Page 66 of Blow Down (The Plumber's Mate)
Other ladies were wearing thin gold chains, some with crosses on, silver pendants . . . The usual, really, although I noticed nobody had on anything you’d describe as bling apart, of course, from our old mate Toby with his cross. Even Vi had on a restrained gold necklace. I wondered if it had been her mother’s, and if so, whether it was a final, subtle fuck you to her dear departed stepmother.
The murmur of conversation all around us had a weird feel to it—too loud for a cathedral, but not loud enough for the number of people present. People were chatting, yeah, but they kept their voices low, and no one was joking or laughing. Somehow, though, you could tell it was just ’cos people knew how they ought to behave, not because they were genuinely cast down over Amelia’s death. Every now and then someone would give a quick smile at something that was said, and then straighten their face out hurriedly.
Poor lady. Not much of a legacy.
“Come on, let’s go and say hi to Cherry and Greg,” I said, because people were starting to give me funny looks after all my staring at women’s chests.
We wandered over to where they were standing, Greg in earnest conversation with a couple of little old ladies. The height difference and a slight case of dowager’s hump on the part of one of ’em meant he was bent almost double in an effort to talk face-to-face.
Cherry was wearing a black suit that looked like she’d bought it for court appearances, and the world’s clumpiest shoes. Greg, obviously, was in the usual dog-collar-and-black-suit combo he always wore for church affairs that didn’t call for the fancy embroidered frocks he generally got to put on for special occasions.
We caught the end of Greg’s conversation—something about vol-au-vents—and then the ladies scurried away. Greg gave us a suitably restrained and sombre smile in welcome. “Tom, Philip. So good to see you at this sad time.”
He sounded so sincere I didn’t have the heart to point out he’d seen us not two days ago, and we weren’t any sadder now than we had been then. “Uh, yeah. Good turnout, innit?”
Cherry muttered something that sounded a lot like Ghouls, to which Greg didn’t react. I was glad to see he’d already developed selective hearing.
“Indeed. Her energy and vision will be much missed.”
Yeah, right. Some of those present had probably already given thanks.
A bright flash amongst all the dark colours caught my eye, and I turned. Lance Frith, who I’d assumed didn’t own any articles of clothing that weren’t black and would therefore be spoilt for choice, was wearing head-to-toe white. Weirdo.
I leaned in to mutter to Phil, “Christ. He looks like he’s on his way to a cricket match. Or his own gay wedding.”
Phil shrugged. “White’s a mourning colour in some cultures.”
“Yeah, but not this one.” At least he’d left off the pendulum. He still stuck out like a gangrenous thumb in our conservative company. I wouldn’t have been surprised if people thought he was taking the piss, turning up dressed like a ghost in a sixties’ TV show.
Come to that, I wouldn’t have been totally gobsmacked to find he was taking the piss. I just didn’t know where I was with Lance, and I felt awkward as hell when he turned and caught my eye. He smiled and took a step in my direction like he was about to come over, but just then the organ started playing, and we all made a restrained scramble for seats. Phil and me found chairs near the back and managed not to scrape the legs too loudly on the floor tiles as we sat down. DI Sharp of the St. Leonards constabulary, who I remembered from the fayre kerfuffle, sat down at the far end of the row. Was he hoping the murderer had come along to gloat? Maybe he reckoned they’d be overcome with guilt in such Godly surroundings and blurt out a confession?
I nudged Phil. “Seen the representative of the law?” I whispered.
He nodded but didn’t say anything. I looked back at the DI, saw he was staring straight at me, and looked away again quick.
Shit. Did that make me look guilty? I glanced back deliberately, to show I had nothing to hide, but he’d turned to the front by then, the bastard.
Despite taking place in a cathedral, the funeral was pretty much like any other I could remember. Toby’s address from the pulpit painted a picture of a selfless, community-spirited woman I was pretty sure I’d never met and neither had he. The tears he had to wipe from the corners of his eyes were a nice touch, mind. Maybe he even believed what he was saying.
Or maybe we’d just cleared up the question of who Toby’s secret lover was—sorry, had been.
I felt like a total bastard for being so cynical when Alex Majors got up to say a few words about his dead wife and was too overcome with emotion to actually get them out. To my total surprise, it was Vi who came to his rescue. I mean, not that I ever doubted she cared about her dad, but I was pretty amazed by the way she did it.
She stood up next to him, linked her arm in his, and said a few short words about her stepmum with no hidden barbs whatsoever. About how Amelia had brought joy back into her daddy’s life after they’d lost her mum. Seriously, if you weren’t in the know, you’d have thought they’d got on just fine. I took my metaphorical hat off to the girl and, glancing around, wasn’t the only one. Even Uncle Arlo had an impressed look on his face.
It was him up next, and he managed a convincing portrayal of grief as he spoke about Amelia being more like a daughter to him than a sister. There was hardly a dry eye in the place, and even I was coming over a bit misty.
Then I glanced at Arlo’s missus. She was paler than ever and staring straight-ahead, her lips pressed together in a tight line. I got the impression that not only was she deliberately not looking at Uncle Artful, she wasn’t looking at anything.
What the hell was all that about?
Fortunately for the mob of mourners in general, and yours truly in particular, it turned out that a cold collation did indeed mean lunch, although it was all a bit on the dainty side. Apart from the vol-au-vents, which were massive, flaky, and stuffed to bursting with either coronation chicken or prawn cocktail. Despite the weird feeling of being in a 1970s time warp, they looked bloody delicious, but sod’s law, I didn’t dare eat one for fear of ruining my suit.
I caught a lot of interested glances from the so-called mourners, but at least no one had the bad taste—or maybe the nerve—to come over and grill me about finding the body, so at least I got to eat in peace.
Vi was still clinging to her dad’s arm as he did the rounds of Greg’s front room mechanically, thanking everyone for coming. When it came to my and Phil’s turn, I got the definite impression he hadn’t even registered who he was talking to.
After a while, Vi sat Daddy down with a plate of food I don’t reckon he even looked at, and went to do the rest of the social stuff by herself. Phil went off to get some more vol-au-vents—he had ninja eating skills, the lucky git, and hadn’t got so much as a stray flake on his lapel. I heaped a few more finger sandwiches on my plate, regretfully. Then I turned round to find myself face-to-sleepy-face with Uncle Arlo.
