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she could just make out a stirring in a small huddle of men gathered on the other side of the wide gravel path. The grey-suited chauffeurs all looked over at her, seemed to decide as a group she was no one important, and went back to their newspapers and cigarettes. For the first time since she was pregnant with Claire, Caroline suddenly craved nicotine, and for a moment seriously considered cadging a smoke from one of the drivers. She glanced along the line of dark limousines, shining in the sun like enormous black beetles. There had to be at least half a dozen, all ready to dispatch the great and the good just as soon as Martin Fox’s body had been lowered into the ground.
A loud squawking started up in her handbag. She wrenched out her mobile and jabbed the answer key. She glanced left and right, unsure of cemetery etiquette, and hesitated before putting the phone to her ear.
‘What is it, Mum?’ She was whispering, but still her voice seemed disrespectfully loud. ‘I can’t really speak right now.’ She hurried away from the entrance of the chapel and turned down a side path.
‘I can see that for myself.’
Caroline reached the far side of the red brick building and stopped. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Look towards the gates.’
Beyond the scrum of reporters and photographers hemmed in behind a rigid wall of police officers, Caroline saw a raggedy bunch of white-haired men and women. Her mother was right at the front, waving cheerfully at her.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Caroline said.
‘We heard a rumour His Holiness Frederick Larson has turned up. We missed him on the way in, but we’ve got three dozen Tesco Value eggs to pelt at his car when he leaves.’
‘For God’s sake, Mum – you can’t do that.’
‘It’s all right – Marge gets them cheap. Some of them are already cracked.’
Caroline tried to keep her voice down. ‘It’s not funny, Mum. You were lucky to be let off with a caution last week. If you get arrested again—’
Mourners had started to make their way out of the chapel.
‘Look I’ve got to go,’ Caroline said. ‘Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.’ The line went dead and she saw her mother make an exaggerated shrugging gesture before turning away.
At the head of the line emerging from the small brick building, Caroline saw a tall woman walking on her own behind the coffin. A curtain of black gauze obscured her face, but Caroline was almost sure it was the same woman she’d seen visiting Martin Fox’s house in Barons Court. The other mourners maintained a respectful distance, presumably not wanting to intrude on the woman’s private grief.
Caroline waited for the bulk of the cortege to slowly make its way down the path leading to the gravesite before she joined the tail end. She spotted Martin Fox’s PA emerging from the chapel, dabbing her face with a black lace handkerchief. Consuela’s face was pale and gaunt, the rims of her eyes and outline of her mouth looked as if they’d been drawn on with a thick red crayon. Caroline reached out and squeezed her hand. Consuela managed the dimmest of smiles.
‘It was a beautiful service.’ Consuela was whispering. She hooked her arm around Caroline’s and they started up the path towards the grave. ‘I thought the speeches were very touching.’
Caroline didn’t want to disagree, so she nodded and kept her opinions to herself.
‘It’s a terrible tragedy.’ Consuela’s nose twitched and she dragged her arm back. ‘Excuse me.’ She grabbed her handkerchief from her sleeve, blew her nose and shoved the sodden square of lace in her handbag. She sniffed again. ‘I can’t believe what’s happened.’
‘Neither can I.’
‘Of course – it must be even worse for you.’
Caroline flinched.
‘Finding Martin like that.’ Consuela stopped and lifted a crucifix to her lips and kissed the little silver cross. ‘A terrible, terrible thing.’ She tucked the cross under her
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