Bloodline

‘We’ve always followed Clare’s riding,’ Fred said.

‘And you on the television,’ added his wife. ‘Really proud of both of you, aren’t we, Fred?’

‘Thank you,’ I said, meaning it.

The two young women who knew Clare from school were hovering to my right. I, meanwhile, was trying to look over them to see where my father had gone.

‘Hello,’ I said turning my eyes to the women. ‘Sorry about my father. He can be rather rude at times.’

‘We know,’ said the taller of the two, ‘from our school days.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘but I don’t remember you from school.’

‘We were in the tennis team with Clare. I’m Hanna and this is Sally.’

We shook hands. ‘I’m Mark.’

‘We know,’ said Sally, smiling. ‘We always watch the racing on the telly. Mostly because of Clare. We loved it when she won. We even went to Ascot this year with some other friends just to see her ride. We were in the Silver Ring wearing our fancy hats. We stood by the rail and cheered every time she came past. And she waved to us on the way to the start for every race.’ She paused. ‘We loved Clare.’

Fred and Emma Yates, Hanna and Sally, Geoff Grubb: how many other people had loved Clare? How many were proud of her, and had admired her achievements?

But what about the race fixing? Would they be proud of her for that as well?

As far as I was aware, I was the only person who knew about the seven definite cases and the four possible ones that I had found on the database.

I must use that knowledge with care. The last thing I wanted to do was to blacken people’s memory of my sister.

Toby Woodley spoke to me outside the chapel, coming up as I was guiding my mother back to the cars.

‘Can you give me a quote?’ he asked in his squeaky voice.

‘I’ve said all I wanted to, thank you.’

‘You should be nice to me,’ he whinged. ‘I’ve been good to you.’

‘And how is that exactly?’ I replied, my voice heavy with irony.

‘I was going to write all about you in last Monday’s paper.’

‘What about?’ I asked.

‘Never you mind,’ he said. ‘But, luckily for you, my editor’s better nature convinced me not to kick a man when he’s down.’

‘Well, that would make a change. I didn’t realize your editor had a better nature. Now, please go away.’ I was doing my best to keep my temper, and to remain polite.

‘I wish now he hadn’t been so kind,’ he sneered, ‘but he said it wouldn’t make us any friends, not being so soon after your sister and all. Said it would be too tough on the family.’

‘Death is always tough on the families,’ I replied, not really knowing what he was talking about.

‘Suicide, you mean. Why do you think she did it?’

I ignored him and settled my weeping mother into the front seat of my father’s old Jaguar.

‘Any ideas?’ he persisted, coming up close to my side.

I thought about pushing him away but, knowing the Daily Gazette, there’d be a photographer watching every move. Instead, I tried to ignore him.

‘Come on, Mark,’ he whined, prodding my arm. ‘You must have some idea why she killed herself. You don’t just jump off a hotel balcony for no reason.’

I was sure he was goading me into a reaction. So I looked around for a camera and, sure enough, a man was standing half-hidden in the garden of remembrance with a telephoto lens at the ready. His editor’s better nature obviously hadn’t prevailed for very long.

‘Sorry, Toby, you little creep,’ I said, unable to keep the anger out of my voice any longer. ‘I can’t help you. Now piss off and leave my family alone to grieve in peace.’

He didn’t, of course, asking more questions of my brothers, but he hadn’t really known who they were, and they gave him short shrift anyway. When he asked Brendan for directions to my parents’ house, he was told in no uncertain terms that he wouldn’t be welcome at the family home, or anywhere else for that matter.

At one point, I thought that Brendan was actually going to hit him but thankfully, with the photographer in mind, good sense prevailed and we all finally drove away leaving Toby standing alone in the crematorium car park.

Only the family returned to my parents’ house, Geoff Grubb declining my invitation, while Mr and Mrs Yates, plus Hanna and Sally, had obviously thought better of it.

But so little planning had gone into Clare’s funeral that no provision had been made for any refreshments afterwards.

‘Surely there’s some drink in the house?’ I said to Stephen incredulously.

‘I doubt it,’ he said. ‘Dad’s been knocking it back all week. I bet there’s nothing left.’

‘I’ll go and get some wine. You see if you can find some glasses. I’ll try to organize some food as well.’

I cleaned a local filling station out of its remaining sandwiches and also bought four bottles each of red and white wine, none of which would have won any prizes for taste, but it would have to do.

Nicholas and I stood side by side in the kitchen cutting up the sandwiches and opening the bottles of wine.

‘Will you still be coming to Tatiana’s eighteenth on Friday?’ he asked with a sigh.