A string of relatives got up and said nice things about Arthur, ways that he had been kind in the world, examples of his sense of humour, his charity, the Rotary Club, bowls, three children and four grandchildren. Dorothy wondered who would get up at her funeral, what they could say to cast her in a good light. Maybe she would bypass the whole thing like Jim did, get Jenny and Hannah to throw her in a skip on the outskirts of town. Save everyone the bother of lying and saying she was a good person, a person who didn’t destroy the last resting places of the innocent.

Eventually Arthur was lowered into the plinth via the motorised mechanism, down into the fiery pits of hell. Or the incinerator. The pine coffin would be sparking into life, splintering and burning, his body cooking inside, water vapour turning to steam, skin shrivelling to old leather then crisping and bursting into flames, fat from his body dissolving, a million chemical reactions that would transform him into something else.

The congregation filed out and dispersed, Arthur’s wife stoic but shellshocked by the whole thing, three daughters by her side crying into handkerchiefs.

Then they were into the funeral cars and away to a modest reception at the bowling club, to raise a glass of something to his memory.

Dorothy got in the passenger seat of the hearse beside Archie and heaved a sigh.

‘You OK?’ Archie said.

Dorothy took a long time to answer. ‘Not really.’

Archie didn’t start the engine, just sat watching the last few mourners walk to their cars or out of the gate to catch a bus.

‘There was something on the news this morning,’ Archie said.

Dorothy stared at her hands. She could feel the dirt still under her nails despite scrubbing and using a nail file.270

‘Apparently someone disturbed a grave in Portobello Cemetery.’

Dorothy felt tears in her eyes as she looked out of the window away from Archie’s gaze.

‘The groundskeeper alerted police,’ Archie said. ‘But they think it was just a prank. A sick joke. They think the grave wasn’t dug up, just the surface layer messed with.’

‘Right,’ Dorothy said, her throat dry.

‘Dorothy.’

The tone of his voice made her turn. He was almost crying and that made her tears come. She wiped at her cheeks with her hands.

‘Don’t speak,’ she said, swallowing hard.

They sat for a long time, no sound except their breathing, the windows steaming up.

Eventually Dorothy reached into her pocket and pulled out the piece of paper. She unfolded it carefully and offered it to him. He stared at it but didn’t take it.

‘What’s that?’ he said.

‘Jenny found this,’ she said. ‘It’s another burial from the same time.’

‘Where did she find it?’

Dorothy hesitated, pressed her lips together. ‘Sealed under the lining of a coffin in the workshop.’