by Bill James
Instead, his voice low – virtually a confidential whisper – he addressed Fate. This was something he did now and then, usually to protest about a particularly foul, relentless, bruising tumult of events. Hazel, his elder daughter, had told him that a belief in Fate was ‘a measly opt-out from responsibility’, but he had this habit all the same. Today he offered Fate only thorough gratitude: ‘Thanks for intervening at that spot-on moment. By opening a door you shut out extra uncomfortable truths,’ he said. Harpur felt pleased by that jokey play-about with words – opening something to shut it. Alice would probably have a grammar term for this. Not subjunctive.
She had hurt him. It angered Harpur that a convict of either gender could achieve that from behind bars. He disliked hearing the description of his understanding with Jack so damned accurately and mercilessly put. Harpur considered that some relationships should not be too thoroughly defined: informant and handler, for instance. All police forces were ordered to follow clear, specified rules for this kind of secret work. Not every detective and every informant tamely kowtowed, though. Harpur believed that, if there was something holding two people together, such as Jack and himself, let it prove this by successes, not by poncy, intelligent analysis and regulations.
Alice had told Harpur the informant arrangement ‘has to benefit you, you, you. Jack maybe. Only maybe.’ Correct? She hadn’t used the word ‘informant’, but that’s obviously what she was getting at. It made him feel disgustingly selfish and yellow: someone who would abandon a buddy if it helped keep Harpur safe. The fact that much of this friendship was simply a crafty business fix didn’t affect her view. She obviously thought pals owed each other support, regardless. She must believe Harpur was dodging out of that duty for fear of what might follow – follow for him, him, him, and his, his, his career.
About this Alice was essentially right, and he felt glad that the warder and the phone booth door had stopped any further painful, unnecessary frankness from her. Alice might have forgotten about tact and decorum through living in the States. She’d called him ‘pious’. Perhaps that was fair. Hadn’t he piously, big-headedly, told her he was the law, boom-boom? And for the law to be caught with God knew how many pictures of uncertain histories stashed away at home was a dire risk. He couldn’t contemplate it.
But that exit line, escape line: ‘Got a pencil?’ he regretted – especially because it had been used twice, like a contemptuous chorus. It was so crudely final, so dismissive, so cruel. An anxious mother deserved some tenderness, despite this mother being Alice.
But, yes, she had brought a pencil and paper with her for the call. The prison officer had given her a minute to write the number down. ‘I’ll think about contacting the agency,’ Alice said. ‘Goodbye, Harpur. Talking to you has been a bummer.’
‘Now then, Alice, we can do without that Yank coarse language,’ the screw had said. ‘This end there are standards to be kept up, if you don’t mind.’
Hurriedly now, Harpur had said, ‘Alice, I—’
THIRTY-ONE
But why always Harpur, hurried or not?
Well, it wasn’t always. Iles would often silence him with fairly poisonous put-downs. Harpur had to get some talk in when he could. Chances were not guaranteed.
THIRTY-TWO
Take that moment near the end of my funeral when Iles returned to his seat alongside Harpur – a short-stepped, slightly shuffling, dodgy knees approach back down the aisle, maybe for a moment to play-act harmlessness, diffidence, even humility. Normally, Iles didn’t have much to do with those flagrantly unbombastic qualities, but perhaps he liked to confuse people now and then. He must have decided to mimic doddering frailty in what he considered a perfect setting: the non-denominational crem chapel. This would be after his nicely behaved session in the pulpit, and his polite chatter about me and my extinction with Judith and Daphne. Perhaps there were extremely brief interludes when he came to realize that everyone, including himself, was equally human and therefore deserved to be humanely treated. Obviously he couldn’t stick for long with that equality notion or he wouldn’t be Iles.
Harpur did manage to get out a mock-respectful, piss-taking tribute to Iles for his performance, claiming that it had ‘graced’ the congregation. ‘Graced!’ Oh, God! I’m pretty certain it was ‘graced’ not ‘greased’. Hard to associate Iles with grace, though, except as part of a kick-in-the-balls send-up. Amazing grace? The whole exchange between Harpur and Iles at this point was reasonably audible. It took place during a pause in the proceedings while Bainbridge Williamson made for the pulpit to give the second eulogy.
And how did the assistant chief reply to Harpur? I have that verbatim: it’s the sort of come-back that does stay ugly and exact in the memory. ‘Just don’t fuck up, you jerk, now there’s some extra material, that’s all.’ Naturally, the harmlessness, diffidence and humility had been locked back into their hutch by then. Those two unholy, hard ‘ck’ and ‘k’ words with their insolent vowel sounds, gave the Iles response a savage start, dishing out enmity like a champ’s old one-two. At the agency we had occasional contact with the police on some cases, and I knew this kind of morale-boost priming of Harpur by Iles was standard, ending the possibility of any further conversation for a while. Also, there had been that affair mentioned by Iles involving his wife and Harpur1 which might account for some of Iles’s acute mellowness deficit at times. It was widely known about, and often featured in an agonized screaming fit from Iles, a full-voice, public screaming fit. His reference to it at the funeral wasn’t anywhere near that pitch, though. And no rage spit flew.
So, what ‘extra material’ did the ACC have in mind? Mainly, of course, it was the claim by both women in turn, Judith and Daphne, that Judith had been the cause, or at least a cause, of my death. Judith had put it simply, hadn’t she? Again, I have the words right, I think. Standing in the aisle she’d said, ‘I might have helped put an end to that life.’ By ‘that life’ she meant me, mine. Her confession had immediately followed a slab of production-line triteness from Iles arguing that the funeral was not only communal mourning but also celebrated a life, i.e.,Thomas Wells Hart’s. I could have preferred a different way to celebrate my life, such as letting it go on, not prematurely having it end up here casketted. But that option wasn’t offered. I think of that poem about the fallen in the Great War: ‘They shall not grow old as we that are left grow old: Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.’
But most probably they would have liked to grow old even if the extra years brought a bit of weariness and tooth loss.
Not long after the Iles lyric, Daphne Davenpole had given a special reason – special to her – for accusing Judith of getting me killed. It was Judith’s ‘disgraceful appetite’ – sexual appetite – according to Daphne, who, personally, and in opposition, was all for decency and rectitude. Because of Judith, Daphne said, I had fallen into a job at the Righton agency, and with it the pretty chance to die violently and young.
When Iles in his bracing manner told Harpur at the funeral not to fuck up, he probably meant that between them the two women – and especially Judith – between them the pair undoubtedly had the kind of private information that showed why and how I had to die. Iles wanted it. Harpur had better come up with it.
What would he discover if he now dealt with these new possibilities in the unfucked-up style Iles fancied so much? I thought I could see one direction Harpur might choose. Because I’d come to regard Judith’s anxieties as possibly justified, I told her about what I regarded as an interesting few developments to do with the art situation and, possibly, her brother. She might want to pass some of this or all of it on to Harpur, if he interviewed her – interviewed her again, that is: he’d already had a brief talk with her after the Cairn Close shooting.
Outlining things for her, I said that soon after I’d arrived for work at the Righton agency one Tuesday morning Bainbridge Williamson rang on the internal and asked me to go to see him in his office. This was a large, super-tid
y room upstairs. He didn’t go much on work stations and computers and, instead, had an ancient, large roll-top desk and a secretary’s soft-seat, revolving, armless chair for when he was working at it. He could swing around to deal with interviews and meetings in the room. There were half a dozen chintzy armchairs for guests.
Watercolour portraits of his first-back-to-the-loft racing pigeons crowded two of the walls. They’d been done for him at a couple of hundred quid a time, frame included, by an artistic member of the pigeon club where Bainbridge chaired the management committee. He’d told me that he and the artist both saw obvious facial differences between the birds and would be able to recognize any one of them flying low or pecking at a lawn. I suppose this identification element made it a suitable kind of hobby for a detective, though to me they were indistinguishable as pictures, and would be also as part of a flock in the air or on the ground. This wasn’t the kind of thing to tell Bainbridge, though. It would be hurtful. He’d been attracted to the sport, apparently, by The Day Of The Jackal film where the chief French detective is called away from his back garden pigeon loft to hunt a hitman plotting to kill de Gaulle. There’s a touch of symbolism, maybe, though I didn’t see it very clearly: the pigeon has to find its way home, often covering huge distances, and the detective has to find his way to the jackal fast. The captioned names of some of the birds could possibly have a bearing on the private detective career: Discovery, True Grit, Venture, Dauntless. ‘Look at the questing nature of Discovery’s eyes, yet not without some sly humour,’ Bainbridge had trilled to me one day. ‘And a kind of warrior boldness in the beak and jaws of Dauntless.’ I could imagine Dauntless being late back from a flight across Europe and Bainbridge getting in touch with Interpol to ask about any sightings of a pigeon with a gung-ho beak. Bainbridge’s loft was on a balcony at the rear of the Righton building.
I went up to the second floor and found he had a guest, a woman, not one I recognized. I reckoned she’d be in her early thirties. She was black and wore a brilliantly cut, navy pin-striped trouser suit, the jacket over a crimson silk shirt or blouse with a bound scoop neckline. She had what I took to be a gold signet ring on the index finger of her right hand and a small, glinting opal brooch on her left lapel. It was an ensemble as cleverly and imaginatively planned as anything I had ever seen in Righton, staff or client. OK, this was not saying much, but it was worth saying just the same. She looked as though she could have been on her way to a company directors’ meeting somewhere and had just happened to drop in to see small fry Bainbridge and smaller fry me en route.
Her hair had been cut to just above shoulder length, encircling a squarish, friendly, guarded face. Her ‘hello’ when Bainbridge introduced us was also friendly and guarded. I’d become used to Righton’s visitors appearing guarded. They had troubles; wouldn’t be here, otherwise, and they’d be wondering whether Righton could help and how much it would cost whether Righton could or failed to. The friendliness from this morning’s visitor was a bonus – so far, anyway.
She stood to greet me. She was about 5’ 8” on medium heels, slim, straight backed, perhaps athletic when a little younger, could be the high-jump or javelin. We shook hands. She had long, shapely fingers. I could visualize them cosseting a javelin shaft pre a first-rate chuck. Her shoulders were neat, not bulky, but I thought I sensed big, steroid-free strength there. Bainbridge said her name was Enid Aust.
‘Enid is here not on her own account, Tom, but as what might be called an intermediary, I suppose,’ Bainbridge said. He had spun his chair around from the desk to talk to us. She and I took easy chairs now. ‘Yes, Enid hopes that between the three of us we can see to the rather urgent wishes of one of her colleagues,’ he said.
‘Well, an ex-colleague,’ Enid said, with a good smile. ‘I’m out. Have been for a week. Alice is still inside. It’ll be a while yet.’
‘Alice Lamb, Tom,’ Bainbridge said.
‘We had a sort of affinity,’ Enid said. ‘This was more than just neighbourly cells. We’d both shot someone, killed someone, but in a good cause. Mine was family. These things can happen. In a way, Alice’s experience was similar. She needed to protect someone – family, too – felt a duty to protect someone. The someone is who I’m here to discuss, isn’t it?’ She paused, frowned, pursed her lips. ‘Oh, I ask isn’t it, but you don’t know why I’m here, do you, Tom? Presumptuous of me to rush on like that.’
‘Enid had our number from Colin Harpur, via Alice,’ Bainbridge said.
‘Not that it’s secret,’ Enid said. ‘Alice could have rung. We were granted the phone vouchers. But she thought it would be better if things were talked over face to face rather than like that … So, here’s my face. And now there’s your two faces, so we are face-to-face-to-face.’
‘Tom does a lot of our investigations,’ Bainbridge replied. ‘I wanted him in on the conversation.’
‘Alice would be grateful for anyone who can act on her behalf,’ Enid replied. ‘This Harpur, the cop, talked to her but he couldn’t do much, or so he said. Protocol. Well, maybe. Except he sort of invited her to take things further by giving the phone number. A kind of prompt. I’m prompted, as you see. Harpur obviously trusts you. This probably impressed Alice. I felt obliged to help.
‘Perhaps you’ll think that a closeness based on homicides has something negative and dubious about it, but remember Bonnie and Clyde. We’re blood sisters, Alice and I. We have a sort of mutual support contract that will still link us even when she gets out in three years and eight months if she can keep up the good behaviour, and she’s not too bad at that. They’ll miss her teaching the reading and writing, though.’
‘Tom, Alice worries about her son,’ Bainbridge said.
‘She feels responsible,’ Enid said. ‘She wanted to help, tried to help, and it all turned rotten. Guilt. Two loads of it – one decided by the jury, the other decided by herself. She’s plagued by conscience is our Alice. She might seem breezy and free-wheeling but there’s a lot of depth, too, a lot of motherly concern. Me, I copped guilt in the court, too, but I never blamed myself. That would have seemed illogical – one crime, one punishment, and anything additional unjust. I’ve tried to talk Alice into seeing things that way, but she’s got this sort of puritan streak.’
Her tone said Alice’s self-punishment was crazy, but it also hinted at admiration: Alice wouldn’t try to dodge blame. I had the feeling Enid would do anything she could to put matters right for Alice, or as right as they could be put. ‘Alice wanted Harpur to hide some of the works in his home, but he wasn’t having that,’ Enid said. ‘I can see why it might not be to the point, anyway. She’s scared someone, or a gang, is going to do a break-in at Darien, attracted by the publicity for that first attack. Jack told her on a visit that he’d already had someone – someone possibly dangerous – scouting around at the house. But to move the pics secretly to Harpur’s place or anywhere else isn’t going to stop the second attempt, is it? The raiders couldn’t know the gallery had been cleared and would go ahead. Jack Lamb is going to be in just as much peril, maybe more. The burglars would be very pissed off. But they might guess what had happened and knock Lamb about to force the new address out of him.’
Enid sounded like someone used to planning and organizing. She could do the for and against arguments in an easy, methodical fashion, though in this case almost all her arguments were against.
‘Harpur would have to beware of too much involvement,’ Bainbridge said.
‘Alice was disappointed in him, very,’ Enid said. ‘She seemed to think there was a particular link between Harpur and her son, and that this would come into play. She thought he’d want to help Jack Lamb – as a senior cop but also as a pal. But she didn’t clarify. I wanted to know, what kind of particular link. She kept it all a bit vague, though.’
‘Well, yes, Alice would,’ Bainbridge said.
‘But why?’ she said.
‘That’s how these things operate,’ Bainbridge said.
‘What
are we talking about?’ Enid said.
‘He’d need to move very carefully, if at all,’ Bainbridge replied, except it didn’t seem to be a reply, or not to her question. ‘But, yes, a certain kind of relationship might exist. I’ve sometimes wondered.’
‘Gay?’ Enid said.
‘No.’
‘What, then?’ Enid said.
‘It’s a very subtle exercise Harpur runs,’ Bainbridge said.
‘Which exercise?’ she said.
‘Hiding the pics at his place would take things too far. That would be not at all subtle,’ Bainbridge said.
‘Which things?’ she replied. She turned to me. ‘Do you understand which things, Tom?’
‘Tom’s comparatively new to this trade,’ Bainbridge said.
‘Ah! Oh! I believe I understand now. With a bit of silly melodrama Enid put a hand over her mouth and began to whisper. ‘We’re in the area of cloudy nod-and-wink, are we? Only those who’ve been around for a decade or two get to be told. That would seem to mean …’ She ended the theatricals and dropped her hand. She spoke normally. ‘Look, Bainbridge, are you talking about touting, informing, finking?’ she asked. ‘Lamb feeds Harpur?’
I’d decided myself that this was what the hints from Bainbridge might mean, but I wouldn’t have had the cheek to ask. He’d have his reasons for keeping things vague. But tact had no hold on Enid.
‘He’s got teenage daughters, intelligent kids, full of curiosity. And there’s a part live-in girlfriend, an undergraduate up the road. Another brain around the house. What chance of hiding a stack of pics, even if out of their frames?’ Bainbridge said.
‘You think Harpur would be afraid villains might discover he did special favours for Lamb, and so kaput to the snitch service – that’s apart from Harpur having his house burgled in search of the art?’ Enid said. ‘And maybe the kids and his girlfriend clobbered, or worse? He’s in the phone book, I gather. Easily located.’