When he stood at the snug bar and ordered whisky, he could see a tired grey-haired old cunt staring back at him from the mirrored wall behind the bar.

It was him.

He took his drink to a table – this had been his table – and found other people sitting there. He moved on to another, and when Baxter came in, he joined him.

Baxter had been mulling things over. Uppermost in his tiny pea brain was that Frank was now going to find out that Dora O’Brien was dead – that was, if no one else on the outside had already told him and he was now going to hit Baxter between the eyes with it. Frank might already know that Baxter hadn’t given him the full facts. Or any facts, really. Frank was going to get very upset about that.

Maybe honesty was the best policy?

Baxter braced himself.

‘Boss?’ he said, having fetched himself a beer and Frank another whisky.

‘Yeah, what?’ Frank licked his liverish lips; even the sodding whisky tasted different. Nothing was the same.

‘I heard on the grapevine that Dora O’Brien died. Drugs or drink or something they reckon, but fact is, she’s gone, boss. I’m sorry.’

Frank was very still for a long, long time. Then he drained his drink. This was what he’d been hearing.

‘Don’t believe it,’ he said, shaking his head.

‘It’s true, boss. I swear.’

Frank lurched to his feet. ‘What was she, buried or burned then?’

‘Buried.’

‘You know where?’

Baxter nodded.

‘Then you show me,’ said Frank, and he went to the door and dived out into the rain.

The verger came out of the vestry and was crossing the grass in front of the church, heading for the gravel pathway down to the lych gate. He’d tidied up inside, laid out the hymn books for the wedding, and the florist was outside the church porch assembling an arch of white roses. Or she should have been. The box of flowers was open at her feet, but she was unmoving, staring at something over among the gravestones. He paused beside her.

‘Hello. All going well? Nice day for it,’ he said.

The woman looked appalled. ‘Have you seen . . . ?’ she started, but seemed unable to go on.

‘Seen what?’ asked the verger.

The woman nodded her head in the direction she was staring at. The verger’s eyes followed hers. Over by the gravestones at the far side of the yard two men were standing. One of them was huge. Fearsome. The other man was . . .

Good God!

The verger crossed himself. ‘Well I . . .’ he said, then stopped.

The squat, scruffy older man was pissing on one of the graves.

He’d have to say something. This was awful, this was . . .

Then the big man’s eyes rested on him and the florist, standing at the church door, and the verger decided that he wouldn’t intervene after all. The older man zipped up, turned away, turned back and then kicked the gravestone, then with his companion he left the churchyard.