Out on the street, drivers were springing to attention. Philips opened the back door of Natasha’s car. I thought of her as a strong woman, perhaps a hard woman, and it shocked me to see her so passive as he herded her inside.

Philips leaned into the driver’s window and gave some instructions, and I saw the chauffeur’s face torn between alarm and anger, but he nodded with mute obedience and drove her away. Philips watched them go.

Mallory and I walked back to the graveside. Most of the congregation seemed oblivious to what had happened. Heads had turned briefly to watch the overcome widow being helped away by her husband’s friend, but soon they had returned to see the flowers falling on the coffin. Only one mourner had kept his eyes on the ugly little scene – a freakishly tall man in his sixties who had the hooked, unblinking face of a bird of prey. Now he too stared at the open grave, a single rose in his hand.

Mallory and I watched as Guy Philips returned expressionless, and I knew Mallory had seen it too – how efficiently Philips had dispensed with the problem of the woman.

The crowd was forming a queue to offer their condolences to Buck’s parents. Ben King was still by their side, every inch the politician, dispensing handshakes and soft words.

‘No, Natasha’s fine,’ he said. ‘She’s not herself today. Yes, thank you so much.’

He caught my eye and smiled.

Then suddenly it was over. The prayers were all said, the coffin lowered, the roses in the grave. The living mopped their eyes and returned to their cars and their lives, even the mother and father who had buried their son.

But as Mallory and I walked away, I caught a glimpse through the trees of four men still standing at the open grave, wiping dirt from their hands, bound by something so strong that death could not touch it.

Scout cried out in the deep of the night.

Although I believed that I never really slept, I was aware of the sensation of waking, and surprised by it, the abrupt surfacing from a dream I would never remember.

I glanced at the numbers on the clock – 03:10 – and stumbled to her bedroom. She was sitting up in bed, her face wet with wailing, shielding her eyes with the sleeve of her pyjamas.

I put my arms around her, held her for a bit, then placed the back of my hand on her forehead. She felt a little warm.

‘Monsters,’ she said.

‘Angel,’ I said. ‘There are no monsters.’