for good measure.
People were heading off towards the crematorium, to say their final goodbyes before Marcus was reduced to ashes, but Lottie, Rory, and in fact most of the residents of Tippermere had been spared the ordeal. The crem simply hadn’t the capacity for that many people, so luckily, from their point of view, family and close friends took precedence and they could head straight to the wake.
The once lush grass verges were cut through with dark slashes of freshly turned mud. Deep grooves, with churned edges that filled Lottie’s mind with endless images of dark damp earth, the final resting place for most people. For her mother.
From what she knew of Alexa, today’s ceremony would have amused her. The lopsided coffin making its way inside, the pall-bearers dressed in their red hunting jackets, incongruous in the dark, dismal, cold confines of the ancient church.
Marcus had been a man who knew what he wanted. Who liked the power that money gave him. Who thrived on the certainty that people would jump to his bidding. Lottie suspected he hadn’t been bothered about being liked. Being important was the thing. And in death he had surpassed himself.
On one side of the aisle, the pews had been filled with a crowd alien to this country environment. Brash designer suits, large handbags, a flash of gold at every turn and enough make-up, perfume and pungent aftershave to make the occupants of the other pews reel in their wake. The church would never smell the same again. On that, the residents of the village and its old vicar agreed.
The Very Reverend Walterson had raised his eyebrows at the crowd at the start of the service, and raised his uncommonly heavy collection tray with disbelief (and trembling hands) at the end. No doubt he would be praising the Lord for sheep in wolves’ clothing, or some such nonsense, as he sipped his sherry that evening, thought Pip, as she turned her attention back to Mick.
‘You going to give me a lift? I came with Amanda, but she’s off to watch her old life burn and be scattered.’
‘Where are they scattering him?’
‘In the indoor arena at the Equestrian Centre.’ Pip had her innocent face fixed into position, which the rest of them understood a second later.
‘He can do a running fuck.’
Rory spun round and somehow managed to keep a straight face as he looked at Billy. ‘I don’t think he’s doing anything anymore to be honest, Billy.’ And for a horrible fleeting moment, Lottie saw a ghastly resemblance between her sometime lover and her father. They both had the curls, the grin, the ‘game for a laugh’ attitude, Rory was just younger, slimmer and taller. And dark haired rather than gingery. A cloud scudded over the sun and she decided she’d imagined it. No way. ‘Maybe it was a running fuck that finished him off, wasn’t exactly sprinting material was he?’ The grin broke out.
‘If they scatter the bugger over the rubber then I’ll never get the bloody horses in there again.’
‘But it was his dying wish.’
Lottie squinted at Pip, who winked back, then turned her angelic face back in Billy’s direction.
‘I think his dying wish was probably, fuck I wish she’d hurry up and come.’
A chorus of ‘Dad’ and ‘Billy’ rang out, and he chuckled.
‘They weren’t? Were they?’ The angel that had briefly invaded Pip had been replaced with the normal mischief-maker.
‘Ejaculation can put quite a strain on a man’s heart, dear.’
Lottie waited for divine intervention, or the ground to swallow her up. Neither of which happened. None of them had heard Elizabeth creep back in their direction. People rarely did, which was why she was so successful at gathering information.
Billy shrugged his ample shoulders. ‘Well they were in bed together, weren’t they Pippa?’
‘That’s what she said when she rang.’
‘Come on, let’s get to this bloody party, crack the champers open, I say a bottle of single malt to the first person who finds out if he was.’ Billy smacked his hands together. ‘Agreed?’
‘But I don’t like single malt, Dad.’
‘We’ll drink it for you, Lots, won’t we Mick?’ Rory wrapped an arm round her shoulders just as she glanced up, straight into the dark eyes of the Irishman. ‘Not that you’re going to be the winner, my bet is on Elizabeth.’
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