A lot of officers felt lost after retirement. For thirty years, and sometimes more, they’d held a position of unique power – and respect. But then those thirty years vanished in a flash and they were having their retirement party in the upstairs room of a pub – the more generous ones sticking money behind the bar. A former colleague would give a speech, joking about their blunders, praising their achievements. Maybe show a video of the highlights – and lowlights – of their career. And that was it. Wake up in the morning with a hangover to find you were a – a what? A was-copper?

It came to everyone. Some had made good plans and were fine, picking up well-paid jobs fighting the virulent menace of cybercrime or going back into areas of policing as civilians. But others were left bewildered. Like pot plants that had once flowered magnificently, but now had been left in permanent shade, wondering where the sunshine had gone.

Yours eventually. The phrase had lodged in Grace’s mind. Was Thomas Greenhaisen looking at him and Cleo and thinking the same – that one day they, too, would become customers of Greenhaisen & Sons? Hopefully not until it was ‘& Grandsons’.

Just how sad to see them was Greenhaisen really? Was the first qualification to be a funeral director that you had to be a good actor? Or was he being too cynical?

‘Thank you,’ Roy Grace said politely.

‘Please, come through into my office. May I offer you some refreshments, tea, coffee perhaps?’

‘I’d like a strong coffee with some milk, please,’ Grace said.

‘If you have a peppermint tea?’ Cleo asked.

‘Of course, no trouble.’

As they followed him through into a small office, with a large, opaque window obscuring the view, no doubt, of the hearses parked out back, he picked up the desk phone and asked a man called John to bring in the drinks. Then he ushered them to a round table at which were four comfortable-looking chairs. As Cleo sat, Grace saw a framed certificate on the wall above her, proclaiming Thomas Edward Greenhaisen to be a member of the British Institute of Embalmers.

When the funeral director was seated, with an iPad in front of him, he began by confirming Bruno’s details – his full name, date of birth and home address, and the place where he had died – tapping in all the details assiduously with an immaculately manicured forefinger.

‘May I ask next if Bruno had an affiliation with a particular church or religious group that he might have wished to officiate at his funeral?’

Grace thought fleetingly about how, from his limited knowledge of Sandy’s activities after her disappearance, she had spent some time with the Scientologists, then a further brief time with another sect in Germany.

‘No,’ he said. ‘But I never had the chance to discuss religion with him. That may sound odd, but he has only been with us since his mother died. I don’t think he had any religious views – but my wife and I have decided we would like a Christian funeral, a lightweight one. With some rousing music – perhaps something in German?’