The Simple Death by Michael Duffy

time had come when she could stop thinking and turn her attention to practical arrangements.
    One of Elizabeth’s new friends was planning to go to Mexico to buy some Nembutal, a barbiturate that Stuart Emery said was the best way of killing yourself. Leila looked into it on the internet, read books, found he was right. The arrangement was that Elizabeth would pay for the trip, and the friend would bring back an extra bottle for her. But the friend died before she could travel, so Elizabeth asked Leila to go.
    And she had.
    After the service, Leila stands in the bright sunshine accepting condolences. It is ridiculously hot and everyone is uncomfortable, and this seems appropriate for her mother’s funeral. Lewis and Wendy are among the first to approach her, Lewis having to get back to work.
    â€˜Nice church,’ he says, hands on hips, squinting up at the brick and slate bulk above them.
    He is still good-looking, a big man with strong limbs, a bit of weight around the middle but not too much. His suit with the Prince of Wales pattern is elegant. For a moment she is carried away.
    â€˜ The sea of faith ,’ she says, quoting the poem they used to recite to each other, ‘ was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore —’
    â€˜ Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled ,’ says Wendy.
    Leila looks at Wendy, smiles and hugs her. Wendy has that thin pale skin that often goes with red hair and doesn’t age well. Lately Leila always wants to get her out of the sun.
    â€˜Sorry we have to rush,’ Lewis says. ‘I’ve got my interview this afternoon.’ He smiles, and when Leila says nothing adds, ‘For the head’s job.’
    â€˜I know,’ she says. ‘I did mine on Monday.’
    â€˜Leila!’ He seems surprised. ‘That’s very resilient of you.’
    Well, she thinks as she waves them off and prepares to hug someone else, life goes on.
    Some of the members of the group are there, but not Stuart, whose support for voluntary euthanasia is too well known. Ben is approaching, looking distinguished in a dark suit although his tie has too much red in it for the occasion. She can tell he desperately wants to hug her, take her away somewhere and provide consolation. To be honest she would like that, to go back to his house and fuck each other to exhaustion. But it is not going to happen.
    â€˜I have to get back,’ he says.
    Yesterday he raised the possibility of cancelling today’s surgery to be with her, was disappointed when she told him not to be ridiculous. She has to let him out of her life more gently.
    â€˜It’s all right,’ she says. ‘Thank you for everything you’ve done. I’m so very grateful.’
    â€˜I’m glad I could help,’ he says, seeking to lay the lightest of burdens on her. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’
    â€˜My feelings are very confused at the moment. Let me call you.’
    He risks a hand on her arm. ‘You loved her very much, didn’t you?’
    She tries not to flinch. All that matters now is the cremation. There can be no autopsy after that. She hates having to think like a criminal still, but it is almost over.
    â€˜Thank you again,’ she says, pressing his hand, and then he is gone, almost pushed out of the way by the jostling of others behind him in the queue. Leila wonders if old people are always so stimulated by the funeral of someone younger than themselves.
    Still, it is a good crowd. Elizabeth would have been pleased.

Eleven
    T he main building of St Thomas’ was a massive Victorian pile. Like an unnecessary argument, its elaborate facade reared above the simple propositions of terrace houses that ran up and down the surrounding hills. The three detectives were met in the large lobby by David Saunders. The acting CEO was a tall man somewhere around sixty, his big face handsome and lined. He was wearing pinstripe trousers but no