Эдвард Докс - Pravda ['Self Help' in the UK]

“Thank you.”

Gabriel presented himself and said, “We thought coffee, but please, feel free to—”

“Coffee is fine.”

The barman nodded and they went back to Gabriel’s table and sat down, Isabella taking the chair opposite Avery.

“Thank you so much for coming over here tonight—it’s very kind of you,” she said.

“No, not at all.”

Almost businesslike, she opened her bag for pen and notebook. She was conscious that this was overdoing it but could not stop herself. Since she had taken Gabriel’s call outside the Angelika, a renegade part of her had been noticing the increase in unintentional words, involuntary actions. “We were only now saying how grateful we are for your help. Thank you so much for coming out.”

“It’s the least I could do.”

“I’ve only just arrived from the airport, I’m afraid, so we haven’t really had a chance to catch up. And we’re both pretty much at sea. With more or less everything we need to be doing…”

“Of course.” Perhaps taking his cue from Isabella’s pad, Avery adopted an air of quiet professional practicality, leaning forward a little, small hands joined, fingers loosely knitted, thumbs pointing toward the mirrored ceiling. “Okay. Well, first of all, the good news is that we have managed to jump the cemetery queue and short-cut some of the other bureaucracy—with the kind help of your father. Your mother can be buried at the Smolensky graveyard on Vasilevsky, which is, I understand, in accordance with her wishes. That’s official as of close of play today.”

Without needing to look over at him, Isabella felt the entire force field of her brother’s attention change direction. So now she spoke quickly, fearful of what he might say if she did not. “Sorry, I’m totally behind here. I live in New York.” This was also unnecessary, but she felt the need to invoke the strength somehow resident in the city’s name.

Avery had a way of moving his head from one side to the other every so often, as if he were required to hear things with each of his ears in turn in order to quite believe them.

“I’ve been on flights for the last God knows how long,” she explained. “And I haven’t had a chance to speak with my father. I don’t think Gabriel has either.” She did not look across but kept on as casually as she could. “Is our father helping?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I assumed…” Avery hesitated, but only for a second. “I assumed you had all had the chance to talk.”

“No. Not yet.” Isabella smiled adeptly. She could not tell how much Avery was reading into their strange lack of familial communication. “We were going to go through everything after we had spoken to you.”

“Right. Well, I should… I should fill you in.” The coffee was set down, and Avery was silent until the waiter had left. “I had a conversation with your father earlier today. Just after I spoke with you, Gabriel, this afternoon. Actually, he rang me. I’m sure he will tell you all of this… He was calling to confirm that he would be meeting all the expenses. Unfortunately, there is something of a cemetery… er, shall we say a cemetery system operating here in Petersburg, and, well, certain people have to be paid… Though as I say, everything is now settled on this score, as of this afternoon.” He sipped his coffee. “Once that side was sorted out, the rest was just a matter of contacting the relevant people at the hospital and the undertakers—and, of course, the people who organize the service itself. I have passed all three sets of details on to your father’s solicitors. I understand that it is his intention to meet these expenses as well. But as I say, once the cemetery is confirmed, and the service, the rest is comparatively straightforward. So Friday should, fingers crossed, be just a matter of details.”

Again she spoke quickly. “That’s really great news—about getting a space at the cemetery, I mean.” Only now did she risk a glance at her brother. He had his hand to his forehead and she could not see his face. “And it’s a massive relief to know that it’s all being done so quickly. Is it okay if I give you a call first thing tomorrow and check if there is anything you need us to do—once I’ve had a chance to catch my breath?”

“Yes, of course.” Avery raised a manicured finger and thumb to his stiff shirt collar. “I can be the liaison, if that’s helpful—in case your father gets through to me first, or you need a man on the ground, as it were.”

His eyes expressed genuine sympathy; an intelligent man, well used to dealing delicately with distressed human beings. And she was grateful for that kind “gets through”—as if there would really be any trouble with their father “getting through” to his children if he, or they, had wished it.

“Thank you—that might be useful.” She knew that the natural end of the conversation had been reached. She paused a moment and then asked, “Will there be an autopsy?”

Avery turned his head a fraction, as if to allow his left ear a chance to confirm the impressions of the right, but if he was surprised at this ambush, neither his face nor his manner betrayed it. “No. In the case of an older person’s death, where there are no suspicious circumstances, then there is not usually an autopsy.”

There was a moment’s silence. Avery slowly rotated his head. Though he had sensed the disquiet previously, Isabella had now taken him into a much murkier place altogether. And she realized that rather than adding anything to his statement, he would wait until she spoke again. Silence was his natural holding pattern; he was a diplomat, after all. She was just about to ask another question when suddenly, to her complete surprise, Gabriel sat forward for the first time.

“And there’s no problem with her being a British national… who defected and all of that?”

Again without changing tone or manner, Avery directed his attention to her brother. “Yes… you are right—it’s a strange situation. There might have been an issue with nationality. I was talking to your father about this. But… well, the truth is, I think we can assume that the Russians know who your mother is and that they don’t have a problem.” He finished his coffee, pleased perhaps to be back on familiar consular ground. “I would be amazed if they didn’t know her. They knew your grandfather of course, very well. And they will have known your father too. And all defections were treated with extra-special… er, attention, shall we say? So even if she used her married name when she came back, I’d be surprised if they did not know that she was Maria Gavrilov originally. In fact, your own surname, Glover, might well be flagged on their computers—I know it’s a common enough name, but they might well cross-check. Again, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

It was a clever putting-at-ease question of her brother’s, Isabella realized. He had interrupted only to move things on after her autopsy inquiry—as if to take over now that she had gone crazy. Perhaps she had.

Avery continued. “My guess, for what it’s worth, is that they used her original return application politically—granted her a visa to show that the new Russia was not the same as the Soviet Union. If anything, they will quite like the fact that as a Russian she wanted to be buried here. I don’t think we need worry about all of that.”

Isabella cut in. “Did my father say that he would be coming on Friday?” She knew this was brutal, but she also knew that the question had to be asked and that if she left her brother to his own devices, he would never ask it.

And this time Julian Avery’s hesitation was obvious. “No. No… Actually, he didn’t mention it. I… I presume he would want to be here, but I can’t—”