Simon Beckett - Where There's Smoke

The young woman sat with her head bowed. Kate could see her shoulders shaking. Further along on the same pew, an elderly man blew his nose and dabbed at his eyes.

“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.

The last of the mourners had disappeared through the door. They had the chapel to themselves.

“I wanted to come.” Kate looked over to where the coffin was hidden by the closed drapes. “I thought it was the least I could do.”

A mechanical, whirring sound came from behind the curtains. They swayed slightly.

“We’d better go,” Collins said. “There’s another funeral scheduled.”

Kate made her way along the pew. Collins waited for her. He was wearing the brown suit and tweed overcoat that he always seemed to have on. He held the door open for her, and they went along the short corridor to the main doors.

Outside, the air was cold and sharp. The mourners were clustered in loose groups on the wide tarmac drive around the young woman. The elderly couple stood near, still supporting her as people waited their turn to speak a few brief words, occasionally to embrace her. The second elderly man stood close by, but slightly to one side, not quite a part of their group.

“That’s Turner’s father,” Collins said. “His mother couldn’t come. She’s in hospital, dying of cancer.”

The man had a slightly dazed expression as he nodded and shook hands with the people who approached him. Kate looked away.

“I’d better go.”

Collins regarded her. “If you want to hang on a second I’ll give you a lift.”

“No, it’s all right. Thanks.” She was suddenly in a hurry to get away.

“I’d like a word with you anyway. I won’t be a minute.”

Without waiting for her to reply, he went over to where the young woman stood, surrounded now by a group of weeping women. He waited on the edge, his bulk towering over them, then stepped forward. Kate saw him speak to Turner’s widow, taking both her hands in his. The young woman nodded, and then Collins moved on to shake hands with the man and woman on either side of her, and lastly the man he had pointed out as Turner’s father. He came back towards Kate.

“The car’s parked at the other side.”

They moved around the mourners towards a line of parked cars. Then Collins stopped. She felt his hand on her arm, restraining her, and looked up to see him staring ahead at the photographer who had been in the chapel. The man’s attention was on the central group around the widow. Kate could hear the click-whir of his camera motor as he took shots.

“Let’s go this way,” Collins said, taking her arm and leading her back the way they had come. They went around the back of the chapel, coming out behind the photographer, so he was facing away from them.

“Why didn’t you want him to see you?” Kate asked.