Stephen Leather - The Hunting

‘How many will be there?’ he asked Catherine, as the Bentley slowly pulled away onto the main road.

‘Thirty-seven,’ she said.

Van der Sandt grimaced. He had wanted the funeral to be a private family affair and as he had no relatives to speak of, that meant Laura’s parents, her brother and his wife, and a handful of cousins that she had always been close to. Nine mourners, ten at the most. But he knew that many of his friends and business associates would take it as an insult if they weren’t allowed to pay their respects. He understood – it wasn’t that they wanted to intrude on his personal grief, it was because they wanted to show that they cared and, more importantly, that they would support him. Without being asked, Catherine began to run through the names of those who would be at the church. There were four members of the British Royal Family, one former US president, three senators, and the chief executives of eight Fortune 500 companies. All of Laura’s friends in the fashion world and Hollywood had stayed away, probably because they knew that their presence would detract from the solemnity of the occasion, and he was grateful to them for that.

‘We have three security perimeters in place,’ said Catherine, anticipating the next question. ‘There are police checkpoints on the roads to the church turning away most people. They have no legal right to refuse access, so if someone insists, they have to be allowed through. Obviously the ones who have insisted so far, I’m told, are the journalists, TV crews and paparazzi. Inside is a second perimeter of our own security people who are offering financial incentives for them to turn back. Quite a number of the paparazzi and the freelance journalists have taken the money. The TV crews have apparently continued on, along with several of the paparazzi, but they have been prevented from entering the grounds of the church by the third perimeter, which is again local law enforcement. They will arrest anyone who sets foot on the church grounds. So far as them getting pictures, we have erected barriers around the church, using foliage and trees wherever possible. All the guests have been driven to the church in cars with tinted windows and they can access the church at the rear without being seen.’

Van der Sandt nodded his approval. ‘Nice job, Catherine.’ He settled back and closed his eyes. He rode the rest of the way to the church in silence and didn’t open his eyes until the car slowed close to the entrance to the church grounds. There were a dozen men in weatherproof gear holding cameras and they crowded around the Bentley. There were three camera crews also jostling for position. ‘Vultures,’ muttered Van der Sandt again under his breath. ‘Actually, they’re worse than vultures. At least vultures serve a purpose in the grand scheme of things.’

The Bentley had to slow to a crawl to avoid hitting the cameramen, which gave them the opportunity to crowd even closer. There were four uniformed policemen wearing hi-vis jackets at the gateway to the car park. One of them was holding a clipboard and he checked that the registration number was on the list before nodding at a colleague to open the gate. The Bentley drove in and its tyres crunched across the gravelled drive. Tall fir trees in large tubs had been lined up either side of the driveway and as the car turned to the right towards the church the trees blocked the view from the gate. The police closed the gate and stood with folded arms, glaring at the photographers with undisguised contempt.

There were more than twenty black limousines with tinted windows already parked. The Bentley came to a halt. The driver got out and hurried around to open the door for Van der Sandt, but Van der Sandt beat him to it and the driver opened the door for Catherine instead.

Van der Sandt walked to the rear entrance of the church. It had been built almost a hundred years ago; the stone had weathered and was mottled with moss. It was the church he and his family had used ever since he had bought the estate, though Laura and the children were there far more often than he was. As he walked, Catherine followed close by. There were two of Van der Sandt’s security team standing either side of the arched door wearing black suits and wraparound dark glasses, with earpieces connected to whatever radio system was keeping them in the loop. Both men stood as still as statues with their hands clasped together over their groins.

The oak door was open and Van der Sandt walked through to a flagstone corridor that opened into the nave of the church. The mourners filled less than a third of the pews and all eyes turned towards him as he walked to the front and sat down.

The service took less than an hour. The coffins came in with the priest, and there were readings from the Bible, and two hymns. It was a Catholic service so there was no eulogy, and Van der Sandt was grateful for that. There was no way he could talk about the lives of his wife and children without mentioning what had happened and what he planned to do about it. Far better just to say goodbye. After the service the coffins were taken out to the graveyard. Van der Sandt was one of six men who carried Laura’s coffin. The others were Laura’s brother, two of her cousins, the former president and a British prince.

The coffins were interred but Van der Sandt was barely aware of the committal service. He stood staring at the coffins, willing himself not to cry until it was all over.

Once the service was done, Van der Sandt shook the priest’s hand and thanked him, then began shaking hands with the mourners. He could see the concern and sympathy in their eyes but he met their glances with a grim smile and a firm handshake. He accepted their condolences with a nod, and he thanked them for their offers of support, should he need it. They knew that he didn’t need help from anyone, but he appreciated the offers and knew that they were genuine.

As Van der Sandt shook the hand of the last of the mourners, a man in his forties with prematurely grey hair walked over. It was Neil Thomas, head of security for Van der Sandt’s company. ‘I’m so sorry about your loss,’ said Thomas. He was wearing a black coat over his black suit and tie, and there was no way the casual observer would know that he was missing his right leg below the knee, the result of an IED explosion in Iraq that had ended his military career. Thomas had been a master sergeant in Delta Force, with twelve years under his belt, when the vehicle he was in was hit by a barrel of explosive in a culvert under the road. Two of his comrades were killed instantly in the blast, and Thomas was only saved because there was a US helicopter nearby that was able to airlift him to a medical facility.

Van der Sandt shook hands with him. The left side of his face was peppered with small scars and the ear was ragged, a result of the blast.

‘Thank you for coming,’ said Van der Sandt.

Thomas gestured over at the entrance to the churchyard. ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t keep the media away, but the church is on a public road so our options are limited.’

‘They’ll get their pictures one way or another,’ said Van der Sandt. ‘I shot down a drone this morning.’

Thomas chuckled. ‘That’ll teach them,’ he said.

Van der Sandt shook his head. ‘No, they’ll keep coming. The public has an insatiable craving for gossip and the media feeds it. “Billionaire financier loses family in terrorist attack” becomes clickbait. It’s the way of the world.’

Van der Sandt looked over at Catherine. ‘I’ll ride back with Neil,’ he said.

‘Of course, Mr Van der Sandt.’

Van der Sandt and Thomas walked over to a black stretch Mercedes limousine and climbed into the back. Van der Sandt pressed a button to raise the privacy screen as the car headed out of the churchyard.