While she stood contemplating her mother’s resting place, or planning her next gesture, River looked into the hole that would soon accommodate his grandfather. The O.B. had filled the space a father might have done in River’s life, while his actual father pursued a mad crusade. That venture had come to an end now, or River assumed it had. But with Frank, who knew? He was out in the world somewhere, and pretty certainly hadn’t hung up his sword and shield. Though whatever use he was putting them to was probably confined to the shadows.
He looked at his mother, who was dabbing her eyes with a tissue, and tossed a mental coin: benefit of the doubt.
“Are you okay?”
“Oh . . . I’ll be fine.”
“He loved you, you know. They both did.”
“I never had cause to doubt my mother’s love.”
Which sounded like it had been put through translation software. But again: benefit of the doubt.
His mother had taken hold of his arm again, and he led her away, along the path to its far corner, where it curved and headed back towards the front. But she paused there and reached into her bag, from which she produced cigarettes and a lighter.
“You’re still doing that?”
“You’re my son, not my GP.”
“And what does your GP have to say about it?”
Isobel lit a cigarette, and watched smoke float into the branches overhead. “I’m sure I can’t imagine.”
From where they were standing they could see past the body of the chapel to the drive, where a limo was pulling up. River supposed he should be there to greet arrivals, but wasn’t sure of the protocol. When you buried a grandfather, people queued to shake your hand. Did the same hold true when you buried a spy? Or was that an occasion for furtive glances, mumbled code? Whatever the case, River abandoned all thought of it when he saw who was emerging from the limo: Lady Di Taverner, newly appointed First Desk, and the woman responsible for his exile to Slough House.
Down the road, a man sat in a car. His hazard lights were flashing, as if to indicate a temporary, unwilled stop, and he was talking on his phone, or seemed to be. His lips were moving; the phone was near his mouth. Even so, his presence earned a tap on the window.
He flipped a switch, and the glass rolled down.
“Can I ask if you’re going to be long, sir?”
This from a handy-looking gent in an overcoat. The man said, “’Scuse one sec,” into his phone, securing it between chin and shoulder while he produced an ID card which he flashed at the intruder with something between a squint and a smile:
Out loud, the man in the car said, “And don’t you just feel like you’ve had a narrow escape, buddy? One of you Dogs gets a long hard look at a CIA pass, the next words you hear are usually ‘black, two sugars.’”
This might have earned a chuckle if there’d been anyone on the other end of the phone.
He carried on chatting to nobody while a limo pulled onto the chapel’s drive: long, black, funeral issue, fuck knows why. You might as well turn up in a clown car, have everyone tumble out in a heap. Make no difference to the dead. But instead, from the back of this limo emerged a woman; from the far side, a man.
That the American could identify both should have been a problem, but the people it should have been a problem for were happy with a squint and a smile and a fake ID. The pair from the limo disappeared from view. Another car was arriving; there’d be a fleet of the damn things soon. He wondered how many of their occupants felt genuine stirrings of sorrow. Let’s face it, an ancient spook like David Cartwright, if people had the nerve to offer the tribute he deserved, as many would be taking a leak on his coffin as removing their hats. You didn’t end a life on Spook Street without more enemies than friends; not if you’d done things properly. On the other hand, Cartwright was a legend, and it’s always sad when legends die. It underlines the fact that shit like death can happen to anyone.
