Chapter 1 – Friday, May 7th
Marshwick, England
A chill wind swept in off the North Sea, driving across the flat Lincolnshire landscape to buffer against the sombre group gathered around the grave and Anderson hunched his shoulders over even more, trying to bury his face into the collar of his coat. He had deliberately detached himself from the other mourners and he could barely hear the vicar’s words, but it seemed impolite to intrude yet further upon the grief of family and friends. It wasn’t as if he even knew the dead man and he was only there because Devereau had needed a favour, one Anderson would have been hard-pushed to refuse.
Eighteen months they had worked together, Adam Devereau doing his best to ensure Anderson’s transition to enterprise journalism wasn’t a disaster, Anderson grateful enough to try and make it work. Persistence seemed to be the key, that and Devereau’s many contacts, Anderson now with a decent, if unpredictable income. Commercial pilot to freelance journalist – the adjustment had proved easier than Anderson had anticipated, the career change one enforced upon him by the return of blurred vision and the suspension of his pilot’s licence for the second time. Central Serous Retinopathy was the medical term, the consultant blaming it on stress with the threat of permanent eye damage only one of many unpalatable outcomes.
As the friend of a friend, Devereau had helped far more than Anderson had any right to expect and being asked to attend the funeral of a complete stranger seemed little enough in return, even if it did entail a five-hour round-trip. With Devereau still in New York, Anderson was the preferred substitute, a private word to the widow felt to be more respectful than the standard of flowers and a card. Not that Devereau had been particularly forthcoming about the late George Saunders, Anderson’s curiosity only growing once he’d read some of the online obituaries, the funeral service adding a more intimate perspective to the multitude of facts.
Known affectionately as ‘the Commander’ to friends and acquaintances, the church had been full to bursting, and it was the first time Anderson had experienced a retired Admiral deliver a eulogy. Lincolnshire born and bred, Saunders had joined the Royal Navy straight from university, eventually finding his niche in Naval Intelligence before retiring back to village life and the challenge of being a parish councillor. A frequent visitor to Spain, he had been reported as missing by his wife whilst walking alone in the hills east of Malaga, it two more days before his body had been found at the base of a deep ravine; with no suspicious circumstances, it had all the elements of a tragic accident. Despite the combination of Naval Intelligence and an unusual death, Saunders had been retired far too long for the national press to see it as a story worth pursuing. The journalist in Anderson was tempted but reluctant, curious now as to whether Devereau actually wanted him to become involved – in which case why hadn’t he just said as much?
Anderson musings were cut short as a distant roll of thunder sounded out its warning and already there was a cold wet trickle nuzzling its way down the back of his neck. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to ease the ache in his back, and by chance his gaze settled on a tall, burly figure away to his left. Like Anderson, the man stood apart from the rest of the mourners: late-thirties; six-foot four; black hair tied in a ponytail; alert, restless eyes – Anderson had walked past a score of such men every flight, most in uniform, some not. Using the Commander’s history with Naval Intelligence as his cue, Anderson’s imagination worked overtime to wonder whether Ponytail was MI5, or should it be MI6? There was almost the look of a Hells Angel... CIA, he decided finally, the man doubtless enjoying a brief respite from a heady life of espionage and intrigue. More likely though, he was the gravedigger silently urging the vicar to hurry up before the storm got worse.
If so the man would be disappointed, both wind and rain choosing to redouble their efforts; with the funeral finally over, the vicar immediately encouraged everyone to join the family at the Saunders’ home, Anderson happy to tag along and express his condolences in a rather drier environment. The village itself was a loose connection of a few hundred homes, a farming community midway between Boston and the coast. Anderson had no need for his car, the short walk from the church taking him past Marshwick’s single shop and lone pub, then along a narrow country lane to a detached picture-postcard cottage, with leaded windows and ivy-covered walls.
By the time Anderson arrived the two main rooms were already crowded, mourners spilling out into the kitchen and even up the stairs, raincoats and umbrellas drying out where they could. Anderson picked up a drink and a plate of food, before looking around for someone who might be willing to give him some more background on the Commander. The atmosphere was restrained but not especially sombre and no-one seemed concerned that Anderson was a complete stranger. To his disappointment, there was no sign of the man with the ponytail – no doubt he was already hard at work with wheelbarrow and shovel.
It was a good fifteen minutes before Anderson chose to work his way round to the Commander’s widow. Jessica Saunders stood beside the living-room fireplace, deep in conversation with the Admiral. Anderson politely hovered in the background, uncomfortably rehearsing his opening line, while waiting for a convenient moment to interrupt. His attention quickly began to wander elsewhere and he found himself looking at a young woman conversing at the far end of the room: tall, thirtyish, shoulder-length brunette hair, attractive and with a ready smile – Anderson couldn’t stop himself from staring, even going so far as to search out the potential annoyance of a wedding or engagement ring.
An elderly couple generously took pity on his lonely vigil, it several minutes before they moved on. Anderson’s gaze immediately resumed its previous traverse but the young woman in question was already moving purposefully towards him. Their eyes met and Anderson instantly glanced away, feeling as if he’d been caught peeping through someone’s window.
“I’m sorry; I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Charlotte Saunders.” Her voice was cool, polite, the deep-brown eyes almost accusing.
“Michael Anderson.” They shook hands, Anderson’s brain working overtime to find something relevant to say.
“I seem to have been the focus of much of your interest, Mr Anderson. I’m not quite sure why I deserve such attention, but it can be rather unnerving.”
Anderson struggled to change the subject, “You’re Commander Saunders’ daughter?”
“That’s very perceptive of you, Mr Anderson. Did you know my father well?”
The hint of sarcasm wasn’t an encouraging start and Anderson’s role as stand-in for Devereau was proving more awkward than he’d anticipated. “I never actually met the Commander,” he replied, trusting in honesty to dig him out of a very deep hole. “I was asked to express my condolences on behalf of a friend, Adam Devereau.”
Charlotte frowned, “I’m afraid I don’t recognise the name. In which case, did Mr Devereau know my father well? If they were in the Navy together, I’m sure there are others here who would be interested to talk to you.”
“I’m pretty sure Adam was never in the Navy; I got the impression that he knew your parents from when they lived in London. Unfortunately he’s in New York at the moment – hence me.” Anderson realised he was close to babbling and having assumed Devereau’s name would instantly strike a chord, he wasn’t sure that anything he was saying was actually correct.
Charlotte persisted, “Well, it’s kind of you to give up your time to come here. What is it you do, Mr Anderson?”
Her tone was a warning to be careful and Anderson tried to hedge, “A writer of sorts; articles and such like.”
“You mean a journalist?”
“On a good day... a hack for the most part.”
Anderson’s attempt to make it light-hearted failed miserably, the admission merely opening the floodgates of the woman’s anger: not only was Anderson rude and a chauvinist, he was quite likely an interloper as well.
“My father was a generous man, Mr Anderson,” said Charlotte, her tone ice-cold. “He
would always go out of his way to make everyone welcome, even insensitive journalists who choose to invade a family’s private grief. Stay if you must, but please leave my mother alone. And to save you the need to bother anyone else, I’m thirty-three, unmarried, live in Boston and work at an estate agent’s.” Charlotte paused, brown eyes smouldering. “Was there anything else you wanted to know?”
Anderson slowly shook his head, then with nothing to lose, he pushed his luck as far as he dared. “Is that Charlie for short, or Lottie?”
Charlotte glared at him in confusion, struggling for the right response. When the reply came, it was both abrupt and dismissive, “Goodbye, Mr Anderson.”