Can’t you control this rabble? The lady here will miss the service.’
The policeman did a double-take at the sight of the tall, elegant woman, the sunlight on her coppery hair in striking contrast to the charcoal material of her hat and jacket.
‘It’s all right, miss, you’re in good time. Can I have your name please?’
She was aware of the hot, perspiring faces of the hacks all around her, their ears straining and pencils poised. Another relative? A mystery blonde, or would you call her a redhead? Jock Murray’s phantom lover? Now that would be a turn-up…
‘Casey — ‘ she began, her voice hoarse with embarrassment.
‘Pardon me?’ the policeman couldn’t hear.
‘That’s Eddie Mercs! What’s he doing with that bird?’
She cleared her throat and grabbed at a name. ‘Tracey Collins.’
The policeman consulted his list.
‘What’s your game, Eddie, you old reprobate?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t see the name here,’ the sergeant said, realising now that Mercs was a reporter. ‘Are you with the press, miss?’
‘Hardly, officer. I’m a friend of the family and I’ve come a long way to get here.’ She thrust her wreath towards him.
‘Ah, an American,’ he said, now picking up her accent. He looked awkward. ‘It’s a bit difficult, see. Your name’s not here and I’ve got my instructions…’
‘Is there a problem, officer?’ The new voice came from behind her shoulder, resonant and with a natural authority. As she turned she caught sight of him. He stood a couple of inches taller than her own five foot eleven in heels and his shoulders looked solid beneath the navy blazer. She was distracted by his tie — green with the repeated motif of an orange hand and a cartoon cat — before ‘ she noticed his face. It was full and serious with dark brows and steady brown eyes that had the bright glint of someone enjoying a private joke. She noticed the small cleft in his chin and the bluish sheen to his skin that suggested he needed to shave twice a day.
‘And you, sir?’ the policeman asked.
‘Harrison. Major and Mrs Harrison.’ He added: ‘And son.’
Casey twisted round to see the woman who stood by his side. She looked doll-like beside her husband, a pale and delicately boned face with wide and wary eyes beneath the upturned brim of her hat. A young boy clutched nervously at her hand.
‘That’s fine, sir,’ the policeman ticked his list.
‘And the lady?’ Harrison pressed, smiling at Casey to let her know she wasn’t forgotten.
‘I’m afraid I’ve no Miss Collins here.’
Casey said: ‘I’m not really expected. I didn’t think I could get away. Mrs Murray wouldn’t have put my name down.’
‘Brenda didn’t think you’d be able to come?’ Harrison asked. ‘You’re from America?’
‘California.’
Harrison turned to the policeman. ‘We can’t have a family friend come all the way from California to be turned away at the funeral, Sergeant. It’s okay, she can come in with us…’
The policeman was pleased to have his dilemma solved and stepped aside to allow the four of them to pass.
Casey breathed a sigh of relief, despite the insistent voice of a reporter calling after her. ‘Miss Collins! What’s your connection with the Murrays? Miss Collins!’
Ahead, an old flagged path meandered beneath brooding dark cedars, lichen-stained gravestones on either side. The mourners were gathering by the porch of the church; many wore police or army uniforms.
‘Looks as though they’ve managed to keep the gutter press out,’ Harrison observed.
‘It’s really disgusting,^Pippa said. Her voice was cultivated and perfectly pitched in the traditional BBC announcer’s manner. Casey imagined Harrison’s wife always had that slightly affronted tone whatever she was saying; it was the kind of voice she’d grown to associate with Ascot, Henley and the Peter Jones store in Chelsea. ‘Usually I don’t give them the satisfaction of reading their rags. In fact it was some time before I learned that Jock was dead. I usually just read the features — being in PR, I have to really. But as for what they rate as news nowadays.’ She made a vague gesture towards the gate. ‘You’d think they’d leave poor Brenda in peace for today at least. After all, she is burying her husband.’
Casey was irritated by the woman’s superior attitude and felt an instinctive urge to defend the indefensible. ‘I suppose they’re just doing their jobs.’
‘It strikes me,’ Pippa responded, ‘that they just like to build people up in order to be able to knock them down. It’s just a game to them. I just hope they don’t try to do that to Jock’s memory. I mean, did you read what one of those scandal sheets said today?’