Parking at last outside the flat, he saw how she was tensed in anticipation of meeting her mother, or meeting anyone. The knot of muscles in her neck was hard as iron when he touched her. Upstairs it was as if the women hadn’t moved since he left: Lydia was in her usual place on the sofa, Christine – who had changed into a dark navy dress, choosing mourning colours perhaps unconsciously – was in the big armchair. She glanced away from him evasively – she preferred to conceal herself, in extreme situations, behind her habitual irony. Against the dark dress her face looked haggard, flesh slack on her bones: probably she hadn’t slept. They were drinking coffee instead of alcohol, that was the only change – and Isobel had joined them, she was standing beside the mantelpiece with her back to her reflection in the gilt mirror, waiting calmly and sorrowfully. When Grace came in, still hugging her rucksack, she went straight to Isobel, who opened her arms to her. The two young friends were so spontaneous in their sorrow that their mothers looked frozen beside them.

There was something intolerable in the expectation in that room, strained around Zachary’s absence, which could not be filled. The time when they might have been waiting for him to walk through the door was so recent, so close at hand, that it seemed vividly possible; they could imagine how he’d make his entrance, noisy with reassurances, full of jokes, puzzled by their glum faces. He was always so up to date on everything, so full of news. It seemed impossible he didn’t know this latest fact, his own death.

— Where is Dad? Grace asked. — I want to see him.

Lydia tried to dissuade her. — It’s only his empty body, darling, he won’t be there.

— I love his body. I want to say goodbye to it.

Then Grace announced that she wanted to make a death mask, so that later she could carve her father’s face in stone. — I was planning it all the way from Glasgow, she said. – I know where I can find out how to do it properly. I know someone I can ask.

— As if things weren’t grotesque enough, Lydia said, shuddering.

— Let’s take our time, Alex said, placating them. — Let’s think about it.

He supposed there would have to be an autopsy.

— I’d like to be present at the autopsy, Grace volunteered promptly.

— That’s not possible, my sweet girl, he said flatly. — Not possible or desirable.