But what was worst about this conversation, what had been really horrible, was the way it was conducted: in furious whispers with the old man in the room, confused fear on his face. She didn’t need this. Not today. Not on a bleak January morning with the whole city mired in shocked grief; a beautiful excuse for drowning her own and everyone else’s sorrows.
“Please, Catherine.”
“Who wanted him dead?”
“That’s what I’m going to find out.”
“Why don’t you take him to the Park?”
River didn’t answer.
“Oh God,” she said, joining his dots.
So now here she was, and here was the O.B. too, and already the integrity of the safe house was compromised because it had taken Lamb all of five minutes to work out where to find him, and while Lamb was smarter than most people, his wasn’t the only brain on Spook Street.
Though not all spook brains worked the way they used to.
“Where’s he gone?”
“Where’s who gone, David?”
Because she couldn’t call him Mr. Cartwright: not in these circumstances.
“That boy, that young man.”
“. . . River?”
“What sort of a name is that?”
She’d often wondered . . . “He’s not here. But he’ll be back. I promise.” I hope.
“I think he might be up to something,” David Cartwright said.
She had poached him two eggs, and arranged them on toast, and he had eaten hungrily and then drunk three cups of tea, though he’d spilt the third. Now he was in her sitting room, straight-backed on a comfy chair, as if allowing himself to sink into it would compromise his principles. He was still struggling with his grandson: both his name, and the fact of his existence.
“He’s not up to anything, David. He’s just had to run an errand.”
“Used to know someone called River. About so high.”
The old man placed a palm level with his chest, though as he remained sitting, it was difficult to judge precisely what height he was remembering River to be.
Either way, it was a while ago. “That’s the same River,” Catherine said gently. “He grew up.”
“Used to know his mother.”
These weren’t waters Catherine wanted to swim in. “Do you have everything you need? Would you like more to eat?”
Listen to yourself, she admonished. She sounded like her own mother: deflecting the threat of emotion with offers of sustenance.
She said, “His mother, River’s mother—that was your daughter. She was called Isobel.” Too late, she realised she’d slipped into the wrong tense. “That’s what she’s called, I mean. She’s called Isobel.”
A tear was rolling down the old man’s cheek. “I don’t have a daughter.”
“You do, you know.”
“No. She told me so. I’m no longer your daughter. She told me that.”
And this was why you offered food, she thought. This was why you deflected emotion: because there was no helping this level of hurt. There was nowhere either of them could go in this conversation.
“Can I get you anything?” she asked again. “Or are you quite happy?”
A ridiculous question in the circumstances, but it lit something in his eyes. “Happy,” he said.
“. . . Yes?”
“Grumpy. Sneezy. Doc.”
Oh, for heaven’s sake, she thought.
“Dopey. Bashful. Grumpy. And that’s all seven.” He tapped his temple. “Nothing wrong with the old memory banks.”
She didn’t point out his error. She didn’t do anything. It was like taking a glimpse down a set of cellar stairs, she thought, and becoming suddenly aware of the steep darkness awaiting you. It didn’t really matter how careful you were in your descent.
“Where’s River?” he asked again.
“He went to France,” she said, invention momentarily beyond her. She was sure that’s where he’d gone: she’d found the rail ticket in his pocket.
“France? He can’t have gone to France!”
“It’s not far. He’ll be back soon.”
“No no no.” He’d grown agitated. “France. Out of the question.”
“It’s not dangerous, David. It’s only over the channel.”
But he wasn’t convinced. He began to mutter to himself, nothing she could make sense of, and to distance herself from it, she went to the window. Still the same bleak January, under the same grey canopy of sky. A car was pulling up, slipping into the residents’ parking area, though it wasn’t a familiar vehicle. The woman who emerged was a glacially beautiful blonde in a black suit. It might have been Catherine’s Service instincts; might have been her drunk’s paranoia. Either way, bells rang loud and clear.
She said, “Perhaps we should get you out of the way, David.”
River had half-expected a hut constructed from fallen branches and moss, but after ten minutes Victor, as his name turned out to be, led him out of the woods and onto a road, and soon after that they were turning down a lane towards a row of modern cottages, with breezeblock walls and aluminium window frames. Rain was pelting down now. While he waited for Victor to unlock the door, River looked down the valley towards Angevin, and its bridge, its church tower, the houses climbing its small collection of streets, all seemed to have huddled closer for shelter. From this perspective it was clear that Les Arbres hadn’t been part of the village at all. Not even an outpost, but a walled-off enclave. Whatever had gone on there would have been gossiped about in the bars, but the reality would have been as solid and graspable as the smoke Les Arbres had become.
Victor had had trouble with River’s name. “This is what you are called?”
“I’m afraid so. I mean yes. Yes, River.”
Victor didn’t actually say Bof, but it was clearly implied.
The house was small, but untidy. A portable TV occupied a low table in the centre of the sitting room, and magazines, mostly TV schedules, were scattered about. An overflowing ashtray sat next to an overflowing ashtray, and most other surfaces displayed bruised-looking ornaments: plaster figurines of what were probably saints, though might have been sinners; a number of glass animals. One corner was given over to outdoor equipment: rubber boots, fishing poles, a variety of nets and snares. Victor carefully laid his waterproof over these, sneaking a sly glance River’s way as he did so. River thought he could smell a cat, but it was hard to tell. Perhaps Victor had been smoking one. He took his own jacket off, more for politeness than anything else. It didn’t feel much less damp in here than outside.
Victor deposited the morning’s spoils on the kitchen counter, next to a handy array of knives and cleavers.
“I make tea.”
“Do you have coffee?” said River.
“Tea. You are English.”
“Thank you,” River said. He wasn’t much of a tea drinker, but that didn’t sound like it would lend itself to straightforward translation.
They drank tea in the small kitchen while rain battered the windows, and the dead rabbit stared reproachfully at River, and Victor smoked a succession of hand-rolled cigarettes, each no fatter than the matches he used to light them.
“You know Les Arbres?” he asked.
“I was looking for someone. Bertrand?”
“A young man, he look like you. I think that was his name, yes.”
“Can you tell me anything about him?”
“Tell you about your friend?”
“I didn’t really know him,” River said.
“You are cousins, maybe?”
“We might have been,” River said, thinking this would make things simpler: a man seeking his long-lost cousin.
“Les Arbres, there were people there. Eighteen, twenty? A number like that. All of them men.”
“How long had they been there?”