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by Bill James

‘I don’t think that’s overstating it. Difficulties, yes. It’s my belief they should be removed pronto, in fact, super pronto.’

  ‘The difficulties?’

  ‘The items. Clearly, if the items are removed the difficulties go with them.’

  ‘That sounds neat.’

  ‘The difficulties are integral to the items. The items might be said to come festooned with difficulties. But as long as we recognize this – do not pretend things are simple and easy – we can nullify their impact. This is that second type of protection I referred to.’

  ‘Understood,’ Harpur replied. This wasn’t true, but he’d prefer not to wrong-foot her.

  ‘These items have been seen, which is not necessarily good; in fact, probably bad,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t some items exist only to be seen? It’s what they’re for – to get looked at.’ Pictures, for instance, though he didn’t say so, still not wanting to wrong-foot her. Get it over. Get it over.

  ‘That could certainly be argued. But the crux is, how are they, were they, seen, isn’t it?’

  ‘There’s something in that.’

  ‘This would be a situation where the items are seen not merely by one person, but by several. It’s as if I could hear them calling to each other, “Come and look at this one, will you? And, then again, this.”’ She mimicked high excitement flecked by notions of big money gain. ‘We have to ask ourselves, in what circumstances were they seen?’

  ‘This can certainly affect a viewer’s reactions,’ Harpur replied. ‘It’s why they have settees in museum art galleries so people can take a rest and not get ratty with the exhibits through tiredness brought on by culture overload. If you’re feeling shagged out it’s easy to become enraged by a Picasso canvas showing a woman whose nose is where you’d expect her elbow to be, and a face in general like a fractured snow shovel.’ Alice probably wouldn’t like this reference to galleries and Picasso. It was more or less hinting that the ‘items’ in their conversation were pictures. Wouldn’t anyone have guessed, that though?

  ‘I, personally, am involved in the answer to my question about circumstances,’ Mrs Lamb said. ‘The handgun, and self behind this handgun, created a situation, and this situation had results.’

  ‘Well, it would.’

  ‘Not would, did. I’m not the subjunctive.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘What results, you might ask?’ she said.

  ‘What results?’ But Harpur could see what results. Of course he could. He’d worried about them himself even before this call from the prison phone cubicle. A woman had been shot dead by another woman in a country manor house with its own picture gallery – a spicy event. This had brought a parade of nosy police to the property, and, as Alice Lamb said, they’d seen many … well, many items. Some had been on show, others in Jack’s basement strongroom, which he’d been required to open for inspection. Although none of the 999 police party at Darien after the killing had been art experts, they’d probably all heard of the various pictures and sculptures scams.

  The force’s chief detective, Harpur, had naturally been one of the early stage arrivals to deal with the shooting. Although he had his unique, clandestine chumminess with Jack it obviously couldn’t function now. The Darien incident was too grave and too colourful and too blatant for blind-eyeing; even by such an accomplished blind-eyer as Harpur. There hadn’t been anything he could do for Lamb or his mother. Details about the Darien items were passed on and up to the specialist art and antiques crime unit in London, and this was what Alice Lamb feared. So did Harpur.

  ‘You see,’ she said, ‘Jack is threatened from two sides, the lawless and the lawful. The lawless fancy Darien as a famous, probably well-stocked objective, already attempted once, but in a doomed, messy way: ripe for a second try. He tells me he’s already had a suspect visitor aiming to buy, but really wanting a good look around at the rest of his stuff. Because of what happened previously, the new people might come armed, even if they’ve heard one of the sharp-shooters – viz. me – is in jail. Jack, trying to resist, might get damaged or worse. He would resist – no doubtfulness in that “would”. He’s not a coward, just a dozy child.

  ‘From the other side, the lawful team will want to know where those valuable items we’ve mentioned came from. How did they come? What is their history? Is there paperwork, e.g., a receipt or two? Were they, possibly, the subject of a snatch, from a public display or private possession, in which case there’d be a glaring absence of paperwork, e.g. a receipt or two? Have some of them been used in money laundering; or are they intended for future laundering? Jack could be on the end of some very unkindly and dangerous questions.

  ‘Hence, Harpur, my two priorities: (a) continuous bodyguard protection, and talk to him about a flak jacket, please. Tell him you know how to get hold of one that belonged to Field Marshal Goering, a portly Nazi: this should chime with Jack’s love of uniforms. (b) Removal of the potentially embarrassing items into safe storage elsewhere until the current exceptional pressures fade. The house would have regained its innocence. I’m told this is what we should aim for. Yes, these days I learn as well as teach. There’s quite an amount of trade insights circulating here, you know, in the pokey, Harpur. Not all the girls are petty offenders only. Some have had experience with what they call “the daub dicks” – those national, FBI and Interpol arts investigators.’

  Although the term ‘items’ would still occasionally return, Alice appeared to have pretty well given up the coding. She said, ‘The girls explain that this brand of detection moves very slowly. Art, and therefore art crime, extends worldwide and inquiries are often complex and tricky and extremely sans frontières. But these snoops are very dogged and skilled and, ultimately, very successful, or the girls who talk about it wouldn’t be locked up with me, would they?’

  ‘You’re something of a saviour, aren’t you, Alice?’

  ‘In which respect, as you might say?’

  ‘You shoot someone to make sure Jack is not hurt. Now you want him 24/7 looked after, and would like items that might be incriminating removed.’

  ‘I’m his mother, that’s all, Harpur. Just loyalty.’

  He sensed this conversation might get awkward. The nature of relationships was going to feature. Mothers had high thoughts about motherhood and it lasted, even when the child was as unchildlike, in appearance anyway, as Jack. ‘I’m the law,’ Harpur said, an attempt to head off trouble with an uppity, blunt, now-hear-this pronouncement.

  ‘But Jack’s a buddy, isn’t he?’

  ‘We get on OK.’

  ‘It’s more than that, isn’t it? Closer, surely?’ Harpur heard desperation. She craved a whole-hearted ally on her son’s behalf. ‘I’ve watched the two of you. I don’t mean gay. But some sort of semi-holy link. You help each other with your different jobs?’

  ‘When appropriate.’

  ‘I hate that word, so deliberately misty and evasive. Officialese. But, all right, I think what I’m proposing is, in fact, entirely appropriate. I’ll ask Jack if he’d mind your taking the items and hiding them somewhere suitable, away from Darien, until the crisis is over. It’s not the sort of thing he should do himself – very risky: he’s too well known around the area. There might be two or three trips needed. I feel sure Jack would agree – but there’s that “would” again, in its customary sense suggesting uncertainty, although I’ve said “I’m sure!”. The items would be divided into, say, two or three loads and not difficult to manage manually. Obviously for security’s sake it would be best if you carried out this move on your own. The items could be wrapped in plastic and/or sacking. You would have a wholly free choice on where to store them. Jack would approve that, insist on it, I believe. He would trust your know-how.’

  ‘I haven’t got much know-how in this profession. I couldn’t tell someone’s idea of a good hay wain from a bad one.’

  ‘Don’t play fucking thick, or thicker than your are, Harpur, OK? I’ve got limited time on this card. You�
�re privileged. I don’t want any of it wasted. When I talk of “know-how” I obviously don’t mean know-how about these particular kinds of items themselves, but know-how about where to squirrel them away, out of sight and range of the indecently, malevolently curious. You understand how the indecently, malevolently curious operate because for most of the time you’re one of them.

  ‘There is, of course, one obvious and very tricky question. How do you and, indeed, how does Jack, determine which of the items are genuine and therefore worth concealing and which are frauds, possibly churned out by the hundred in a Yeovil factory? Would it be lunacy to carry these also into hiding. Answer? No, it wouldn’t. We have to act urgently and fast. We can’t fanny around deciding which to include and which not on grounds of authenticity or the want of it. Take the lot, all in one of the fellest of fell fucking swoops. The sorting can be done later when the tension is less.’

  ‘It’s going to look odd, isn’t it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Jack has a fine show place at his home, but with nothing to display there. Yet there were items present when the police last called. What’s happened?’

  ‘There’s been a killing chez lui, hasn’t there, Harpur? You’re talking to the killer. It might appear natural for the owner to avoid for the moment risk of another break in. So, he gets rid of all stock, possibly putting about that he’s waiting for a while before replenishing: “Available soon,” as you occasionally see on a beer pump in pubs when a brew has run out. In any case, Harpur, an empty gallery is better for Jack than one that involves scrutiny and probing and maybe some distressing truths. Jack couldn’t be charged with possession of a void gallery and storeroom. It wouldn’t be just the gallery walls that had nothing to inquire about. Neither would Jack’s cellar-strongroom. All stuff would be parcelled higgledy-piggledy and taken to it’s new, temporary site, a site chosen entirely at your discretion.’

  ‘If the gallery and strong-room are empty, doesn’t it suggest there’s been a successful sale since the last police visit?’ Harpur said. ‘The items have gone. Sold? So, where’s the cash? Could Jack point to credits of that magnitude in his bank statement?’

  ‘I don’t believe the police would have a right to demand such disclosure, would they, nor to search for currency in Darien? I say again, Jack wouldn’t have been charged. What could he be charged with? Of course, things might go wrong. Whatever we try, that will be a possibility. We have to do what we can, and removal seems to me the least likely ploy to come unstuck.

  ‘For example, you might opt for transfer of the items to somewhere in your home. That could be all right, unless more is known about your hitch to Jack than we realize. Would Iles think it a brilliant chuckle-worthy dodge to point the searchers towards your place in Arthur Street?’

  ‘No, Iles isn’t like that.’

  ‘Of course he’s like that.’

  ‘He’s fond of a jape, admittedly, but that’s all.’

  ‘The japes he’s fondest of do someone, or more than one, what he’d regard as hilarious damage. However, if you did choose your home, you’d need to be careful. Obviously, you would be unwise to hide these items at the back of an airing cupboard. They’d be unnoticeable, it’s true. But the heat, the general atmosphere of an airing cupboard could have unfavourable effects on the surface of some items, particularly very old items, which are likely to be the most valuable.

  ‘Also, I gather you have children who will probably roam around the house and might not understand what these bundles were. Or, perhaps worse, would understand. And then we have the pretty undergraduate, Denise, part-time live-in, full of intelligent curiosity about parcels. Would you be able to satisfy her – about the parcels, that is? Plus, I gather she’s a smoker, so, fire risk.

  ‘Or possibly you’d think of a furniture depository. Some risk of discovery or/and theft there. No depository would have insurance cover big enough for items of this value, possibly millions. Besides, Jack would probably not want to cough the kind of full-disclosure demanded by insurance companies because some of the items might have mysterious pasts which he’d like to keep mysterious. But, then, the whole stratagem is going to be chancy – we’ll be talking risk and taking risk continually. I don’t think a shed in the garden or on an allotment would do owing to damp and vermin. Jack would be able to advise on conservation matters.’

  ‘No, don’t do that.’

  ‘Don’t ask his opinion? He’s very experienced in these things. But if you would rather no, all right and we—’

  ‘I’m saying, don’t approach Jack at all about a removal of items by me.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘No, impossible.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘It’s unthinkable, Alice.’

  ‘Back a vehicle up to the kitchen door at Darien, load, drive to wherever you’ve selected. Maybe one journey, maybe two. Isn’t it totally practical?’

  ‘Perhaps it is, but it can’t happen, Alice.’

  ‘Can’t? Why?’

  ‘I’m sorry. Really. I can tell you’ve given it all a lot of thought.’

  ‘I’ve plenty of time for that.’ Pause. Possibly something between a sob and a groan. Then: ‘You’re afraid? You don’t stand by your friends?’

  So, he’d been right to expect the roots of an established matiness to get some hard light on them. ‘No go, Alice. As I said, I’m the law. That would be a flagrant crime – perverting the course of justice, or some such.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I get it,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  The next bit from Alice came as a mid-Atlantic snarl, some Eastwood (Clint) some east London (Peckham). ‘“Flagrant” is the problem, is it? You don’t mind a more sly and furtive arrangement?’

  ‘Sly’, ‘furtive’, a fair description of informing. Harpur thought so, but didn’t say so. ‘The friendship has boundaries. That’s always been the case.’

  ‘And now you’re being asked to move outside those boundaries – to give some actual, positive help in a possible crisis. This scares you, does it?’

  ‘It’s against the nature of things.’

  ‘Which things? Which nature? Time and tide? The rotation of the earth?’

  ‘The kind of contact between Jack and me.’

  ‘It has to benefit you, you, exclusively you. Jack maybe – only maybe?’

  ‘I hope it’s good for both of us.’

  ‘You hope!’

  Harpur thought he might hear her bite and splinter the phone. She’d get docked privileges. He said, ‘There’s a complexity about it, a delicacy, which make it difficult for people outside this kind of life to understand. I’m not knocking you, Alice. Some magistrates and even judges can’t plumb it intelligently. They think information should come to the police from clear, impeccable sources and by clear impeccable means, like getting the morning paper through the letterbox. The kind of good information we need is too precious and dangerous to arrive so easily. I have to be very subtle. And those who supply it have to be subtle as well.’

  ‘I don’t know about subtle. You sound pious and very, very guarded, Harpur, a bit like my US husband.’

  Over the phone Harpur heard not any enraged munching of a receiver but the sound of a heavy door being opened. He silently rejoiced and tried to get a message to his sweat glands that stress might reduce shortly, thank God. A different female voice, not harsh or unkind, said, ‘Time’s up, Alice.’

  ‘I can give you the private detective details, and that’s all,’ Harpur said at a rush. ‘Got a pencil?’

  THIRTY

  After a minute Harpur replaced the receiver. It was a hesitant, gentle movement, no vehement, slam-bang, get stuffed, cut-off. Anyone watching and ignorant of the situation would probably read the sweet restraint all wrong. It could look as though Harpur yearned to keep contact with the other end of the line; hoped to prolong this precious link for a couple more moments before an absolute break.

  A ni
ce, stupid interpretation, of course. But Harpur did feel he shouldn’t act as if delighted to silence Mrs Lamb at last, the chopsy, scheming old dear, even if he bloody well was. He had something not far from true sympathy for her and the way things had turned out: the holiday at Darien ruined by violence, then a trial, then jail. He wanted respite from her unforgiving mind and vocabulary, though. He certainly did not blame himself for taking her call, and would be ready to do it again, say some months on. Mrs Lamb’s anxieties might have lessened by then.

  Although that go-nowhere discussion closed, he had something else he needed to say, but not to Alice Lamb. He shifted from where he’d been sitting at his work station facing the computer screen, and felt more relaxed now in one of the room’s two large, tan, leather easy chairs, relaxed and unbadgered. Superintendents and chief superintendents qualified for a couple of these, like school colours. Iles did better: as an assistant chief constable, he got three in his suite, plus a cheval mirror, to help him check his uniform when leaving for some glossy civic shindig. The cheval glass stood slim and oblong, fixed by swivel couplings in a mahogany frame, and could be tilted to allow a total inspection, head to foot. Iles kept it at an angle that avoided his Adam’s apple, which he considered an ugly blight and an offence.

  Harpur regarded himself as ‘acutely furniture-sensitive’. Different kinds of chair, for instance, like this recent change, could produce very varied Harpur moods. For him, furniture was not neutral. It did more than passively provide a setting for action. It was part of that action. He wondered sometimes whether any published research existed into the complex psychological clout of upholstery, cheval mirrors, chiffoniers, cushions, wardrobes, nests of tables, sofas, china cabinets. He wished he could ask Iles. It was the kind of thing the ACC might know. There wasn’t much Iles didn’t know, or couldn’t make a brilliantly defiant pretense of knowing. But Harpur reckoned that if he mentioned the furniture topic Iles would kill it off fast. Most likely, he’d assume that Harpur had contracted some early middle-age mania and now hilariously believed he was an intellectual, a heavyweight abstract thinker. Iles would probably listen to Harpur’s opening couple of words and reply, ‘Go fuck yourself, Col,’ or something less comradely. Harpur didn’t ask.