The figure under the shelter watched them approach. He wore a raincoat, its collar up, but there was something familiar about him, about the way he stood—because this was Frank, of course. His hair thinning; his cheekbones more pronounced; but still tall, fairish, broad-shouldered. Strong and capable. His way of growing older had been to grow more like himself.
As they reached him, he opened his arms. Patrice stepped dutifully into them, and Frank kissed him on one cheek, then on the other. There seemed little affection in the gesture. It was more, River thought, like a general greeting a soldier back from the front.
“I didn’t know you were in England,” Patrice said.
“You didn’t need to know I was in England,” Frank said. He turned to River. “You’re River Cartwright.”
“And you’re Frank. I didn’t get your surname.”
“Harkness. Frank Harkness.”
The accent was American, but with its corners sanded away by European exile.
River said, “Great to have this opportunity to chat. You sent someone to kill my grandfather.”
There were noises from the boat, whose features included a bar; overlapping voices and the tinselly ringing of glasses, mostly muffled by the rain. There was nobody in sight. River could have shouted without risk of being overheard.
To his surprise, Frank laughed.
River said, “You do know what happened, right? To your boy, Bertrand.”
Patrice took a step nearer, like a dog reacting to danger.
“You want to call him off?” River said.
Frank said, “It’s okay, Patrice. He’s got things he needs to say.”
“Why did he have Bertrand’s passport? And he said he was at Les Arbres.”
“There’s nothing to see there,” Frank said. “Not any more.”
“But why—”
“Excuse us,” Frank told River. “This won’t take long.”
It took River a moment to realise he was being asked to give them some privacy.
Well, he couldn’t get wetter.
From the laughably inadequate shelter of a nearby tree, he watched Frank put an arm round Patrice’s shoulder, and lean close. Whatever instruction or advice he was offering demanded intimacy . . . Water snaked down River’s back, throwing an uncontrollable shiver into him; a full-body spasm. How long had today gone on for? It had already been old when he’d arrived at his grandfather’s to find the body in the bathroom. How much longer, and what would happen yet?
Then Frank kissed Patrice again, and stepped back.
When Patrice approached River, he tensed, wondering if he’d just witnessed a Godfather moment; the older man explaining to the younger why he, River, had to die. But instead Patrice paused, then leaned forward, hands in pockets, and kissed River on the cheek. One cheek only.
He said, “We will speak again soon.”
Then he walked back the way they’d come; just a man hurrying through the rain, eager for the next place of shelter.
“Sorry about that,” Frank said. “Patrice, he’s a little confused right now.” He produced a pack of cigarettes, and offered them to River, who shook his head. Frank used a lighter, and the space filled with blue French smoke. “On account of your grandfather killing his best friend.”
“And your son.”
“Uh-huh.” He might have been acknowledging a vaguer relationship. Someone he shared a lift with once, perhaps. “I can’t believe he let that old bastard get the better of him. It’s like, lesson one. Don’t let your guard down just because the target appears harmless.”
River said, “The
“I hadn’t forgotten.”
River wanted to punch the cigarette clean out of his mouth. Break his nose, black his eyes, watch him crumple in the rain. But instead of using his fists he said, “I shot your son’s corpse in the face. To mess up the forensics. I thought it might buy us twenty minutes.”
“His name was Bertrand.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should,” said Frank. “He was your brother. It’s good to see you, son. How’ve you been?”
Taverner disconnected and said: “I swear to God, I sometimes think I’m the only thing standing between this place and total chaos.”
Claude Whelan looked up from his laptop. Four viewings of the YouTube video now, and any further information it held wasn’t going to reveal itself on a fifth. The young man who’d brought it to Diana’s office had assured them it was being assessed by experts, its every pixel weighed and measured. Whether any knowledge thus acquired would help save Claude’s bacon, or ensure it was served extra crispy, would no doubt become clear in its own sweet time.
Diana said, “The other man in the car—the one who was using the Lockhead property—Flyte says it was River Cartwright.”
For a moment, Whelan’s mind didn’t bother taking this in. Then he said, “River Cartwright? He was supposed to be dead. What’s he doing with a cold body passport?”
“Let me think.”
