Eyes front, I stared at the box just three steps from me, imagining a smaller white box and the Kemplays in black, won dering if the vicar would fuck that up too when they finally found her.

I looked down at my knuckles turning from red to white as they gripped the cold wooden pew, catching a glimpse of my father’s watch beneath my cuff, and felt a hand on my sleeve.

In the silence of the crematorium my mother’s eyes asked for some calm, saying at least that man is trying, that the details aren’t always so important. Next to her my sister, her make-up smudged and almost gone.

And then he was gone too.

I bent down to put the prayer book on the ground, thinking of Kathryn and that maybe I’d suggest a drink-after I’d written up the afternoon press conference. Maybe we’d go back to hers again. Anyway, there was no way we could back to mine, not tonight at any rate. Then thinking, there’s no fucking way the dead can read your thoughts.

Outside, I stood about juggling another set of handshakes and a cigarette, making sure the cars all knew the way back to my mother’s.

I got in the very last car and sat in more silence, unable to place any of the faces, or name any of the names. There was a moment’s panic as the driver took a different route back to Ossett, convincing me I’d joined the wrong fucking party. But then we were heading back up the Dewsbury Cutting, all the other passengers suddenly smiling at me like they’d all thought the exact same thing.

Back at the house, first things first:

Phone the office.

Nothing.

No news being bad news for the Kemplays and Clare, good news for me.