by Bill James
‘Takes too long. By then our firms could be finished. This Tirana, he got to be done, Ralph, and he got to be done by us and they got to know he been done by us. This got to be an execution and it got to be spectacular. You heard of that chopping the king’s head off in history? That really signified something. Same with this Tirana.’
‘Well, I –’
‘Not an axe, I don’t mean that. But like a show. Like a statement.’
‘Manse, I –’
‘Mr Iles – he would expect us to handle this. He would think it’s part of the deal with him, not spoken of but like understood. Well, everything in the deal’s understood. It’s not going to be written down and signed like buying a TV, is it? Most probably Mr Iles is waiting to hear this Tirana been took out of the scene so the scene can get back to what it ought to be, meaning so sweet and peaceful and with our firms climbing so nice, not plunging.’ Manse took a good mouthful of the Kressmann. It was great, no question, a prestige sup. Ember liked prestige. He owned a drinking club called the Monty, and got all his bottles cheap. He would not let Manse meet him there, either, though, because Ember hoped to turn the Monty into some high class joint one day like a grand, famous London club, for professors, judges, world-recognized hair-stylists, bishops, circus owners. Mad. The Monty was a sink. Half the members was in jail or come out last Wednesday, and the rest would be in there banged up next Wednesday. Some called Ember ‘Milord Monty’, as well as Panicking Ralph. He talked as big as big.
‘What you carrying?’ Shale asked at their one-to-one.
‘In what respect, Manse?’
‘Armament. I don’t mean what you got aboard now, tonight. I know you would not carry a gun into my home and not just because it was a rectory previous. You would have more respect – in general. You’re sensitive, Ralph.’
‘I –’
‘But what I mean, when you do have to carry something what is it? You used to like a Walther, didn’t you, but then a Beretta? Still the Beretta? Myself, I’m into Heckler and Koch, same as the police. They know what’s the best stopper because they have stopped a lot, so why not copy? 9 mm Parabellum. But nice and lightweight even when the mag’s full. Like you, Ralph, I hope I got some sensitivity about weapons and I would not bring them into this actual study where holy duties might of took place once such as prayer. But I expect you noticed a painting in the other room by what’s known in art language as a Pre-Raphaelite called Arthur Hughes. I go for them Pre-Raphaelites. I don’t know how it is, but they really get to me, Ralph. You heard of them at all – Pre-Raphaelites? Great on tresses, auburn tresses most of them, but other colours, also. There’s a combo safe behind that with Mr Heckler and Koch in and some fat boxes of rounds. I got another safe in this room, but only for cash and our private accounts. The Pre-Raphaelite safe is what could be called the armoury safe.’
When the Agincourt function came in the week after, and them niggles kept jabbing from some troops, Shale would of liked to tell them about the Ralphy Beretta and the Heckler and Koch and the plentiful ammo, both lined up for the Tirana scheme, but not on, obviously. All Manse could say over and over was he and Ralph had matters in mind – true, but not satisfactory to staff. People wanted detail, but detail they could not have, not that detail, only untroublesome detail. Some information had to stay buttoned. At the Agincourt, he would not even mention the name Tirana, and definitely not the spot where Manse considered it best to do him – best because, as he had explained to Ralphy, it would speak a message.
During their meeting in Shale’s house, working out the attack plans, he’d been afraid for a couple of minutes that Ember might go into one of his panics just at the fucking thought of a shoot-out, and get so he couldn’t talk and hardly breathe. Manse would hate anything like that on his property. It was just not appropriate for somewhere that used to be a rectory. If Ralph wanted to go jabbery he ought to do it in his fucking manor house or at the priceless Monty. But although Ralph had one big tremble during their meeting, a lot of face twitch, plus a spurt of sweat on his top lip, things did not get worse and after a minute he seemed more or less all right.
And he seemed more or less all right when they drove out towards the Morton Cross area at around midnight on the Thursday after Agincourt to see off Tirana. Manse had picked this as the best location. To snuff him here would have a true meaning, and a meaning all invaders could read, even if their English was feeble. This was the point, wasn’t it – until now, most of the town’s drug dealing took place in bars and caffs around the Valencia Esplanade area, or, for richer users, on a dockside floating restaurant in an ancient ship that once carried tea from India but now called The Eton Boating Song, not far off. Shale’s and Ember’s people did their pushing there, a good and happy tradition.
But Tirana and other trespassers in their foreign, ignorant way had begun to work on the border of two different districts, Morton Cross and Inton, with Chilton Park in the middle. These were class areas, big properties and gardens. Some new Brit firms, like this Adrian Cologne, had started operations there, also. This was what caused most of them moans and snivels at the Agincourt. Some trade had already gone from the Valencia and moved to Morton and Inton. Although Manse tried to block and comfort them at the dinner, he knew the trouble was real. Clearly. And so that warning to Ralph in their rectory discussion. And so the need to turn rough.
Manse had ordered research on this Tirana. It showed he took a jaunt most nights to Morton and Inton and did a bit of dealing himself. But mainly he seemed there to scout around in the big BMW and make sure his people worked full out, pushers and girls, and that they got no peril from other crews aiming at takeover. Manse considered slaughter of Tirana in this high calibre district at a major trading hour would really let every outfit know – every outfit – Alb or Brit or Turk or wherever you could think of – it would tell them Morton and Inton was not proper places for pushing, and that Tirana and his friends and enemies could never be right for this kind of established local business, anyway. They did not know the decent, accepted rules, and would not fucking care about them if they did. That was what Manse meant about Hitler. People like that tried to make up their own rules. Mighty gratitude was certain from Assistant Chief Desmond Iles when he saw the Morton–Inton development rubbished by first class, point blank salvoes into Tirana at just the right location, and the selling once more nicely confined to its usual, dockland grounds, and to Manse Shale and Ralphy Ember.
Manse had watched Ralph check his armament before they set out from another join-up at the rectory to Morton Cross. ‘So you do stick with the Beretta.’
‘The same type. Not the same gun.’
Shale laughed gently for a while at this. ‘Well, no, I didn’t think so! Traceable. A switch every so often, or even oftener than every so often, but always you renew with a model that’s familiar. Sensible. You can trust it. Myself, I’m getting to feel something similar about the Heckler. Sort of mates, sort of companions, aren’t they, Ralph? Reliable comrades?’ Important to make the poor sod feel calm and strong, save him from one of his guts-wreck spasms now the operation had really started.
They were in the Jaguar. Manse drove. Of course, he had put different plates on for tonight, although nobody in Iles’s lot would look too hard for someone kind enough to take out Tirana in a smart coup. ‘There he is,’ Shale said. ‘As almost ever.’ The BMW stood on a small grass island where three roads converged. From here Tirana could watch dealers and girls near the Morton Cross shopping mall and two side streets leading away to Inton. Shale cut the Jaguar’s engine. ‘I drive alongside, pull up and we both fire. All right, Ralph? Both.’ Shale took the Heckler from a shoulder holster and put it ready on his lap under the steering wheel. ‘All right, Ralph? I mustn’t wait here. He’ll see and get clear or start gunnery hisself. It’s a good moment. Not many folk about.’
Ember did not produce the Beretta. ‘There’s someone in the passenger seat with him,’ he said.
‘A girl. That hap
pens sometimes. I heard of it. One of the imported kids they deal in, as well as the commodities. That’s their disgusting way. He’ll take her for the night. A perk. We can try not to blast her. Definitely. We’ll be close and OK for accuracy. We got no fight with the girl. Just him. All right, Ralph? The Beretta?’
‘What’s the matter with her?’ Ember replied.
‘What?’ Shale said. Oh, God, Ralphy breaking to bits after all – hanging back for ever? His legs spaghettied? Everything gone?
‘Crying,’ Ember said. ‘Arms all around him, like life-saving in the sea. She’s really weeping. Listen. The BMW driver’s window’s down.’
‘They get excited, some of them kids. And they got to put on a passion act – especially she would for him, the master. This is devotion. They got to show it.’
‘The way he’s sitting,’ Ember said.
‘What?’
‘Not right somehow.’
‘Which way’s he supposed to fucking sit, Ralph? Get the Beretta out.’ Shale had some snarl going.
‘She’s holding him up. I think he’s hit already,’ Ember replied.
‘He’s what?’
‘Hit. He’s dead. No movement.’
‘Christ,’ Shale said.
‘Dead or on the way.’
Shale stared. After a minute he said: ‘Yes. Clever, Ralph. One of his own lot done him?’
‘I told you. They fight. They snipe. They all want control.’
Shale did some thought. ‘Yes, well we should vamoose, Ralph. Quit. Them others might be around still. This is peril. Or we could get hauled in for doing him, which would be sick when we didn’t, only hoped to. We don’t want to embarrass Mr Iles by getting caught here.’ He reached to restart the Jaguar. Ember gripped his wrist and stopped him. Shale said: ‘We can’t do nothing now.’
‘The girl,’ Ember said. ‘Wrong to leave her like that. A kid, a foreign kid, stuck in a car with a corpse. I’ve got a daughter about her age.’
‘This kid’s only a –’
Ember had already opened the door of the Jaguar and begun to run towards the BMW. Shale put the Heckler and Koch back into its holster and then followed him at a trot. Hell, was this Panicking Ralphy? He’d had a fucking backbone transplant? How? Pity for this teenage tart did it? Yet he couldn’t be all panic, or he’d never have landed his club and his manor house.
They reached the BMW. Ember pulled open the passenger door. The girl was sobbing. She turned to them, foreign terror all through her, but Manse could still tell it was terror. The movement meant she released Tirana and he slumped to the side. As he did, Shale had time to see a tidy bullet wound in his forehead and a blood trickle. ‘What happened, child?’ Ralph said, his voice full of big caring and grease like a priest’s.
‘They came.’
‘Who?’
‘Yes, they came,’ she replied. She made a pistol shape with one hand. The hand shook. It could be fright. It could be her coming down from a fix. She was plump-faced, pale-skinned, perhaps fifteen years old, her speech slow, her accent massive. ‘But so quiet,’ she said.
‘A silenced gun,’ Shale said.
She leaned across and put her cheek against the fat shoulder pad of Tirana’s pinstripe jacket. ‘He dead, oh, yes. But I love,’ she said. ‘I love him. And he love me. Much. Very much. He said this. He said love. Often he said love. Two times. Three.’
‘Yes, I expect so. Leave here now,’ Ember told her. ‘At once. The police will come and you’ll have problems. Problems. You know this word, “problems”? Trouble.’ He took out a wedge of money and gave her what looked to Shale like five twenties. ‘Get clear.’ Shale searched his own pockets and found six tens and a twenty. He handed these to her. If Ember done it Manse had to or he’d look miserable and mean.
She folded the money, counting it. ‘You pay. You want threesome?’ she said. ‘Sniff coke after?’
‘Just go,’ Ember replied.
‘That your Jag? I been in Jags already. Many. And Mercs. Once a Roller – Roller Royce. You see, I know threesome.’
‘This is talk and more talk,’ Ember grunted at her. ‘It’s dangerous for you here. Disappear.’
‘Ah, talk? You want talk? You want me talk dirty? Yes, me, I have many, many dirty English words. Prick. Clit.’
* Easy Streets.
Chapter Two
‘So, they’re out there in our suburbs now, Col – Morton Cross and Inton,’ Iles said. ‘This death. Tirana, they call him?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Harpur replied.
‘I’d bet you’ll be back to those regions very soon again with more trouble.’
‘I think so, sir.’
‘Of course, Col, I’m very much a suburbs person myself.’
‘Indeed, yes, sir: Rougemont Place.’
‘I’m not ashamed of this,’ Iles said.
‘Hardly, sir.’
‘But you, personally, Harpur, a Detective Chief Super, continue to live and bring up your daughters, Hazel, Jill, in that . . . continue to live and bring up Hazel and Jill where you do.’
‘Well, I do, yes, sir.’
‘I expect you think a house called Idylls in a street called Rougemont Place – except, obviously, not a street, a Place – I expect you think a house called Idylls in a street called Rougemont Place is somehow fruity.’
‘Idylls I know comes from a poem you’re fond of,’ Harpur replied. ‘I can’t speak for Rougemont.’
‘Idylls is Tennyson. He was quite well known in Victorian times, Col. Beard. A sequence of poems: Idylls of the King.’
‘Right, sir.’
‘I don’t want shit like that Tirana dead on my front doorstep, Harpur.’
‘We’re doing all that we –’
‘I have a wife and young child.’
‘Certainly, I –’
‘But I don’t have to tell you I have a wife, do I?’ Iles’s voice began one of its quick, long ascents, like a balloon with the ballast ditched, as it often did when he mentioned Sarah to Harpur. ‘You and she had quite a –’
‘I’d be very aware, sir, that you’d object to gang violence near a Place called Rougemont. It’s not just foreign firms. We think some new British outfits up there competing, adapting. Thomas Pyle – that’s “Tommy the Strong”, Adrian Cologne, Bobby Sprale.’
‘There’s all sorts live near me, you know,’ Iles said.
‘Well, I’m sure.’
‘Distinguished folk, I mean.’
‘Certainly.’
‘Surgeons, the city’s football manager, a judge, BBC people, stockbrokers.’
‘It’s quite a street. Place,’ Harpur replied.
Iles became silent and thoughtful. Then he said: ‘Tell me, Col, do I remember that Hazel’s boyfriend, Scott, lives up that way?’
‘Which way, sir?’ Harpur prepared to become more obstructive. There were difficult, persistent topics between Iles and him: Iles’s wife, Harpur’s daughter.
‘Of course, I’ve met the boy at your house,’ Iles said. ‘He lives near Morton Cross, I think.’
‘I think he might.’
‘About her age?’ Iles replied.
‘A little older. Seventeen. Hazel’s only fifteen, sir. Yes, sir, only fifteen. A child of fifteen.’
‘Scott Grant,’ Iles said, as if recalling the full name from some back end of his mind. But he’d have it fairly foremost. He thought of Scott as a rival. ‘His mother hates us, doesn’t she?’
‘Mrs Grant is not keen on the police, that’s right, sir.’
‘Quite a few like that about these days in luxury houses. It’s because speed cameras do their four wheel drive jobs. They think it’s persecution. They don’t know what we’re like when we really persecute, do they, Col? Does Hazel worry about things?’
‘What? Being only fifteen? I worry about it, sir.’
‘No, does she worry about a spread of the trading and atrocities to Morton Cross, where the lad lives?’
‘Worry why, sir?’
&nbs
p; ‘You haven’t considered it, Harpur?’
‘What, sir?’
‘Might he get drawn in? Boys that age – the fascination with armament. There’ll be more of these eruptions.’
‘I expect so.’
‘Which?’ Iles said.
‘Which what, sir?’
‘When you say you expect so, do you mean you expect there’ll be more incidents, or that you expect she worries in case he gets involved?’
‘I’ve ordered a rapid response vehicle to be permanently around that area, sir,’ Harpur replied.
And four days later, the rapid response vehicle called in and Harpur was out at Morton Cross again, this time to three deaths though, not one, and a wounding, in and near Chilton Park. God, a pattern starting? Iles had seemed to foresee that, and what Iles foresaw generally happened. Harpur went on television News as the clear-up at Morton Cross began and tried to sound confident that these horrifying crime outbursts in previously sedate areas could be contained and eliminated, but he wondered. His daughters saw his performance and next day Hazel told him he’d looked what she described as ‘jumpy and useless’. This hurt. He craved the girls’ approval. In fact, one of the main things about Harpur was that he longed for true success as a single parent. Of course, you never knew properly whether you’d been good at it until the children grew up and you could see if those early years made them confident and serene or caused bad twitches.
At fifteen and thirteen the girls could be tricky. For a start, they hated his job almost as much as Mrs Grant did, and when occasionally he drove them to school or judo they liked to get out of the car in a side street a few hundred metres away and walk the rest, in case kids recognized him from those TV News interviews he had to give occasionally, or could intuit cop by his haircut, eyes, shoes, suit and build. Both girls were infuriated when the News caption under his face after the Morton Cross outrage follow-up correctly spelled the surname. Hazel said: ‘If they’d put Harper with an “e r” it could be all sorts. That’s usual, the “e”. There are two Harpers with “e r” in school. After all, we don’t look like you. Oh, imagine! That would be a treat. But Harpur “u r” is us, just us. Where does it come from?’