His family came up; they had the funeral. People said she was a saint, perfect in every way. He stood up, bravely, in the funeral and, voice cracking,...said that no, she wasn’t a saint. She was crap at cooking, she was stubborn as a mule, she was pretty as a picture, she was tone deaf – people laughed, remembering her voice soaring above (and below, and sideways) in the hymns at their wedding – she was artistic and taught him to appreciate Damian Hurst, Jackson Pollock and Magritte; she was also. He apologised for intruding, but his information was important for them to know. They agreed once they heard it, and he left them to it.The Hotel Manager found Reginald in his room. The formally-dressed man knocked and when told to enter, came in slowly and spoke cautiously.“Mr Robertson? May I pass on some information? Someone, from the press, I presume, was asking if you were resident in this hotel. He did not state his name. From the way he spoke, he already knew and was simply seeking. More

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