“Many many years. Vingt-trois, vingt-quatre.”
“So . . . ” River thought of the dead man on the bathroom floor, whose passport claimed him twenty-eight. “Were there children?”
“At one time, I think. Then not.” Victor placed a level palm two feet from the floor, then slowly moved it upwards. “You know?”
Children grew.
The man in the café had spoken of a commune, but Victor thought there had been no women there. Didn’t sound like much of a commune to River, who was pretty sure the concept involved sex. An all-male community didn’t rule that out, of course, but the presence of children cast a disturbing light. But what would that have to do with a murder attempt on his grandfather? He said, “Were they French?”
Victor shrugged. “French, yes. But Russian too, I think, or Czech. An American. Maybe some English. They did not mix in the village.”
“But went to the café sometimes? Le Ciel Blue?”
“Sometimes, bien sur. There is the marché, the market. People stop at the café afterwards. It is natural.”
“Who was their leader, do you know?”
“Leader?”
“Somebody must have been in charge.”
“I do not know about leaders. Probably they were communiste. All equal, you know?”
“And what about the fire? Does anyone know how that started?”
“The fire, it was deliberate. They are all gone, and then it burns.”
“At the same time?”
“On the same day, yes. In the afternoon, their cars, they leave towards Poitiers. And soon after, the fire starts. There is much activity, many fire trucks, lots of noise.”
River half-wanted to know what colour the fire engines were.
“Maybe the police look for them now,” Victor went on. “I expect this is so. But your cousin, he did not die in the fire.”
No, he died of a bullet in the face, River didn’t reply. He said, “It’s strange, that they lived for so long so near the village, and nobody seems to know anything about them.”
“Maybe we were curious, years ago. But time passes, yes? And you forget to be curious. It is just Les Arbres.”
He rose suddenly, and examined his rabbit. The rain was still beating down, but River thought it was time he made a move. He stood too. “You’ve been very kind, Victor,” he said. “Tres gentil. Merci.”
“De rien.” He chose a knife, and gestured with it at the rabbit, then at River. “You can stay, no? He will taste good.”
“Thank you, but no.”
“It is not all tea. There is wine.”
“It sounds excellent, really. But I’d better head back to Poitiers.”
“As you wish.” With a flash of his wrist Victor buried the blade in the rabbit’s corpse, and a moment later seemed to turn the animal inside out, peeling its skin off as if it were a glove. A flake of ash dropped from his roll-up onto the naked meat, and he scraped it away with the knife. “Maybe there is someone else. Who knows Les Arbres.”
“Really?”
“She is not living at Angevin. Is from next village. I write you address.”
“Who is she?” River asked.
“She is nice lady. Was prostitute, yes? Whore. But nice lady.”
Leaving the knife in the rabbit, Victor found a ballpoint pen and laboriously wrote out, in the margin of an ancient magazine, instructions for River to follow: another road, another few miles, some turnings, a house, Natasha.
“Nice flat.”
“Thank you.”
“Quiet area, too. And you’re a reader.” Emma Flyte nodded at Catherine’s bookshelves. “Nothing spoils a good book faster than a lot of background noise.”
“Unless it’s unwelcome visitors,” Catherine said.
Emma nodded, as if they’d found common ground. Checking up on Jackson Lamb’s known associates had been illuminating only inasmuch as it had revealed how carefully he avoided having any. She’d had to fall back on colleagues, and Catherine Standish had struck her as interesting. For reasons that would no doubt come up soon.
Her scrutiny of the living room over, she said, “Do you see much of your former colleagues?”
“I don’t see much of anyone.”
“And why’s that?”
“When you’re having sex,” Catherine asked, “do you prefer to be on top?”
Emma raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, sorry. I assumed it was my turn to ask an impertinent question.”
“There’s a reason I’m here.”
“You’re not about to produce a religious tract, are you? Because my neighbour Deirdre’s a much better bet.”
“If I had a suspicious mind,” Emma said, “—which I do, by the way—I’d be asking myself why you’re avoiding answering questions.”
“Oooh, I’m not sure,” said Catherine. “Something to do with resenting the unwarranted intrusion, perhaps?”
“‘Unwarranted,’” repeated Emma, nodding. “I see what you did there.”
“I could tell you were sharp.”
“Only you haven’t thought that one through. You’re still a member of the Service, Ms. Standish, which means you’re subject to my jurisdiction. Which means I don’t need a warrant.”
“Except I resigned some while ago.”
“Mmm, yes, not exactly. You handed in your resignation. The paperwork seems to have stalled, though. Remind me, are you still receiving a salary?”
Which was the point of interest, of course. Ms. Standish’s peculiarly free-floating status as regarded Slough House.
Catherine said, “Receiving. Not spending.”
“Yes, I think we’ll save that one for the inquiry. Meanwhile, you’re on the books, you’ll answer my questions. All clear so far?”
“It sounds like it will have to be.”
“Good. River Cartwright. When was the last time you had contact?”
“Just before Christmas. He sent me a text.”
“What did it say?”
“‘Merry. Christmas,’” Catherine said slowly.
“And nothing since?”
“I was impressed by that much, if you want the honest truth.”
“Are you aware that Jackson Lamb identified his body last night?”
“I am now.”
“You don’t seem shocked.”
“Little that Jackson Lamb does shocks me any more.”
“I’ve just told you that River Cartwright’s dead. You don’t seem remotely bothered by that.”
“And I’ve just told you that in four months, I’ve had a two-word text from him. It’s not like he’ll leave a huge hole in my life.”
“Or maybe you already know it’s not true.”
“You’re starting to lose me. Which bit’s not true? That he’s dead? Or that he sent me a text?”
“Are we going to play games all morning?”
“I wish I could spare the time,” Catherine said. “But that neighbour I mentioned? I promised I’d drop in on her.”
“Yesterday evening, one of the Cartwrights committed murder,” Emma Flyte said. “Either River or his grandfather. So you’ll understand I’m keen on interviewing both. Have they been here?”
“No.”
“I think you’re lying.”
“Why’s that?” Catherine asked, sounding genuinely interested.
“Because nothing I’ve said has come as a remote surprise to you.”
“Perhaps I’m just unflappable.”
“Or well informed. And if it wasn’t the Cartwrights, it can only be one man.”
“Lamb,” said Catherine.
“Uh-huh. Mr. Lamb. When was he here?”
“First thing.”
“And what did he tell you?”
“Exact words?”
“Please.”
“He said he’d spent the early hours winding up the dyke who’s currently boss of the kennel. And that if she turned up here, I was to waste as much of her time as possible.”