“You’ve been here long enough, you should know what brings this lot together. Grief, pain and shit-the-bed clusterfucks. You want them putting on a united front? Be careful what you wish for.”
“I’ll go, shall I?”
“Thought you already had. Oh Christ, what now?”
What now was Louisa, coming in as Catherine exited. “You asked what Taverner had River doing.”
“I know I did. Your job’s to provide answers, not restate questions.”
“He’s in Oxford. And he’s asked Lech where the local safe house is.”
“So maybe he’s after a freebie dirty weekend. Show young Baker round the ivory spires, then take her up the Woodstock Road.” He adopted a pious expression. “Not that I approve of either fornication or freeloading, but really, Guy, if this is jealousy-driven cock-blocking, I hoped for better from you. Cartwright’s made his choice. Deal with it.”
“There’s never been anything between me and River.”
“If you say so.”
“And what business is it of yours anyway?”
“It’s an admin thing. Any staff fraternisation, which is like workplace incest with added frotting, I have to write it up for the Park.” He adopted his muggins-here expression. “I don’t get paid extra for that. It’s one of the burdens of rank.”
“You write it up?”
“Well, Standish does. Amounts to the same thing.” He reached inside his shirt to palpate his belly for a satisfying few seconds, and when he withdrew his hand it was holding a cigarette. “Not that I’m opposed in principle, you understand. I mean Cartwright, I’m pretty sure that ship’s sunk, but if you’re planning on resurrecting your love life, go for it. I’m a great believer in getting back on the bike.” He studied his cigarette for a moment, then put it in his mouth. “In this scenario, you’d be the bike. I hope that was clear.”
“I’d appreciate a little less commentary on my private life,” Louisa said, after a long pause.
In his plumpest tones, Lamb said, “I do apologise. If I have a failing, it’s that I care too much. Always been my Achilles tendon.” He frowned. “Unless I mean elbow.”
“Can we get back on track? River’s in Oxford, he’s up to something and he won’t say what. You wanted me to step in to whatever it is he’s doing. So I’m going to Oxford to help him. Okay?”
“I’m all for the hands-on approach, but I can’t help wondering if he’s not beyond help. We already know he’s for the chop, plus there’s the whole post-traumatic stress bollocks.” He was rummaging around his desk, looking for a lighter. “You ask me, the best you’ll be able to do for him is pat him on the head a little.” He mimed the action, to be sure she got it. “If you can reach his head, that is, with him curled up in the faecal position.”
“Foetal.”
“As I just explained, he’s probably shitting himself.” A lighter came to hand, and he clicked at it vigorously. “But sure, yeah, why not. Take a day’s leave.”
“It would count as work,” Louisa said. “It would actually be work.”
“Get Standish to sign you off.” The lighter flared into flame and he torched the end of his cigarette. Then tossed the lighter over his shoulder, where it hit the wall with a bump and dropped into shadow. “And send me a postcard. No, write me a postcard, saying exactly what’s going on, then call me up and read it out to me.”
“Woodstock Road.”
“Wicinski can find you the number.”
He could and did, and had already phoned River, while attempting to extract some basic information, like: What are you up to? But River wouldn’t say, though he did at least remember to offer thanks. Then programmed the address into his satnav: It wasn’t far from the college, or at any rate was on the same road. The program promised roadworks if he attempted the direct route so he headed out to the ring road, mentally repeating Lech’s question as he did so—what was he up to? Chasing down Stam, to find out why he’d lied about what was in the box-safe. And also, to discover what had actually been in the box-safe; his grandfather’s final secret, which was River’s own legacy.
In his last days, the O.B. might have thought a plastic toy from a cornflakes carton a secret worth preserving. He had lost his grip on his former realities. When River visited him at Skylarks, the home he’d been moved to when home itself grew strange, his talk had been of boys’ own derring-do, the details dredged from a mishmash of school days stories and gung-ho war films. All his life, River had listened to the old man talk. Never before had he wanted the flow of words to dry up. Now, skirting Oxford with the post-lunch traffic, he remembered something his grandfather had said years back, when he still controlled the narrative; words that seemed freighted with hindsight, a warning that hadn’t been heeded because there were no precautions you could take against growing old, no tradecraft that would keep you out of senility’s clutches.
