We skirted the back of the crowd. The sound of crying was louder now, in the open air at the edge of the freshly dug grave. Small children had joined in the wailing, upset at seeing grown-ups cry for the first time. The red roses were splashes of colour in a sea of black.

‘For the trumpet shall sound – and the dead shall be raised incorruptible – and we shall be changed. For this corruptible must put on incorruption – and this mortal must put on immortality.’

We stopped when we were behind the vicar and directly opposite the mourners at the graveside. I could see the faces of the principal mourners over the shoulders of the crowd. Hugo Buck’s parents were unravelling at the task of burying a child. Ben King stood with his arm around them. The politician had a consoling thought for everyone. Only Natasha Buck seemed drained of all emotion, numbed by the rituals of grief.

‘Death is swallowed up in victory. Oh death, where is thy sting? Oh grave, where is thy victory?’

There was an electronic buzz as the coffin was automatically lowered.

When the sound stopped, Ned King casually dropped his red rose into the grave. Then they were all dropping their roses. Something inside the parents of the dead man seemed to break as they let go of theirs. They threw them in the grave and turned away, their legs uncertain. Guy Philips was next. Then Salman Khan, composed now. But Ben King paused, and with a gentle smile motioned Natasha to come forward.

‘He stands in the presence of the Lord, the same Jesus who said to the dying man on a cross – Today you shall be with me in Paradise.’

Natasha took a step towards him. I saw her lift her veil, stay a moment with her memories, and then very carefully spit into her husband’s grave.

Almost as an afterthought, she tossed in the rose.

There was a sudden burst of activity at the graveside. I saw Natasha’s head twist towards the red features of Guy Philips, her face suddenly contorted with anger and pain as he expertly did something to her arm and marched her away. Erect and unresisting, Natasha came through the crowd with her hand held by Philips in a grotesque parody of caring, as if she might fall or run away or return once more to the grave of his dead friend.

‘My hand,’ she said. ‘You’re fucking hurting me, Piggy.’

I started forward but was stopped by Mallory’s hand on my arm. I looked at him and he shook his head once. I felt a stab of shame for doing nothing. But we were here to observe. That was all. I nodded briefly, showing Mallory that I understood, and we followed Natasha and Philips down the path to the cemetery gate.