The lesson passed in a blur. Dorothy tried to give the girl her attention but her mind drifted. She’d put Wilco on to stretch her, and the girl was rising to the challenge, but all Dorothy could think about was the list of funerals she had downstairs, the ceremonies Jim had performed in the days after Simon Lawrence was reported missing. It was a surprisingly quiet time for the business, there was one burial three days after Simon went missing, then a gap of 218almost a week, then a handful of cremations in a row. Of course, maybe Jim kept the body in the fridge for weeks, got rid of it much later. But that would’ve been risky. If he put the body into one of the cremated coffins, that was the end of the trail. You wouldn’t be able to tell anything from cremated remains, no DNA, and the amount of ashes varied hugely, depending on all sorts of factors. So she had to focus on the burial, that was all she had.

Abi had a sheen of sweat on her forehead, where a spread of adolescent spots had broken out recently. Her hair was greasy at the scalp too, and Dorothy remembered Jenny at that age, similarly out of sorts, unprepared for the world but also not giving a flying shit, so energising. Mothers were supposed to want their daughters all pulled together and sorted for facing the world but Dorothy had always loved Jenny’s makeshift energy, the sense of subcultural disaffection. It reminded her of the Californian counter-cultural stuff that had been blossoming around her when she upped sticks and came to Scotland.

The song finished and Abi looked up, grinning and sweaty. Dorothy smiled encouragingly and went to put another song on the iPod.

‘That was great,’ she said. ‘But don’t overthink it, go with your instincts.’

Abi nodded seriously, taking it in. She was a great kid, would do well in the world whatever she decided to do.

Dorothy tried not to overthink things, but that grave out there loomed in her mind, casting a shadow over everything.

Archie was doing facial cosmetics on an elderly lady on the slab. Dorothy watched him apply foundation to her cheeks, forehead and neck, careful and tender, like he was putting the finishing touches to an elaborate model of a human being.219

‘I’ve made a decision,’ Dorothy said, staying in the doorway.

Archie jumped and looked up.

The smell of the make-up came to Dorothy, on top of something like rotting flowers. Cool air swept around the room but she felt her cheeks flush.

‘About what?’ Archie said.

‘I need to find out for certain.’

Archie shook his head, foundation brush in his hand. Tiny flakes of powder fell from the brush like pollen onto the back of his fingers.

‘Speak to the police,’ Archie said. ‘This is a matter for them.’

He looked at Mrs Murdoch’s face.