First Fix Your Alibi

by Bill James

  ‘Your search didn’t come up with what you needed, sir?’

  ‘Blank.’

  ‘Birth, marriage, passport records, property conveyancing?’

  ‘Absent. Null.’

  ‘Were these reliable people doing the search?’

  ‘Entirely. Because I allow you to work with me, Col, you mustn’t deduce that I’ll make use of any old blunderers.’

  ‘So, how do you react to this impasse, sir?’ Harpur replied.

  ‘Oh, there are plenty of Vaughans, of course, plenty of fully authenticated Vaughans.’

  ‘It’s a main Welsh surname, with historic overtones, I believe.’

  ‘The crachach,’ Iles said.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Welsh upper-crust. Translates literally as “Nepotism Inc.”. The Vaughans get into The Prime Minister.’

  ‘“Get into the prime minister”, sir? How exactly?’

  ‘In Anthony Trollope’s novel, The Prime Minister, Col. The Vaughans are mentioned.’

  ‘Oh, yes, absolutely.’

  ‘But I’m looking for Vaughans of a specific Brecon address who tie in with our Wyn Normanton Vaughan – or, at least, the people I briefed for the scour were.’

  ‘And they were the ones who got fucking stopped? They reported back to tell you this, did they, sir?’

  ‘I set up the inquiries, so it’s as if I, personally, were fucking stopped by this hiatus, Harpur.’

  ‘I suppose when you go wider there’s always a danger of bumping into an hiatus, sir. Hiatuses flourish in that wider area and can pop up anywhere. My mother used to say, if a hiatus has your name on it you’re done for, like with whiz-bang shells in the Great War.’

  Iles turned away from the window and sat on the edge of Harpur’s desk/work-station. This was a spot he loved: the light from the window fell very sweetly on his fine black lace-ups and his slim legs, not a gross, neon-type glare, but a steady, reverential glow. He said, ‘Taking the relevant Vaughan surname, forenames and approximate age we can go back for just over five years and follow the family’s activities quite well for that period. The house in Brecon was bought then in the joint names of Gareth Leo Vaughan and Catrin Pamela Vaughan, Wyn Normanton’s parents. He joins the local comprehensive school, as does his younger sister, Rhiannon Mary at around that time. Gareth Leo takes a job in local government. These details are easy to come by and stand consistent with one another.

  ‘But what we don’t have, Col, is anything on the family before this. No, as it were, pre-context. Why I say “blank”. Why I say “absent”. We don’t know and can’t discover, where they lived before Brecon. We don’t know and can’t discover where the children previously went to school. We don’t know and can’t discover where the father worked, or, if he didn’t work, where he drew welfare. We don’t know and can’t discover whether this was a first marriage for either Gareth Leo or Catrin Pamela. In fact, we don’t know and can’t discover whether they are married to each other at all or just partners.

  ‘Wyn Normanton Vaughan qualifies for university under that name because this falls within the five-year period available to us. His second forename might seem to have a geographical significance but we’ve gone through school records, register of electors, hospital records, job centre records, dole records in Normanton, West Yorkshire, near Wakefield, but blank, absent. It’s possible that the name, Normanton, has been deliberately given as a false lead.’

  ‘Given who by?’ Harpur said.

  ‘So what do you make of it, Col?’ Iles replied.

  Harpur saw, of course, that there was only one thing to make of it. The blankness, the absences, were resoundingly communicative: no need for an interpreter. But the ACC liked to handle revelations, disclosures, deductions himself, for the amazement and slavering admiration of Harpur. And, because Harpur frequently held back crucial items of information from the assistant chief, it seemed reasonable and decent to balance matters by playing Dumbo to him now and then; and to do a wholehearted gasp or two of astonishment at his brain-power bordering on wizardry.

  ‘A veritable puzzler, sir,’ Harpur said weakly. ‘Were they non-persons until Brecon?’

  ‘In France, Harpur, some immigrant groups refer to themselves as “les sans papiers” – people with no official documentation because they came into the country illegally, and therefore without identity.

  ‘The Vaughans are almost like this except there is documentation for them during the last five years – just as there would be documentation of the immigrants back in their own country.’

  ‘Sounds impossible, sir.’ It didn’t but Harpur would humour Iles. The ACC loved to be thought of as Mr Know-All. It could be considered cruel to let him discover that what Mr Know-All knew was also known by at least one other. Iles’s ego had to be sensitively catered for.

  The assistant chief gave him an exceptionally kind, patient smile, like a teacher trying to encourage a thicko with his two-times table. The ACC obviously decided to offer Harpur a clue. ‘Think back to the Templedon family, Col.’

  ‘The Templedons?’

  ‘What did I do … we do there? Can you recall?’

  ‘You – we – moved the family into a safe house on our ground because they were in very considerable danger elsewhere.1 Robert Templedon had been a super-grass in another part of GB and needed to disappear. The relatives and associates of those super-grassed and jailed are likely to want vengeance.’

  ‘Correct, Harpur! Brilliantly done. But what else?’

  ‘You – we – arranged new employment, new schools and so on for them.’

  ‘Once more incontestably accurate, Col. But what else?’

  ‘There’s even more?’

  ‘Think. Focus on something absolutely basic.’

  ‘Basic?’

  ‘Shall I say the word “names”, to you?’ Iles replied gently, extending the charitable leg-up of the clue.

  ‘Oh, yes, of course, of course,’ Harpur cried delightedly but apologetically for having been so slow. ‘You – we – gave them changed names. They had been, what was it … yes, they had been Ballions, hadn’t they, but became Templedons?’

  ‘And they are happy and unhurt, successfully hidden away as Templedons on our ground even now, aren’t they, Col?’

  ‘Adaptability. Guided adaptability by you … us.’

  ‘And what did that new family name require?’

  ‘Require, sir?’

  ‘What must the re-start names have, Col, something indispensable?’

  ‘Well, clearly, acceptance by the families.’

  Iles nodded impatiently as though Harpur’s answer went without saying. ‘Yes, fair enough, acceptance. As you imply, that’s obvious. But what more? What is vital?’

  ‘It shouldn’t be an awkward new name. There was that actress, Diana Dors, whose real name was Fluck. A name like that would leave them open to rough jokes and deliberate errors with the “l” left out. I suppose Dors could be mistakenly spoken as drawers but that’s nothing like as rude.’

  ‘OK, not Fluck. Not Dors. Not Tosser. But yet one further essential,’ Iles said.

  Harpur thought the game could be brought to an end now. ‘Ah!’ he said with terrific warmth, as though suddenly hit by wonderful inspiration of epiphany grade. ‘Ah!’

  ‘You’ve got it, have you, Col?’

  ‘Ah! Obliteration.’

  ‘So true, Harpur.’

  ‘Elimination totally of their previous name, Balllion, their previous identities, their family history. A sort of imposed amnesia or they might be traced, Ballion equals Templedon.’

  ‘As with?’

  ‘As with the Vaughans,’ Harpur replied, ‘and whatever their name and location were before that. Isn’t there a Home Office department whose only function is to wipe out all previous bureaucratic and other traces of an ex-informant and his family when they secretly take on a new life?’

  ‘I knew you’d see it eventually, Col. The “sans papiers” in France are sans papier
s because they are sans papiers – without papers. But the Vaughans, or whatever their name was before, did have all the proper papers in that earlier name, and these papers, and all other traces, had to be removed in order to put an unbridgeable distance between their past identities and their new ones. That’s why your term, Col, “obliteration” was so brilliantly appropriate.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘This is an obliteration, not of the people themselves, obviously, but of their history – of their entire history up until that point five years ago when their new life begins.’

  ‘So we think Gareth Leo Vaughan has form, do we?’ Harpur said.

  ‘He’ll be some kind of villain, ex-villain, turned former major confidential source, most probably, and the powers must have decided to lose him and his in mid-Wales – no other force to be informed, for fear of leaks. They’ve been given Welsh first names, neutral second forenames, or faux-geographical. Nothing over the top. It’s been a subtle operation. Tricky, but perhaps others beside myself could have unscrambled it.’

  ‘That I doubt, sir,’ Harpur said. ‘How does all this affect the present Wyn Normanton Vaughan’s death and general situation?’

  ‘You’re looking for links, aren’t you, Col, not just to Wyn Normanton Vaughan but to Frank Waverton, who was adjacent to the Binnacle incident, at least adjacent.’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘I thought you would be, Col.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I knew it. With you there comes a point where your intelligence will kick in. The process is fascinating to observe but the lengthy wait can become very depressing.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Generally, Iles was OK in morgues. He might be totally restrained and unthespian, no violence or cursing, a decent decorousness. The dead couldn’t fuck him up and so he respected them heartily, above all savouring their silence. He felt able to lay his paranoia restfully alongside one of them for a while. Also, Iles was very keen on cleanliness and mortuaries usually looked spruce.

  At funerals he could turn less manageable. They had a theatrical element, anyway, even before some dramatic, play-within-a-play, rumbustious performance by Iles. Occasionally, he seemed forced by inner urges to take a semi-starring role and offer one of his rasping soliloquies about knitting as a pastime for the elderly, or social decline, or malice directed at him personally by a named mandarin, or named mandarins, at the Home Office.

  He would denounce a congregation for not backing him in these disputes and if Harpur managed to whisper to him that the congregation would not have heard of the injustices until he mentioned them now, Iles would reply that to him it looked like a congregation who, if they had been aware of this suffering, they would have passed by on the other side, a Biblical phrase sent to condemn religious do-nothing arseholes.

  The Wyn Normanton Vaughan funeral would be in Wales. Iles might decide to go. It depended on his mood that day. Or he might send Chief Inspector Francis Garland, who had the case. It was the kind of tragic death where a senior police officer should be present to represent the law-abiding community’s regret and official sympathy. If Iles did go, Harpur would have to accompany him in case the ACC turned showy, loud, and tumultuous, as though he’d forgotten the serious reason for his attendance.

  At funerals, Harpur had to be ready to suppress physically all flagrantly off-colour behaviour by the ACC. This could be massively difficult. Harpur invariably wore at least a jock-strap and preferably a groin-protecting cricket box when attending a funeral with Iles. It amused Harpur in an uncomfortable sort of way that while the majority of people attending a funeral thought most about the kind of dark clothes they should wear, he had to be primarily concerned that his balls didn’t get pulverized, while in the background, the organist might be doing a solemn anthem. Harpur would also take a knuckle-duster in his pocket if during the day or two before the funeral Iles seemed especially on edge. Iles merely on edge was worrying enough but exceptionally on edge hinted at a likely shit-storm.

  The assistant chief might not be heavily made but he possessed fierce, wiry strength and a good knowledge of the body’s weaker areas. Also, Harpur thought he must have been on a long, very thorough course in advanced head-butting at one of the training centres for staff rank officers.

  Now and then, he would attempt to take absolute command of a funeral service and could grow violent towards the priest, vicar, minister or members of the congregation if they resisted and tried to keep him out of the pulpit; and many would see it as a holy duty to keep him out of the pulpit. Harpur hated fighting on pulpit steps because if Iles had already nearly reached the top when Harpur intervened, the ACC would have the option of kicking down vehemently with one of his lace-up, custom-made black shoes and catching him in the face. Iles had played rugby to quite a high level and still refereed now and then. He knew what a tactical kicking could do to cheekbones, teeth and chin. Obvious wounds and bruises of that kind seemed to Harpur not proper at a solemn religious gig. A place of worship should not be turned into a first-aid centre.

  Although the ACC had carefully chosen black shoes to suit the mourning nature of the occasion, Harpur considered it grotesquely infra dig to have one toe cap bright with blood, particularly his.

  Incense always got up the assistant chief’s nose and he would become especially hunnish in any church where it was flung about backed by chanting. ‘Take that fucking fly-spray away you festooned, robed jerk,’ he’d yelled at a high-Anglican funeral last year. Iles was brought up super-Prot in Northern Ireland and despised what he called ‘fancy sacerdotal glad-rags’.

  He and Harpur went to the mortuary with Wyn Normanton’s parents and Francis Garland. Iles and Garland were in uniform, Harpur had on a dark suit and unflashy tie. As they entered the hospital, Iles said to Wyn Normanton’s mother, ‘One identification will be quite adequate. If you would prefer to wait in the foyer we’ll rejoin you very shortly.’

  ‘I’ve flown back from Adelaide to get here today. I want to see him.’

  ‘Forgive me. I understand,’ Iles replied. ‘Certainly I understand.’

  ‘Thanks, then.’ She sounded surprised at the ACC’s kindness. To an extent, it had shocked Harpur, also. Harpur knew him, though, and was bound to find any sign of consideration for others’ feelings from Iles disorientating. They did show now and then, and always caught Harpur unprepared. But, on the other hand, these were the first moments Mrs Vaughan had ever met the ACC. Her reaction must mean she usually regarded the police – all police, not just Iles – as the enemy. This might fit the guess by the assistant chief and Harpur himself that the Vaughans had something dubious, something crooked, in their past. They might have moved out of that category now, but ancient attitudes possibly lingered.

  Catrin Pamela Vaughan would be in her early forties, he thought, about 5' 5", still wearing the lightweight slacks and top she’d presumably taken to Australia. Her hair was in a fringe with the rest straight down to her shoulders on each side. It had been given a very black dye job. She had kept herself slim and almost thin. She had small features and an attractive oval face which, combined with the hairstyle, put him in mind of Liz Taylor as Cleopatra on one of the movie channels.

  At the trolley she and her husband stood close to the covered body, the back of their hands possibly touching; not holding hands, but perhaps a contact, maybe some mutual comfort and support getting transferred. Harpur and Iles stood behind them. When an attendant pulled back the sheet covering Wyn Normanton Vaughan, she stared for a couple of seconds, then said, ‘Yep,’ and turned away, as if prepared to leave. She’d come all that distance to see him, and now she had seen him and that was it, thanks very much. The attendant drew the sheet into place, then took them to a small side room.

  This was an established procedure. Harpur had seen it on previous cases. Visitors were given the chance to recover before going back to
life outside. The room had a drinking-water dispenser and a stack of plastic cups. Iles filled a cup for her and then one for all the others and himself. There was paperwork to be completed and the attendant left them while he saw to that. He’d return for a signature or signatures on the identification certificate.

  Iles said to the couple, ‘You’ll go home now?’

  ‘Well, we’re not flying back to Adelaide,’ Mrs Vaughan said. ‘Our daughter was staying with friends while we were away. We’ll pick her up en route.’

  ‘Brecon, isn’t it?’ Iles said. ‘A lovely town. The cathedral and castle. Salman Rushdie hid out there at the beginning of the fatwa, I believe. But that would be before your time, I expect.’

  Iles waited for a second, obviously inviting the Vaughans to do a bit of dating for him. They stayed quiet, though, sipping the water.

  ‘Language,’ Iles said.

  ‘Language?’ she said.

  ‘Welsh. Any problems?’ Iles replied. ‘Rushdie’s wife at the time wrote afterwards that they’d been through Brecon and Aberhonddu, not realizing they were the same place.’

  ‘Plenty of English spoken there,’ Catrin said.

  ‘So you’re well settled in?’ Iles said.

  ‘Yes, it’s a fine town,’ Gareth Leo replied.

  ‘I notice neither of you has picked up a Welsh accent yet,’ Iles replied.

  ‘Takes time, I expect,’ Gareth Leo said.

  ‘You’ve had only five years, I think,’ Iles said.

  ‘Right,’ Vaughan said.

  ‘Your accents?’ Iles said. ‘I’d say south-east England, possibly London, previously. It would take some adjusting to a rural spot like Brecon.’

  ‘Slowly does it,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, south-east England or London itself,’ Iles said. ‘Accents interest me. I wouldn’t put myself on a par with the prof in My Fair Lady, but I’m improving. I’d diagnose both of you as south of the Thames, Lewisham, Penge, that way? It’s own brand of cockney. Some very good schools around those parts, I understand.’