by Bill James
‘Perhaps.’
‘Oh, there’s that “perhaps” again,’ Mansel said. It was half laugh, half snarl. ‘So cagey, Ralph, so undecided. But it’s absolutely plain, isn’t it? This is a Favard to avenge a Favard, isn’t it? This one comes from away, but is very much part of the crooked family. A Favard – Waistcoat Favard – doesn’t like how the telly treated the Favard story. The name of the dead character in the programme wasn’t Favard, of course: a different safety-first identification, but behind this little bit of writer’s trickery it’s no question the late Paul.’
One of the barmen came in with a coffee pot on a tray, hot milk in a jug, a sugar bowl and two cups and saucers. He left and Ralph poured. Mansel added milk and a couple of sugar lumps. Ralph took his black, no sugar. Shale said: ‘This is why I think it’s all to do with identity and identification, Ralph. First, identify the place. Well, that’s easy, it’s The Monty. We got pics that show us the location, but even without the pictures we’d most likely know it was The Monty because The Monty is such a great centre for the community, so loved by the community. The Monty is like a kindly mirror of everything important that happens in that community. For this, Ralph, you deserve major, non-stinting-type praise.’
‘Thank you, Manse.’
‘So we got an identity for the location and then we ask what the violence in that location was re. – we identify it. And here’s the answer, Ralph: it was to do with them two deads, Favard and the other, plus also relating to Assistant Chief Constable (Operations) Desmond Iles – or whatever he was called in the telly stuff. That’s the identification, Ralph. That’s the bigger, vital background, known also as a context.’
He drank his coffee slowly, all of it. This seemed to Ralph a very decisive way of drinking coffee. It revealed outright mastery over what had been in the cup. It was gone in one short series of swallows, Mansel’s. He stood. Ralph had been about to pour him a refill. He saw now, though, that this would cheapen the way Mansel had dealt with the first: that dignified and resolute style could not be cloned. ‘I’d like to go down, Ralph,’ Shale said.
‘Down where?’
‘Down to where it was,’ Manse said.
‘Where what was?’
‘The fighting, the destruction, the perilously unfixed pool table, the punch.’
There was no dress code for The Monty, though Ralph would definitely install one when he’d raised the club to a higher level socially. Even now, though, he didn’t fancy having Mansel around the bar in those shorts. They were probably fine for cycling, but not at all for the club. Early drinkers below would be shocked to see someone in that kind of glinting ensemble. Of course, they knew that cyclists wore shorts, but cyclists didn’t generally wear them in The Monty: wrong tone.
TWENTY-ONE
But Ralph went down with Mansel to the bar, and at once Shale placed himself in what he must regard as the position Naunton (Waistcoat) Favard had during the violence. Mansel was fond of actuality, or at least something very close to it. He kept his phone in one hand and consulted it now and then, like someone with a sextant, so he could work out what he’d termed the ‘geography’ of things. When he’d settled at the selected point he glanced at Ralph, plainly wanting him to confirm the choice. Manse required total authenticity for his make-believe. Ember nodded, not an extravagant series of rocking-horse nods like Shale’s when they were talking in the office, and only a single, slight nod, but decisive.
The din of the outbreak had come with the photos: sounds of smashing, splintering, shattering, pulverizing, cracking. And shouting, but Ralph could make out only the occasional word, no joined-up phrase or sentence with a meaning: ‘riddance’, ‘corrupt’, ‘fucking’, ‘plot’, the ‘fucking’ four times but only as a curse.
From his fancied situation near a heap of smashed bottles and glasses, Mansel slowly, systematically eye-balled the imagined, scrapping crowd, at first waving an arm at them and then letting go with a swinging right upper-cut to a fantasy jaw. Ralph thought the sequence nearly balletic.
Although it was only just after midday, early for a club, the bar already had some customers. Tim (Tasteful) Barry-Longville sat with Mavis, his mother, at a replacement table in their usual sector of the room. They sometimes came in for a pre-lunch drink. ‘You’re looking so svelte in that rig, Mansel,’ Tasteful called.
‘But he’s not supposed to be Mansel, is he,’ his mother said. ‘He’s the one they call “Waistcoat”, yes. Ralph? A Favard. He was yelling about a fucking shameless fucking corrupt cop plot to hide the fucking murder of his brother, Paul, and someone else.’ She and Tasteful must have been nearer to Waistcoat on the night and able to hear him properly.
‘We love the way you felled that laddie who’d been screaming, “Good riddance to Paul Favard and the other …” the other … how did it go, Ma?’ Tasteful said.
‘“The other fucking creep. Three cheers for do-it-yourself Ilesy,”’ Mavis said. She had on khaki linen trousers and a man-style brown, yellow, beige check shirt and red cravat. Tasteful was in one of his three-piece suits, a white rose in the buttonhole.
‘Then Waistcoat Favard floored him,’ Tasteful said. ‘Brotherly love for dead Paul Favard.’
‘Not Favard in the programme,’ Mavis said.
‘The one who was meant to be Paul Favard in the programme,’ Tasteful said. ‘A victim.’
‘We don’t know who he was meant to be,’ Ralph replied.
‘Of course we do,’ Mavis said. She leaned forward and pointed at the shoulder of Ember’s jacket. ‘I see you’re carrying a pistol, Ralph. Did you have it with you during the rough stuff? Weren’t you tempted to use it?’
‘Ralph’s not like that, Mother. He’s got a humane, moral side,’ Tasteful said.
‘He has?’ Mavis said. ‘Sounds like an encumbrance for somebody in his kind of game, or games.’
Ember went with Mansel to the cloakroom for his bike and waited while he refitted the helmet.
‘They’re probably right, don’t you think, Ralph?’ Shale said.
‘Tasteful and Mave? Right about what?’
‘You,’ Shale said.
‘What about me?’
‘Too tender,’ Shale said.
‘Who to?’
‘It’s obvious.’
‘What is?’
Manse wheeled the cycle towards the main door of the club. ‘I used to think we ought to remove any investigator who came here from London touting for dirt on Des Iles,’ he said. ‘But that could be too late. If someone was sent by Whitehall to poke about into the past it would mean the hunting was already under way and Iles is in peril. What we got to do, Ralph, is stop anyone like that before he even starts. Or she. The priority job is to get rid of someone like Waistcoat who’s yelling these insults and filthy slanders about Desy Iles and causing very unnecessary, foul attention to them deaths. Correction: not someone like Waistcoat, but Waistcoat. He’s got to be removed, Ralph.’
‘Removed?’
‘It’s what Mavis said. You could of done him that bad night and you would of had an excuse for it, like justifiable – the sod a chief wrecker of your beautiful, bonny, brain-child Monty. But you’re one with complicated feelings, such as sensitivity and kindliness, always have been, Ralph. It’s your personal nature and can’t be helped. I understand why you didn’t shoot. I don’t feel no blame toward you or anything like that. In a different kind of world them qualities of yours might be just what was wanted, leading to an MBE or similar. So, Waistcoat is still around with his mouth and his brother-based hate, definitely, but he shouldn’t be definitely.’
Ember said: ‘Manse, it’s best at this stage to—’
But Shale pushed the bike ahead of him across the pavement, swung his leg over the saddle and joined the Shield Terrace traffic.
TWENTY-TWO
‘Hazel’s gone.’ Louder: ‘Col, she says Hazel’s gone.’
Harpur always came out of sleep more slowly than Denise. He reckoned unconsciousness had
a lot to be said for it. ‘What?’ He opened his eyes.
‘Jill says Hazel’s gone.’
‘Gone?’ Harpur grunted. ‘Where?’ It was another of those bedroom visits, but this time only Jill. She stood at the foot of the bed in her dressing gown, the door open and the landing light on behind her. Harpur thought she looked jubilant. The bedside clock showed 1.17 a.m.
‘I heard something and went to look but she wasn’t there,’ Jill said.
‘Heard what?’ Harpur had almost reached full awareness and realized he sounded like an interrogation. He sat up in bed alongside Denise, softened his voice and sweetened the phrasing: ‘You thought you heard something, did you, love?’
‘Not thought, did,’ Jill replied.
‘And was it something in the house?’ Harpur said.
‘Most likely in the house,’ Jill said.
‘What kind of sound?’ Harpur said.
‘A sound like a sound,’ Jill replied. ‘So I went and knocked on her bedroom door. That made a sound, but a different kind of sound – like someone knocking a door.’
‘Yes?’ Harpur said.
‘Usually, I wouldn’t knock, just walk in, but … well, it was so late.’
‘OK,’ Harpur said.
‘But no answer,’ Jill said.
‘No?’ Harpur said. ‘Hazel asleep?’
‘So I opened the door and called her name,’ Jill said.
‘I thought I heard something,’ Denise said. ‘You must have woken me, Jill.’
‘Her bedroom light wasn’t on,’ Jill said.
‘Hazel not in her bed?’ Harpur said.
‘At first I thought she was,’ Jill said. ‘The duvet wasn’t flat; it had like a lumpiness under it.’
‘But?’ Denise said.
‘I went into her room, and I think I called her name again.’
‘But still no answer?’ Harpur said.
‘Then I could see it was a pillow,’ Jill said.
‘Deliberately to make it look as if she was still there?’ Denise said.
‘Like in some of those old films on The Movie Channel,’ Jill said. ‘About boarding schools, so a kid wouldn’t be missed if he or she did a flit from the dorm. That’s what it’s called in boarding schools, “the dorm”, where they sleep, meaning dormitory. I went and got my mobile phone and called her number. It rang in the wardrobe. She hadn’t taken it.’
‘Forgotten?’ Harpur said.
‘Hazel never forgets her phone,’ Jill said.
‘She was afraid she could be traced – located – through it,’ Denise said.
Or if she’d been snatched she might not have had time to pick it up. This was another of those thoughts Harpur did not speak. ‘Have you checked the bathroom?’ he said.
‘Dark. Nobody there,’ Jill said. She gave a massive grin. Happy excitement suddenly flooded her voice. ‘Do you think she’s what’s known as eloped, Dad?’
‘Eloped?’ Harpur said.
‘Scarpered because of very seriously forbidden love,’ Jill said. ‘The people who do it don’t bother about a wedding dress and posies.’
‘Which people?’ Harpur said.
‘Couples who elope. I’ve read about it. When the bride is very young or very rich or both. They used to run away to Scotland because up there people didn’t worry about the details. Often a pair would do a runner in the middle of the night. They didn’t care what people thought. They had to be together because of fierce love. They wouldn’t brook any opposition. I came across that word “brook” meaning not a stream but put up with.’
‘Her clothes gone?’ Harpur said.
‘She’s been very worried about Desy Iles,’ Jill replied.
‘Worried why?’ Harpur said.
‘Oh, you know, Dad,’ Jill said. ‘He used to act very sweet on her. He had a crimson scarf he used to wear loose, so he’d seem sort of romantic and dashing and less old.’
‘That finished,’ Harpur said.
‘But she still, well … she thinks about him, if you know what I mean, Dad. And some of the kids at school said the telly play the other night was really about him. And a big row about him took place in a club. One of the kid’s fathers is an odd-job man and had to do emergency repairs there.’
‘Finished,’ Harpur replied.
‘It wasn’t just the scarf,’ Jill said.
‘Finished,’ Harpur said.
‘Maybe, Dad. But she found out people were trying to get him.’
‘How do you mean, “get him”?’ Denise said.
‘Get him,’ Jill replied.
‘Get him for what?’ Denise said.
‘Yes, for what, Jill?’ Harpur said.
‘Like for those two murders on TV, although all the names were different. They could not have a drama with someone called Assistant Chief Constable (Operations) Desmond Iles because that would be what’s referred to as libel, and Desy could sue them for saying he was a multi-murderer, although an assistant chief. That drama is like them parables in the Bible – it says more than just the story. Yes, Haze thinks of him a lot. She doesn’t talk to me about this because it’s private. But I can tell. Maybe they’ve escaped – not to Scotland because Mr Iles is already married, but done a bunk to somewhere secret, perhaps abroad in a country where they understand about love boiling over and that kind of thing, and don’t know about the murders.’
Denise got out of bed. She had on joke pyjamas, khaki with big silver broad arrows the way prison clothes used to be. ‘Let’s see if there’s a note somewhere shall we, Jill?’ she said. ‘And your dad can get dressed.’
‘Do you think it was Iles, Denise?’ Jill asked.
‘What?’ Denise said.
‘Who did those two. Dad won’t say yes or no because he’s police. They keep quiet until they can tell the jury exactly what they want the jury to hear.’
‘We’ll have a search,’ Denise replied.
‘In some ways it’s all lovely, isn’t it?’ Jill said. ‘If she and Des have gone, but then you got to wonder whether she’d want to be on her own in quite, well … personal conditions with a killer? Haze can be very particular. And Des is Operations. Who’d see to all that? He couldn’t keep ringing up from Greece or Tasmania to give orders to the Control Room.’
She went with Denise to take a more thorough look at Hazel’s room. Harpur put some clothes on and then did a quick inspection of the rest of the house. He discovered nothing unusual, no note from Hazel, no signs that anyone had broken in and possibly taken her away. A denim jacket she occasionally used was in its place on the hall coat-hanger.
Denise joined Harpur downstairs. She’d persuaded Jill to go back to bed. Denise had pulled a sweater and jeans on over her pyjamas. She had a cigarette half smoked in the side of her mouth. Harpur’s Ford was parked in front of the house. He took a long look both ways in Arthur Street but saw no movement. They got into the car. Harpur said: ‘I’ll drive slowly. Can you watch for someone walking, possibly with a haversack on her back, Denise? Or perhaps riding a bike.’
‘Where are we going?’ she said.
‘Rougemont Place.’
‘What’s Rougemont Place?’ she said.
‘Expensive housing. Iles lives there. A house called Idylls.’
‘Tennyson,’ Denise replied.
‘Most probably.’
‘Idylls of the King,’ Denise said. ‘A collection of poems.’
‘Suits. He’s a Tennyson fan. Likes what he calls his “bigness”.’
‘Maybe too big.’
‘Yes?’
‘“Break, break, break,/On thy cold grey stones, O Sea!/And I would that my tongue could utter/The thoughts that arise in me.”’
Harpur said: ‘Iles never had any trouble uttering the thoughts that arose in him, especially the brutal and/or snotty ones.’
‘We changed it at school.’ Denise said:
‘“Cake, cake, cake,/Oh those cold grey scones for tea?/I’d rather have tongue and trotter,/True grub for a girl like me.
”’
‘Of course, three or four streets can lead to Rougemont. We don’t know which she might take,’ Harpur replied.
‘You believe what Jill said?’
‘Which?’
‘Eloping.’
‘Of course not.’
‘So why are we going to Rougemont?’
‘I don’t believe it, you don’t believe it, but Hazel might see things differently. This is a kid under stress. We can’t be sure how she’ll behave. Perhaps she hopes to show Iles that not everyone is against him. Is she trying to prove she’ll stand by him regardless?’
‘Been on a child psychology course lately, Colin?’ Denise said. ‘Do you think she’s going to ring his front door bell in the middle of the night and invite him to a new life somewhere? His wife is at home, isn’t she, and a child?’
‘She might be pregnant. I don’t know what Hazel will do. And I don’t know what to do myself. I can’t ring up the Control Room and ask if they’ve had sightings of a teenager trudging alone through the city. I’m a detective chief superintendent. Do I want to broadcast that I’ve got a deeply troubled daughter, maybe linked somehow to the ACC?’
‘Poor Colin,’ Denise replied. She leaned across and patted his arm.
‘Stay alert,’ he said. ‘Maybe we’ll find her before she does anything crazy.’ He realized this assumed she still had charge of herself. That could be untrue. What had happened, and what was happening, might have nothing to do with Iles and a schoolgirl crush. Denise must be thinking the same. Harpur had enemies. He tried to shut out the idea. Tact and kindness kept Denise silent on this, too.
After a while with no sighting of Hazel, Harpur said: ‘You’re probably right, Denise, and we’re on a useless trek. This has knocked me silly – the thoroughness of the planning.’
‘Hazel is very sensible,’ Denise said.
‘She is, and she’s turned it against us,’ Harpur said. ‘Most of the evidence seems to show she had arranged the exit herself. Some anxiety, some intent, must have been building in her for a while and I didn’t notice.’
‘Is she on the pill, Colin?’
‘She’s only fifteen.’