She wasn’t ready for this. She didn’t know how they could have such fun with it, so soon. He was hardly cold. Or rather, said her shock, he was almost frozen. His corpse was shrouded in a plastic bag. Locked in a metal drawer. She hoped they would not bury him. She could imagine the purifying annihilation of cremation, the bright blaze, releasing him. She couldn’t bear the thought of his body in the ground. Then Griff was standing on the stage, with a microphone. The background music died.

‘Good evening, everybody.’

His amplified voice was right next to her, deep and clear. The people stopped and watched him quietly.

‘You may have noticed there were one or two reporters outside the house. What happened to Alex is seen as fodder by certain newspapers in this country. I don’t have to ask you not to speak to them. It’s pretty disgusting they should come here, trying to get at us now, if you ask me.’

A few people said, ‘Hear hear.’ He nodded his thanks.

‘For those of you who don’t know, the investigation into my son’s death is ongoing. Just now the –’ He stopped.

His eyes were closed as he stood before the hushed guests. He opened them.

‘I don’t know when my son is coming home. I don’t know when we can have a funeral. Thank you for coming tonight.’

He left the stage to subdued clapping. The music started again.

‘At least it’s not fucking Ed Sheeran,’ said Bea, and laughed.

She saw how shocked the people nearest her looked, and that Dan wasn’t laughing with her. Her heart hardened and defended itself. The conversation started up around them. She was going to lose herself. She needed to tell him about Roche’s visit.

‘Let’s go in,’ she said.

‘I was in Peckham today,’ said Dan.

The word was out of place, ridiculous. She thought she’d misheard.

‘Peckham? Oh, did you go to see your mum?’

‘No. I was there with Griff.’

‘With Griff? Why?’

‘He offered me a job.’

The music got louder. The speaker near her blared.

‘Did you hear me?’ said Dan. ‘Your dad offered me a job today.’

Waiters leaned between them, and cleared, and others stood ready, with trays of dessert.

‘Yes, I heard,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

‘No. Can we talk about this later?’

‘Yeah, sure, if you want.’

Dessert was a syllabub, served in sherry glasses, sprinkled with purple petals. Bea saw her mother getting up from the table to cry, and be comforted, standing. Recovering, she laughed, and sat down again.

‘I just can’t believe your mum managed to do all this,’ someone said. ‘It’s gorgeous.’

‘Is Liv all right?’ said Will’s wife. ‘She looks so beautiful.’

‘She’s fine,’ said Bea. ‘She’s loving it.’