by Mick Herron
“France? He can’t have gone to France!”
“It’s not far. He’ll be back soon.”
“No no no.” He’d grown agitated. “France. Out of the question.”
“It’s not dangerous, David. It’s only over the channel.”
But he wasn’t convinced. He began to mutter to himself, nothing she could make sense of, and to distance herself from it, she went to the window. Still the same bleak January, under the same grey canopy of sky. A car was pulling up, slipping into the residents’ parking area, though it wasn’t a familiar vehicle. The woman who emerged was a glacially beautiful blonde in a black suit. It might have been Catherine’s Service instincts; might have been her drunk’s paranoia. Either way, bells rang loud and clear.
She said, “Perhaps we should get you out of the way, David.”
•••
River had half-expected a hut constructed from fallen branches and moss, but after ten minutes Victor, as his name turned out to be, led him out of the woods and onto a road, and soon after that they were turning down a lane towards a row of modern cottages, with breezeblock walls and aluminium window frames. Rain was pelting down now. While he waited for Victor to unlock the door, River looked down the valley towards Angevin, and its bridge, its church tower, the houses climbing its small collection of streets, all seemed to have huddled closer for shelter. From this perspective it was clear that Les Arbres hadn’t been part of the village at all. Not even an outpost, but a walled-off enclave. Whatever had gone on there would have been gossiped about in the bars, but the reality would have been as solid and graspable as the smoke Les Arbres had become.
Victor had had trouble with River’s name. “This is what you are called?”
“I’m afraid so. I mean yes. Yes, River.”
Victor didn’t actually say Bof, but it was clearly implied.
The house was small, but untidy. A portable TV occupied a low table in the centre of the sitting room, and magazines, mostly TV schedules, were scattered about. An overflowing ashtray sat next to an overflowing ashtray, and most other surfaces displayed bruised-looking ornaments: plaster figurines of what were probably saints, though might have been sinners; a number of glass animals. One corner was given over to outdoor equipment: rubber boots, fishing poles, a variety of nets and snares. Victor carefully laid his waterproof over these, sneaking a sly glance River’s way as he did so. River thought he could smell a cat, but it was hard to tell. Perhaps Victor had been smoking one. He took his own jacket off, more for politeness than anything else. It didn’t feel much less damp in here than outside.
Victor deposited the morning’s spoils on the kitchen counter, next to a handy array of knives and cleavers.
“I make tea.”
“Do you have coffee?” said River.
“Tea. You are English.”
“Thank you,” River said. He wasn’t much of a tea drinker, but that didn’t sound like it would lend itself to straightforward translation.
They drank tea in the small kitchen while rain battered the windows, and the dead rabbit stared reproachfully at River, and Victor smoked a succession of hand-rolled cigarettes, each no fatter than the matches he used to light them.
“You know Les Arbres?” he asked.
“I was looking for someone. Bertrand?”
“A young man, he look like you. I think that was his name, yes.”
“Can you tell me anything about him?”
“Tell you about your friend?”
“I didn’t really know him,” River said.
“You are cousins, maybe?”
“We might have been,” River said, thinking this would make things simpler: a man seeking his long-lost cousin.
“Les Arbres, there were people there. Eighteen, twenty? A number like that. All of them men.”
“How long had they been there?”
“Many many years. Vingt-trois, vingt-quatre.”
“So . . . ” River thought of the dead man on the bathroom floor, whose passport claimed him twenty-eight. “Were there children?”
“At one time, I think. Then not.” Victor placed a level palm two feet from the floor, then slowly moved it upwards. “You know?”
Children grew.
The man in the café had spoken of a commune, but Victor thought there had been no women there. Didn’t sound like much of a commune to River, who was pretty sure the concept involved sex. An all-male community didn’t rule that out, of course, but the presence of children cast a disturbing light. But what would that have to do with a murder attempt on his grandfather? He said, “Were they French?”
Victor shrugged. “French, yes. But Russian too, I think, or Czech. An American. Maybe some English. They did not mix in the village.”
“But went to the café sometimes? Le Ciel Blue?”
“Sometimes, bien sur. There is the marché, the market. People stop at the café afterwards. It is natural.”
“Who was their leader, do you know?”
“Leader?”
“Somebody must have been in charge.”
“I do not know about leaders. Probably they were communiste. All equal, you know?”
“And what about the fire? Does anyone know how that started?”
“The fire, it was deliberate. They are all gone, and then it burns.”
“At the same time?”
“On the same day, yes. In the afternoon, their cars, they leave towards Poitiers. And soon after, the fire starts. There is much activity, many fire trucks, lots of noise.”
River half-wanted to know what colour the fire engines were.
“Maybe the police look for them now,” Victor went on. “I expect this is so. But your cousin, he did not die in the fire.”
No, he died of a bullet in the face, River didn’t reply. He said, “It’s strange, that they lived for so long so near the village, and nobody seems to know anything about them.”
“Maybe we were curious, years ago. But time passes, yes? And you forget to be curious. It is just Les Arbres.”
He rose suddenly, and examined his rabbit. The rain was still beating down, but River thought it was time he made a move. He stood too. “You’ve been very kind, Victor,” he said. “Tres gentil. Merci.”
“De rien.” He chose a knife, and gestured with it at the rabbit, then at River. “You can stay, no? He will taste good.”
“Thank you, but no.”
“It is not all tea. There is wine.”
“It sounds excellent, really. But I’d better head back to Poitiers.”
“As you wish.” With a flash of his wrist Victor buried the blade in the rabbit’s corpse, and a moment later seemed to turn the animal inside out, peeling its skin off as if it were a glove. A flake of ash dropped from his roll-up onto the naked meat, and he scraped it away with the knife. “Maybe there is someone else. Who knows Les Arbres.”
“Really?”
“She is not living at Angevin. Is from next village. I write you address.”
“Who is she?” River asked.
“She is nice lady. Was prostitute, yes? Whore. But nice lady.”
Leaving the knife in the rabbit, Victor found a ballpoint pen and laboriously wrote out, in the margin of an ancient magazine, instructions for River to follow: another road, another few miles, some turnings, a house, Natasha.
“Nice flat.”
“Thank you.”
“Quiet area, too. And you’re a reader.” Emma Flyte nodded at Catherine’s bookshelves. “Nothing spoils a good book faster than a lot of background noise.”
“Unless it’s unwelcome visitors,” Catherine said.
Emma nodded, as if they’d found common ground. Checking up on Jackson Lamb’s known associates had been illuminating only inasmuch as it had revealed how carefully he avoided having any. She’d had to
fall back on colleagues, and Catherine Standish had struck her as interesting. For reasons that would no doubt come up soon.
Her scrutiny of the living room over, she said, “Do you see much of your former colleagues?”
“I don’t see much of anyone.”
“And why’s that?”
“When you’re having sex,” Catherine asked, “do you prefer to be on top?”
Emma raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, sorry. I assumed it was my turn to ask an impertinent question.”
“There’s a reason I’m here.”
“You’re not about to produce a religious tract, are you? Because my neighbour Deirdre’s a much better bet.”
“If I had a suspicious mind,” Emma said, “—which I do, by the way—I’d be asking myself why you’re avoiding answering questions.”
“Oooh, I’m not sure,” said Catherine. “Something to do with resenting the unwarranted intrusion, perhaps?”
“‘Unwarranted,’” repeated Emma, nodding. “I see what you did there.”
“I could tell you were sharp.”
“Only you haven’t thought that one through. You’re still a member of the Service, Ms. Standish, which means you’re subject to my jurisdiction. Which means I don’t need a warrant.”
“Except I resigned some while ago.”
“Mmm, yes, not exactly. You handed in your resignation. The paperwork seems to have stalled, though. Remind me, are you still receiving a salary?”
Which was the point of interest, of course. Ms. Standish’s peculiarly free-floating status as regarded Slough House.
Catherine said, “Receiving. Not spending.”
“Yes, I think we’ll save that one for the inquiry. Meanwhile, you’re on the books, you’ll answer my questions. All clear so far?”
“It sounds like it will have to be.”
“Good. River Cartwright. When was the last time you had contact?”
“Just before Christmas. He sent me a text.”
“What did it say?”
“‘Merry. Christmas,’”Catherine said slowly.
“And nothing since?”
“I was impressed by that much, if you want the honest truth.”
“Are you aware that Jackson Lamb identified his body last night?”
“I am now.”
“You don’t seem shocked.”
“Little that Jackson Lamb does shocks me any more.”
“I’ve just told you that River Cartwright’s dead. You don’t seem remotely bothered by that.”
“And I’ve just told you that in four months, I’ve had a two-word text from him. It’s not like he’ll leave a huge hole in my life.”
“Or maybe you already know it’s not true.”
“You’re starting to lose me. Which bit’s not true? That he’s dead? Or that he sent me a text?”
“Are we going to play games all morning?”
“I wish I could spare the time,” Catherine said. “But that neighbour I mentioned? I promised I’d drop in on her.”
“Yesterday evening, one of the Cartwrights committed murder,” Emma Flyte said. “Either River or his grandfather. So you’ll understand I’m keen on interviewing both. Have they been here?”
“No.”
“I think you’re lying.”
“Why’s that?” Catherine asked, sounding genuinely interested.
“Because nothing I’ve said has come as a remote surprise to you.”
“Perhaps I’m just unflappable.”
“Or well informed. And if it wasn’t the Cartwrights, it can only be one man.”
“Lamb,” said Catherine.
“Uh-huh. Mr. Lamb. When was he here?”
“First thing.”
“And what did he tell you?”
“Exact words?”
“Please.”
“He said he’d spent the early hours winding up the dyke who’s currently boss of the kennel. And that if she turned up here, I was to waste as much of her time as possible.”
Emma stared.
Catherine said, “I may have skipped the odd f-word. He thinks swearing’s big and clever.”
“What’s he up to, Ms. Standish?”
“He has a joe in the wind, Ms. Flyte. He’ll be up to whatever he thinks necessary.”
“Having one of your team kill someone isn’t the same as having an agent in peril.”
“Well, you’ve met Lamb. He deals in broad strokes.”
Emma kept staring, and Catherine unflinchingly returned her gaze. On the mantelpiece, a carriage clock struck the hour with a tinkly series of notes.
At length, Emma said, “When I find the Cartwrights—and I will—I hope it doesn’t turn out you knew where they were all along.”
Catherine nodded thoughtfully.
In the hallway, by the open front door, Emma Flyte paused. “What’s that noise?”
“I didn’t hear anything,” Catherine said.
“It came from through there. I assume that’s your bedroom.”
“I left my radio on.”
“It didn’t sound like a radio.”
“I promise you it is.”
“So you left the radio on in your bedroom, behind a closed door.”
“It seems that way, doesn’t it?”
“Do you mind if I take a look?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I’ve had more than enough of your company.”
“That’s too bad. Because we already covered the ground rules.”
Closing the front door, Emma stepped across the hallway and into Catherine’s bedroom.
It was dark inside—the curtains still drawn—and a muffled noise was emerging from the shape under the duvet. Emma looked back at Catherine.
Catherine shrugged.
Emma reached out and grasped the hem of the duvet; whipcracked it like a magician removing a tablecloth and let it fall to the floor.
On the bed, Catherine’s radio muttered to itself on its throne of pillows.
“You wouldn’t think so, but it gets great reception that way,” she said.
Two minutes later, she was watching by the window again as Emma Flyte left the building, climbed into her car and drove away.
A minute after that, she was knocking on her neighbour’s door.
“Thanks so much, Deirdre,” she said. “Such short notice, too.”
“Oh, he was no trouble,” Deirdre assured her. “Your colleague gone, has she?”
“Just me again,” said Catherine. “Come on, David. Time to go.”
“I used to live here, didn’t I?” said the O.B.
He was limping badly by the time he arrived, his soaking sock chafing his left foot: he was starting to imagine gangrene. The downpour had once more receded to a steady drizzle. Few cars had passed him, and none had stopped to offer a lift. The tea at Victor’s was a distant memory, and hunger had become a dull ache.
The scrap of paper on which Victor had scribbled an address was his most treasured possession. He barely dared fish it out to check directions, for fear it would dissolve in the wet air.
But River had a memory for figures, for facts, for details, and didn’t need them verified. Eighty minutes after leaving the poacher’s cottage he was in the next village, which had arranged itself along the banks of the same river as Angevin, and boasted similar amenities: a narrow bridge, a sombre church, a ruin perched on a mound. The narrow streets probably allowed for little sunlight even when there was any to speak of, and there were alleyways, harbouring flights of stone steps, every dozen yards or so. Seen from above it no doubt made sense; at ground level it was a confusion of ups and downs, of different ways of getting lost. He navigated through it, though. Ignoring the side streets, he followed t
he main road over the bridge, took the left fork when it divided, and passed a garage on his right. Beyond its forecourt was a row of cottages whose stone faÇades, darkened by rainfall, were a stern grimace only partly belied by their prettily painted doors: red, white, blue. The blue was Natasha’s. River pounded its heavy brass knocker.
He didn’t know what he was expecting. A nice lady. A prostitute, yes, a whore, but a nice lady. So what he was doing now, he supposed, was visiting a prostitute, a phrase with a definite subtext. The nice lady opened the door a long fifteen seconds after he’d knocked. Whatever she’d been about to say short-circuited at the sight of him: instead, she said “Bertrand? Mais non . . . ”
“Non,” River agreed. “Excusez, vous etes Natasha?”
He did not, he realised, have a surname for her.
After a moment, she said, “You are not French.”
“Non,” he agreed again.
“English?”
To admit this in French would be absurd. “Yes,” he said.
“What can I do for you?”
She was, he supposed, in her forties; a handsome, strong-featured woman with dark hair falling loosely around her shoulders, and eyes that seemed black to River. She wore jeans, a man’s blue shirt, and a thick cardigan with a belt whose ends dangled to her thighs. From her expression, he couldn’t tell if she were surprised to see him or simply resigned; as if this were an outcome long in the making.
He said, “I need to know about Les Arbres.”
“It is burned down. It is no more.”
“I know that. But the people there . . . I need to know about them.”
“Who sent you?”
“A man called Victor.”
A gust of wind pushed at his back; slunk between his legs like an unruly dog.
She said, “It is bad here. You should come in.”
So River came out of the cold and the wet, and limped into her story.
Roderick Ho was drinking from a bottle that claimed to hold “smart water,” and Shirley couldn’t work out which annoyed her more: who he was, or what he was drinking. Smart phones, okay, she could see that. Smart cars. Smart water, though, someone was taking the piss.
But she wasn’t going to let him spoil her moment of triumph.
