Disclosures

by Bill James

  ‘(e) Ralph Wyvern Ember, mid-to-late twenties, young Charlton Heston lookalike. Unclear background. No convictions. Big ambitions. Married, Margaret, but wanders: women keen for experiences with El Cid, Ben Hur and Moses, in any order. Two daughters, Venetia and Fay. Probable nine millimetre eight-round Walther automatic. PU could be his first contact with major commerce. Untested in street warfare? Lives near King’s Cross station.

  ‘(f) Quentin Stayley, age forty-five. Oxford literature degree. Boxed and golfed for university. Briefly public school teacher. Expensive divorce beyond teacher’s salary. Entry to the trade via a pupil’s sympathetic parents. Present partner, Lucille Eldon. No children from any relationship. Mac Ten machine pistol. Possible hostility, envy, towards Gladhand – boss though younger, and fertile, Stayley sterile?

  ‘Mimi Apertine, age fifty-one, street and rave pusher and occasional Gladhand bodyguard. Divorced two husbands and reverted to maiden name. Served eight years in Israeli army, rising to sergeant-major equivalent. Uzi machine pistol and grenades. Sister of Lester Apertine (stage name, Nascent), pop musician and singer. Scarred right cheek and ear lobe missing, as pictured, following shooting range accident. Two grown-up children in Israel. Fancies Ralph W. Ember, but age precludes.’

  Now that Esther was older she found herself resenting the offhanded terseness of that comment by her less mature self, like fifty-one was death. ‘Age precludes’ – so final, so absolute as if everyone would take it for granted. Time, a sod. On the tape a pause followed. Then: ‘I revert to (two), our observation unit and camera at Mondial-Trave. On the screen now you see film of a stolen Vauxhall, presumably chosen for anonymity. Almost certainly the four men in this car are conducting what they intend as a secret reconnaissance visit to the probable fight site, some listed names missing. A vehicle belonging to any PU member might be recognized and its purpose obvious. The security obsession seems superfluous, though, as the battleground is apparently agreed on.

  ‘The photograph shows the four occupants fairly clearly: Gladhand at the wheel in a ginger three-piece suit, Hector’s high-grade driving flair not required. This is just a jaunt. Stayley alongside Hoskins, Ember and Mace in the rear. Stayley seems to do most of the talking. That would be in character. Has possible ambition to lead Pasque Uno. Stayley’s babble attritional? The four appear to be much focused on the Red Lion pub, and possibly its car park. This is ground they must all know well already from ordinary trading routines but, of course, they need to look at it differently today. Concealment nooks, cover spots, fields of vision, to be noted and not forgotten. The Victorian alderman’s statue and its big, square, granite plinth are significant only as a potential useful sniping position: a quick volley, a quick withdrawal behind the stonework, count to ten slowly, maybe reload, then emerge and blast off again. Perfect action examples for The Urban Warrior’s Manual. There might be a few chippings knocked off the alderman in any shooting activity, but he’ll survive. He’s from a robust Victorian tradition of service and self-fulfilment, a lesson to us all.’

  ELEVEN

  Thinking too much about the past could make Ralph Ember jumpy and restless. In an attempt to steady himself he glanced up to where the vandalizing bullet rip in The Marriage of Heaven and Hell beard was hardly visible. Some beautifully skilled patching had been carried out by an interior decor firm Ralph trusted, not just for its flair but its empathy. These were people who understood Ralph’s deep fondness for certain art work and steel.

  Enjoyment of the restored illustration only halfway calmed him, though. Ralph found it impossible to sit still any longer and he stood up from his chair under the William Blake and had a little walk around the bar area of the club, into the kitchen then back to the pool table corner. The Worcestershire sauce staining on one table’s baize had taken the form of a large, brown exclamation mark with dot. No trace of that remained now after successful cleaning, but he did a token examination, really only to justify his ramble to any of the staff or early customers who might be watching him. The repairs here and overhead were excellent. He should have been relaxed and at ease, but still wasn’t.

  The past harassed him. Yet, during that drive years ago in the stolen Vauxhall with Gladhand, Quentin Stayley and Greg Mace, he had felt at first entirely relaxed and at ease – excited, yes, favourably excited, full of optimism and a kind of derring-do. This cheerful confidence seemed foolish to him now, youthful, green. It made him edgy, in retrospect. Perhaps this was what happened when you grew older.

  In the rear of the Vauxhall, alongside Greg, he’d relished early on not just the thrilling sense of comradeship and that glorious shared purpose – the sweet and timely blasting of Opal Render – but also an awareness of his own special role; unique role, in fact. He would change his attitude a fair amount soon, but for the moment he felt very content. He had been chosen for this excursion today because he would be looking at the layout with comparatively new eyes. The others had seen Mondial-Trave innumerable times, since so much business was done there. Ralph himself had been here more than once since he joined PU, but not very often – not to the point of staleness. He might see things others would miss owing to overfamiliarity.

  Dale Hoskins obviously realized Ralph possessed a precious sharpness of view. It heartened Ralph to think he must radiate valuable qualities he was not previously conscious of. He thought ‘deft and original’ would be the correct terms for his examination that day of Mondial-Trave.

  Yes, yes, Quent had been allocated the front seat next to Gladhand while Ralph was stuck in the back with Mace, but this hardly proved that Gladhand regarded Stayley as superior, as his deputy. The seat surely brought no co-pilot status. All right, Quent had a literature degree from Oxford. That didn’t mean he could create an innocent-seeming, unruffled manner doing the Vauxhall formalities, so as not to draw public curiosity. Ralph regarded the word ‘create’, as vital here. Quent lacked the kind of creative impetus which, clearly, Gladhand detected in Ralph, and which must put Ralph far ahead in Gladhand’s grading of staff. The front-seat position had no significance. Ralph could do his survey duties quite effectively from the rear windows and could also put on a casual kind of air so that nobody watching the Vauxhall would think it a reconnaissance vehicle.

  In any case, Quent used his situation to nag Gladhand – to turn, and from right alongside harass him with miserable suggestions that PU might get slaughtered at Mondial-Trave-Red Letter. Although this behaviour didn’t seem to trouble Gladhand, it was idiotic, potentially harmful pessimism by Quent – even alarmism. It showed jitteriness, poor spirit, disbelief in Gladhand’s grasp of tactics for a built-up-area clash. Quent had more or less said that what Gladhand envisaged for OR could possibly get neatly, disastrously reversed on the day, so it was PU that went under, not OR. The obnoxious, tidy tit-for-tatness of this argument was bound to upset and enrage Gladhand, although on the face of it he treated Quent with politeness – a politeness Quent did not deserve, even though forty-five at least, the prat. Gladhand would get back at him eventually and in his own manner. Ralph had looked forward to watching that, known as comeuppance.

  Stayley reeked of uppance. It had a rubbery whiff because of the elastic band holding his pigtail. Ralph had thought, what a comedown for that rubber band. Yes, it had probably been a postman’s and would have held a clutch of what might be very important, even valuable, letters. But now its only role was to get a grip on that rubbishy sheaf on the back of Stayley’s neck.

  The Vauxhall was due to be dumped at least a day before the actual combat rendezvous. Gladhand and Mimi had worked out a quite detailed programme for everybody and everything to be part of the Mondial-Trave fight. She could help with such planning having had a lot of logistics experience in the army. Naturally, other stolen vehicles would be used on the actual day – probably vans, able to carry half a dozen or more people. There wasn’t going to be any link between the Vauxhall and a gunfight at Mondial-Trave-Red Letter.

  ‘Worry not, Ralph,’ Gladh
and had said.

  ‘I don’t, Dale. I’m confident. I know everything’s been done to keep us undetected.’

  ‘Right. Mimi’s great on spotting potential difficulties and countering them in advance’

  ‘Who’ll get the vans?’ Ralph said.

  ‘The operational vans?’ Hoskins said.

  ‘Yes, the actual. The stolen ones.’

  ‘We got specialists in that kind of thing, so necessary nowadays. Car and van locking – they’ve really improved it. But it’s routine to our people. They keeps ahead of manufacturers’ new anti-theft tricks. I want to stress, Ralph, it’s our own in-house team who do the taking. I can tell you’re very conscious of security matters. Wise, Ralph. But we’d never outsource car and/or collection to freelancers. We couldn’t be totally certain of their ability, could we? Plus, I’d fear leaks. They wouldn’t be bound by loyalty to the firm. Our vehicle/car acquisition lads do other, ordinary tasks within PU normally. It’s not economic to have staffers whose only job is taking away. But, when the occasion comes, as now, they’re ready, on standby, and will switch very smoothly to picking up suitable reliable motors for us. They knows exactly what to get, as according to the particular demands of an operation. Them demands will vary, but that will all be taken into account perfect by our people. Each vehicle we claim requires two of our people, naturally. They reach the location in one of our cars, then one hops out, does the magic on a door and the alarm, more magic on the ignition, checks the fuel then drives it back here.

  ‘The timing got to be totally right. If a car or van’s took too early, with a waiting around period, there’s obviously increased danger of reg recognition. The owner of the vehicle will have reported it missing at once and police all over will be alerted. “My precious motor gone, officer!” Sometimes we’ll change registration plates, but that’s not the perfect answer because, of course, the reg probably won’t tie up with all the details of the car or van. So, no hanging about. We get the vehicles one day, operate the next and ditch them also the next.

  ‘They might have belonged to, say, a bakery in Ruislip or a stockbroker in Swindon, or a media exec’s in Dorking or a builder’s yard in Watford. We favours a considerable spread, so the steals won’t be linked. If four vans was took from the same area police would start thinking there must be a jolly job on somewhere, and they’d get alert. The Vauxhall came from Islington. Next, them four vans are needed, two for the action, two to switch to after. Plus, the Lexus for Hector subsequent.

  ‘As I said, routine. Haven’t we done similar operations in the past when other firms try in their filthy way to come nosing in? You bet! They got to be dealt with. And when I say “dealt with” I don’t mean do a deal with them. They got to be persuaded this is not the right spot for them. We persuade them by terminating a few lives. This gets the message over beautiful. They worry about their women and kids. Most people can be helped to see what’s all right and what isn’t. Believe me, I hate doing domestic but you never know when it could be necessary.

  ‘We got to look after ourselves, haven’t we, Ralph? I heard of a book way back, The Territorial Imperative, about animals fighting to guard their ground with everythink they fucking got. Nothing else makes them fight so fierce. Well, think of that famous speech by Churchill in the war – “we’ll fight them on the beaches” and all that. This is the territorial imperative, which was why they invented what the TV called “Dad’s Army” – proper, unjoky name, “The Home Guard”. Guarding homes – territorial. Same for us. The imperative, signifying it just got to be, no alternative. We’re born with it, Ralph, that urge to look after our patch. A mother don’t have to teach us that, like potty training. We got it there already, from what’s known as our genes with a ‘g’. It’s a noble, brill urge and we’d be nowhere without it, nowhere at all, sleeping in cardboard boxes under rail bridges.’

  In the Vauxhall, on the re-run past the Mondial-Trave corner and the pub, Gladhand said: ‘Hector will take our lead van, transferring at a proper point in the action to the Lexus. Mimi says she’ll do the second van. I’ll have to think about that. She might be used to driving a tank over there in Gaza armed with a seventy-five millimetre anti-brick-wall gun. This will require a different technique and the weaponry lighter!’

  ‘Mimi?’ Quentin snarled. ‘She probably just wants to impress Ralph. It’s pathetic. “Look at me, do look at me, Ralph! I’m as good as Hector, a hotshot Wheels!”’

  Greg and Gladhand didn’t say anything at first. Maybe they felt things had become a bit sensitive. They had. Ralph wondered what that meant, the ‘It’s pathetic.’ Was Quent saying it was pathetic for a woman in her fifties to want someone in his twenties like Ember, which Ralph would more or less agree with, though he’d never be rude or hurtful to Mimi? Or did Stayley want to suggest it was pathetic for any woman of any age to see something in him, Ralph W. Ember? This second interpretation seemed more likely to Ralph, because that sod Stayley was driven by malice, contempt and envy. When Stayley said, ‘It’s pathetic,’ that was the moment Ralph’s total happiness about being in the Vauxhall began to shrink. He could recall it very well, and all the chat surrounding this cruel comment – cruel whatever it meant.

  Ralph would bet no woman ever told Stayley he doppelgänged the young Charlton Heston, especially as El Cid. Ralph reckoned most women would be too busy sicking up at the sight of that disgusting ponytail to say much to Quent at all, or only ‘Good-fucking-bye, mate.’ He had the Oxford degree they’d all been told about, and often, so he’d know who El Cid was; but he wouldn’t have a cat in El’s chance of being mistaken for Charlton as him.

  Mace said: ‘Mimi’s a warrior.’

  ‘She knows about the territorial imperative,’ Gladhand said. ‘She’s lived it, out there in the mid-East.’

  TWELVE

  Esther, on tape, her tone still clipped and matter-of-fact, announced from deep in her Metropolitan Police past: ‘The screen shows a fresh car, ladies and gents, a black Mazda, also nicked, this one by Opal Render, though. It’s a day later, the objective identical – a reminder of the street layout around Mondial-Trave, but viewed as a future battleground now, not a brilliant, famed, druggy, trading venue. You’ll see there are only two men in the car, but our source provides four more OR names and faces certain to be involved. This will be a full-scale set-to.

  ‘The driver, under the big-peaked blue cap, is Luke Gaston Byfort, age thirty-four, general duties operative, with OR from its beginning, no convictions, divorced, present partner Naomi Trent, divorced, son, aged eight, by previous, baby son by Luke. Beretta automatic. Teetotal after alcoholism treatment. Has become local prize-winning ice skater since dry: limbs now better coordinated and fit for purpose.

  ‘Piers Elroy Stanton in the passenger seat, chief and distinguished founder of OR, aged thirty, married to Veronica (Marshall) pregnant. Byfort his assistant-stroke-aide from the creation of OR. Two arrests for supplying, one for menaces, but no charges or convictions. Several properties including three-floor home in Hampstead (uncheap), holiday villa, Esposende, North Portugal; similar, Abersoch, Wales, this sometimes rented out to yachters (uncheap). Owns two race horses, Dombey And Some and Colonel Jackeen, stabled Newmarket, several wins at minor events. Heckler and Koch nine mm automatic.

  ‘It could be significant that OR’s survey is done by only two people. In fact, it’s effectively, by one – Stanton: Byfort not much more than a flunkey. It looks as though OR’s tactics will be very tightly controlled by Stanton. He doesn’t want others in Opal Render on his reconnaissance and guessing how the fight will go. He’ll tell them how it will go. Contrast the Vauxhall with its team of four aboard, plus Hector due to make his own visit later, which we’ve also filmed.

  ‘We deduce that PU’s action on the day will be flexible. Gladhand expects his group to adapt, improvise, according to how things develop. And how things will develop can’t be predicted or pre-controlled. True, the Vauxhall four seemed compulsively interested in Red Let
ter’s car park. Possibly there’s an overall scheme to push OR, or the remnants of OR, into it as a handy, cloistered slaughterhouse. But I don’t think Gladhand will lay down categorical orders on the way that’s to be done. He’s a democrat. He’s an empiricist.

  ‘Meanwhile, Stanton’s method assumes he sees more clearly than anyone else, and knows better than anyone else how to cope. Heil, mein Führer! That’s certainly one kind of leadership: confident, autocratic, vain. But putting so much on to a single figure raises a big question, doesn’t it: what if Stanton gets hit, or taken, early? Suddenly, OR would lose its captain, and – because he’s a one-and-only chief – there’d be nobody else with enough knowledge and grip to replace him. No Hardy to direct things like after Nelson’s death. So, parallel collapse of Opal Render. Stanton was Opal Render. Farewell, OR.

  ‘This prospect will guide our tactics. The priority must be to remove Stanton.’ She hooted, making fun of herself. ‘Wow! A revelation! Some would argue that in this kind of conflict one objective is always to destroy the kingpin. It is, but more so here then ever. Stanton will impose a plan, his exclusive plan, and there’ll be no alternative if he is negatived and it comes adrift. We make sure he is and it does.’

  A male voice, just audible, spoke on the tape. She remembered him. Martin Wilcox, a detective sergeant, gun-trained. Of course she remembered him: after promotions he’d gone on to big things with cold case reviews nationally. He’d been sitting midway back in the briefing, eyes unfriendly behind Himmler rimless glasses – cold, colder than any cold case. ‘So, you’re saying, are you, ma’m, that we intently, single-mindedly, target Stanton from the start and try to snuff him out?’ he said.