In the Dark (38 page)

‘She's bearing up,' he said, watching Paul's mother drift from group to group. It was his phrase of the day, though some variation or other on how kind the weather was being ran it a close second.

Paul's dad and sister were equally welcoming, even if they weren't holding up quite as well, with less to keep them busy. Paul's father was ten years older than his wife and never said much. When Helen went into the kitchen to see if she could lend a hand, he shook his bald head slowly and pulled her close, and only let go when someone said that the cars had arrived.

‘I can't bloody do this,' he said. He looked as though he wanted to lie down and never get up again.

It was a ten-minute drive out to the crematorium. Sun streamed into the big Daimler, bringing the smell out of the cracked leather seats. Sitting there with her father and Paul's parents, Helen watched the reactions of pedestrians as the cortège drifted by. She remembered being on the way to her mother's funeral and seeing people stop and lower their heads; watching a man raise his hat. Perhaps they just didn't do that any more, she thought. Maybe one more person's passing meant less now that everyone was used to seeing so much death and destruction on live TV. She mentioned it to her father, and he leaned across to watch with her.

‘Maybe people have just got no manners any more,' he said.

There were a lot of police already gathered outside the chapel. Helen saw cigarettes being stamped out as the car approached. Gary Kelly and Martin Bescott were standing with many of Paul's other colleagues from Kennington CID. She saw Jeff Moody with what she guessed was a small group of SOCA officers, and there were plenty there in uniform, as part of the official police presence.

She was helped from the car by the driver and spoke to several people. She said something about how lovely the grounds looked, but she was drifting, as though none of it were quite real.

In the doorway to the chapel, the area commander introduced himself, and told her that Paul had been a fine officer who had been doing great work. Helen thanked him. For a moment, she wondered if he knew about Operation Victoria, but guessed that he was saying what he usually did on such occasions; that he'd probably never heard of Paul Hopwood until he received the memo. She turned to look at the hearse as they started to unload the coffin, and was aware of the area commander taking a piece of paper from his top pocket, sneaking a last glimpse at the speech he would be giving in a few minutes.

The pall-bearers stepped forward, each in immaculate dress uniform, and were briefed in low tones by the funeral director. Helen thought they looked beautiful, and nervous. As they took the coffin's weight on their shoulders, she glanced across at Paul's mother and watched pride and grief struggling for control of her expression.

A Metropolitan Police flag had been draped across the coffin and now Paul's dress cap was laid on the lid, behind the simple wreath of white flowers that Helen had chosen. She was aware of eyes on her and wondered what her own expression was. She felt blank and heavy. Like she was falling.

She leaned into her father as the pall-bearers started to move. They came slowly; not quite a slow march, but in step, staring straight ahead. The look on the face of the officer nearest her was like a punch to her heart, its dutiful determination. So she let her eyes drop and looked instead at the highly polished boots as the coffin was carried past her; at the sharp creases in their dress trousers and the small stones that were kicked aside with each step.

Paul's father put a hand in the small of his wife's back and they moved into line behind the pall-bearers.

‘You ready, love?' her father asked.

Heartburn had kicked in half an hour after breakfast. It was just starting to ease. Her tights were itchy and she'd need the toilet soon. When she sucked in a breath she could taste cut grass and wax, and she hoped that her legs wouldn't give out before she had a chance to sit down.

‘
Don't let me down, Helen
.
'

‘
Only the once, Hopwood. It won't happen again
.'

She put her arm through her father's and followed the coffin.

 
After the service, Helen spoke briefly to Roger Deering and Martin Bescott, introducing them to each another. Bescott said that Paul would be greatly missed by the team, and Helen thanked them both for coming. She had several reasons to be grateful to Deering, even if he was a little too touchy-feely. She thought Bescott seemed nice enough, and wondered why Paul had so rarely had anything good to say about him.

Together with Paul's mum and dad she joined those moving along the line of wreaths laid out in front of the flower bed that skirted the building. After a few minutes she stopped leaning down to read the cards and let others move past her. She stepped back and stared up at the elaborate golden dome above the chapel, an afternoon sky behind that was perfectly blue in all directions.

The weather
had
been every bit as kind as her father had said.

Looking to her left, she saw Frank Linnell at the end of the line. He'd probably sent flowers anyway, she thought, and was checking to see that they were suitably impressive. He saw her and raised a hand, and she turned away quickly in case he decided to come over.

To look suitably gutted and tell her what a beautiful service it had been. To pass her a fistful of notes when nobody was looking. ‘Just a little something for the stone, love. My gift . . .'

Walking towards the cars, she heard footsteps catching up with her.

‘Helen?'

She turned, expecting to see Linnell, and saw Detective Inspector Spiky Bugger, clutching his order of service. ‘DI . . .' She struggled to remember the name, only for a second, but long enough for him to spot it, to look at his shoes. ‘Thorne.'

‘Tom.'

‘It's nice of you to come,' she said.

He looked uncomfortable in his suit, with his neck bulging slightly above a collar that was clearly too tight. ‘I just wanted you to know that we've seen the crime scene manager's full report.' He lowered his voice. ‘That we'll be making an arrest tomorrow.'

‘Right.' Unless something she didn't know about had happened, she had a good idea who they would be arresting. ‘I'd like to be there.'

The look said that he'd been expecting that reaction. ‘I'll see what I can arrange,' he said.

She told him she was grateful. ‘What about the people in the car?'

‘Well, we know we're looking in the right place.'

‘A gang war.'

‘Not exactly. We traced the owner of the stolen Cavalier when he tried to make an insurance claim. He didn't want to tell us very much.'

‘Surprise.'

‘But we persuaded him to come down and take a look at the bodies of the boys who were shot.'

Helen nodded. She knew that police officers could be more persuasive than usual when it came to catching someone who'd killed one of their own.

‘He identified two of them as being in the group that had nicked his car. So, as I said, we're in the right place.'

‘But . . .?'

‘It's not a gang war. Or if it is, it's pretty one-sided. So, we don't know who's shooting these kids, but we're fairly sure they're . . . the right kids.' He shrugged. ‘Anyway, this isn't really the time. I just wanted to let you know we're getting there . . . and to say “sorry”.' He flicked the order of service against his fingers. ‘And . . . good luck.'

‘Do you have kids?' Helen asked.

‘One on the way,' Thorne said. ‘Not anything as far gone as yours, but . . . on the way.'

‘Well, best of luck to you, too.'

He was already turning to go, smiling at Helen's father who was passing him in the other direction, on his way to the car.

‘Who was that?'

‘Friend of Paul's,' Helen said.

Her father held the car door open and she slid in next to Paul's parents. Last one in, her father sat opposite, moving his jacket quickly out of the way so that the undertaker could close the door. He leaned across and patted Helen on the leg, asked how she was bearing up.

 
They were back at the house by four. Paul's father opened the living-room doors on to the patio while Caroline and a few of her friends laid out the food. The sandwiches were on platters from M & S. There was cold chicken and pasta salad, cakes and mixed berries.

‘No sausages on sticks,' her father said.

Helen sat on a sofa out of the sunlight and talked to Gary Kelly, who perched on the arm, trying to juggle a paper plate and cup. She told him how good his reading had been.

‘I fluffed one of the lines,' he said.

‘Nobody noticed.'

‘I just wanted it to be perfect.'

She reminded him about Paul's guitar and told him to come round and pick it up whenever he wanted.

‘We were singing that night,' he said. ‘The Rolling Stones at the top of our voices. The woman at the bus stop told us to shut up.'

‘That was usually my reaction when Paul started singing,' Helen said. She watched Kelly wander back to the table to refill his glass. He looked as though he wouldn't be straying too far from the drinks, and she couldn't blame him.

She wasn't alone for long. There were perhaps thirty people in the house, and she couldn't count too many who didn't come across at least once to ask if there was anything she needed. If there was anything they could do. She usually just asked for more water or another sandwich.

Jenny and Tim came over after an hour or so to let her know that they were leaving. There was a babysitter to sort out. Helen told her sister how attentive everyone had been, and how wearing it was becoming.

‘People are just being nice,' Jenny said.

‘I suppose.'

Jenny leaned down to kiss her. ‘You'd be pissed off if everyone ignored you.'

‘It's weird, though,' Helen said. Not a single one of them mentions . . .
you know what
.' She pointed melodramatically at the bulge beneath her dress. ‘I don't believe they haven't noticed. I know black's supposed to be slimming, but that's bloody ridiculous.'

Once her sister had gone, Helen sat returning smiles until her face started to hurt, then wandered out onto the patio. She found Paul's father sitting on a low wall, smoking. He looked as though he didn't want anyone to see him.

‘Paul used to do that,' she said. ‘He'd sneak out on the balcony. Like I didn't know.'

Paul's father took a long drag. ‘You women always know.' And another. ‘We can't get away with anything.'

‘Right.'

‘He was a sly little sod, mind you, even when he was a kid.' He smiled sadly through the smoke, remembering. ‘You never knew what he was up to.'

The old man didn't seem to want to say too much more after that, so Helen walked around the garden for twenty minutes, until her legs began to ache and she had to go back inside to use the toilet. Afterwards she sat near the door, thanking people as they began to leave. She was able to tune out after a while, to pull the right faces while she thought about what Deering had told her, and what Thorne had said outside the chapel.

She knew now that the break-in the previous night had been no ordinary burglary, and it was a fair bet that the boys who had been in that Cavalier when Paul was killed had not been acting alone. Now, somebody was killing them. Perhaps the person who had hired them wanted to make sure they could never tell anyone.

‘God bless, love.'

‘Thank you.'

She wondered if those investigating Paul's death were starting to put the pieces together themselves. Or if she knew more than they did.

‘We'll be thinking of you.'

‘I know you will. Thank you.'

After conferring with her father, she let Paul's mother know that she was about ready to head back. It was never going to be an easy get-away.

‘We just presumed you'd want to stay.'

‘I know you've got a houseful already.'

‘It's fine, honestly. We've made up beds for you and your dad.'

‘I should really get back,' Helen said. ‘I think I need to be close to home, you know?'

‘This is your home too, Helen.'

‘All the same . . .'

At the door, Caroline Hopwood hugged her and said that she wanted to do everything she could to help in bringing up her grandchild. It would be lovely if it was a boy, she said. She didn't have a grandson. Helen promised to let her know as soon as there was any news and, when her father drove them away, she waved from the car window, all the way to the first corner.

It was gone nine o'clock by the time they reached Tulse Hill, and although it was still light and sunny outside, the flat seemed cold. Helen was exhausted, but she hadn't known quite how badly until she'd waved her father goodbye and all but fallen through the front door. She made herself tea and got out of her dress and tights. She sat on the balcony in her dressing gown and tried to let things settle.

‘Sly, even when you were a kid then, Hopwood?'

She wondered how long it would be until she stopped talking to him. If it would happen before she could no longer see his face clearly.

Inside, she took the order of service from her bag and smoothed out the crease in the card. It ran through the picture of him on the back. In the end, the music chosen by Paul's mother had been nice, but Helen was still angry with herself for not standing up to her a bit more.

Worried it had looked like she didn't care.

She searched through Paul's old Queen albums until she found the track she wanted. ‘Who Wants to Live Forever?' was still playing on repeat fifteen minutes later, when she slipped into bed.