The Walking Dead

If she had not made the arrangements, the gathering would not have happened; he owed it to her to be there — it was a son's loyalty. But the family had long split, he knew no one, and he had been by far the youngest in the chapel and was now in the garden room. He hovered a half-step behind his mother, as if he needed to guard her and she was his Principal. It was his way, not purposely but from instinct and training, to watch over her; it was unlikely that he realized his gaze played over the faces of the elderly who murmured quietly as though one of them, in a best but now poorly fitting dark suit, might threaten her. She had never remarried after his father had died and he tried to see her as often as work permitted, but it was not often enough. She lived a hundred miles from London on the Somerset and Wiltshire borders and he was locked into a life in the capital. For the last three and a half years men of his professional skills had been larded with overtime requirements and extra duties.

He was a detective constable, an authorized firearms officer, in demand to the extent that most evenings he went back to his bedsit in a west London attic reeling from exhaustion. But he tried, moving in her wake, to smile with warmth when he was introduced to distant relations of whom he had heard vaguely but never met. He shook hands, was careful not to squeeze hard and heartily on skeletal fingers. The talk drifted around him but he heard little of it. His mind was away, the funeral of Enid Darke subsumed by thoughts of where he would be that evening and the previous day's briefing on the risk to the Principal posed by the man's presence in the capital on a three-day visit.

An old man came to his mother's side — and it was the policeman's reflex that he stiffened because a stranger had approached her. Banks ground his fingernails into the palm of his hand as if that might relax him.

He could not hear them but sensed the earnestness of the man's words to his mother, and she had leaned closer to hear better. Nor could he see what was passed from the jacket pocket into his mother's grasp. The man did not draw breath, and talked with a faint, whistling reediness. And then he was gone, tottering in the direction of the bar and the steward, and Banks saw him grapple shakily with a further schooner of sherry. His mother held what she had been given in both hands, turned to her son and grimaced.

'What was all that about?' He spoke from the side of his mouth, his eyes roving again.

Her voice was low, confidential and conspiratorial. 'Rather interesting, actually. His name's Wilfred Perry. He lived next door to Great-aunt Enid in some ghastly tower block in east London — he's still there. Eight months ago, or whenever she was moved out and taken to the nursing-home, she knocked on his door early in the morning. She couldn't look after herself any more and needed care. She told him that she had only one item that was precious and she wanted it taken care of, then passed on in the family. She gave it to Mr Perry — why not to one of her family he doesn't know, and I don't. If he'd fallen off the twig before she did, God knows what would have happened to it. Anyway, I've got it. But it's for you — why you? Someone must have told him that you were family, but also that you were a policeman.'

She passed her son a small leather-covered notebook.

He took it. 'What am I supposed to do with it?'

'Read it, I suppose, and keep it. It's family and it's history, so he said — and Great-aunt Enid had made him promise that it would be given to the younger generation of the family. He's done that, fulfilled his obligation.'

The leather had been black once. It had long lost any lustre, was chipped at the edges; across the open side of it a dark stain had smeared down and on to the paper sheets. An elastic band, wound over it twice, held it together. He peered at it and saw the faintness of what had once been gold-embossed lettering. 'So, who was Cecil Darke?'

'According to Mr Perry, Cecil was Great-aunt Enid's elder brother. Sorry, David, I haven't heard of him. She gave it to Mr Perry with that elastic band round it, and he never opened it, never looked to see what was inside.'

Banks saw, across the garden room, that Wilfred Perry — the man who had kept a promise — had set his empty schooner back on the steward's table, and was reaching for another, which was filled. He looked at his watch. 'I have to go, Mum, in a couple of minutes. You'll get a taxi? It's something I can't be late for.'

'You'd better open it, David. I mean, on her funeral day, you should see what was important to her.'

'Yes, Mum — but I can't hang about.'