‘The Grumpy Sheep. It’s about the sheep that doesn’t want to go to see the baby Jesus getting born in the manger. Everybody goes to see the baby Jesus. The wise men, and the angels, and all the other sheep. But he doesn’t want to go, the grumpy sheep. Do you know that story?’

‘No.’

‘He’s grumpy, the sheep. Then he’s sad. Then he’s sorry. He’s very, very sorry in the end. He sees the mistake he made.’

A costume, I thought. How do you make a costume? What stuff do you need?

‘What part do you play, Scout?’

‘The grumpy sheep.’

I was impressed. ‘You’ve got the lead – the big part?’

A flicker of pride. ‘Miss Davies chose me for the grumpy sheep,’ she confirmed.

‘That’s a good part, Scout. That’s the best.’

She refused to be distracted by flattery.

‘I need my costume,’ she said. ‘You’re going to have to make it.’

‘I will,’ I promised, not knowing how to do it, not even knowing where to start.

Instead of going to the morning briefing I drove off the edge of the A to Z, the BMW X5 alone on the road north as massed ranks of commuter traffic crawled into town in the other direction. It felt like nobody in the world was going where I was going.

It felt the same way when I sat in the back row of the crematorium waiting for the crowd to come.

And they never did.

Finally a handful of lost souls wandered slowly in. Tattooed faces, missing teeth and the pallid flesh of addiction. So few of them that everybody had their own row. They sat well back, avoiding close proximity to the simple coffin awaiting the flames.

When Guy Philips arrived, ruddy-faced from double games or a hard night on the tiles, he sat across the aisle from me in the other back row. I got up and sat next to him.

‘Morning, Piggy.’

He reared back in his seat.

‘I know you,’ he said. ‘You were at Hugo’s funeral. The two plods. Spot you a mile off. Big feet, small dicks.’

‘Have you been drinking, sir?’

‘Not nearly enough.’

‘And I saw you. You were a bit rough with the girl, Piggy. I think you hurt her.’

He smirked. ‘Natasha? She was tired and emotional, that’s all. Took her in hand. For the best.’ He took a better look at me. ‘You were up at Pak’s office, weren’t you?’

‘Pak?’

‘Paki Khan.’

‘I understood Mr Khan was Anglo-Indian.’