Chapter Seven

They buried Emlyn Spencer on the Thursday, six days after the harbour wall, in a small kirkyard on the hill above the Old Quarter where three generations of Spencer men already lay under headstones gone soft and green with lichen, and Callum stood at the graveside in a borrowed black coat that did not quite fit him and understood, for the first time properly since the phone call from Melissa, that grief and shock were not, in fact, the same emotion wearing two names, however much the last week had encouraged him to treat them as interchangeable.