“Imagine.”
“But anyway, they caught him with child porn on his laptop.”
Catherine Standish closed her eyes.
“I know, right? Time was you could pass it off as an allergy to pubic hair. But these days, you want to see pubic hair, you’ve really got to go looking. If the Daily Mail’s to be believed.” He adopted a pious expression. “Personally, I wouldn’t know. But anyway, yeah, Lech Wicinski. He’s Polish, by the way.”
“I did not know that,” she said, in a flat tone.
“Well, smarten up. The name should’ve been a clue. I’m not saying all Poles are kiddy-fiddlers. Wouldn’t hire one as a babysitter, though.”
The idea of Lamb being in need of a babysitter, for any reason whatsoever but especially one involving an actual baby, was too upsetting to contemplate. Which was why Catherine responded, rather than allowing the moment to drift away at its own speed. “He doesn’t look the type.”
“And what does the type look like?”
He had a point. They didn’t all sport tracksuits and medallions.
She said, “That’s a criminal offence. How come he’s been assigned to us?”
“Maybe they think I’m collecting the set.” He counted off on his fingers. “Fuck-ups, basket cases, druggies and drunks. Now a kiddy porn-peeper. When I’ve got a dog-botherer, I win a case of cutlery.”
“And what would you do with cutlery? You mostly eat with your fingers.”
“You’re very confrontational lately. I have to walk on eggshells, God knows why. You’re too old to be on the rag.” He sniffed suspiciously. “Don’t tell me you’re hitting the bottle.”
“You’re asking me? You wouldn’t be able to work it out for yourself?”
“You alkies can be devious. It’s the reason no one trusts you.”
She said, “As long as we’re on the subject, I hope you don’t plan to drink during the actual ceremony. Those who are genuinely grieving might take it the wrong way.”
“There’s no point having a hip flask if you don’t use it.”
“That’s not a hip flask. It’s a small bottle.”
“Jesus. Who put you in pedants’ corner?” Lamb produced the offending bottle, unscrewed the top and took a swallow. “And a less tolerant man would take issue with that. Genuinely grieving, I mean.”
“You’re not seriously going to pretend you’re mourning his passing. So why are you even here?”
“You’re expecting me to say, to make sure the old bastard’s dead, aren’t you?”
She didn’t reply.
“And well, yeah, that’s part of it. Okay, so he was off his head the last year, but if I’d done half what he got up to I’d pretend to go doolally too, in case the busies turned up with a charge sheet and a bucket full of questions. So maybe he was on his game the whole time, and he’s faked his death. He’d not be the first.”
She stared at him, mouth not entirely closed.
“We’re spies, Standish. All kinds of outlandish shit goes on. You want some of this?”
She shook her head.
“Like I said, devious. A blind man could tell you do.” He put the bottle away, but its odour lingered in the air, and caught the back of her throat.
“You hated him.”
“I hate a lot of people. Doesn’t mean I won’t get lonely when they’re all dead.”
You’re lonely now, she thought but didn’t say. You’re lonely now.
“And what about Wicinski? Lech.” She had to force herself to use his name. Some allegations tainted every syllable, even when they were just that: allegations.
“There’s an ongoing investigation, unquote,” Lamb said. “While facts are assessed and outcomes determined. Unquote.”
“So he wasn’t actually caught red-handed?”
“One-handed, you mean. But no. His laptop’s guilty as charged, but his dick’s still in the dock.”
“Which means, for the moment at least, we regard him as innocent. Unless I’m misremembering the basic principles of British justice.”
“Your faith in human nature really pisses me off, you know that?”
“As good a reason as any for clinging onto it.”
The taxi gave a lurch as it pulled away from a set of lights, and the motion made everything drunken for a second: Catherine was in a strange loose place, and rattled around, unanchored. And then the moment passed, though the taste at the back of her throat remained, as it likely always would. The taste she’d never forget, and would always be straining to remember.
She blinked, and her vision blurred. She blinked again, and it returned.
On her way home, she’d buy another bottle. Meanwhile, there was a funeral to get through. She hoped that would happen without Jackson Lamb causing any gross moments.
And she hoped River didn’t jump into any graves.
Which didn’t seem likely, but Lamb had a point.
All kinds of outlandish shit went on.
The funeral was in Hampstead. St. Leonard’s was a discreet brick building in a quiet close: services on alternate Sundays, though the alert might notice that these seldom came to pass. Perhaps this was a sign of dwindling congregations; perhaps an indication that the powers-that-be considered this particular enclave well served already, and that other, less moneyed areas might benefit more from the Church’s resources. But it was true that, if regular services were not on the menu, St. Len’s put on a lovely funeral. The graveyard at its rear was a calm oasis; each corner with its own tree, its own bench. Sitting there, you could forget there was a city mere streets away. You could bask in the quiet company of the dead.
And if it seemed strange that most of the buried had no obvious local connection, there were few to keep track of such oddities. Funerals are private affairs, and never more so than at The Spooks’ Chapel, where many cover stories had been laid to rest, and last words said over careers that had blossomed in dark corners, some so successfully that even close friends and family remained unaware of their true nature. But, as Jackson Lamb had been known to remark, suits’ bodies were easier to find than those of joes, and messy ends didn’t lead to tidy burials. So inside the chapel, on the west wall, were plaques to the memory of those who hadn’t made their way home, a display some called The Last Dead Letter Drop. The names on the plaques weren’t always those their owners had been born with, but there was a case for saying that the name you died with carried more weight. The identity you never let go of; that, in the end, let go of you instead.
Though of course, thought River, the O.B.’s identity had slipped away from him before he gave up breathing.
His mother at his side, he walked among the gravestones towards a freshly dug hole. It was cold, because how could it be anything else? And the ground was hard, which meant someone had had a job of it; clearing a space for David Cartwright. Did you tip gravediggers? River couldn’t recall the subject coming up.
Isobel’s grip on his arm tightened. “I know you think I hated him.”
“Well, yes. But only because you told me you hated him.”
“It was complicated.”
River knew how complicated it was. His mother, though, didn’t know he knew that, or he didn’t think she did. That was how complicated it was: people not knowing how much other people knew they knew. It was possible that other families were like this; ones without spies in them.
He said, “I’m glad you’re here.”
“He’d lost his mind, hadn’t he?”
“There were . . . glimpses of him. Right to the end.” This was a lie. The last sight he’d had of his grandfather—the man, not the shell—had been months ago.
And he wasn’t sure why he didn’t say as much. His mother didn’t need her feelings tiptoed round. She hadn’t spoken to her father in years. When she’d called him the Old Bastard, she’d meant precisely that. It was River who’d diluted the words; doused their spite with affection.