* * *
As well as being the village’s sole pub, The Farriers Arms also doubled up as Marshwick’s only hotel. Dating from the early-1800’s, with beamed ceilings and a wood-burning fire, it offered just three en-suite rooms for the occasional guest like Anderson; yet while his room might be small and spartan, the food more than made up for such minor grievances. The lounge and public bars had long since merged into one, with chairs and tables for some two dozen patrons, plus up to ten more on stools alongside the U-shaped counter. The atmosphere was friendly and relaxed, and without the distraction of irritating music or even a TV; two-thirds full, the bar area was still cosy rather than crowded, the two staff coping with professional ease without ever looking rushed.
A well-fed Anderson sat on an end stool with drink in hand, reflecting on a very confused set of messages from the Commander’s wife and daughter. Having been roundly put in his place by Charlotte, he had struggled to know how best to satisfy his obligations to Devereau, the problem solved within minutes by Jessica herself. Whether she had noticed Charlotte’s reaction to Anderson wasn’t clear but she at least well knew Adam Devereau, or more specifically his wife, Christmas cards shared but no real contact for a good twenty years. Jessica certainly hadn’t been put out by Anderson’s admission that he was a journalist, keen in fact to promote the Commander’s story beyond just one five-minute conversation.
It had been an intriguing proposition, the worsening weather another good reason for Anderson to delay his return home. So far, the Farriers had proved a welcoming refuge, Anderson’s continuing failure with members of the fairer sex not something to brood over. Despite being close to the wrong side of forty and of unsteady income, he could still be considered a reasonable catch, the hindrance of a failed marriage a relatively minor inconvenience. Their friends had always regarded it as the ideal match, then after five years of marriage, Anderson had suddenly packed his bags and walked out; four years on and he still couldn’t explain – even to himself – exactly why he had left.
Anderson gulped down the last of his drink, thought about having an early night, then took the easy option and asked for a refill.
“You here for the Commander’s funeral?” The barman was in his forties, solidly built, always happy for a chat in his broad Lincolnshire accent, his main talent that of making people feel at ease. The Farriers seemed to be run primarily by a husband and wife team – the husband organising the bar, the wife organising the husband.
Anderson nodded, “Didn’t know him though; just doing a favour for a friend. Now wondering whether there might be a story in it somewhere.”
“Story? You work for the papers, then?”
“Freelance,” Anderson said, hoping to encourage the barman to open up and confident that he would know something of interest. Devereau preferred the term enterprise journalism over investigative, arguing that every journalist was part investigator, but whatever the name Anderson was still at the bottom of the pile, learning his trade while supplementing his income with articles of purely local interest. Of late, Anderson had been keen to prove he could cope without the need for a guiding hand and as long as Devereau was kept in the loop, he didn’t seem that bothered, the subsequent expense claims signed off with only an occasional caustic comment.
“Commander was a straight Scotch man, like yourself,” continued the barman. “Everyone round here liked him and he always had time for a chat...”
An unsolicited summary of the Commander’s naval exploits then followed, the barman’s tone softening as he detailed rumours concerning Saunders’ role in Naval Intelligence. Anderson looked suitably impressed but there seemed little of real substance, just village gossip and hearsay, nothing that would be of real use.
The barman – now known to Anderson as Rob – broke off to attend to one of his regulars, returning briefly a few minutes later with newspaper in hand.
“Boston Standard,” he explained, as he laid the paper down in front of Anderson, “They did a nice write-up about the Commander; sorry it’s bit of a mess, but it’s a couple of weeks old. Plenty of info, so it might be a help...”
Anderson didn’t have the heart to refuse and with nothing better to do, he read through the lengthy obituary, even though most of it was familiar. Idly, he continued to turn the pages, scanning the weekly paper for something else of interest. It was only when he reached the newspaper’s original front page that both headline and picture grabbed his attention.
“Death Crash Horror. Village stunned by teenager’s death.” The photograph showed the crumpled wreck of a saloon car resting against a large tree, the car front squashed and distorted, the harsh glare of arc lamps picking out every horrific detail.
The report itself was the standard mix of fact, conjecture and tributes. Nineteen year-old Darren Westrope had only passed his driving test eight months earlier and the ageing Ford Fiesta had been bought soon after, Darren using it to commute from Marshwick to his college course in Boston. Yet it was doubtful whether age or experience could have helped save Darren’s young life, the Fiesta sideswiped by a box van skidding out of control on a patch of wet mud. With no chance to do anything, the Fiesta had smashed head-on against a mature sycamore, the massive trunk an unforgiving and immovable barrier. It had taken firemen over an hour to cut Darren’s body free.
Seeing Anderson’s renewed interest in local matters, Rob chose to return. “Bad luck, I call it: there’s not that many trees round here and the road’s never busy. Nice lad, not one to cause trouble; parents are devastated.”
Anderson’s attention had been dragged away mid-sentence, “The van driver – was he hurt?”
“Badly shaken, some cuts and bruises, that’s all. Lucky not to have been killed. Van was travelling too fast, I reckon. Narrow road, normally empty, driver in a hurry – since Erdenheim came there’s been plenty of near-misses; their drivers treat the roads round here like a race-track.”
Anderson’s bewildered look brought an immediate response, “Erdenheim,” repeated Rob, as though it explained everything. “They have a place just outside Graythorp, a couple of miles east of here; it’s a Management Development Centre.”
“Which still means nothing,” said Anderson, getting frustrated.
Rob grinned at Anderson’s confusion, enjoying his superiority. “Team-building exercises,” he explained. “Not the fun stuff like a zip wire and quad bikes, Erdenheim prefers to do it all on computer.”
Anderson finally nodded in understanding, “Been there, done that; apparently, I don’t listen enough to be effective in a team situation.”
“I could have told you that,” said Rob with a grin. “Boss there’s a yank, name of Pat McDowell; ties his hair in a ponytail but don’t let that put you off – he’d be a tough bastard in a fight.”
“Big guy, ‘bout six-four?” Anderson asked curiously. “Late-thirties?”
“Yeah, that’s him.” Rob’s tone became defensive, “You know McDowell then?”
“Not personally; he was at the Commander’s funeral.”
Rob frowned, “Odd that; I didn’t think he knew the Commander that well. Maybe he was just curious as to who else might turn up.” He leaned closer to Anderson and gave a knowing wink, “Could be he was hoping to meet an old friend from the CIA...”