Water's Edge

Chapter XXIV

Funeral for a Mayor

St. Andrews had gone under years ago. The new church was a skeleton, pale beams and crucifixes laying in the mud. The sound of clattering hammers resounded over the flat plains.

They had tried to move as many of the buried as they could. Short boxes had carried the older remains into their new plots, flags draped over the coffins as a sign of respect in their transportation: the red and white of England; the white rose behind a yellow sun for Humberside (what was left of it); green, red and blue of Lincolnshire—flags grew in England like mould, rehashed and remoulded to counties that barely existed anymore. I could see in the distance away from Winthrop's new grave the rest of the bodies being buried at the new church site. But some would not be moved, reclaimed by the ocean. I had heard that such flooding would not reach the bodies, buried too deeply to be affected, but they'd never be seen again, lost under the new tides, the gravestones nearest inland peering over the cusp of the water at low tide, like ghosts spying on the living.

It seemed half the town had come out for Suggitt. I wondered if Hector would get the same send-off, but I assumed from the lack of reporting, the Wharton's had deemed it a private affair. I didn't blame them. Looking at all the opportunists that had come out at the funeral of an octogenarian ex-politician, Hector would have brought in a crowd of truly horrible carrion-feeders.

I kept way back. I had nothing black to wear, and the dark burnt brown of my leather jacket held disrespect in every thread in a place like this. I hadn't gone into this line of work to just be disrespectful in a wholly different kind of way.

I leant against a tree, clocking everyone who had come. Curtis Pond of the Academy, Dobson Sykes from Construction—in a huddle Margaret and Viv who I assumed had come along for moral support. Beside them DCI Yazmin Womack, who spoke quietly to a tall, stern woman: Chief Constable Elle Thompson. She never moved, just remained stoic, chin proud. Evidently, this Suggitt was well regarded. It wasn't just the establishment, but a large variety of strange characters from the town. Even Cola Bux could be seen in an ill-fitting black suit amongst the tribes. Which reminded me; the only people I couldn't seem to find amongst the flock were The Saxons out at Hedon.

Dobson went to speak with Edith Wharton, but whether it was the grief or something more personal, she made it clear she did not wish to speak to him. Everyone tried to look as prim and proper as was expected. The BBC cameras tried to hide in the scrub, and failed miserably.

It took me a while to find Barnaby Wharton, MP. He had not joined the main procession, the Vicar waxing verbose about British Values and what not—but where was the father? I stalked the edge, keeping my distance, trying to spot the one man I had definitely expected to find here. Perhaps he was being interviewed by the press.

I was assaulted by fluorescence; it seemed the marathon running society that Suggitt had been a part of had also come along, octogenarians in their own right, all dressed in their running attire: shorts and fluorescent jackets. Maybe I shouldn't have worried about the jacket—

And there he was. Barnaby. I was downwind so I couldn't hear, but he was giving Evgeny a verbal beating. Whatever his dogsbody had done, Barnaby Wharton was not happy. Edith, escaping the cloying eyes of Sykes, was hurrying over, trying not to get her heels stuck in the mud. I approached.

"Calm down, darling." She put a hand on Barnaby's shoulder as I came from behind. Evgeny stood taller, went shtum the moment he spotted me, "I am sorry Mr. Shvets, my husband is still grieving."

"Yeah, that's it." He said to Evgeny, following his gaze to me, "What do you want?"

"Barnaby!" Edith shook her head, wiped her eyes with a black handkerchief underneath her black veil, "I am sorry, Detective. Are you here about Hector? Or...?" She did seem baffled, trying to put her politeness and her grief in the same box and finding neither fit.

"Pay respects." I said, reaching into my coat, taking out my tin of cigarettes, "Respect isn't cheap nowadays."

Barnaby frowned, "What do you mean?"

"Your son," I lit the fag, "Where do you sit with... the company he keeps, so to speak?"

Edith turned to Barnaby, "What is he talking about?"

"He's talking about Matthew."

The air went chill, and someone began to sob. The drizzle came in thick, "We were fully aware the two were... seeing one another." Edith didn't seem too happy about that, "We were supporting him as well as we could."

"I thought my wife had hired you to investigate what had happened to Hector, not prying into his private life."

"Matthew seems to think you did not approve."

Barnaby scoffed in that way only the prejudiced can, as if it were some great injustice to ask a basic question like 'do you oppose homosexuality'—"Matthew didn't approve because of our politics, he was the one with the dire views. To despise someone just because of the company they keep." He shook his head. I didn't have the energy for this.

"I'll ask plainly then. As you are a member of a party opposed to gay marriage, how did you take to your son being gay himself." I was pushing it. Not enough sleep, and when a kid starts crying it always shook me.

"My son," It was Edith who pushed ahead of Barnaby to squeal down at me, hushed away from the funeral, "May have been gay, Mr. Fields," Mister again, "And we may be opposed to irrational forms of consummation, but we loved our son. We had enrolled him at world class universities for god's sake." She hissed, "I can show you what we had planned for our son's development, for his future! To think we killed him over something as... trifling as his sexuality. You disgust me." She began to storm away, "I expected better from you." And she did, she really did, I could see it all over her face.

Before I could say anything, move away, I half-winced as Barnaby met me nose-to-nose, "If it wasn't for the Paki saying you were working hard, Elle wants to get you out of this town. Keep out of our way, do the bare fucking minimum, and take your money." He wiped a tear from his eye, which did surprise me. Evgeny, smirking, brushed past me. They all headed to their cars and left the funeral early, journalists following on motor scooters.

That did not go as I wanted.

I wandered back towards the bereaved. Some were laughing over a story of Winthrop's life. Some were crying. The drizzle stung my cheeks as I finished my cigarette. I threw the smoke from my mouth along with my embarrassment. I did wonder how that would have gone, but it told me two things: (1) they were against their son being gay, (2) they grieved. There was still the chance they were the kinds of people who mourned the very people they murdered, but it didn't all add up. They sincerely missed him. I didn't want to know what other "developments" Edith had in store for her homosexual son, for his "growth." Tawdry.

Peering around it was obvious that Winthrop was loved by many. So who was missing? The environmentalists and the Saxons. Quite the mix. Far left and far right, if you wanted to be that naïve about people. I took another cigarette, clutching the fire to my palm away from the funereal winds coming from the Humber.

Cola Bux moved out of the fray and walked towards me. He handed me a hipflask, "For the dead. One for the belly, one for the dirt." I took a swig and poured some onto the ground. It was an old tradition, but a good one, "What was tha' all abowt?" He meant the Whartons.

"Not sure."

"Weird funeral."

"Why?"

"Even though everyone's 'ere, it's like sumthin's missin'."