For the second time in eighteen months, Grace now found himself back in a funeral home. The last time he had been in one was to discuss the arrangements for Sandy, whom he’d decided to have buried here in England, so that Bruno would have a place to go and mourn his mother whenever he wanted.

He’d never, ever imagined he would be having to make funeral decisions about Bruno.

They’d already decided on burial, rather than cremation – Roy wanted Bruno to be laid to rest in the churchyard of All Saints, Patcham, in a plot as close to Sandy as possible.

They had also decided on the same firm that had handled Sandy’s arrangements, and Grace was pleased, as they entered the curtained-off front of the establishment, to be greeted by the proprietor himself, with whom he’d had the previous dealings, Thomas Greenhaisen.

A tall man in his late fifties, with a shock of grey hair and sparkly blue eyes, the sombre-suited funeral director managed somehow to have found the right balance between being both warm, almost jolly, and reverential and respectful. He looked like he was capable of throwing off his work togs at weekends and picking up a banjo, or maybe a ukulele, and joining a band, Grace thought.

Greenhaisen greeted them both with a sincere bow, before shaking their hands, in turn, taking Cleo’s first then Roy’s, holding each of them for several moments as if taking possession of them, before saying, ‘Mr and Mrs Grace, may I say first how terribly sad I am to be seeing you again so soon. My very deepest condolences for your terrible loss. An eleven-year-old boy.’ He shook his head. ‘I doubt there is anything I can say to console you at this time, but I can assure you we will do everything we can to take as much pressure off you as we can.’

Cynically and irreverently, Grace was reminded for a moment of his former boss in the police, some years back, Dick Jackson. He’d been a Detective Sergeant and Jackson had been his Inspector. The poor sod had planned to cash in his pension on his retirement and open a funeral parlour because, Dick had said, a little smugly, the two businesses you could never lose money on were food and death. People were always going to have to eat and they were always going to die. He’d joked that he was going to call the business Yours Eventually.

But Dick had dropped dead from a heart attack, swimming in Tenerife, just two months after his retirement. The grim reaper, Grace thought, had yanked the poor man’s chain just a bit too hard.

It had been a timely reminder that retired police officers used to have one of the highest mortality rates of almost any profession. One moment you had your warrant card – which an old copper had described to him as ‘a free pass to the greatest show on earth’ – and the next, the day you handed it in, you were suddenly a civilian again. Joe Public. Joe Shmow.