“Was he there the whole time?”
“He was behind the tree to start with. I assumed he was having a piss. Not everyone treats sanctified ground with respect.” He belched smoke. “That was before I clocked who it was.”
The tree was fifty yards away, and the figure had been wearing a cap pulled low. It was easy to forget that Lamb hadn’t always occupied an office, with the blind down.
“Someone should go after River.”
“And spoil his fun?”
Catherine thought: the last time they met, River’s father had dropped him in the Thames. Any reunion they were having wouldn’t involve hugs and tears.
Oliver Nash was smoothing things over with the vicar; something about the stresses and pressures of spook life. Nash would know about such things. He had the figure of a man who watched a lot of TV.
Louisa said, “Why do you think he came? He must have known he’d not be welcome.”
“If Frank Harkness only went places he was welcome,” said Lamb, “he’d have the social life of Julian Assange.”
“He had history with David Cartwright,” said Catherine. “Is it so strange he’d want to see him buried?”
“Yes.”
“Not to mention Isobel. Maybe he wanted to see her again. I’m talking about human responses here. I appreciate that it must sound like Mandarin to you.”
Lamb replied with a mellifluous jangle of syllables, then tossed his cigarette away. It bounced off a nearby headstone, and dropped into a tin pot. “That’s the only Mandarin I know,” he said. “And if the answer’s more than twenty quid, you’ve priced yourself out of the market.”
Calling Lamb’s bluff would be a full-time occupation, and unlikely to pay off in the long run.
Catherine said, “And then there’s River.”
“Who wants to kill him,” Louisa said.
“And who has a tendency to walk into a trap when one’s offered.”
“Except when he runs,” said Louisa.
Lamb said, “If Harkness wanted to set a trap for River, he’d not have picked a public occasion. He might be a show-off, but he’s a professional and values his skin. No, he was here for something else, and given his track record, we should probably be bothered by that.”
“Maybe River will catch him and make him tell,” said Louisa.
“Yeah,” said Lamb. “And we can all live happily ever after.”
Louisa looked to the corner around which River had vanished. “I wish I’d worn different shoes,” she said.
“Imagine how I feel,” said Lamb, rummaging for another cigarette.
Harkness was still rounding the chapel when the Dog who’d approached him earlier stepped into his path. The movement the American made might have been interpreted as reaching for his credentials, though in fact he was positioning his elbow to jam into the Dog’s throat. He didn’t make clean contact, but the beauty of brute force is, you don’t have to. The Dog dropped like an autumn apple, and Harkness was round front of St. Len’s, skirting its high hedge, then on the street again, heading for his car.
It had been bad tradecraft, but hell: watching his son help shoulder his grandfather’s coffin was circle of life stuff. Last time he’d seen River the boy had been a mess, but not giving an inch—there was a steel core there. If he’d been in Frank’s keeping he’d have been something to see by now, and who knew what the future held? But there’d need to be drastic changes first. Step one was River leaving Slough House, and putting that loser crap behind him. Then Frank would be waiting, ready to show him step two. He was nearly at his car now, had unlocked it on the move, so was perfectly placed to half-turn and crouch just as his son reached him, full tilt; nearly soundlessly but
For a second they were staring into each other’s eyes, father and son. He’d been right about the steel core. Either that, or River was a fucking nutcase. Then he slammed on the brakes, just before the junction, and a passing car screamed its head off as River tumbled onto the road.
