‘Oh, all right.’ Pulaski grimaced. He nodded back. Then paused, recalling the curious expression on the faces of the mourners when he’d mentioned working with the deceased.

‘One question. You said I didn’t seem like the sort who worked with this Ardell. What’d he do for a living?’

‘He was an adult film star in the seventies,’ Berkowitz whispered. ‘Gay. The family doesn’t like to talk about it.’

‘I’d guess not.’

‘That’s the room with Mr Logan’s remains.’ He pointed to a small doorway.

Serenity …

Pulaski stepped through it and into a small room, twenty by twenty. There were a few chairs, a coffee table, innocuous landscapes covering the walls. Also a bouquet of subdued white flowers. And on a velvet-draped table, similar to the one holding the urn of late porn star, sat a brown cardboard box. This would, Pulaski knew, be the Watchmaker’s remains. Beside it stood a round, balding man in a dark business suit. He was making a mobile phone call. He looked at Pulaski briefly, with curiosity, and turned away. He seemed to speak more softly. Finally he disconnected.

Inhaling a steadying breath, Pulaski walked up to him. He nodded.

The man said nothing.

Pulaski looked him up and down – keep it blunt, keep it tough. ‘You were a friend of Richard’s?’

‘And you are—?’ the man asked in a soft baritone, with the hint of a Southern accent.

‘Stan Walesa,’ Pulaski said. The name almost seemed natural at this point. ‘I was asking, you’re a friend of Richard’s?’

‘I don’t know who you are and I don’t know why you’re asking.’

‘Okay, I worked with Richard. Off and on. I heard he was being cremated this morning and I assumed there’d be a service.’

‘Worked with Richard,’ the man repeated, looking the officer up and down. ‘Well, there is no service. I’ve been retained to bring his remains back home.’

Pulaski frowned. ‘A lawyer.’

‘That’s right. Dave Weller.’ No hands were proffered.

Pulaski kept up the offensive. ‘I don’t remember you from the trial.’

‘Mr Logan was not my client. I’ve never met him.’

‘Just taking the ashes back home?’

‘Like I said.’

‘That’s California, right?’

The only response was: ‘What are you doing here, Mr Walesa?’

‘Paying respects.’ He stepped closer to the box. ‘No urn?’

‘Not much point,’ Weller said. ‘Richard wanted his ashes scattered.’

‘Where?’

‘Did you send those?’

Pulaski looked at the bouquet, which Weller was nodding at. The officer tried to looks somewhat, but not overly, confused. ‘No.’ He stepped to the vase and read at the card. He gave a bitter laugh.

Inscrutable.

He said, ‘That’s pretty low.’

Weller asked, ‘How do you mean?’

‘You know who that is, who sent them?’

‘I read the card when I got here. But I don’t know the name. Lincoln Rhyme?’