Gavin Barclay stood beside his mother, hands clasped in front, staring at the polished coffin. A single white rose covered the brass plaque bearing her name. Neither of them said much other than a mumbled ‘thanks for coming’ since Porter arrived. What else do you say under the circumstances?

The priest finished his eulogy, offering a few final words of comfort to Gavin before disappearing towards his own car. Gavin escorted Mary back to their car, then turned and came back towards Porter, holding out his hand. Porter gripped it, still trying to think of something worthy of the occasion to say, but Gavin saved him the trouble.

‘Thank you, Detective. For everything.’

Porter shook his head. ‘Sorry I couldn’t have done more.’

Gavin gave a dismissive gesture with his free hand. ‘Don’t be daft. You found out what happened to my sister. That’s what’s important. That she’s not left just lying there …’ His voice trailed off.

Porter appreciated the sentiment but felt like a fraud accepting the thanks. Sure, they’d found her. Found those responsible for her death. But with Locke dead, and Campbell unlikely to see a courtroom any time soon, it left him feeling hollow. He left Gavin by the graveside and picked his way amongst the rows of headstones towards his car, some tilted like a game of Guess Who gone wrong. For all the visits he paid to Holly, cemeteries were still a series of contradictions he could never be comfortable around. Live mourners visiting long-dead relatives or friends. Slabs of cold marble and sombre granite contrasted with colourful splashes of flowers and even small toys.

He passed a row of children’s graves, windmills turning lazy spirals in the breeze. Porter had only ever been to one child’s funeral before. A cousin he usually only saw at weddings and funerals had lost a baby boy to cot death, and he’d gone along as much out of family obligation as anything. He shuddered as he remembered looking at the tiny coffin being laid on a table at the front of the chapel. The smallest coffins, it seemed, were the heaviest to carry.

He climbed into his car, glancing at the clock on the dashboard. Almost half past three. Shit! Could he still make it there by four? Probably not, but he had to try.

Porter scanned the entrance as he crossed the car park, but the only person he could see was a man leaning on a Zimmer frame, one hand pinching the folds of his dressing gown closed, the other holding a half-smoked cigarette. He checked his watch again. Two minutes past. Had he missed her? He cursed himself for not gambling on the two amber lights en-route.