Funeral Music by Morag Joss Page A

like you were enjoying yourself, anyway.’
    ‘You know me. Hate to leave before the party’s over.’ James raised his glass to her archly before drinking from it. ‘I’m still wondering
why
he was killed. Not burglary, by the look of it, or vandalism. Must have had enemies.’
    ‘One enemy at least,’ Sara said firmly, ‘although I can never understand how people’s feelings run so high. I mean, in the
real
world—’
    ‘Ha! You mean in your sheltered little world, don’t you?’ James said, more abruptly than he intended. ‘You don’t know what goes on, you don’t really. People aren’t always what they seem, you know.’
    Sara gave him a look of pitying sarcasm. ‘Oh, right. I get it, we’re back in gay paranoia land, are we? No, wait, perhaps Matthew Sawyer was an underground drugs baron. Or a pimp. Both. Christ, James—’
    ‘Cow. You
don’t
know what goes on. It’s not paranoia, there’s a lot of real homophobia out there and it’s not all yobs gay-bashing on a Saturday night in the provinces. There’s a lot of it under the surface.’
    ‘So you think Matthew Sawyer was gay, do you?’
    ‘I’m not saying he was gay, am I? Not that being gay and homophobic don’t often go together.’
    ‘Oh, don’t get started on that. Anyway, I think we should leave it to the police.’
    James said mischievously, ‘You mean you’re going to ask the splendid Andrew what he thinks. He might even be conducting the case.’
    Sara shot James a look. ‘There’s no need to be nasty about him, just because he’s a policeman.’
    ‘The world’s first cello-playing policeman,’ James said slyly. ‘And I’m not being nasty about him. I just question his motives for pestering you, and getting you to teach him the cello, that’s all.’
    ‘There’s nothing to question. How would you feel if you’d been stopped from learning the piano just when it was getting interesting? Because your parents thought it was time to get proper qualifications and a proper job? Andrew was just made to give it all up and he’s regretted it all his life. He could have played professionally, only he wasn’t encouraged. It’s a criminal waste of talent.’
    ‘He fancies you.’
    Sara scowled.
    ‘And what about your motives for taking him on? Is it really his talent that’s so interesting? He’s very good-looking, of course, but don’t tell him
I
said so – he’d be horrified.’
    ‘Anyway, Andrew’s not a policeman, he’s a detective,’ Sara said, ‘as you perfectly well know. Detective Chief Inspector.’ She added, as an afterthought, ‘You’re just jealous, because you fancy him yourself.’
    ‘I do not intend to dignify such a scurrilous suggestion with a reply,’ James sniffed. ‘And as usual you’re missing the important bit, which is that you, the world-class concert artist, are actually
giving lessons
to PC Gorgeous. And don’t get me wrong; he may well be worth teaching, but whether or not you should be spending
your
time doing it, instead of thinking about getting back to playing a concert or two, is open to question. In my view.’
    There was a silence.
    ‘And there’s his little wifey to consider, isn’t there?’
    Sara sighed. She knew that after Andrew Poole had lost the battle over his music studies and joined the police, he had been easy game for Valerie. They had married when they were both twenty-three and henceforth Andrew’s life had shrunk to a preoccupation with the mortgage, parent-craft classes, police exams, his in-laws at every other Sunday lunch, forays to Mothercare, instalments on the furniture, the microwave and camcorder, and regular spats with Valerie on all of these topics. Most of this he explained the first time he had come to see Sara. He had not told her until he knew her better that it had been after one especially bad row that he had gone out and spent their holiday fund on a cello, having the previous Christmas sold his old one, under pressure, so that they could