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‘How are you supposed to kill them with all these Bobbies?’ The sharp-featured young man exhaled in obvious annoyance, watching the passing procession filled with politicians and an honour guard of the best of the thin blue line of the law. Next to him an older woman jumped, startled by his sudden exhalation: had he said 'kill'? Ignoring her, he began making his way through the thick crowd. Sir Crawford Starrick merited full state funeral honours, it seemed. Jacob Frye for one couldn't think of a reason why. The Templar Grand Master had been one cold bastard, bottling up his emotions, putting the stuff upper lip out to the world. A state funeral for the dead Templar chief was Her Majesty's bright idea. To show the Templars that they had no leader anymore, to quash any rumours to the contrary, to prevent impostors from taking over. A political decision, one that made sense. He’d have done the same if it’d been any other gang boss: show the body in an open casket to ensure that no one