A little further down I saw Len Zukov standing with Sergeant Tom Monk, the burned features of the physio from Barrington Court making him look like some exotic foreign guest among the uniformly white faces of the Potter’s Field townsfolk. Did I see some of them shiver at the sight of the injured soldier? Did I see fathers and mothers lift their staring small children and carry them away to a less disturbing part of the high street? Tom Monk gave no sign that he had noticed. He stared at the empty road, waiting for the homecoming of another soldier.

And I saw Natasha, standing alone at the end of the street where the crowds thinned out.

Then all heads turned to watch a lone vehicle coming down the empty high street. Murmurs of resentment. It was a sleek black Mercedes saloon and not a hearse.

Sergeant Lane stepped forward, barking commands at the uniformed officers who stood watch over the docile crowds, holding up one hand, commanding the Mercedes to stop. When it did, a uniformed chauffeur sprang from the driver’s seat and opened the rear door.

Ben King got out of the car and the crowd let out an audible gasp at the sight of the MP.

He was wearing the jacket his brother had worn on the day he died. A British Army desert camouflage jacket in two colours – swirls of sand and stone – stained with a third colour, a deep bloody red that was already turning brown.

And now I realised that there were cameras for the homecoming. There was TV, press photographers, and journalists. I saw Scarlet Bush stick a sharp elbow in a photographer’s eye as the media broke through the loose police cordon and spilled on to the street, swarming around Ben King.

‘Dear Ben,’ said Peregrine Waugh, suddenly right next to me. ‘He always was an exhibitionist.’

‘Get them back!’ Sergeant Lane was shouting at his officers, red-faced with fury.

Ben King walked slowly from the street to the pavement, his face expressionless, his brother’s jacket hanging limply on his shoulders and radiating another world of pure horror.

Was he wearing the army jacket over a suit and tie? It was impossible to say. All anyone saw was the jacket.

He stood in front of the Combined Cadet Force. The young soldiers stared straight ahead, trying not to look at him. Cameras capered before them as young police officers tried to restore order.

‘Let them see what they have done,’ murmured Waugh. ‘The words of Jacqueline Kennedy when she refused to change out of the pink Chanel suit that was stained with the blood of her assassinated husband. Let them see what they have done! Yes, let them see.’