Bloodline

‘Somewhere called the West India Dock,’ he had replied, beaming broadly. ‘East London. It’s now part of Canary Wharf and there’s over two million square feet of offices on my land alone.’ He had laughed. ‘The bank I originally borrowed the money from now pay me a fortune each year in ground rent for their headquarters building. Money for old rope.’

One of the other advantages of having the service on a non-race day was that all my colleagues from RacingTV were able to attend. More than that, Gareth had set up his cameras in the cathedral to record everything for posterity, and I’d even seen Iain Ferguson doing a piece to camera outside as everyone had arrived.

That should have been my job.

‘Hi, Mark,’ Nicholas said, walking over and shaking me warmly by the hand. ‘Lovely service.’

‘Thanks, Nick,’ I said, meaning it. ‘And Angela was great, too.’

‘Yes, she was rather good.’ His tone almost implied surprise.

‘How are things?’ I asked.

‘Pretty good, at the moment,’ he said. ‘The bank has realized it can’t do without me. Thank God.’ He smiled broadly. ‘It seems there was almost a riot amongst the senior management when it was mooted by the chairman that I should be let go. I’d never realized how much I was appreciated. Perhaps I’ll ask for a pay rise next.’ He laughed. ‘How about you?’

‘I’m finally moving house,’ I said. ‘I’ve bought a place in Oxfordshire and I move in after the New Year.’

‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘Although I think it’s a bit extreme to go to all that trouble just to get away from your dad.’

We both laughed.

‘He’s not been so bad recently,’ I said. ‘Almost human.’

I looked across to where my father was standing with my mother on the other side of the West Door, also talking to people as they left the cathedral. As I was watching, he glanced in my direction and smiled at me, a genuine smile that reached all the way into his eyes.

I smiled back. ‘I think he’s been better since the conclusion of Clare’s inquest.’

Not that the verdict had been quite the one we would have wanted.

The coroner had recorded an open verdict in spite of my assurances that Brendan had as good as admitted to me that he’d been responsible for her death, accident or otherwise. Not that I’d been able to properly get my head round the fact that Brendan and Clare had been lovers, and that she had been pregnant with his child.

But at least the verdict hadn’t been suicide, even though the coroner had still placed great emphasis on the existence of the note addressed to me.

I had tried to explain that I believed it was a letter Clare had been writing to me, after we had rowed at dinner, because she couldn’t reach me on the telephone. It was nothing to do with her death and it had probably been half-written, as it had been found, when Brendan had first arrived in her room.

But the coroner had not been convinced, and he had stubbornly maintained that it was, in fact, strong evidence of her suicide although, as he’d said, no one could be sure of what had happened in the hotel room that night.

But I knew.

I was certain of it, and that was enough.

Whatever anyone else might think was irrelevant.