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am crying too.
    “It was a lovely service,” she is saying. “The whole village came out and the vicar made a wonderful sermon about the gift of life. About how much joy the two of them brought to those who met them. About how much joy they brought to you...,” and she’s consumed with another wracking sob.
    I nod and grunt, I hope encouragingly.
    “They buried them together in a simple plot in the graveyard. Very unusual nowadays, for graves to be set aside within the main church grounds,” that’s more like mum – rambling around, getting off subject – but this isn’t some pleasant chat, is it? Not when your mum is having to tell you about your family’s last journey together. Not when she has to tell you because you’re still utterly immobile and couldn’t be there yourself. “The vicar said he’d made arrangements for you.” She stops again for a moment. “You know... For when it’s your time... To be together again...”
    It’s too much for her. Her shoulders are lurching under my hand but I need to hear this now. In one go. I need her to get it over with. I grunt again and she seems to steel herself.
    “The coffins were both so tiny,” she says quietly. “We did as you asked, and gave the things to the undertaker.” I’d written down the objects I wanted buried alongside the scant human remains recovered from the scene. Precious objects that I knew they’d want to be with for eternity. My beloved Iuli would never be without the necklace I had presented on the first day we had shared and then nervously whispered our love to each other. My daughter would have her most treasured possession, her little teddy. She could never sleep unless she had it clutched tightly in her tiny arms... She used to suckle on his nose...
    God, this hurts.
    Sleep well, Elizabeth. Cuddle up with Teddy. This cruel world can’t touch you any more.
    No nightmares, my little Princess.
    ~~~~~
     
    Cordova, Spain
     
    “Forty-two, Forty-three...”
    Shoulder length brown hair, mottled with blonder naturally sun-bleached highlights rose up above the lounge table top. Then disappeared again.
    “Forty-four...”
    Jack Vittalle, born Dominic Millerstone, glanced to his left as he pushed himself upwards on powerful arms and broad shoulders and his deep forest-green eyes spied the full can of beer sitting, unopened, on the edge of the coffee table.
    “Forty-five...”
    He’d let himself have it at one hundred, he decided.
    The beer was not alone on the table top. There was very little free space at all. Besides the half-empty takeaway boxes, well-thumbed magazines and a few discarded cans, the majority of the surface was occupied by a stripped down nine-millimetre Browning L9A1 pistol laid out neatly on its heavily used cleaning mat. Beyond this clutter, his plain looking but heavily encrypted cellphone sat precariously overhanging the far edge. The phone started ringing and the vibrations sent it clattering onto the bare wooden parquet floor.
    “Shit!” Vittalle mumbled, scrambling round the table on all fours, still in his prone press-up position, like some enormous six foot two inch, muscle-bound toddler. He grabbed at the phone as it continued to propel itself gently across the floorboards and pressed the answer button. “Tin,” he said simply.
    “Go,” said the voice and Vittalle’s already exercised heartbeat went up by about another sixty beats per minute.
    “Orders?” He asked.
    “In your drop box.”
    The line went dead.
    ~~~~~
     
    London
     
    “So, for the record. Please explain, Chief Superintendent, why you felt it necessary to strike the suspect with the butt of your weapon?”
    She knew it was procedure. A standard, internal, independent enquiry to ensure police powers were not being abused but this was becoming yet another disabuse of such protections, for the benefit of the very people she was supposed to be prosecuting.
    The small, fat, bald Investigating Inspector looked across at her expectantly