‘And Mr Devlin,’ Kash spoke in a voice now close to a whisper, ‘thank you for today.’

FORTY-ONE

Derek Reid glanced to his right, towards the red wine glass that sat on the small table next to his leather chair. The glass was empty. Just a drop of Burgundy and a little sediment to show for the three bottles it had held so far today.

Reid had been home for three hours, give or take.

Phillip Longman’s funeral service in Temple Church had taken an hour. It had been sombre and respectful, a fine tribute to a man who deserved it. Most mourners had left at its end, their respects paid. Those that remained had followed the hearse from Temple to Mortlake Cemetery in South West London – Surrey, practically – where Longman was finally buried.

The wake that followed was a final obligation. Reid did not want to be there; he wanted to grieve alone, in his own way. But he could not leave Russell Longman to deal with the wake alone, and Russell’s brothers were sure to be no help. One of them – Matthew – was an unassuming man lost in his own grief. The other – Peter – was an abrasive, combative sod at the best of times; a problem, not a solution. So Reid had put off his own need to mourn and had accompanied Russell Longman to his home, where the wake was held.

An entire afternoon of manners and small talk. The last thing Reid wanted as he held back his own tears.

It was gone 3 p.m. by the time Reid reached his front door, exhausted and emotional. An entire morning and half an afternoon before Reid had the opportunity to properly grieve, in the only way he knew how.

Reid had always been a man with passions. In his younger days it had been women that drove him; the reason for his three failed marriages and why his personal worth had plummeted with each divorce. He had finally learned his lesson and had since grown to concentrate on his other passions: food and wine.

The first kept him overweight. The second kept him short of cash.

Within forty minutes Reid had made himself a gourmet meal. Fillet steak topped with creamy wild mushroom, onions and truffle shavings. Accompanied by fat, triple-cooked chips, first prepared the evening before. Next he selected a 2005 Maison Joseph Drouhin Chambertin. An expensive Burgundy red. £100 per bottle at retail. Far too expensive for Reid to drink alone. At least on any other day.

Neither the food nor the first bottle had lasted long. Reid worked through both in the reclining leather chair in his living room. His fifty-inch wall-mounted television had kept him company, playing a stream of recorded comedy from his TiVo.

Good food. Fine wine. The distraction of humour. Exactly what he needed.

Two more bottles had followed. Four more recorded shows. The comedies were increasingly just background noise, breaking the silence of the house. With each glass Reid thought more about Longman. About his loss. Until finally he could properly mourn his oldest friend.