‘Yes, that was certainly the intention. But the coffin never got here. The last time its presence was officially on record, it was in Calais — and no one knows where it is now.’
‘But that’s awful!’ Patterson said.
‘It’s devastating,’ Fortesque corrected him. ‘Devastating — but not entirely surprising. I have fought in more wars than I care to remember, and in all of them I have seen calm military order on the surface — and chaos beneath it. And where there is chaos, things go wrong.’
‘Is there any chance the coffin will eventually turn up?’
‘I have asked the army commander in Calais to do all he can to find the poor boy, but I do not have high expectations of success.’ The General took a wheezing breath. ‘You said you had some questions you wanted to put to me.’
‘Yes, sir. I’d like to ask you about three of your grandson’s friends — Lieutenants Soames, Hatfield and Maude.’
For a few moments the old man was silent, then he said, ‘I am correct in assuming that you’re not merely Sam Blackstone’s assistant, but his right-hand man — someone he relies on completely?’
Patterson shrugged his beefy shoulders. ‘That’s what he tells me.’
‘In that case, he must see a great deal in you which is not apparent to the naked eye,’ the General said.
Patterson grinned. ‘I’m being tested, aren’t I?’
‘Are you?’ Fortesque asked, non-committally.
‘I think so. I’ve just asked a question about a charmed circle to which you belong — and I so obviously don’t — and that rang alarm bells.’
‘Go on,’ Fortesque encouraged.
‘It’s not the done thing for someone like you to talk about your own class to anyone who is not a member of it. In fact, it’s tantamount to being an act of treason, and you’d never normally even consider it. However, these are not normal circumstances, so you’re prepared to make an exception — but first you need to make sure I’m worthy of your trust. Hence the test.’
‘Let us say you’re right, and it is a test,’ the General conceded. ‘What do you think would be the correct way for you to respond to my comment?’
‘To your insult, you mean,’ Patterson corrected him. ‘It was more of an insult than a comment, wasn’t it?’
‘To my insult, then,’ the General agreed.
‘There isn’t one correct way to respond,’ Patterson said, ‘but there are several incorrect ways. If, for example, I stormed out, I would clearly not be the kind of person you wished to confide in. Equally, if I pretended not to notice — or even worse, accepted the insult in good part — you would have no confidence in me at all.’
The General smiled weakly. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Now tell me more about Sam Blackstone.’
‘Is this still part of the test?’
‘You know it is.’
‘I admire him more than any other man I’ve ever met,’ Patterson said seriously. ‘He’s got more brains than the whole of the Yard’s top brass combined. He’s loyal, fair-minded and fearless.’
‘And if he’d been born into a more privileged position in society — as I was, and the three lieutenants were — he would have been prime minister by now?’ the General suggested.
‘No,’ Patterson said. ‘There’d have been no chance of that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because Sam does what he thinks is right, and if other people choose to follow his lead, that’s fine with him. But if they don’t choose to follow, he doesn’t give a hang. And that’s not the kind of attitude which will help you towards becoming a prime minister — or a general, for that matter.’
Fortesque nodded. ‘You’ve almost convinced me of your suitability. Just tell me one more thing about him which shows that you’re as good a judge of character as I am, and I think I’ll be able to trust you.’
‘I’m more than content with my life,’ Patterson said. ‘I’ve got my skinny little wife and my three chubby little kids, and that’s all I want.’
‘Whereas Blackstone. .?’
‘Whereas Sam simply won’t settle for contentment. He wants total and complete happiness or nothing.’
‘And has he found that happiness?’ the General asked quizzically.
‘Of course not!’ Patterson said. ‘No man ever has, and no man ever will. And Sam’s not a fool — he knows that better than anyone. But if he can’t be happy, then at least he wants to be useful — he wants to ease a few burdens and see a little more fairness in the world. I think that’s why he’s a policeman.’
‘You’re a remarkable young man,’ the General said.
Patterson grinned again. ‘With all due respect to you, General, you know that’s not true,’ he said. ‘I’m no more than a reasonably competent middle-aged man,’ he said.
‘So you are,’ the General agreed. ‘Help me to my feet, please, Sergeant. My old bones are having one of their better days, and I would rather like to take a small turn around the gardens.’
THIRTEEN
When Blackstone had started out from St Denis that morning, his ankle had hurt like the devil, but the closer he got to the front line, the more the pain had seemed to ease, and now that he was in the communications trench, it was hardly bothering him at all.
The trench was just deep enough to ensure that a German sniper wouldn’t take the top off his head as he walked along it, just wide enough for him to be able to touch both sides of it with his outstretched arms, and though — when men or materiel were being moved — it could be as crowded as Piccadilly Circus at noon, he now had it all to himself.
He had just stopped to light a cigarette when the explosion came. The sound was muffled — no louder than he might have made by dropping a book on the floor — but from the way in which the walls of the trench shook, it was clear to him that if he’d been much closer, the noise would have been ear-shattering.
He could have turned around then — could have avoided the horror which he was almost certain would lie ahead — but his life had never been about running away, and after taking a puff of his cigarette, he continued his journey.
He reached the end of the communication trench, and stepped into a modern version of hell.
The shell had landed squarely in the fire trench, gouging a huge hole in the back wall, destroying some of the heavy sandbags, and sending others flying. Huge boulders of clayey earth were strewn on the duckboards, as if flung there by an angry giant, and the stretcher parties were having to struggle around them in order to get the groaning, wounded men to the nearest dressing station.
The whole trench stank of cordite and blood. A number of men who had been far enough away from the explosion to avoid injury sat on the ground, their faces blank, their minds disengaged. Others had manic grins on their faces, and one — a blond-haired boy with a thin pale face — was sobbing uncontrollably.
A bloodied corpse lay in Blackstone’s path, its face a mishmash of muscle and bone, and its right arm missing. He stepped around it, wishing there was something he could do — and knowing there wasn’t.
Further down the trench, a sergeant blew his whistle loudly.
‘Come on, you lads, snap out of it!’ he bellowed. ‘That was unlucky, I’ll grant you — but we can’t leave the trench like this.’
Slowly, the men rose to their feet, and made their way towards where the sergeant was standing.
‘That’s it, lads,’ the sergeant shouted encouragingly. ‘Look lively, and we’ll soon have it fixed.’
Like zombies, the men reached for the picks and shovels they would need to repair the trench.
The sergeant saw Blackstone looking at him.
‘It happens!’ he said aggressively, as if he had read criticism in the other man’s expression. ‘It bloody happens, whether we like it or not — and we just have to bloody carry on!’
Blackstone nodded, agreeing silently that, yes, it did happen, and, yes, they just had to bloody carry on.
He turned slightly, and saw the missing arm of the dead soldier, lying lonely on top of a wall of sandbags. He wondered if, amid this chaos, it would eventually be buried with his owner.