Hiding the Past (The Forensic Genealogist series Book 1) by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

Author:Nathan Dylan Goodwin [Goodwin, Nathan Dylan]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2013-09-05T04:00:00+00:00

Morton wondered whether or not you could be fashionably late to a funeral. They were late, fashionably or otherwise. They’d left in good time and with every intention of attending the final service of the man they barely knew (or didn’t know at all in Juliette’s case), but Morton had suggested that they take a detour to see the destruction the explosion had wrought. Police tape sealed off their house, although it could no longer be described as a house; it was simply a pile of unidentifiable, smouldering rubble. If Morton hadn’t known better, he would never have believed that an entire house and all its contents could be squashed and compacted down into the heap of nothingness in front of him. He then understood the term ‘razed to the ground’. Juliette had recognised the PSCO standing guard behind the cordon, shepherding away inquisitive neighbours and nosey rubberneckers. The PCSO had been surprised to see Juliette among the curious crowds, until she had told him that the pile of wreckage used to be her home. He told her that the murmurings among the fire department were that Semtex might have caused the explosion.

‘At least it might make them investigate it if they suspect Semtex,’ Morton had said, as they hurried to the church. He had fully expected another cover-up and anticipated ‘Gas Explosion Shock!’ as the headline in next week’s Rye Observer.

Morton found a parking spot on Tenterden High Street, just in front of the town hall and they hurried along past the Woolpack Hotel into the side of St Mildred’s Church. Morton couldn’t imagine a saint being named Mildred somehow. She sounded like an aged, plump, wartime housewife with too many kids on her hands rather than the patron saint of something meaningful. Maybe she was the patron saint of aged, plump wartime women.

The standard exterior of the church belied the vastness that Morton and Juliette found inside, as they snuck in a few rows from the back. The size of the building amplified the indisputable fact that only eight people had turned up for Peter Coldrick’s funeral (and that included the vicar and Peter himself), his plain wooden coffin carefully balanced on a trestle in the centre of the aisle. Soraya was at the front with another woman who had exactly the same hair style, whom Morton presumed to be her sister. Two rows behind them was an elderly couple. Morton suddenly felt a pang of guilt for attempting to squirm out of attending. Then there would only have been five living people here. He had a sudden, unwelcome flash of his own mother’s funeral, much of which was a blur to him. The lasting image that he had was of the open casket, her waxy face plastered in foundation and eye-liner by someone who had evidently never known her in life and her abhorrence of make-up. At least her funeral had been well-attended. Standing room only.

Whilst the diminutive vicar, sporting an obvious hairpiece, waffled through a generic funeral prayer, Morton speculated at how many people his funeral would attract.

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