Below him in the pews of St Mark’s was a respectable turnout of forty to fifty bodies. The onus was all upon his shoulders, for Michael Ash would have no eulogist today, no schoolyard mate or kind colleague to tell a benign story or summon up some other felt tribute. That no one could be persuaded to speak for the deceased struck Gore as unutterably sad. Had the dead man left so meagre a mark? Or were people just embarrassed – of their own feelings, or the absence of same? He was familiar with a certain poor sensation of sham, imposture, that arose when orating over a stranger’s coffin. But that unease had no claim on him today. He saw this awkward situation as one in which he could do no worse than what would otherwise pertain. In the front pew were Clive and Hazel Ash, and a younger sister of Michael’s, Gill, up from Manchester for the day. Earlier he had greeted them solemnly in the vestibule. ‘And have the police made any progress?
