Where There's Smoke

“It is not always easy. We have lost a friend. A son. A husband. And a father, because the child that Kay, Alex’s wife, is carrying will now never know him.”

For an instant Kate thought he had said her own name. She looked again at the young woman in the front row.

“One of the tragedies is that neither will Alex see his child when it’s born, a child that he and Kay have long wanted. For them to be finally blessed, only to have their happiness snatched away in a senseless act of violence seems especially cruel. Yet to give way to thoughts of bitterness, of anger and revenge would be an even greater waste. Because to do that is not only to dishonour Alex’s memory. It is also to refute everything he lived, worked, and ultimately died for.”

A draught of cold air brushed the back of Kate’s neck as the chapel door was opened. She looked around to see a man wearing a thick waxed coat easing it shut behind him. His shoes squeaked on the floor as he went to the end of Kate’s pew and sat down. A bulky camera was slung around his neck. Kate looked away as he began to fiddle with it.

“I was privileged to know Alex through the work we both did in the community, and I can truthfully say I found him to be a patient and kind man, who genuinely cared for the people who came to him for help. So, as we pray now for Alex, I would like us also to pray for the tortured young man who took him from us so suddenly. And also for each other, so we can find the strength within ourselves to forgive him.”

Abruptly, Kate’s eyes filled. She hung her head, letting the tears drop directly onto her coat, where they quickly soaked into the rain-damp fabric. In the general shuffling as the congregation prepared itself to pray, she took a tissue from her pocket and quietly blew her nose.

A noise from the end of the pew distracted her. Glancing up, she saw that the photographer was also bent over, but only to change the lens on his camera. He had a bag open on the seat next to him, and as he took one from it, he knocked another onto the floor. She heard its thin rattle, and the man’s muttered, “Shit,” over the vicar’s resonant voice.

The prayer ended. The vicar continued, but now Kate’s attention was divided between what he was saying and the photographer’s preparations.

The service was short. There was no hymn. Instead, they sat in silence as Elgar’s cello concerto was played through the PA system. At the end of it Kate would have slipped out, but the photographer blocked the end of the pew.

“It is our hope and belief that Alex’s spirit will not have died, that the Alex we knew and loved still continues, apart from us, but still whole,” the vicar continued. “But Alex remains with us in other ways. He will always be a part of our hearts, always be in our memories. And he will continue in the child that Kay gives birth to, a living reminder of the Alex Turner whom we knew and loved, and to whom we now bid goodbye.”

The curtains closed over the coffin with a jerky rustle. As they swayed to a standstill, the vicar stepped down from the pulpit without another word. Kate looked over at the photographer again. He was poised on the edge of his seat, camera at the ready. She turned away, wondering if she could squeeze out at the other end but the pew was pushed up against the wall.

She looked back in time to see the photographer bob up to take a couple of shots as the young woman rose to her feet. He slid out of the pew and went to the door. Kate stood up to leave also, but by then the people from the front were already coming down the central aisle.

She sat down again, head averted. From the corner of her eye she could see the young woman draw level with the end of the pew. An elderly couple supported her at either side, while behind her followed the man Kate had seen wiping his eyes earlier. The young woman walked slowly, like an invalid, and Kate had time to see the heavy belly under the black coat, the pale and tear-blotched face.

Then they were behind her, making their slow progress to the door. Kate kept her head down. She could hear the young woman’s stifled sobs as the unsteady footsteps came closer. She ducked her head further, waiting for them to stop, tensing for the cry of recognition, of accusation.

The door creaked open. The footsteps diminished, and were drowned by the shuffling tread of the other mourners as they filed past.

Kate didn’t move. She kept her eyes on her hands, clasped tightly on her lap, as the procession dragged on. Finally, she could hear that it was coming to an end. The rest of the chapel was quiet as the stragglers made their way behind her to the door, and Kate prepared to leave.

“Hello, Miss Powell.”

She jumped at the sound of the voice. She looked up at the man standing over her unable to think who he was. Then the bristly grey hair, the faintly mournful eyes under thick black brows slotted into place and she recognised the Detective Inspector. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” he said.