hippie-girl hair I'd seen in the photographs and movie clips was tied at the nape of her neck.
She shook my hand blankly. 'Come on in . . .'
I followed her past a sitting room and stairs, then down a couple of steps towards a new-looking kitchen-conservatory. She steered me into a room just before it on the right. Maybe she didn't want me to comment on how nice the extension was and ask for the builder's name.
It was a family room, with a sofa, TV, toys, a beaten-up computer. A window gave out on to a small but perfect garden. Pete's seven-year-old was playing on a swing.
'Ruby?'
There was no doubting whose block she was a chip off.
Tallulah stood a couple of steps away from me, arms folded. She smiled. 'I told her Daddy's gone to heaven. You know what she said? "Is he making a film about God?" '
On the wall behind her were pictures of Pete doing camera stuff, and the three of them on holiday, all the normal gear. A couple of cut-glass cameras stood on the first shelf above his desk; awards he'd won for doing the job he loved.
She offered me tea but, fuck it, I had no time for that.
I didn't sit down but Tallulah did, expectantly.
I unzipped the side pouch of my Bergen and handed her the bag containing Pete's belongings.
'Thank you so much for doing this, Nick. You don't know what it means to me.'
She lifted out his things one by one, laying them on the lid of a pink mini-piano at her feet. She almost caressed each item.
She took out his wedding ring and the tears came. I just stood there, thinking maybe tea would have been a good idea. 'The station's looking after you, I hope?' I said.
Tallulah closed her fingers round the gold band. She looked up and sort of nodded.
I didn't understand.
She pointed at the shelf. An opened envelope stood between the two glass cameras. 'They cremated him in Basra.' Tallulah reached for a fistful of Kleenex.
'Oh . . .' I thought about the donor card I'd seen amongst his stuff at Basra airport. 'I thought . . .'
'I know, it doesn't make sense. He always wanted the bits that still worked to go to someone who needed them.'
Her head dropped.
'Do you mind if I have a read?'
She took the memory stick from the bag and plugged it into the PC. As she sat down in front of the screen I took out the single sheet of A4 and unfolded it. The embossed FCO crest was top centre. There was no extension under the main Whitehall number. The signature block belonged to David Morlands, but there was no departmental accreditation.
I stood behind her and read the six stark, sterile lines that had been sent to a grieving wife. 'I don't understand, Tallulah,' I lied. 'Maybe there was a mix-up and they thought he was a soldier.'
I was glad she couldn't see me. I was trying to sound compassionate, but really I wanted to scream at the top of my voice that this was bollocks. There wasn't going to be a David Morlands anywhere in the FCO.
Tallulah stroked some strands of hair away from her mouth. 'But they bring soldiers home in coffins, don't they? I wouldn't have expected them to drape him in a flag or any of that, but they should have got my permission for cremation, surely.'
The screen filled with the pictures of Ruby that Pete had shown me.
What was I going to do? Tell her my suspicions? What was the point in making these two's lives even more complicated, especially when I had no proof? 'Have you heard from Dom?'
'You're the first to come. The station's been sorting out for me to go to Brize Norton to collect the urn. But I don't really care about that, Nick. I just wish he'd been brought home the way he wanted.'
She clicked on a movie clip I hadn't seen. Pete was in the garden in a pair of orange Hawaiian shorts I could only hope he'd been ashamed of, trying to push Ruby's ice-cream cone on to her nose.
'Me, too. Maybe if Dom calls you could ask him to get in touch. Maybe tell you where he is.'
Her shoulders lifted again as she fought back a new wave of grief.
'You know, Tallulah, I think Pete and Dom might have had a fall-out these past couple of weeks. Maybe that's why he hasn't called – you know, feeling a