Disclosures

by Bill James

  Yes, he sympathized with Ember but, just the same, realized he mustn’t get too close. As he slowed and signalled now and was about to pull into The Monty’s car park, he decided this visit would probably be wrong. Instead, he resumed his straight-ahead course and normal speed and went back to his office. If he’d gone to talk about these rumours it might have looked to others as though he and Ember were buddies, had some sort of alliance, a secret, illicit partnership. Club staff would observe the hush-hush conversation and make their assumptions. They might also talk outside to pals, relatives, of their assumptions. This was a senior police officer apparently in cahoots with a very major drugs tycoon. Harpur didn’t fancy that kind of slur.

  In any case, the information Harpur had … well, it could hardly be called information. Although he still valued Lamb as a marvellous font of reliable ‘disclosures’ in Number Three he’d not gone much beyond that short, imprecise promise of ‘serious jeopardy’ for Ralph; and Iles could only come up with his spooky, undefined ‘intimations’. Iles was exceptionally brilliant at intimations, but they still amounted to intimations only. Harpur thought he might have seemed panicky if he’d gone to Ralph with these flimsy hints. And it was Ember who’d somehow earned the nickname ‘Panicking’, not himself, thank you very much.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  After Margaret left, Ralph put on an overcoat, scarf, gloves and navy, woollen bobble hat and did one of his customary, random-timed tours around the outside of the club. He was looking for arson devices secretly planted by playful trade colleagues wishing to torch the building whether occupied or not. Ralph thought that, because of the scarf enclosing his chin, and the way the hat covered quite a depth of his forehead, people would not pick up the resemblance to Charlton Heston as quickly as normal – if there had been people about. But it was very cold in the club yard and car park and he considered winter clothing wise.

  The point was, he, personally, knew of his resemblance to the young Chuck, was confident in it, and didn’t need constant reaffirmations from others. Some might consider it sad and wasteful for him to cover up his features, but he knew that as soon as he took the scarf off everything would be there as always, visible and intact, a dead spit. He despised vanity – the kind of vanity that would wish to dictate constant flourishing of his face. Normally, he would have gone home to ‘Low Pastures’ between his morning and night stints at the club, but over the Christmas weeks he had to put in a good deal of extra time.

  When he’d done about half the survey, he glanced away from his search for a moment, and towards the road. He glimpsed Harpur at the wheel of an unmarked Peugeot near The Monty car park, as if about to drive in. He didn’t appear to spot Ralph, who was part hidden by a delivery truck.

  Ralph could put up all right with Harpur on a solo call. He sometimes talked reasonable, unabusive sense. Harpur recognized the importance of community spirit, and knew Ralph possessed a true slice of that. It was only when Assistant Chief Iles and his damn mockery accompanied Harpur that things generally turned foul, sarky and barbaric.

  Of course, one way to shut Iles up was to remind him that not so long ago his supposed colleague, Col Harpur, had been giving it on a regular, but very unofficial, basis to Iles’s wife, Sarah. Ralph always regarded this as an extreme reaction, though, and would only use it if Iles kept on and on with his damn merrymaking viciousness. Ralph considered that a woman’s reputation and dignity should be very carefully protected, even a policeman’s woman, unless, obviously, it became necessary to slag her off as a way of flooring her loathsome husband.

  Ralph’s mother would often quote a saying to him when he was growing up, ‘Manners maketh man.’ Ralph still regarded this as very worthwhile teaching, unless you were dealing with someone like Iles, who didn’t know what the fucking word ‘manners’ meant and whose only delight was to kick shit out of people. If you tried to treat him with respectful manners he’d see this as a pathetic weakness and would kick you even harder. Whatever Harpur wished to discuss today, Ralph would gladly go along with. For Ralph civility rated high. Manners were what made man different from animals. Manners were what a laughing hyena like Iles was completely short of.

  But then Harpur’s Peugeot straightened, moved past the car park entrance and went on. He seemed to have been hit by sudden second thoughts. Ralph wondered what the first thoughts were, but couldn’t get far with that. Although the prospect of a visit by Harpur hadn’t disturbed him, this sudden uncertainty did. It magnified Ember’s suspicion that, behind the surface jollity of Christmas time, hovered some menace aimed specifically at him.

  It wasn’t only the possible fire bombs. That threat existed permanently; could be considered routine, a standard part of business success. Now, Ralph sensed special, so-far undefined perils. Possibly Harpur also registered this increased danger and had come to check Ember was OK. Yes, for a cop, Harpur had some quite decent aspects, though his boss, Iles, despised these and tried to eliminate them, of course. Ralph’s car stood parked in its reserved spot and this might have reassured Harpur all was well, and so he hadn’t bothered to stop.

  Disappointment struck Ralph. Besides being willing to listen to whatever Harpur might have wanted to say, Ralph, himself, had something genuinely interesting to speak about, something that would impress Harpur, and which he could pass on to that brass-necked egomaniac, Iles. It might help bring even him to a proper respect, perhaps outright admiration, for Ralph. This didn’t mean he would have blurted out direct and in a buttonholing, big-headed style the new, fascinating factor in his life. That would be crude, naive and naff. It could have undone the very effect Ralph wanted.

  No, simply he would have let this information surface quite offhandedly in conversation, as though it were absolutely natural and didn’t need to be flagged. It would have indicated a much changed social identity for both The Monty and Ralph himself. Yes, Harpur might have been surprised by such a development, but, if this kind of situation ever did come, the trick from Ralph’s point of view was to behave as though the sterling, magnificent qualities now displayed had, in fact, always been present, but not easily detected because of competing influences, such as that oiled idiot popping .38 shots at the aerial William Blake.

  Ralph found no seasonal incendiary items on his patrol and re-entered the club. He took off the winter gear and sat down at his accounting desk behind the bar. After that thought about the pitifully immature gunning of The Marriage of Heaven and Hell beard, he wanted publicly to reassert his belief in the steel sheet and its elite collage by placing himself at what some might judge an appallingly dangerous spot: hardly the behaviour of someone branded ‘Panicking’. He believed it was Ralph W. Ember saying, ‘Here I am in my customary, dedicated chair. Do your contemptible, malevolent worst. The captain’s on the bridge.’

  If Harpur had dropped in just now, Ralph would have acted just the same – taken up that position behind the bar, as a bold sign of his total faith in The Monty’s and his own future. They would have talked in an entirely relaxed manner, Harpur with a glass of his usual disgusting, soak’s tipple, gin and cider in a half-pint glass; Ralph opting as ever for Kressmann Armagnac, famed for that distinguished, understated black label, a connoisseur’s choice, something a long way from Harpur’s crude palate. Ralph let himself imagine their conversation, in the way he used to imagine conversations with Margaret when they were younger.

  ‘Well, Ralph, the club is looking very fine, brass fittings agleam, panelling that tells as ever of a fine tradition and of enduring worth. This is a lovely refuge from the uncertainties, setbacks and stresses of life outside.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Harpur.’

  ‘I think of it as a kind of brilliant and renowned communal hub. The Christmas tree modest in size yet indicating in its ungrandiose way a festival feeling shared with all your members and staff.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Harpur. It is my aim and indeed responsibility to make it so.’

  ‘Although there are London clubs with, possib
ly, more famous names and of longer standing, such as The Athenaeum or The Garrick, in its own unpushy, welcoming, sincere fashion The Monty lies closer to its people’s souls.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Harpur. One puts a great emphasis on sincerity. Without sincerity what have we? What we would have is mere show and duplicity. But I certainly would not claim this is all on account of one man, myself. We are a happy and fulfilled team, here. Everyone committed to the club and content to serve – lastingly content.’

  ‘Perhaps at Christmas it really comes into its own, an essential, heart-warming centre.’

  ‘Over the years we have built that kind of reputation. And, of course, this year it will be especially appreciated.’

  Ralph thought that such a statement would be the muted, though intriguing, way to have tickled Harpur’s curiosity. He’d be used to noting tiny, inadvertent hints given during interrogation. Well, this hint would not have been inadvertent but delicately schemed.

  ‘In which respect, Ralph?’ Harpur would probably say.

  ‘The musical side.’ (Keep it oblique, gradual, a sort of good humoured tease, a tantalizingly slow unfolding.)

  ‘Musical in which respect, Ralph?’

  ‘Classical.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘Orchestral.’

  ‘To what effect?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Mr Harpur, there’s a notable musical function taking place in the city this year.’ (Step by extremely unhurried step with these facts. Feed him bait. Lead him gently but steadily on.)

  ‘In which respect, Ralph?’

  ‘The Shire Counties Youth Orchestra.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It’s an honour for the city and, I’m happy to say, for The Monty also. Not The National Youth Orchestra of Great Britain, but still quality.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘A very worthwhile project, bringing out latent talent in the young, music being one of the arts where youthfulness is no bar to excellence. Think of Mozart and teenage genius.’

  ‘Absolutely. But how does this affect you and The Monty, Ralph?’ (No need to answer that at once. More evasive obliqueness required.)

  ‘It meets in a selected city each year, has some lessons for the child instrument players who are housed in the youth hostel, and gives a concert at the end,’ Ralph replied.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Certain facilities required.’

  ‘Clearly.’

  ‘A hall for their concluding performance.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Plus rooms for the coaching from known stars on various instruments, who are put up in local hotels – for instance, a trombone room, a flute room, a viola room.’

  ‘Not easy to find such a building.’

  ‘Fortunately these visits take place in the school holidays.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Therefore, schools with their many classrooms and assembly hall, are empty, unused.’

  ‘They take over a school, do they?’

  ‘Corton House, which my daughters attend, will provide excellent facilities.’

  ‘Great!’

  ‘The children come from all over, not from Corton itself. The orchestra just needs the property. But Corton parents, as sort of third-party hosts, well-heeled mostly, or their kids wouldn’t be at Corton – we, parents, have been asked by the head to help with the social side and, truth to tell, with a donation if they wish to aid with extras – soft drinks, snacks. Well, of course, one is ready to assist in both aspects.’

  ‘So like you, Ralph.’

  ‘This is elements of the community in constructive actions.’

  ‘Grand!’

  ‘And now – at last, you might say – we reach The Monty and its part in all this, a wonderful, significant part: post-concert, a little get-together here in the club, for the organizers and teachers only. Not the children, naturally.’

  ‘Excellent, Ralph.’

  ‘I feel it will give The Monty what one might term a new dimension, an artistic character, refinement.’

  ‘How true – and well deserved, Ralph.’

  ‘I want to develop The Monty, you know, Mr Harpur. You mentioned London clubs, such as The Athenaeum and The Garrick. And there are others – The Carlton, Boodle’s. You very kindly said The Monty might have certain attributes these others lacked. Thank you. But they, in their turn, have attributes lacking to The Monty and this I would like to correct. I speak of cultural and social distinction recognized worldwide. In these aspects I feel The Monty may lag a little. To have these classical music stars as Monty guests – everything on the house, naturally – will be a significant step towards this change of profile for the club. It will give me a start. The usual membership will also be present on this occasion, naturally. It would be snobbish to ban regulars because of the special clients, and, obviously, I hate class distinction. There are, it must be admitted, some real rough-house oiks and slappers among the present membership. However, I believe in tolerance and sympathy, at least pro tem. But the highly-thought-of musicians will provide The Monty with a tone and grace it has not always enjoyed in the recent past.’

  Ralph would have taken true pleasure in that type of intelligent conversation, and Harpur might have also; no need to speak of a possibly increased danger in the bar because of extra numbers; best keep the chat optimistic and happy. Harpur might have understood and supported Ralph’s ambitions for The Monty and his clever, resourceful stratagem for getting it under way by entertaining the musicians. And, yes, maybe Harpur would relate the gist of the talk to Assistant Chief Constable Iles, relate it in such a form and with so much evident approval that even someone as thoroughly poisonous and gleefully harmful as Iles could see the merit in what Ralph hoped to achieve, indeed, meant to achieve. This projected attempt to transform The Monty was surely a supremely positive quest. All should be able to acknowledge that, Iles included.

  Three women were fighting, silently, intently, on the floor over near a fruit machine, at least one of them wearing no knickers. Bad feeling often followed a big jackpot triumph. Non-winners might claim they had been playing the machine for hours and losing, then somebody who’s been watching comes along, craftily calculating that, after so much investment, a pay-off must be due. And those previous feeders of the slot feel cheated and enraged. The winner had obviously been loading the loot into her bag when the other two struck and one-pound coins were scattered across the bar floor now. She had a cut to her forehead. People stood around watching the scrap, shouting betting odds on the outcome, and encouragement to the contender or contenders they backed. Ralph left his seat and went and pulled the three apart and then on to their feet. ‘Don’t bleed on to a fucking pool table,’ he remarked considerately. ‘I had enough trouble with the Worcestershire sauce.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  In the conservatory as the afternoon light began to weaken, Esther had a phone call on her mobile from Desmond Iles. It shook her a bit, pulled Esther out of her reminiscing and made things very present tense, very now and the dicey near future. In the past there’d been that Mondial-Trave situation needing careful, tactical management; and this call today from Des Iles would also require careful tactical management, though of a different kind. The relationship with him, if it could be called that, had always been difficult to define. But shouldn’t she be accustomed to weird relationships, expert in them? Think of her and Gerald.

  ‘Good to hear your voice again, Esther,’ Iles said.

  ‘Good to hear yours, too.’ And it was at least half true. He could put on a mild, warm tone for her which she thought probably didn’t match his more usual way with words.

  ‘Can you talk?’ Iles said.

  ‘I’m home, alone. I was owed a couple of days off.’

  ‘I’ve been going through a list of names,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘Something more or less routine, but then a surprise, even a shock.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘I felt I needed to
talk to you about it.’

  ‘Am I concerned in it somehow?’

  ‘Possibly. Obliquely. You’ll be able tell me right away.’

  ‘I’ll try.’ She’d been going through some names herself, most from way back – Mondial-Trave names. There was quite a crowd of them. The newspaper reports at the time had been fairly full and accurate but, of course, they’d depended on witnesses and on what the media were told by the official police spokeswoman. What the media were told by the official police spokeswoman, though, was what Esther had told the official police spokeswoman she could tell them. Neither the witnesses nor the media had seen things from the inside, as Esther had.

  Standard procedure had required her to complete an A to Z account of the day’s happenings and the run-up to them, giving all the names, including one of somebody missing. Naturally, she’d done a copy for herself and was reading it over when Iles called; her objective, as before, to see what she could learn from the report in case it might be useful now in her new and bigger responsibilities. Perhaps she’d need to set a trap again. The report could possibly give some tips on how to do it.

  Her report had begun:

  The disorder in the Mondial Street-Trave Square area breaks into five principal stages. (Firms’ names may be abbreviated: Pasque Uno to PU, Opal Render to OR.)

  Stage One. Preliminary. Acting on information received (from special source, ‘Mandrake’) and from concealed filming (team commander Sergeant Fiona Hive-Knight) two armed police units were established out of view at locations within easy reach of the street complex named by ‘Mandrake’ as the probable ground for battle between the Pasque Uno and Opal Render firms. Observations recorded on film of assumed familiarizing runs in a Vauxhall (PU) and a Mazda (OR) by members of both companies appeared to confirm the ‘Mandrake’ information on the likely setting for the conflict – Vauxhall: Dale Hoskins, head of PU with three subordinates; Mazda: Piers Elroy Stanton, head of OR plus an aide. Both vehicles made there-and-back journeys along Mondial Street, travelling slowly on what appeared to be a thorough reconnaissance exercise. All involved in these excursions would know the area well already. But they were looking at it now as a potential battlefield, not a trading locale. Different factors became relevant.