“Any special request for music or hymns?” he said.

“No,” I said. “Whatever the vicar thinks is fit will be fine by me.” I didn’t exactly say that just a couple of quick words and straight into the fiery furnace would be ideal, but I made it clear that all I wanted was a simple funeral. The minimum that was acceptable would do well, I told him. It wasn’t as if I’d had a lifelong affection for my father.

“Do you want any flowers placed on the coffin?” he asked.

“I think not,” I said. Historically, cut flowers were placed on and around coffins to provide a sweet scent to cover any other unwelcome aromas that might emanate from the decomposing corpse within. I assumed my father’s body had been stored in appropriate refrigeration since his death, so flowers should be unnecessary.

“As it’s such short notice,” the man said, “could we have full payment up front by credit card?”

“Is that normal?” I asked.

“Quite normal,” he assured me. “Especially as the deceased was not resident in this country, with no estate to be probated by the courts.”

As it was the custom in Britain to cremate the coffin with the body, I could see that it would be rather difficult for the funeral director to take it back due to lack of payment once the event had occurred.

I gave him my credit card number and my address.

“Thank you, Mr. Talbot,” he said. “Of course, we will send you an itemized account after the day.”

“Thank you,” I said.

The business of life and death went on.

I thought that it must be difficult to be a good salesman in the undertaking trade. There had to be a line where selling a higher-class, and hence more expensive, coffin to a bereaved family became exploitation rather than acceptable good corporate practice. Especially if the coffin was almost immediately to be incinerated to ashes in a crematorium at a temperature in excess of eight hundred and fifty degrees centigrade.

“Is there anything else I need to do?” I asked.

“The death will need to be registered with the registrar,” he said. “But if it’s still subject to an inquest, that will have to wait until after the inquest is over. In the meantime, the coroner will issue a temporary death certificate, and you will have to sign Form A.”

“Form A?” I asked.

“Application for a cremation. It has to be signed by the executor or the next of kin. But you can do that just before the service. Everything else we need we’ll get from the coroner.”

“Right,” I said. “I’ll see you on Friday afternoon.”

I sat in my office for a while wondering who I should tell. I expect the police would want to know, but was I required to inform them? And should I tell my grandmother that her son’s funeral was on Friday? Perhaps not, I thought. It would be far less distressing for her if I didn’t.

And how about Sophie?

We had never really discussed my parents as I’d never had any memories of either of them. She still thought they had both died in a car accident when I was a baby. Should I now explain to her that Alan Charles Grady, the man who had owned the black-and-red rucksack, the man who had been murdered in the Ascot racetrack parking lot, had actually been Peter James Talbot, my father? Not dead for the past thirty-seven years, as Sophie had thought, but dead for just fifteen days? And did I tell her that my mother had also not died in a car crash but had been strangled on the beach under the pier at Paignton? And did I further tell her that it had been my father who was responsible?

I decided that I would, in time, tell Sophie all about the events of the past two weeks, but not just yet. She had enough to deal with at the moment, having just come home from the hospital. I certainly didn’t want to upset the balance of her life, not while she was still adapting to her drug regime.

I decided I would go to my father’s funeral alone.

Luca arrived at Station Road, Kenilworth, at noon, and he had a spiky-haired boy with him. Douglas Masters, I presumed. He looked about sixteen. He was wearing a red-checked shirt with rolled-up sleeves, fawn denim trousers that looked like they were about to fall down off his hips and dirty white trainers over yellow socks.

“Hello,” I said cheerfully, holding out my hand.

“Hi,” he replied without any humor. He shook my hand but warily, leaning forward to grasp it.

“Is he old enough?” I asked Luca. Eighteen was the minimum age for working as a bookmaker or as a bookmaker’s assistant.

“I’m eighteen,” the boy assured me.

“I’m sorry to ask, but I’ll have to see some ID,” I said.

He pulled a dog-eared driver’s license from his pocket and held it out to me. According to the license, he was indeed eighteen and two months. The photo on it made him look about thirteen.

“OK, Douglas, thank you,” I said. “And welcome.”

“Duggie,” he said. “Or Doug. Not Douglas.”

“OK,” I repeated. “Duggie it is.”

He nodded. “How about you?” he asked.

“Call me Mr. Talbot for now,” I said.

“And him?” he said, nodding at Luca

“That’s up to Mr. Mandini,” I said.

“Luca will be fine,” Luca said.

He nodded once more. “Just so I know,” he said.

I think it was fair to say that young Mr. Masters was economical with his words and his expressions. I raised my eyebrows at Luca in silent question.

“Duggie will be fine,” said Luca, sticking up for his young friend. “I think he’s just a little shy.”

“No, I’m not,” said Duggie with assurance but no grace. “I’m just careful. I don’t know you.”

“Are you always careful with people you don’t know?” I asked him. My dying father had told me to be careful of everyone.

“Yup,” he said, being ultracareful.

“Good,” I said overexuberantly. “That’s exactly what’s needed in bookmaking. You can’t be too careful because you never really know your customers or what they might be up to.”

He looked at me, cocking his head to one side. “Are you taking the mick?” he said slowly.

“Something like that,” I replied.

He smiled. It was a brief smile, but a vast improvement while it lasted.

“That’s all right, then,” he said.

“Come on, let’s go,” I said with a smile, “or we’ll be late.” The three of us loaded up into my Volvo, with Luca sitting up front next to me and Duggie in the back. Sophie came to the door to wave as we set off for the Worcester races.

“How’s she doing?” Luca asked me, waving back at her.

“Fine,” I said, not really wanting to discuss things in front of Douglas, but the young man was very quick on the uptake.

“Is she ill?” he asked from behind me.

“She’s fine at the moment, thank you,” I said, hoping to end the conversation at that point.

“Cancer, is it?” he said.

“No,” I said.

“My mum had cancer,” he said. “It killed her in the end.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said wistfully. “Everyone’s sorry. Doesn’t bring her back, though, does it?”

There was no answer to that, so we sat in silence for a while, and I warmed to the boy.

“Duggie,” I said, “how well do you know the others in the electronics club?”

“I know some of them,” he said. “Why?”

“Are you careful of them as well?” I asked. “Or would you trust them?”

“Maybe I’d trust them not to grass to the cops, none of them is snitches,” he said. “That’s about all.”

“How many of them are there?”

“Dunno,” he said. “Quite a lot.”

“There must be sixty of them at least, if you count them all,” said Luca. “But they’re not all there on any one night. Most come out of choice these days, but some still don’t come unless they are told to by the courts, and others disappear from time to time, you know, when they get sent off to young offenders’ institutions.”

“So how many of those sixty would you actually trust, Duggie?” I asked.

“With what?” he replied.