by Bill James
‘Wolsey’s statement figures in the trial and so does he, of course, as one of the accused,’ Maud replied. ‘But the statement only says they intended to kill Scray. They didn’t kill him or make an attempt to, so the statement counts for not much. It might sound like big talk bullshit. The trial is about other deaths and injuries, isn’t it, actual death and injuries – the three clubbing girls? It’s about criminally mad driving and manslaughter, two stolen vehicles, unlicensed firearms carried by the occupants, failure to stop after an accident. There’s a note to the judge, most probably, mentioning Wolsey’s cooperation. But he gets only a year less than Abidan, and that’s not on account of his cooperation, but because he wasn’t driving when the girls were struck. Some of the media pointed out the apparent coincidence that this clash happened on the same evening as the building-site murder, but they can’t go beyond that – nothing explicit. They don’t know any more, not in a usable form.’
‘Who does?’ Harpur said.
‘That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’ Maud said. ‘And will soon be there – to find the links.’
‘This Chief you were hammering earlier – does he run the patch we’re due to visit?’ Iles said.
‘I thought you might ask that,’ Maud said.
‘And?’ Iles replied.
‘As you pointed out, it could have been any one of ten,’ Maud said. ‘Civil Service rules prohibit me from disclosing the names of those warned or disciplined about their work.’
‘God, Col, we’re being entertained by a fucking jobsworth,’ Iles said. ‘Didn’t I tell you what the Home Office was like?’
‘That Wolsey,’ Harpur replied. ‘He seemed to have transformed himself into something he wasn’t by nature, but when the stress gets too much it’s he whose personality and morale crumble. He loses his strength and confidence and turns blabbing fink. The real, primitive, unalloyed self is always there, dormant, maybe, but ever ready to make a comeback.’
‘You mean the id?’ Maud asked.
‘That kind of thing,’ Harpur said.
‘The ego makes us try to shape the id so it can cope with the world outside. Wolsey wills himself to love guns, or seem to, wills himself to get good with them, because that’s the kind of milieu he lives in – the reality he has to cope with,’ Maud said. ‘But ultimately the id will always win against the ego. What’s bred in the bone won’t come out in the wash.’
‘Along those lines,’ Harpur replied.
‘When he’s not leching, Harpur often does a bit on the psychiatry side,’ Iles said. ‘Don’t imagine he’d be a complete dick at that, merely because of the yokel appearance.’
Maud gave a bemused sort of smile. ‘Naturally, I looked into Colin’s circumstances as soon as I heard you were taking him on this job,’ she replied. ‘I hadn’t had your explanation then, of course, Desmond. You’re a one-parent family, Colin, aren’t you? Megan, your wife, victim of a terrible murder3? I believe Hazel, your elder daughter, is only fifteen. Is it proper – indeed, is it legal? – for you to leave her and the younger girl alone in the Arthur Street house for what might be quite lengthy spells during this operation?’
‘My sister – divorced, no kids – will move in while I’m away,’ Harpur said. ‘We’ve had this arrangement several times before because of the job. Hazel and Jill get on well with her, luckily.’
‘Plus Harpur has something substantial and deeply non-Platonic going with an undergraduate at the university up the road from where he lives,’ Iles said. ‘Modules: lit, langs and engineering drawing. An all-rounder. I expect she’ll call on the girls now and then.’
‘This would be Denise Prior?’ Maud asked. ‘College lacrosse and swimming teams.’
‘She’s not much more than a child herself, but, of course, that wouldn’t stop Col,’ Iles said. ‘Stop him? Hardly. The opposite.’
‘She doesn’t live at Arthur Street permanently, though, does she?’ Maud said. ‘She has a student room in Jonson Court. Sleeps at Arthur Street only off and on.’
‘Much more on than off,’ Iles said. ‘“Cohabitation” is her second name.’
‘And it would be only when Colin was there, wouldn’t it?’ Maud said.
Iles said: ‘That’s Jonson without an h – Ben, the plays and poems, not Dr Sam, the dictionary. Ben’s often commemorated. I’m reading a novel set late nineteenth century where one of the boys is in Jonson House at his boarding school.’
‘And getting buggered in standard fashion,’ Maud said. ‘The Children’s Book, by Byatt.’
‘I adore scholarly talk,’ Harpur said. ‘Have you and Mr Iles rehearsed this?’
‘Yes, Harpur can turn envious of an education and grow sarcastic and bitter, poor sod. I don’t know what her parents think of their daughter running a relationship with someone like him,’ the ACC said. ‘As I understand it, they’re quite decent people now, though students themselves in the 1960s, that freed-up, pill-gifted, wild time.’
‘You made a play at one stage for Hazel, I’m told, under-age or not, Desmond,’ Maud said. ‘Didn’t you flourish a glamorous crimson scarf?’
‘Mr and Mrs Prior are from the Midlands area,’ Iles replied. ‘I expect they have grand hopes for their daughter. Does that mean Harpur will show some compunction and restraint? I don’t think so. “Unbridled.” Is that the word for him and his tendencies? If you can think of a better one, Maud, text me with it, would you? The classics have a grand range of nicely graded terms for degeneracy. How I’d hate to be unjust to Col!’
‘You’re afraid of him, Desmond, aren’t you?’ Maud replied. ‘Scared of his good sense and solidity, plus an ability to pull women. Why you keep trying to put him down. It’s become an obsession with you, a kind of mental palsy.’
Iles took a couple of seconds to mull this. Then he said, ‘There might be something in that.’ Astonishingly, the Assistant Chief would occasionally listen to criticism, accept it, without a brain-storm or lip foam. She must have impressed him. ‘Do you feel pulled, Maud? Am I in the way?’ he asked.
‘Who am I to tell an ACC he’s in the way?’ she replied.
‘You’re Maud,’ Iles said. ‘You’re the Home Office. That’s your job – to treat me like an obstruction.’
‘No. We’ve selected you for a very tricky assignment because we think you can do it – with Colin, of course.’
‘Oh, of course,’ Iles said. ‘But you didn’t know I’d pick him.’
‘I hoped you would,’ she said.
‘You do feel pulled,’ Iles replied.
‘I’m in a relationship already,’ she said. ‘And so is Colin, as you’ve just explained,’ she said.
‘That kind of thing doesn’t worry, Col, as I’ve also explained. He could fit you in,’ Iles said.
She looked hard at Harpur for a moment but then seemed deliberately to get the conversation back to work topics.
ELEVEN
AFTER
Maud said: ‘From the documents, you’ll have noted two motoring sequences. Ultimately, of course, we have the Volvo. It ferries the supposed assassination group. It waits at the park. There’s a dispute about stay or go. It goes, though without the designated driver; a panic-merchant, instead. Then on the pavement it runs down the three roistering girls, killing two, gets back on to the road and speeds to a vehicle switch.
‘But there’s also an earlier car trip: a disciplinary excursion aimed at a comparatively low-caste member of the firm, Claud Norman Rice, address, twenty-seven Delbert Avenue. Not the Volvo. We’re pretty sure Tom was present for this prior bit of motoring. He might actually have driven the punishment party to and from this pre-Volvo assignment. Jamie Meldon-Luce, the usual Wheels, couldn’t make it. Tom took them to Delbert Avenue and brought them back. The point about Wheels was, he had to be present when his daughter, Carol Jane Letitia Meldon-Luce, aged eight, played Mary Magdalene in a church mini-drama for kids and parents. Jamie’s strong on family, and, I understand, feels fairly OK about churches.
/> ‘It’s true, Tom never mentioned this Rice episode in advance to Howard Lambert, his handler. You’d think something potentially so major would figure in one of their chats. We’re talking about projected severe injuries, at least. But, no, Tom doesn’t make mention. You won’t find any account from Lambert of such a meeting. Or at least Lambert says Tom didn’t speak of it. That might be Lambert looking after himself. If he knew of the intended sortie, perhaps he thought he should have done something to prevent it. It’s one of those customary horrible dilemmas in undercover work – pounce now, make one or two arrests, prevent a crime, or wait for the bigger moment, and bigger prey, the recognized objective. Have a glance at a book called Black Mass, about the way the FBI in America allegedly let South Boston gang chief James “Whitey” Bulger commit all kinds of deep villainy because he gave them information about other gangs. Incidentally, he’s been located in California lately and charged.
‘A Rice beating up would never get officially reported to the police. He’d rely on paracetamol, first aid and nursing from friends. Perhaps there’d even be a tame, gorgeously-well-paid doctor around. Rice wouldn’t want the police brought into things. That’s not how matters are handled in the gangs, is it? They deal with the situation privately.’
Iles crooned with feeling and unsoftly, in fact, little short of a bellow, an updated version of the 1930s’ song ‘Marta’: ‘Omertà, rambling rose of the wildwood; Omertà, with your shtum code malign.’
Maud said: ‘Yep. So we’re guessing a bit, presuming a bit. Tom had been back to Hilston to get kitted out with a car. I’ve seen their records for that. He could hardly use his own vehicle when working his way into the firm. They’d be routinely suspicious of him, wouldn’t they? All right, he’s from another police outfit, not local and not recognized, but they’d be routinely suspicious of anyone new, and on guard non-stop against possible infiltration. There’s been so much publicity about undercover that all criminal outfits are qui viving. Most likely the firm has a paid voice inside the Licensing Authority who could do a check on his registration and come up with a name and address – Tom’s real name and address. Not good. That’s only one step away from a visit to neighbours and discovery he’s a cop; confirmation he’s a cop. “Oh, yes, Sergeant Tom Mallen and his family live there. Why do you ask?” They’d ask because they wanted to expose a snoop, but they wouldn’t say that.
‘For the Hilston BMW, though, we could arrange for a number plate tied to Thomas Derek Parry, born twenty-seventh of April 1974, and living at the time of registration in West Ham, London. The actual address was a big, old multi-flatted house where there’d be continual occupant changes, making a trace of some ex-resident more or less impossible. Hilston gave him a familiarizing pack on the district, including, of course, popular drug-pushing spots, to help Tom manufacture a recent background scene in case of questions. It would be reasonably credible that he’d forgotten to, or neglected to, inform the Authority of a new address.
‘We think Tom chauffeured the people who’d been instructed to clobber Rice. Hilston did consider a location bug for the BMW so its whereabouts would be always known and logged and fast-aided in case of trouble. But this idea was ditched because in any vetting of Tom by the firm they’d search the vehicle as a basic ploy and find his seven/twenty-four little telltale. From your points of view, Desmond, Colin, what you might wish to establish is whether Tom’s behaviour on the Rice operation produced doubts of his genuineness. You’ve heard of that call in some US jails – “Dead man walking” – when a prisoner’s on his early morning, manacled way to the topping parlour. Was this Rice episode “dead man driving” for Tom – the start of progress towards wipeout on the building site, though it wouldn’t actually come for months ahead? This could have been the first test of his genuineness. Would he seem sufficiently eager as they neared Delbert Avenue? The driving would be a comparatively undemanding job, at a remove from the actual hammering: no blood or screams for pity, no deep involvement. It might be as far as Tom wanted to go. Was the Rice jaunt a giveaway for him?’
‘But even if that’s so, what makes you believe the subsequent wipeout was done by a police officer, officers?’ Harpur asked.
‘I’m suggesting a direction your inquiries might take,’ Maud said.
‘Why do you choose that direction, though?’ Harpur said. ‘What’s the evidence?’
‘There are several directions you’ll want to follow. I’m nominating one, that’s all,’ Maud said.
‘Why though?’ Harpur asked. He knew he sounded like the third degree, maybe on account of the cinema setting: old films on TV sometimes showed US detectives bullying a suspect like this. Also, he realized some vanity came into it. She’d shown interest in him. He wanted to demonstrate he was worth taking an interest in. He’d like to appear wise and dogged.
Iles half-helped in that unique half-helping, half-savage style he sometimes assumed. ‘Col sticks at things,’ the ACC said. ‘He’d hate to hear police officers bad-mouthed, especially by someone in this particular governmental sty, the Home Office. He’s police through and through himself, though, of course, that doesn’t mean he’d hesitate about debauching the wife of a superior in the force, often using disgracefully untoward places, including the shrub section of a garden centre on a busy Saturday afternoon.’ The ACC’s voice climbed with ease to, say, three times the already loud volume of his adjusted Arthur Tracy theme number, ‘Marta’, just now. Harpur remembered hearing the song when a child, performed emotionally by one of his uncles, but with the proper words, concerning love and loss.
Maud turned very quickly and changed the screen picture. ‘This is Rice’s place,’ she replied. It’s a semi in what looks like a quiet, ordinary, petit-bourgeois street.
Iles leaned forward to get a closer view. He smiled with true, gratified warmth. ‘I love Victorian-style coloured glass patterns in a front door, don’t you, Maud: the dark, slumbering reds, the pale green tendrils, the turquoises and ochres?’ he said at normal pitch; at droolingly affectionate pitch. Harpur reckoned that if mood swings hadn’t existed before Iles he would have invented them. ‘Thank heaven the door pane wasn’t damaged on their visit,’ he said.
‘The beating wasn’t scheduled to take place here, of course. They’d meant to motor him into the country. He lived alone at present while his partner, Cornelius, finished a jail sentence at Long Lartin, so there’d be no nuisance third-party present. But his next doors might have heard the sudden evening boisterousness and yelps through a shared wall. We think this foray wasn’t just about Rice himself, a ranker only. He worked to Justin Scray, his appointed line manager, and became, also, part of the firm within a firm. This would be a warning to Justin Scray, sort of: “You’re next for something even rougher, Justin, dear, unless you stop pissing about with an elite private customer list.” Scray was still an eminence in the firm, not much below Leo Percival Young himself, we believe. Leo might not have wanted to get extreme with Scray at that stage and make him an all-out enemy. In contrast, Rice didn’t matter much. He could be used as a frightener, his wounds red badges of punishment, and very visible and pithy, as badges always are. But, of course, as you’ll have read, nothing about this operation went as it should have.’
Harpur said: ‘I’ve been hearing a lot about red badges lately.’
TWELVE
BEFORE
If they decided to kill, you had to go along with it.
And even more so when it was only a beating up, definitely not quite a murder despite the possible thoroughness and force of the hammering. Tom saw that from the law aspect this must be a fair bit less serious than an outright death, and involvement in it – either actually helping, or as passive spectator – not so morally disturbing for him, surely.
Willingness to take part in some hefty crime could be used as a test by gang members if they suspected they had a spy in their outfit. The ethics of this type of situation had been talked about and talked about and talked about at Hilston, wi
thout producing much clarity, though. Impossible. The underlying, immovable problem remained: much undercover work required a law officer – a disguised law officer – to behave as though he/she operated above the law and could ignore and flout it. Identities were split. Years of behaving one way, and of being intensively trained one way, must be chucked, forgotten. Villain values took over. They had to be applied with full commitment and obvious – very obvious, very concocted, very convincing – enthusiasm.
No wonder undercover gave some officers long-lasting psychological trouble, took them down the road that might even lead ultimately to schizophrenia. Tom felt a bit dodgy himself, occasionally. There had been cases where ex-undercover detectives sued their police authority for not warning them about the permanent personality damage that might come from this work. Some officers with bad reactions were pensioned off as sick – ‘hurt on duty’. This didn’t mean physically injured in some gang war. It meant mind stress. It meant deep confusion at a switch to career crookedness. Yes, Tom did feel a bit dodgy himself occasionally, or oftener.
Yet this episode had begun almost comically – quaintly, at any rate . . .
THIRTEEN
BEFORE
‘I’ll be wanting you to use a van for this, Tom – a special van, a van with unnatural talents, you could say. This seems a very ordinary van but it’s got brilliant observation items in the rear. Oh, yes. In red paint on each side is ACME LAWN AND GARDEN SERVICES, and at the top joining point of each pair of open legs of them eight capital As is a very useful hole. Pardon me, Tom, if that sounds fucking crude and anatomical, and altogether too much of a good thing. It’s a trick to make them little windows not noticeable because they’re at what is referred to as the apex of the As – just lurking there, for observing through without being observed. You heard of a judas hole in a door so you can see who’s out there before you open? Like that, only there’s eight of them.