And now they were outside, and the coffin being lowered into the ground. There was a good crowd, thirty or more; many of them unknown to him. He expected their names would strike bells though; among them some who had figured in the O.B.’s tales; stories of labyrinthine deviousness; of actions carried out to convince others that certain knowledge was in our possession, or not in our possession; that certain facts held sway, or never had. A wilderness of mirrors, the land of spooks. Nothing you saw meant what it seemed, apart from those times when it did. Telling the two apart was the tricky bit. Knowing which was real, which the reflection.
Ashes to ashes.
Diana Taverner had nodded at him; had switched her phone to silent as a mark of respect, and hadn’t sent more than three emails since the service began. Jackson, too, was uncharacteristically restrained, meaning he hadn’t started a brawl yet. He’d subjected Isobel to one of his visual audits, though: a frank appraisal which in some men might have indicated sexual interest, but with Lamb, thank God, was transgressive in a different way: he was measuring her like a joe does a contact, wondering if she could be trusted. River could have saved him the effort. The coffin touched earth, and the world blurred. That was it, then. He raised his eyes skyward to a mass of cloud, then turned to his mother again, who didn’t look back; he blinked twice, then saw in the far corner of the graveyard a leafless tree sheltering a bench, and a figure upon it, watching him.
He blinked a third time, but the figure didn’t disappear.
It was Frank Harkness.
“Okay, so he didn’t jump in the grave,” Lamb said later. “But, you know. Next best thing.”
Which was that River had leaped over it, scattering those on the other side, who included Lady Di, Oliver Nash, the vicar, and an elderly woman who, it turned out, had been one of the O.B.’s neighbours, and under the impression that David Cartwright had been a big wheel in the Department of Transport. Given that, she handled it rather well; better, anyway, than Nash, who windmilled backwards before falling over a headstone. River was history by then; had vanished round the far side of St. Len’s, giving chase.
“Dear God,” Catherine said.
Louisa appeared at her side. “Was that who I think it was?”
“I didn’t get a good look. You’re not going to follow?”
“In these heels?”
Lamb said, “Well, supercalifragilisticfuckmealadocious. And people say funerals are glum affairs.” He slotted a cigarette into his mouth.
Alone among the company, Isobel Cartwright seemed unaffected. She remained standing by the grave with her head bowed, her eyes closed. Those around her shifted away a little. This specific situation might not be covered in etiquette manuals, but common sense suggested breathing space.
With Diana Taverner conducting operations, and a fresh-faced Dog taking an arm apiece, Oliver Nash rose from the grave. Not his own, but even a resurrection by proxy must feel like a second chance. “I thought mourners were supposed to rend their own garments,” he snapped. He freed his arms from his helpers’ grip and bent to check a split seam. “Not bystanders.’”
Taverner came to join Lamb. When she spoke, her lips hardly moved. “Why do I sense your hand in this?”
Lamb saw no reason to adjust his volume. “Because you have a nasty fucking mind?”
“One of your crew just made a circus out of a Service funeral. Why would he do that?”
“I wouldn’t rule out instructions in the will.” Lamb lit his cigarette: decorum had clearly sailed. “The old bastard had a sense of humour, after all.”
“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.”
