‘Mark, you’re holding up the queue,’ Dorothy said, pointing to the long line behind him. ‘We can chat longer at the reception.’

Fiona gave Mark a peck on the cheek and looked down the line of everyone she had yet to greet. She had no idea who they all were. As Mark was giving her mother yet another embrace, she looked towards the back of the crematorium at the end of the queue. There was someone standing alone, not in the orderly line like everyone else. In the dim light, he looked shifty, as if he were lurking for some reason.

‘Fiona, darling, we’ve never met but your father designed our new house in Brechin. The atrium was the talk of the county, it was splendid – well, it still is.’ The large elderly woman reeking of Chanel No. 5 gave her a slobbering kiss then a short man with a red knobbly nose, introducing himself as her husband, moved in behind her with a limp handshake. As Fiona smiled wanly at him she glanced again at the back of the crematorium. The lone figure was heading for the back exit. God, he looked like Pete. His hair, the way he walked…

‘Fiona, this is Molly Melrose, her husband Bill played golf sometimes with Dad and we all attended a few charity events together.’

Fiona shook the woman’s hand while looking at the back of the crematorium, which was now empty.

‘Mum, sorry, I’ve got to dash out for a moment, not feeling well,’ said Fiona as she darted for the back door.

She ran outside into the damp drizzle. The funeral directors were placing the flowers from the front of the coffin under the canopy. People were standing around looking at the inscriptions and she pushed past them, heading towards the car park. She looked right and left, her whole body tense. There was no one there; her shoulders slumped. How ridiculous, it couldn’t possibly be Pete. He was in bloody Tasmania. She started to walk back towards the flowers at the exit, sweeping her windblown hair back off her face, when she caught sight of a figure walking away between the trees. It was the same person she’d just seen; could it be him?

‘Pete! Pete! Is that you?’ she shouted into the wind.

CHAPTER 47

Chapter 47

Sunday 11 January 1880

‘Ann, I do believe the last forty-eight hours have been the most wonderful in my entire life.’ Archibald shifted his body onto one elbow and pulled the blanket round his shoulder. He gazed down at the woman who had just made love to him for the third night in a row. She lay there, languid, eyes shut and a hint of a smile on her lips. He leant down to kiss her eyelids and she looked up at him, her hair loose around her beautiful white neck.