Free Shaping the Ripples by Paul Wallington Page A

Michael Palmer fell into step beside me. He didn’t speak, but I felt as if I was being challenged to react to his presence.
    “Do you always come to the funerals of murder victims?” I eventually asked, speaking in a low voice so that we wouldn’t be overheard by those in front of us.
    “Not always,” he replied “just when I want to see who else is attending it. You’d be amazed how often the killer is compelled to turn up to revel in the misery they’ve caused. It’s very predictable and unimaginative really.”
    He had a remarkable knack of getting under my skin with just a few words.
    “So you’re seeing my presence here as an admission of my guilt are you?” I hissed incredulously.
    “You’re the one who brought it up,” he murmured calmly. “I’m sure you’d tell me that as you were allegedly one of her clients, and are the one who discovered her body, it’s perfectly natural for you to have come here.”
    The conversation was abruptly cut off as we arrived at the side of an open grave. We stood in silence as a few more prayers were said, still trying to speak of love and hope, in defiance of the forlorn scene that we presented at the graveside. At the words “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust” Jennifer’s coffin was lowered into the deep narrow hole, and the ceremony was over.
    The lead undertaker picked up a small wooden box on a long handle and offered it to Jennifer’s husband. He reached in, and tossed a handful of soil into the hole where it landed with a thud onto the wooden coffin. One by one, the family filtered forwards to take their turn at symbolically burying her. I glanced to my left to see if Michael Palmer was planning to take his turn in the silent parade, but he wasn’t there any longer. He must have slipped away when the coffin was interred.
    We stood in silence for a moment, and then Jennifer’s husband and daughters turned away and led the way back to the road. Slowly others followed until only the old vicar was left, his head bowed as he stared down at the coffin. I moved over towards him and spoke as he looked up at me.
    “That can’t have been any easy funeral to do.”
    “It wasn’t,” he admitted. “Tragic and sudden deaths are always the most difficult to come to terms with, and a murder is always the worst. There are so many questions, so much anger.” He nodded reflectively, “Perhaps I was fortunate in not having much time to panic about it beforehand this time.”
    “I’m sorry?” I said inquiringly, “I don’t quite follow.”
    “Oh, I’m sorry,” he replied, “I just assumed from your comment that you knew. I wasn’t originally supposed to do this funeral, but I got a call late last night from the vicar whose parish she lived in, asking if I could stand in. He wasn’t feeling well and said he didn’t think he was up to doing it.”
    I had a sudden instinct and asked impulsively,
    “Was that Christopher Upton?”
    “Yes, it was,” he confirmed, “do you know him?”
    “I go to his church. He hasn’t been looking at all well over the last couple of weeks.”
    The vicar nodded again, “He sounded awful last night – he was in a real state. He’s such a talented priest, it would be a tragedy if he is really struggling to cope.”
    “I’ll give him a ring and see if there’s anything I can do.” I decided. “Anyway, thanks once again for your kind words about Jennifer. I’m sure the family couldn’t have hoped for a more compassionate funeral.”
    I began to make my way back to the road, passing by a wide assortment of tombstones. Most of them were plain, but a few were more ornate with large stone angels on top. Most heartbreaking were those marked with stone teddy bears, to signify that the grave’s occupant was a young child.
    As I neared the road, I saw that Jennifer’s family were still there, standing beside the funeral cars. Jennifer’s husband came across to greet me, his right hand outstretched.
    “Thank you for coming,