Frank thought for half a moment about opening the door, letting River climb in. It could be that easy. They could drive off and sort everything out somewhere down the line, this father/son thing they had going on. The main problem was he’d have to batter River into submission first, which would be time-consuming, and besides, there was movement back at the chapel: more Dogs, unless they’d learned their lesson on that score, and sent out the vicar instead. Time to move. All around them cars had stopped, sensing an incident in progress, and a chorus was warming up: the beeping and blaring of confused traffic. River was upright but swaying, and reaching a hand out to bang on the glass, unless he was hoping for support. But more tough love, son: Frank pulled away before River made contact, swerved round the stationary vehicle ahead, and turned right, away from the centre. He’d collected the face he’d needed to see, and if he saw it again, he’d take action.
Meanwhile he’d concentrate on doing what he did best, and disappear.
That afternoon, at Slough House, Lamb held what he insisted on calling a postmortem.
“Get it?” he’d asked Catherine.
Who didn’t bother hiding her sigh. “Can you try using a little tact in front of River?”
“I’m not the one played leapfrog with his dead grandpa.”
The slow horses were trooping up the stairs; those who’d not been at the funeral picking up on the vibe that it hadn’t gone by the book, and even Wicinski, the novice, aware something odd had happened. Less than a week in residence, and that bar was higher by the day.
There wasn’t much room in Lamb’s office, but, as Lamb was fond of pointing out, you didn’t hear him complaining. So they arranged themselves as best they could, while Lamb sprawled in his chair with his feet on his desk. He’d had something involving prawns and rice for lunch, judging by the Rorschach-stains on his shirt, and excavated fugitive scraps from folds and crevices as he spoke. River was his first target. “Great show. Couldn’t have been more fun if you’d booked a stripper. Come to think of it—”
“That was my mother.”
“Pity.” Lamb moulded his findings into something the size of a grape, and levered it into his mouth. “Don’t suppose daddy stopped for a chat on his way out?”
“He was in a bit of a rush.”
Everything had been a rush, in fact, once River had returned from the wars. Those who’d remained at the graveside, nailed in place by embarrassment, waited while the obsequies were completed, and then their exodus was swift and uncomplicated. The look Diana Taverner shot him was almost visibly directed through a sniper’s scope; the now-torn suit she left with, River had identified as Oliver Nash, Chair of Limitations, and thus string-puller-in-chief to the Service as a whole. Well, on paper. But any reality which involved pulling strings and expecting Di Taverner to dance was going to find itself Fake News in a hurry. The chances of Nash winning that contest was on a par with Lamb deciding the morning’s events were best forgotten about.
Speaking of whom, he’d adopted a mournful expression, and looked like a solemn hippo regretting a heavy night. “I mean, I’m not a stickler for manners, fuck knows, but even I wouldn’t turn a sorrowful occasion into a hit-and-run opportunity. Not without serious provocation.”
“Harkness being there was serious provocation,” River said.
“I can see ‘daddy’ might be a stretch,” Lamb said. “But ‘Harkness’?”
“Mr. Harkness.”
Next to River, Lech Wicinski shifted, a man ill at ease. In the cluster by the door, he was the one around whom space had appeared: his history had gone round Slough House swiftly as a diuretic, and no one wanted to get close.
He said, “Do I need to be here for this? I’ve no idea who any of these people are.”
“Somewhere you’d rather be?” Lamb asked. “Knock yourself up.”
“. . . I think you mean out.”
There was an embarrassed pause, broken by River. “He’s suggesting you screw yourself.”
“I’m glad someone’s paying attention,” said Lamb. He shifted to brace an unshod foot against his desk. Experience had determined that this posture increased the volume of his eructations, and the gathered crew hunched, trying to dull their hearing without resorting to fingers in ears, a defensive strategy known to upset Lamb. “What did you have in mind, one of those classes where they address deviant behaviour? Because if you want to go celebrity spotting, do it in your own time. But while you’re in Slough House, you stay where you’re fucking put. Clear?”
He lowered his leg. The fart never came.
As if none of that had happened, Shirley said, “Harkness was there? The one sent the psycho to kill us?”
Still looking at Wicinski, Lamb said, “New viewers start here.”
Shirley said, “He didn’t try to kill anyone this morning, did he?”
She sounded like she’d sulk if he had: another treat missed.
