They've given me a few minutes to myself. I'm not alone; they're watching from the gate, but since there's no other way out of the small garden they decided to show me a bit of compassion. They're only doing it so they don't look bad in front of her parents, but I shouldn't think they'll notice - or care. They blame me for everything and probably wish it was me dead, rather than her.
Of course no one consulted me about the funeral. No one asked my opinion about any of it; her parents were responsible for today. Given how they feel, I'm surprised they organised any of it or turned up, but I suppose blood is thicker than water. I suppose I should be grateful they let me come.
It's not as if any of it matters; she's dead and it can't hurt her. But it's typical of the way they never listened to her, to what she wanted. They blame me, think I corrupted her and made her into what she was. Just proves they didn't know their own daughter.
Kathie knew what she wanted. She was still young when she met me but she'd already worked out she wasn't going to get it by being a good girl, working hard all her life. I showed her what could be achieved, if you knew the right way of going about it, and she was a quick learner.
We'd had far too little time together when I was caught out. Suspended from duty before the trial we'd had to meet in secret, and then finally, that sentence I was given - I think we'd both known the chances of me getting off were remote, but seven years... I thought it had probably put the kibosh on our relationship but she made a special appeal, and some romantic fool granted it.
I was too realistic to believe she'd wait for me, married or not, but she did. Visits were out of the question, she couldn't have anyone in the Met finding out if she wanted to hang onto her job, but a week didn't go by without a letter from her. Or rather a letter from a friend called Ken who lived in Sheffield, and who kept me up to date with things.
It was all in code but they were important things, like Maurice Richards' retirement, and Doyle's sudden disappearance from the Met into some new organisation. They were both very important people - I knew there must have been some strong evidence against me otherwise the charges would never have been brought, but it wasn't until we got to Court that I discovered who had supplied most of that evidence. Richards and Doyle: they were why I ended up inside.
Kathie was firmly behind me in my desire for revenge, to the extent that when I got out it was to find her plans well advanced. The only part she hadn't been able to put into action was her application to join CI5. Without knowing my exact date for release or how long her application was going to take - if she would even be accepted - she'd had to bide her time.
I wasn't happy with that part of her plan - I didn't see why she needed to get close to Doyle. But she wanted him to suffer and had some idea of making him fall for her - which given their former closeness, was possible - before she revealed the truth, presumably at the same time as I put him out of his misery.
She had it all set up; times, equipment, methods. Stealing that gun had been a spectacular bonus, enabling me to kill Richards and leave me with a good alibi and at the same time providing me with the perfect weapon to torture Doyle. But perhaps if we'd stuck with her original plans, we'd have managed the perfect murder and got away with it...
No point in thinking about 'what ifs'. Doyle escaped, and we didn't.
Strange to think I'll never see her again. When they told me there'd been an accident I couldn't believe it. I heard all the words, telling me the hairdryer had been faulty and her hands must have been wet from the shower, that she'd suffered a cardiac arrest after being electrocuted and no one had been able to save her. I couldn't connect that with the vital girl I knew.
That girl, the one I loved, is now a pile of ash. In deciding on cremation her parents didn't even leave a gravestone to mourn beside, not that I would be in any position to do that for a few years to come. They might want to forget her but I wouldn't.
I'd been hoping Doyle would be here; turning up for her funeral in spite of the way Kathie betrayed him was exactly the sort of pathetic thing he would do. Maybe no one had told him she was dead; I should write to him and break the news about Kathie and the baby.
I could see the warder looking at his watch, but made no movement. I was a bereaved husband and wasn't going to be hurried.
The baby. Kathie had been delighted when she wrote to tell me she was pregnant. Of course the baby would have to be fostered while she served the rest of her sentence but she had been making plans for playing happy families when we both got out. She'd been nearly eight months pregnant; the baby had died instantly with her, they said. It made that pile of ash just a little bit bigger.
Doyle needed to know about the baby. Because now that they were both dead, I could tell the truth - it wasn't mine. Kathie had believed it was - maybe because she wanted to - but tests years ago had proved I'd never have a child; it was just one of the reasons my marriage had broken down. And Kathie had spent a night with Doyle.
If she'd lived I'd have kept the secret, accepted the child as mine. A subtle form of revenge, that we had Doyle's son and he didn't even know about it. It would have done until I could get out and take more permanent revenge. I don't know if I'd ever have told her the truth.
But Doyle needed to know; he needed to suffer as I was suffering. And one day, I'd make him pay.
I stood up. My mourning was over; now I had to plan my revenge. With Kathie gone, it was all I had to live for.