Death of a Friend by Rebecca Tope Page B

silence in the room was like a mountain mist, cool and tangible. As he looked across at Bill Gratton and the other people on the same bench, he observed that their eyes were closed. They sat upright, but with relaxed shoulders, chins tilted slightly upwards. They were like people waiting for something. 
    Hannah was to his left; when he gradually turned his head to catch sight of her, she too had closed her eyes. What are they all thinking? he wondered. How do they manage to keep so still and quiet?
    A mucousy sniffing came suddenly from Alexis, abnormally loud, and he watched her wipe a fingertip impatiently under first one eye then the other. At least she was thinking about Charlie, Den presumed.
    He tried to focus on his own reason for being there. He was above all an observer, seeking to learn more about the Quaker group to which Grattan had belonged, and to watch for any significant reactions amongst those who knew him. The meeting was open to anyone to attend, although it didn’t feel like that: the sense of alienation was acute. He had no idea how to behave, what to expect, or, indeed, what might be unusual behaviour for a Quaker. He inwardly cursed DI Smith for sending him. It was one of the hardest assignments he’d been given so far.
    Mercifully, within ten minutes of Den’s arrival, a man stood up. Very dark, in his late thirties or early forties, with a ringing voice and a gimlet stare, he began to speak with no preliminary clearing of throat or other warning. Den was aware of Hannah’s startled twitch at the first words.
    ‘Friends, this is a dreadfully sad time for us all. Our beloved friend Charlie Gratton has been killed in a terrible, shocking manner, and we can only come together and grieve for him and for those who loved him. We remember Charlie as a man of strong principle and outspoken opinions. He was a person who could never be ignored. He was a person who will never be forgotten. Perhaps I could give special sympathy to his family, Bill and Hannah, in what must be a time of great pain, and also to his friend Alexis, who has lost not only Charlie, but also her sister in recent days. It seems to be a cruel fact of life that troubles do indeed come in battalions and we pray that Alexis will find all the support that she needs at this time.’
    Den watched Alexis and saw her give a weak smile of acknowledgement. One or two heads nodded in agreement with the words. But one or two mouths tightened, as if suppressing irritation. Bill Grattan made no response, but continued to sit like a statue on his bench.
    There were two other elderly men besides Bill. At first glance they seemed very alike: small, neatly dressed and still. But one had a round head, with thick, faded brown hair, and the other had a long, lined face, large ears and only a scattering of white hair across his narrow head. Something about the expression of the latter, and the set ofhis shoulders, made Den think that perhaps he was a relative of Bill and Hannah. He rehearsed in his mind how he would approach each person at the end of the meeting, in order to find out who they were and why they were here.
    The man who had got up to speak was flanked by a woman of a similar age: probably his wife, Den decided. She was colourlessly pretty, her hands folded passively in her lap. She had shown no sign of interest or agreement when the man had been speaking, but had continued to stare at the floor, as she had done all along.
    The last two people were both women, one elderly and one in her thirties. Den could not see the former at all; she was sitting directly behind him, in complete silence. The younger one was plump, with wavy hair styled in a rather old-fashioned bob. He scrutinised her boldly as she sat with closed eyes not far from Alexis. She had rich, creamy skin; her neck was a warm hue somewhere between beige and magnolia. She looked solidly rooted, heavy, almost languorous, on the bench.
    The meeting settled back into silence. With a