‘I haven’t been all that good at keeping up,’ he explained, as if the broad, gutless smile which accompanied the remark would in some way make up for this. ‘Rather abnegated my godfatherly responsibilities, I’m afraid.’
The service had been arranged jointly by Jock McCreery, his father’s oldest friend from his days in MI6, and Mark, who had flown back from Moscow immediately. Ben had had little input: he had been too busy dealing with the police. This had left him with little opportunity to talk to his brother, and the two hours that it took them to drive against the morning rush hour to Guildford was the longest period of time they had spent together since Keen’s murder.
Alice sat in the back seat, fielding calls from the features desk on her mobile phone. To every member of staff she said the same thing — ‘I have to go to a funeral. Don’t worry. I’m meeting him this evening. I’ll ring you as soon as I get back’ — until Mark’s patience finally snapped and he told her to switch it off. For days they had existed in an atmosphere of stunned upheaval. In the hours leading up to Carolyn’s burial an odd kind of order had asserted itself, an innate knowledge of how to proceed. But this was quite different: there was no template for their situation.
The crematorium car park was already full, with only two or three spaces remaining by the time Mark pulled in. An elderly man and woman, dressed in what looked like their Sunday best, were eating sandwiches from the open boot of a Vauxhall Astra, blue plastic mugs of tea resting on the bumper. Ben held Alice’s hand as they walked slowly towards a low building with an emerald green roof surrounded by carefully tended lawns. McCreery, his black tie whipped up over his shoulder by a strong winter wind, strode out to meet them at a military clip.
‘Mark,’ he said, pumping his hand. He had an instantly forgettable face. ‘And you must be Benjamin. I’m so sorry about what’s happened. And Alice. How good to see you. They say it’ll just be a few minutes.’ There were two small waiting rooms on either side of the entrance to the main chapel building. Both were crammed with people, separate groups of mourners attending different services. Keen’s relatives and friends had gathered in the left-hand area in a room no bigger than a badminton court. Facing them, down a narrow corridor, a cluster of men and women, many of whom were weeping, were being spoken to in hushed tones by an undertaker with a practised face of condolence.
It was winter, but the waiting area was very hot. A service was being held in the chapel and the quiet melody of ‘Abide With Me’ fed into the narrow corridor, barely accompanied by singing. Two of Ben’s friends — Joe and Natalie — had offered to come with him as a gesture of support, and he regretted now that he had told them not to bother. Just to have someone to talkto, a familiar face other than Mark or Alice, would have consoled him slightly, given him someone to rely on.
‘May I introduce Christopher’s sons, Benjamin and Mark?’ McCreery was saying. His demeanour managed to combine an almost stately dignity with a concealed sense that he had more pressing matters at hand. ‘And Benjamin’s wife, Alice.’
McCreery had led them towards a group of five men, all of whom were in late middle-age and seemed, by their relaxed and close proximity, to have known one another for some time. Ben assumed they were Foreign Office, probably SIS, and felt an immediate antipathy towards all of them. As the handshakes flowed he noticed the tallest of the five men staring too long at Alice, his eyes drifting steadily towards her breasts, and he almost lashed out in frustration. He had experienced this so many times before, just walking beside her on the street or at parties for the Standard, men with tired marriages and Alice that friend of their daughter’s they’d always wanted to fuck. But at a funeral? Doesn’t it stop even then? Instead he deliberately caught the man’s eye and stared him down.
Beside him someone with a beard was saying, ‘I knew your father for many years. Liked him a lot. I’m so sorry for what’s happened.’
‘Thank you,’ Mark told him.
Someone else asked, ‘Have there been any developments with the police?’ as if he were enquiring after the time.
‘Not really,’ Mark said. ‘There was nothing stolen from the flat, so they’re assuming it was premeditated. None of the neighbours have been able to come up with anything. Ben knows more about it than I do. He’s been under a lot of pressure.’
Five pairs of eyes settled on Mark’s dishevelled, self-evidently artistic younger brother as if to weigh up the veracity of this observation. The man standing nearest him said, ‘I’m sure,’ a remark which sounded unconvincing. Ben felt an obligation to say something, but was sapped of will. Then the tall man who had eyeballed Alice moved fractionally forward, smoothed down his hair and said, ‘Have you found the police helpful?’ His voice was candid and precise. ‘We were all of us in the Foreign Office, you know. I’d be only too glad to put you in touch with various people who might be able to give you a clearer picture of what steps are being taken to — ’
‘No,’ Ben told him, staring at the ground. He wanted to pull away the mask of their feigned concern. ‘The police have been fine. They’re just doing their job. We have a Family Liaison Officer assigned to the case…’ he nearly lost his train of thought ‘… and she acts as our contact with the police. That’s all working out as well as we could have hoped.’
Then, to his relief, the doors of the chapel opened and around a dozen mourners emerged into the corridor, some dabbing their eyes with handkerchiefs, others supporting them as they walked outside into the dull light of late morning. Undertakers moved silently between the rooms, holding doors and nodding humbly as torpid organ music held in the air.
‘I think we’re next,’ Mark said, and Ben squeezed the slight bones of Alice’s hand. He had a feeling in his stomach like a stone resting on his soul.
‘Yes,’ said one of the men, touching the knot of his tie. ‘The service was scheduled to begin fifteen minutes ago.’
You got something else you’d rather be doing? Ben was on the point of erupting, but checked his temper and glanced at Mark. His brother looked suddenly buckled by grief, his back slumped like an old man. McCreery appeared beside him.
‘You all right, fella?’ he asked, a consoling arm on Mark’s shoulder.
‘Oh, sure,’ Mark told him, straightening up. He could put on a good show when he needed to. ‘Sorry, Jock,’ he said. ‘I just wandered off there for a second.’
‘No problem,’ McCreery said. ‘No problem,’ and they moved towards the chapel.
Two undertakers were handing out service sheets on the door, their heads deferentially bowed. Ahead of them, to one side of the altar and resting on a raised platform at the mouth of what Ben took to be an incinerator, lay Keen’s coffin. Mark had picked it out, without asking for Ben’s approval, but he saw that he had made a good choice. Simple pale wood with a single bouquet of flowers resting on the lid. Yet the sight of it appalled him, bringing home all the finality of the act. His father’s contradictions, all the pain that he had caused, an unknown life just lying sealed up in a box.
‘You OK?’ Alice whispered, and he was grateful for her, for the simple beauty of her face and the comfort that it gave.
‘Sure,’ he replied. ‘We should just keep an eye on brother.’
And they took their seats in the front row. Everything was moving smoothly. Ben heard the door closing quietly behind them, sealing in the chapel’s disinfectant smell, then he leaned forward at the pew and pretended to pray.
20
Jock McCreery’s house was situated fifteen miles south of the crematorium along a narrow country lane. A faint drizzle had begun falling by the time Ben and Alice arrived. The gravel drive leading up to the house was already packed with cars, some banked up on to the edges of a damp lawn churned with mud and leaves, others parked in a small courtyard at the back of the property. Mark had offered to go in a separate car with three of Keen’s colleagues from Divisar, in order to show them the way.
Sandwiches cut into white, crustless triangles had been laid out on a table in the sitting room alongside bottles of wine, malt whisky and mineral water. McCreery’s wife, Gillian, a rotund woman in her late fifties wearing a baggy skirt and a necklace of fat, artificial pearls, made a point of introducing Ben, Mark and Alice to a constant stream of guests whose names they instantly forgot. The atmosphere in the house was one of nervous civility:
