“You’re sure about that?”
“Hell, he rescued Cartwright’s career. He was either having a laugh or losing his marbles long before anyone noticed.”
Taverner said, “Who was under that tree?”
“Grim reaper?”
The funeral was breaking up, the way a wedding might if someone dropped the just-cause-and-impediment bomb. The more obvious Service retirees slipped away, to avoid a debriefing, or just on general principles. Not being near an ongoing scene was second nature to joes and handlers alike. Those who’d known the O.B. as a retired civil servant, on the other hand, were clearly awaiting an explanation, ideally one involving twisted family secrets. Taverner, well practised at screwing lids down tight, passed among them: grandson, always unstable; unhinged by grief, poor thing. If River’s mother caught this, she didn’t allow it to ruffle her. She might have been a solitary mourner at an ancient grave.
From somewhere distant, as if playing on a different channel, came a chorus of vehicular complaint: a screaming of brakes, a wailing of horns.
“Does it count if it’s interrupted?” Lamb asked Catherine. “I mean, is he properly buried yet or do we have to start again?”
“That was River’s father, wasn’t it?” Catherine was better than Taverner at speaking without seeming to, no one but Lamb could have caught her words. You’d have thought she’d had less practice, but a closeted alcoholic picks up tricks.
“Yep.”
“Was he there the whole time?”
“He was behind the tree to start with. I assumed he was having a piss. Not everyone treats sanctified ground with respect.” He belched smoke. “That was before I clocked who it was.”
The tree was fifty yards away, and the figure had been wearing a cap pulled low. It was easy to forget that Lamb hadn’t always occupied an office, with the blind down.
“Someone should go after River.”
“And spoil his fun?”
Catherine thought: the last time they met, River’s father had dropped him in the Thames. Any reunion they were having wouldn’t involve hugs and tears.
Oliver Nash was smoothing things over with the vicar; something about the stresses and pressures of spook life. Nash would know about such things. He had the figure of a man who watched a lot of TV.
Louisa said, “Why do you think he came? He must have known he’d not be welcome.”
“If Frank Harkness only went places he was welcome,” said Lamb, “he’d have the social life of Julian Assange.”
“He had history with David Cartwright,” said Catherine. “Is it so strange he’d want to see him buried?”
“Yes.”
“Not to mention Isobel. Maybe he wanted to see her again. I’m talking about human responses here. I appreciate that it must sound like Mandarin to you.”
Lamb replied with a mellifluous jangle of syllables, then tossed his cigarette away. It bounced off a nearby headstone, and dropped into a tin pot. “That’s the only Mandarin I know,” he said. “And if the answer’s more than twenty quid, you’ve priced yourself out of the market.”
Calling Lamb’s bluff would be a full-time occupation, and unlikely to pay off in the long run.
Catherine said, “And then there’s River.”
“Who wants to kill him,” Louisa said.
“And who has a tendency to walk into a trap when one’s offered.”
“Except when he runs,” said Louisa.
Lamb said, “If Harkness wanted to set a trap for River, he’d not have picked a public occasion. He might be a show-off, but he’s a professional and values his skin. No, he was here for something else, and given his track record, we should probably be bothered by that.”
“Maybe River will catch him and make him tell,” said Louisa.
“Yeah,” said Lamb. “And we can all live happily ever after.”
Louisa looked to the corner around which River had vanished. “I wish I’d worn different shoes,” she said.
“Imagine how I feel,” said Lamb, rummaging for another cigarette.
Harkness was still rounding the chapel when the Dog who’d approached him earlier stepped into his path. The movement the American made might have been interpreted as reaching for his credentials, though in fact he was positioning his elbow to jam into the Dog’s throat. He didn’t make clean contact, but the beauty of brute force is, you don’t have to. The Dog dropped like an autumn apple, and Harkness was round front of St. Len’s, skirting its high hedge, then on the street again, heading for his car.
It had been bad tradecraft, but helclass="underline" watching his son help shoulder his grandfather’s coffin was circle of life stuff. Last time he’d seen River the boy had been a mess, but not giving an inch—there was a steel core there. If he’d been in Frank’s keeping he’d have been something to see by now, and who knew what the future held? But there’d need to be drastic changes first. Step one was River leaving Slough House, and putting that loser crap behind him. Then Frank would be waiting, ready to show him step two. He was nearly at his car now, had unlocked it on the move, so was perfectly placed to half-turn and crouch just as his son reached him, full tilt; nearly soundlessly but nearly was the key; nearly would get you killed. As it was, it got River a brief moment of unassisted flight as Frank’s shoulder came up and Frank’s left arm gripped his right elbow, twisted and threw. The kid landed okay—needed work, but he wasn’t a civilian—but even so Frank was in the car before he was back on his feet. Tough love. He pulled away while fastening his belt, already thinking about the journey ahead, already consigning River to the back pocket of his mind, when the car rocked like someone had dropped a dog on it, and Frank blinked, and River was sprawled on his bonnet, teeth bared.
For a second they were staring into each other’s eyes, father and son. He’d been right about the steel core. Either that, or River was a fucking nutcase. Then he slammed on the brakes, just before the junction, and a passing car screamed its head off as River tumbled onto the road.
Frank thought for half a moment about opening the door, letting River climb in. It could be that easy. They could drive off and sort everything out somewhere down the line, this father/son thing they had going on. The main problem was he’d have to batter River into submission first, which would be time-consuming, and besides, there was movement back at the chapeclass="underline" more Dogs, unless they’d learned their lesson on that score, and sent out the vicar instead. Time to move. All around them cars had stopped, sensing an incident in progress, and a chorus was warming up: the beeping and blaring of confused traffic. River was upright but swaying, and reaching a hand out to bang on the glass, unless he was hoping for support. But more tough love, son: Frank pulled away before River made contact, swerved round the stationary vehicle ahead, and turned right, away from the centre. He’d collected the face he’d needed to see, and if he saw it again, he’d take action.
Meanwhile he’d concentrate on doing what he did best, and disappear.
That afternoon, at Slough House, Lamb held what he insisted on calling a postmortem.
“Get it?” he’d asked Catherine.
Who didn’t bother hiding her sigh. “Can you try using a little tact in front of River?”
“I’m not the one played leapfrog with his dead grandpa.”
The slow horses were trooping up the stairs; those who’d not been at the funeral picking up on the vibe that it hadn’t gone by the book, and even Wicinski, the novice, aware something odd had happened. Less than a week in residence, and that bar was higher by the day.
There wasn’t much room in Lamb’s office, but, as Lamb was fond of pointing out, you didn’t hear him complaining. So they arranged themselves as best they could, while Lamb sprawled in his chair with his feet on his desk. He’d had something involving prawns and rice for lunch, judging by the Rorschach-stains on his shirt, and excavated fugitive scraps from folds and crevices as he spoke. River was his first target. “Great show. Couldn’t have been more fun if you’d booked a stripper. Come to think of it—”