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half-past, Mo.’
    They were never late opening up, never early closing; the business was run with the ritual and regularity of a temple.
    Maureen teetered over to unlock the door and pull up the blinds.The Square was revealed in jerky increments as the blinds went up: picturesque and well kept, due in large part to the co-ordinated efforts of those proprietors whose properties faced onto it. Window-boxes, hanging baskets and flower tubs were dotted about, planted in mutually agreed colours each year. The Black Canon (one of the oldest pubs in England) faced Mollison and Lowe across the Square.
    Howard strode in and out of the back room, fetching long rectangular dishes containing fresh pâtés, and laying them, with their jewel-bright adornments of glistening citrus segments and berries, neatly beneath the glass counter. Puffing a little from exertion coming on top of so much early morning conversation, Howard set the last of the pâtés down and stood for a little while, looking out at the war memorial in the middle of the Square.
    Pagford was as lovely as ever this morning, and Howard knew a sublime moment of exultation in the existence, both of himself, and of the town to which he belonged, as he saw it, like a pulsing heart. He was here to drink it all in – the glossy black benches, the red and purple flowers, the sunlight gilding the top of the stone cross – and Barry Fairbrother was gone. It was difficult not to sense a greater design in this sudden rearrangement of what Howard saw as the battlefield across which he and Barry had faced each other for so long.
    ‘Howard,’ said Maureen sharply. ‘
Howard
.’
    A woman was striding across the Square; a thin, black-haired, brown-skinned woman in a trench coat, who was scowling at her booted feet as she walked.
    ‘D’you think she …? Has she heard?’ whispered Maureen.
    ‘I don’t know,’ said Howard.
    Maureen, who had still not found time to change into her Dr Scholl’s, nearly turned an ankle as she backed away from the windows in haste, and hurried behind the counter. Howard walked slowly, majestically, to occupy the space behind the till, like a gunner moving to his post.
    The bell tinkled, and Dr Parminder Jawanda pushed open the door of the delicatessen, still frowning. She did not acknowledge Howard or Maureen, but made her way directly to the shelf of oils.Maureen’s eyes followed her with the rapt and unblinking attention of a hawk watching a field mouse.
    ‘Morning,’ said Howard, when Parminder approached the counter with a bottle in her hand.
    ‘Morning.’
    Dr Jawanda rarely looked him in the eye, either at Parish Council meetings, or when they met outside the church hall. Howard was always amused by her inability to dissemble her dislike; it made him jovial, extravagantly gallant and courteous.
    ‘Not at work today?’
    ‘No,’ said Parminder, rummaging in her purse.
    Maureen could not contain herself.
    ‘Dreadful news,’ she said, in her hoarse, cracked voice. ‘About Barry Fairbrother.’
    ‘Mm,’ said Parminder, but then, ‘What?’
    ‘About Barry Fairbrother,’ repeated Maureen.
    ‘What about him?’
    Parminder’s Birmingham accent was still strong after sixteen years in Pagford. A deep vertical groove between her eyebrows gave her a perennially intense look, sometimes of crossness, sometimes of concentration.
    ‘He died,’ said Maureen, gazing hungrily into the scowling face. ‘Last night. Howard’s just been telling me.’
    Parminder remained quite still, with her hand in her purse. Then her eyes slid sideways to Howard.
    ‘Collapsed and died in the golf club car park,’ Howard said. ‘Miles was there, saw it happen.’
    More seconds passed.
    ‘Is this a joke?’ demanded Parminder, her voice hard and high-pitched.
    ‘Of course it’s not a joke,’ said Maureen, savouring her own outrage. ‘Who’d make a joke like that?’
    Parminder set down the oil with a bang on the glass-topped counter and walked out of