They climbed from the car and heads nodded and there were half smiles intended to show sympathy. Silva spotted a government minister, tried to put a name to the face but failed. There was a local MP and a large group of her mother’s friends and co-workers from Third Eye News, the agency she worked for. Neil Milligan, the proprietor and chief editor of the agency, raised a hand. The poor man looked abject. Standing at a discreet distance were several photographers and a TV crew.

Silva began to greet some of the mourners before turning to see what had happened to her father. He stood by the limousine talking to the driver as if he had nothing better to do than pass the time in idle chit-chat. He shook the man’s hand and came across to Silva.

‘Colour Sergeant Wilkins. Gulf War,’ he said. ‘I knew I recognised him from somewhere. Top bloke.’

Chapter Five

A couple of weeks after the funeral, Silva’s father called her. It was the only contact she’d had with him aside from a package he’d sent her containing the keys to her mother’s place in Wiltshire and some documents relating to the will Silva had to sign and return.

‘You need to come and visit, Rebecca,’ he said. ‘Asap. Think you can make it tomorrow?’

‘Today was my first shift back at work, Dad,’ Silva said. ‘What is it, are you ill?’

‘I’m fine, you’re the one who needs to be ill. Tomorrow. Tell them you’re mental again. That you might infect those letters. Get here before lunch. Shall we say eleven hundred hours, sharp?’

That evening she ran through the city. Followed the route she’d taken on her delivery round and pounded the same streets as she’d walked earlier. After the run she went to the seafront. A fleet of dinghies raced in the evening sun, and the ferry to Santander headed for the horizon. She returned to her boat and sat in the cockpit with a cup of cocoa. A swell caressed the hull and rocked her gently back and forth. Motion. Not staying still. It hadn’t struck her until then that the constant movement was why she’d ended up living on a boat. Back when she’d bought the little yacht the intention was simply for it to be a place to go to when on leave from the army. Her mother’s house was too small and her father’s… well, there was no way she could have stayed there for more than a day or two.