She breathed deeply as Archie drove the hearse through the cemetery gates and along the rutted path that ran round the edge of the small graveyard. Like most cemeteries in the city, Edinburgh Eastern was hidden from public view as much as possible, an anonymous entrance on Drum Terrace, high stone walls enclosing the space. One side was flanked by terraced flats, another by the back of the Aldi on Easter Road. Behind the opposite wall she could see the corrugated-iron roof of a trade wholesalers. Looming over the graves on the south side was Hibs’ stadium, more dirty corrugated iron, a grid of green support beams around the top like a crown.

They crawled round the cemetery, past a graffitied shed, then a skip full of rotten flower bouquets, cellophane shimmering with dew, ribbons flapping in the breeze. She wished the guys who ran this place were more considerate, mourners didn’t need to see the business side of death.

Dorothy had been in the funeral business for forty-five years, it was all she knew. She glanced round at Susan Blackie’s coffin in the back of the hearse, the family car following behind. She looked at Archie, deadpan face, shaved head, neat grey beard. She’d known him for a decade, considered him a friend as well as a colleague, but that had been tested by what happened six months ago. She had uncovered horrifying secrets in her family and the business, and they were still dealing with that. The one thing that gave her peace was this, looking after the dead.

They reached the open grave and pulled over. Dorothy eased out of the passenger seat, her seventy-year-old muscles letting her know that yoga wasn’t enough anymore. She stretched her back, angled her hips, small movements so as not to draw attention. A funeral director should be anonymous, if people noticed you, you weren’t doing your job properly.

Archie got out and opened the back of the hearse, removed the wreath from the coffin and placed it to the side. There was comfort in all of this, the correct way of doing things, deference in the way they moved. It was hard for young people, but the older you got the more natural it felt, creating the smallest ripples possible. Dorothy had had her share of ripples recently and she was happy to be back in still waters, helping others pay last respects.

The Blackie family emerged from their car as more family and friends coalesced around the grave. Very little was said, it was almost telepathic, a hand on a shoulder, a tilt of the head, the body language of grief.