Arctic Sun
by Jack Grimwood
November 2023
An extract from Jack Grimwood’s forthcoming thriller, Arctic Sun—out this month from Penguin Michael Joseph.
I
Monday 23rd November 1987 – Hampshire
It was a cold, clear day in November when eight-year-old Charlie Fox buried his mother in the graveyard across the village from his grandfather’s house. The big house. The sky was blue, the clouds cirrostratus, the temperature 7 degrees Celsius. It was important to record these things. At least, Charlie thought so.
‘Daddy should be here . . .’
Grandpa’s hand closed on his. Part comfort, part warning that Mummy’s funeral was serious so he needed to keep quiet. Across the open grave, Granny’s face tightened. She thought Daddy should be here too. She didn’t like him, but she still thought he should be here.
Granny and Grandpa weren’t standing together, which was never a good sign. Charlie Fox was being watched. It was obvious that Grandpa and Granny were watching. They needed to be sure he’d behave; because he wasn’t always sure what behaving looked like. But it was the girl under the trees at the edge of the graveyard who worried him. Becca wore black because she always did.
He’d asked his sister not to come.
‘Oh God,’ Grandpa muttered as a big blue Jaguar drew up at the lychgate and its suited driver hurried round to let out a passenger, who patted her hair into place, glanced at her reflection in the window, and nodded.
Graveside abandoned, Grandpa strode towards the Jaguar XJ Series III. Not a Mark 2 or one of the classic models, Charlie noticed as he trailed after him, ignoring Granny’s hissed order to stay.
‘Margaret. So kind . . .’
‘Of course I came.’ The PM spoke carefully, sounding as if she’d borrowed her voice from someone else. All the men were looking impressed. The older ones in suits particularly so.
‘We haven’t started,’ Grandpa said.
‘Ah. And I must be elsewhere in an hour. I’m sorry.’ ‘Duty calls,’ Grandpa said.
‘Always,’ the PM replied with a sigh.
Her car was really big. Even bigger than the government ones Grandpa sometimes used. Its tyres looked solid and its windows unnaturally thick.
‘Bullet-proof,’ Charlie said to himself.
The man helping the PM back into her car nodded. ‘Must be heavy,’ Charlie said.
He nodded again.
‘Ah, Charles . . .’
It was the man Mummy liked before she started liking
Daddy again. Charlie wasn’t meant to know about that. There were lots of things Charlie wasn’t meant to know about.
‘It’s Charlie,’ Charlie said. ‘But you can call me Charles if you’d like.’ He was worried he might have been rude.
‘Charlie.’ The man tried to smile. He wanted to say some- thing soothing, something helpful. It was just, he obviously couldn’t think what.
‘Mummy was dying,’ Charlie said. ‘It was what she wanted. It’s for the best.’ The last word caught in his throat and Charlie discovered he was crying. Not noisy, embarrassing-yourself-at-school crying, just crying.
‘I should let you be.’
The man clearly didn’t like it when people cried. Charlie didn’t blame him. Charlie didn’t like it much either.
‘So you can say your goodbyes.’
The man must know Charlie had said his goodbyes already. Charlie nodded all the same, grateful to see him go. So many people who didn’t know what to say. Charlie just said what he thought. He said what he thought or he said nothing. Saying things you didn’t mean was confusing . . .
‘Ah. There you are.’
Turning, he saw a woman with dark glasses.
‘It’s a terrible thing for a boy to lose his father,’ she said.
‘Especially before time. Although not as terrible as a father losing his boy. That’s the kind of thing you don’t recover from.’ She was foreign, wearing too much scent, and her lipstick was purple.
‘It was my mother who died,’ Charlie said.
‘Not Major Fox?’
‘No,’ Charlie said. ‘Not Major Fox.’
‘I see. How silly of me. He must be next.’
Arctic Sun is now available for pre-order via Amazon, Blackwells, Foyles, Waterstones, WHSmith + more.
