by Bill James
She could see why this idea had shocked and perplexed Venetia and Fay. After all, on the face of it, at least, Ralph and Mansel Shale had been business associates, virtually pals. They’d always respected each other’s interest and seemed to believe in civilized cooperation. True, they were not partners. Their companies existed independently. But they both appeared to recognize the value of a good, positive understanding between them, unofficially and lovingly backed and blessed by Assistant Chief Constable Iles. Had this understanding suddenly splintered, despite him? She’d tried to get something from Ralph about the scene, approaching the subject from what she thought of as fairly mild, general queries, the kind of questions any wife might ask any husband – if the husband dealt drugs, that is. Of course, they’d discussed the shootings and Mansel Shale’s withdrawal to the chairmanship of his company.
‘So there’ll be someone new running Mansel’s outfit,’ she said. ‘Will he be able to manage?’
‘Manse must think so.’
‘But is he in a state to gauge things right?’
‘He knows his people – what they’re capable of.’
‘It’s all happened in such a rush.’
He began to sound irritated, as if she was hounding him. ‘We don’t have to worry about it, Margaret, do we? It’s a different company.’
‘Yes, I know, but—’
‘Not our concern,’ Ember said. ‘We mourn the deaths, certainly. Who wouldn’t? Terrible, terrible. What kind of person could act like that?’
‘Or hire someone to act like that.’
‘Yes, or hire someone to act like that. Degenerate. But the business consequences, as distinct from the personal, are another matter, private to Manse and his people.’
‘Are they, Ralph?’
‘How could it be otherwise?’
She knew something like collapse of the Ralph-Shale business pact had always been possible. The soft-soap terms to describe the relationship – ‘positive understanding’, ‘virtual pals’, ‘civilized cooperation’, happy closeness as ‘business associates’ – these cheery labels would do all right for the surface, for the obvious, but only for the surface and obvious. What their businesses were about was what all businesses were about: the need to make and inflate profits, the need to be still here, to survive. And, in the type of businesses they ran, the survival compulsion brought persistent, very special and acute pressures. Margaret had read somewhere lately that three-quarters of entrepreneurs failed – and Ralph loved to describe himself as an entrepreneur, his central ambition to bring seller and buyer together: particularly buyers who needed regular refills for their junkiness, and who had steady raw cash, got no matter how.
That three-quarters figure applied to normal, above-board, legal businesses. For the kind of outfits controlled by Ralph and Mansel Shale this failure rate would be much, much higher, because competition was rough and ferocious, expressed often by handguns or something bigger. Had Ralph decided that Manse Shale, his dear, virtual friend, his happy business associate, his sharer of positive understanding, was, in fact, a towering menace to Ralph’s own career and should be toppled? And, if so, would Shale feel he had to answer back in a similar bloody style: that is, blast a child or two on the opposing side – Ralph’s side?
They said Manse was broken by sorrow and had removed himself from all routine leadership tasks in his company. As chairman, though, he could still give orders. Some would argue that chairmen existed only to give orders, and draw pay. Between sessions with the Litany and anthems, Mansel might have time to whisper a few harsh, tit-for-tat instructions about Ralph and his family. So, Margaret yearned to bolt in good time from the hazard area with Venetia and Fay. She believed she owed them that, though they wouldn’t understand.
‘I still wonder about Manse’s successor,’ she said.
‘Wonder is OK,’ Ralph said. ‘Wonder is natural. But don’t worry. Let me mention Harry Truman, US President at the end of the war.’
‘Truman?’ she replied. Ralph would flourish bits of knowledge now and then, like a star in the pub quiz. He had started a degree course in the local university, but suspended it for the present, to deal with what he referred to as ‘exceptional counter-slump demands’ on his company. There must have been some US history in Ralph’s Foundation Year.
‘Suddenly, Truman had to take over from Franklin Roosevelt, a brilliant President, who’d died,’ he said. ‘Hardly anyone had even heard of Truman. But he turned out great.’
‘Do you want Shale’s new man to turn out great?’ she said.
‘Immaterial either way.’
‘Is it?’
‘Totally immaterial,’ Ralph replied.
‘A competitor.’
‘There’s enough business for both the firms,’ Ralph said. ‘Always has been. Why should things change now?’
A kind of stifling, workaday tact and censorship had come to exist between Margaret and Ralph, and the children seemed to have adopted the style, perhaps unconsciously, possibly believing this was normal for every family and all families. Some facts were never spoken about although known to the whole household. Margaret felt partly responsible. It began, didn’t it, with her attitude to Ralph’s chief business? Of course, she knew this to be the drugs trade, and on a mighty scale. She’d have to be half-witted not to know. Although there was also The Monty – a drinking club he owned, cherished, and had crazy hopes for – as an earner, it didn’t rate. In any case, Monty profits had to be declared for tax, meaning it rated even less. No question, the bulk of the family’s income came from substances supply. She, like Ralph himself and the children, lived on this money, this gorgeously ample, freely-flowing, thoroughly-criminal wealth. The source was not discussed. Harpur’s strutting, dandified boss, Iles, blind-eyed the trade, because of some special, personal theory. He treated the city as if it belonged to him and he could apply what laws he fancied, and the reverse. His attitude and behaviour did confuse the picture a little. But drug dealing remained a grave offence. Margaret knew that.
She also knew some people suffered appalling damage from drugs, including many youngsters. The Pope had spoken of the ‘serpent of drug trafficking’ – and sometimes the Pope got things right. She watched her daughters. Drugs could derange and destroy. Yet she and the family continued to enjoy these splendid, racketeered profits. They lived in a dignified, handsome manor house, Low Pastures, with paddocks, stables, ponies, noble chimneys, a library, and a long, curved, tree-lined drive, part gravelled, part tarmacked. Centuries ago a foreign consul had occupied Low Pastures, and, later, a Lord Lieutenant of the county. It ought to reek of wholesome distinction.
Margaret loved the property, but wasn’t always at ease there. She felt like someone who would never deliberately hurt an animal but who loved foie gras, so made herself ignore the cruelty that produced it. The actual nature of Ralph’s core business stayed unmentioned. He commandeered that gaudy term ‘entrepreneur’ to describe, or fail to describe, his activities. So much more elevated and vague than ‘baron’ – the flawed kind of baron Ralph was; much more flaw than baron. And Margaret let him sidestep like that; cowardly of her, again? The children seemed to be following. Naturally, there had been talk about the deaths of Naomi Shale and Laurent, but only general, regretful, disgusted comments; nothing potentially troublesome.
The Embers inherited a plaque fixed to one of the gates at Low Pastures by some earlier owner. Inscribed on it in elegant white lettering was ‘Mens cuiusque is est quisque’ – a tag from an ancient phrase-monger, apparently. Ralph cleaned it and checked the screws for corrosion every few weeks. He didn’t know any Latin, of course, but had found a couple of translations on the Internet: ‘the mind of each man is the man himself’ or ‘a man’s mind is what he is’. Not many people knew what Ralph’s mind was, though. She didn’t, not altogether. Ralph himself might not be totally sure. Harpur probably got as close as anyone. She reckoned Harpur had quite a mind himself, despite his job. To keep Iles from a breakout
into catastrophe, anyone would need quite a mind.
‘I wonder, too, what would have happened if Mansel Shale himself had been shot, as most seem to think was the real intention,’ she said. They talked in the drawing room, Ralph standing alongside the long, mahogany Regency sideboard, Margaret seated on a chesterfield.
‘Who seem to think the real objective was Manse?’
‘It’s the impression I get.’
‘But where from?’
‘The media coverage. General talk. And it would appear logical, don’t you think, Ralph?’
‘Logical how?’
‘Very credible.’
‘In what way?’
‘Some sort of struggle for dominance, leading to the ambush.’
‘You’re talking Darwinism.’
‘Turf rivalries.’
‘Who between?’
‘“The territorial imperative”, as it’s known.’
‘That’s fanciful. Who can tell what the real intention was?’
‘Yes, who can, Ralph?’
He nodded, as though this was an answer, the strong, handsome face kept empty. Many saw him as very like the young Charlton Heston. Lusting slags, especially, got wowed by the resemblance. And Margaret had an idea that some of them got more than wowed. He said: ‘All sorts of hazy ideas. Bound to be. Imponderables. Ultimately, darling, such gab is useless.’
‘But more or less inevitable, Ralph, surely.’
‘Useless.’
She could see he might be saying only what was obvious and true. The most frequently offered explanation for the Sandicott Terrace shootings rested mainly on guesswork and theory, not definite knowledge: intelligent guesswork and theory, perhaps, but, also, as Ralph said, possibly fanciful, and ultimately useless. But she felt at the same time that she might have been fended off. Had she just been told in the unspoken, indirect way introduced and refined by Ralph, and accepted by her and the children, that the executions were one of those areas which could certainly be mentioned – could not be absolutely ignored – but which lay off limits as a subject for digging into and for nosy discussion? A special commercial matter best considered mostly private to Ralph?
But what made it special? She wouldn’t be asking, and he wouldn’t answer if she did. So, where did this leave her? It left her ignorant of the details of the Sandicott Terrace outrage and its background, and ignorant of whether Ralph knew about the details of the Sandicott Terrace outrage and its background – had, in fact, helped create the details and background of the Sandicott Terrace outrage.
Without telling him, she drove there. She wanted some solidity, some reality. Streets and houses would give her that. She could not remember ever having been there before, though she’d seen plenty of media photographs and films of it just after the attack. She parked about a hundred metres away and walked to the junction with Landau Road. She stood at the place where, according to the Press and TV pictures, the gunman’s Mondeo must have waited. It chilled her a bit to be there. Did he have the gun on his lap as he watched in the mirror for the Jaguar’s arrival? It chilled her more than a bit to think Ralph might have briefed someone to take up station there, or briefed someone to brief someone to brief someone: Ralph was cagey, probably wouldn’t get too near the actuality. The buck didn’t stop with Ralph, because he took care that the buck didn’t reach him. She knew some people called him Panicking Ralph, or even Panicking Ralphy, which she particularly loathed. She thought ‘Cautious Ralph’ would suit him more exactly as a nickname. But maybe when the caution didn’t work or didn’t suit the situation he fell into panic.
The Jaguar driven by Mrs Shale would have slowed when it approached the junction and as it went round the Mondeo. The Terrace there was not wide. For a couple of seconds the two drivers must have been within a few metres of each other, in separate cars. Although she knew nothing about guns, this had surely been an ideal set-up for the man in the Mondeo. He’d used an automatic weapon, apparently, spraying bullets. He was bound to have a hit, or more than one.
She saw another factor in this nearness, though. At that distance, how could he have mistaken a woman for a man behind the wheel of the Jaguar – Naomi Shale instead of Mansel? But did the guesswork and theory contain the guess and theorizing that this young man with the gun was so nerve racked and inexperienced he blasted off as soon as he identified the Jaguar, incapable of narrowing his choices any further, and determined to get clear fast?
An elderly woman came out into her front garden opposite and beckoned to her. When the traffic thinned, Margaret crossed the street. ‘Are you Press, that kind of thing?’ the woman said. ‘It’s long after the event, but are you doing an atmospheric article? We’ve seen many journalists and broadcasting folk here. We were objects of considerable interest, owing to proximity. Most likely you’ll note our wall has a new section. The Jaguar knocked a hole, you see. It’s possible to find symbolism in that.’
‘I wanted to see the actual site,’ Margaret said.
‘Not Press? General interest?’
‘That kind of thing.’
‘Crime, violent deaths fascinate some. I do not object. Tastes are personal. Or are you connected with one or more of the parties concerned? If it’s one of those killed, you have my sympathy. Obviously. We get one of the detectives down here gazing about as if he thinks clues will come floating by on the wind even now, days and days after. Maybe he wants to reassure us by his presence that they’re still on the case. Yes, still on the case and getting nowhere. This is not the top man himself, Iles, but his dogsbody, Harpur. Their names have been in the media a lot, of course. Our view – my husband’s and, to an extent, mine – is they’ve lost the fight for control of the streets. There’s no safety, no lasting tranquillity. It looks like he – that’s the Harpur one – comes here to demonstrate he hasn’t given up or handed over, pacing about and looking thoughtful. Oh, splendid, when nothing much is happening here, as is the usual. Well, excellent. But what about gunfire and a child and a woman destroyed? That’s a different item, wouldn’t you say?
‘We long for the kind of civilization we used to have. As a society we’re on the slide. Mrs Thatcher, as she was then, thought society didn’t exist. It does, but it’s breaking down. Whose fault is that? I’m not talking behind their backs. I told them the same on the day. That Iles, poncing about like a Nureyev. And now this government coalition, as it’s known, is going to cut the number of officers. Economies. Consider this – would our wall have been repaired under the coming regime of penny-pinching? I look at these new bricks and recall they were made necessary by an off-course car with two corpses aboard, for reasons unknown. Unknown to us, anyway. This is not a cheerful idea. Would you care to come in for a cup of tea with hubby and me? The house is quite safe pro tem.’
* * *
1 See Naked At The Window
2 See Roses, Roses
FOUR
Luckily, Denise always slept very heavily, especially after she and Harpur had made love, and he was able to leave the bed at just before three a.m. without seriously disturbing her. As he moved, she did porker-snort mildly twice, eyes still shut, and reached out with her right hand as if to get her ciggies and lighter from the bedside table. Harpur pushed them nearer her. This seemed only humane. And, in any case, it always thrilled him to see her take a first fiercely comprehensive, feverish pull at the charred nicotine with lips that looked made for it. The charge of smoke went for sure right down deep and pervasive in her, a homely place to be.
Naturally, a portion of it would come back out and drift close around her ears, like buttonholing her to confide something. Harpur considered Denise the kind to be worth confiding things to, quite a few things. But there was no real commitment and determination in her blind search for the twenty-pack this morning: not much more than a subconscious, tobacco-programmed twitch. She turned on to her stomach, jabbed her hand back under the duvet as though it had culpably been AWOL and resumed full, reasonably quiet blotto-ness, which she ex
celled at. Harpur had dozed only, knowing he must be away so early for the break-of-day raid. He’d set the alarm for seven thirty so Denise could get the children’s breakfast and see them off to school.
It delighted Hazel and Jill when Denise was around to do breakfast, not just because of the full-fat meal. After all, Harpur and the girls themselves at a pinch could cook breakfasts. But they considered that for her to be there in a dressing gown first thing made for something like a family occasion. Denise wasn’t really family, absolutely wasn’t family, though she and Harpur had been sort of together off and on for a while. Now and then in her university term time she would stay the night at her room in the Jonson Court student block. More often, she slept here with Harpur, and the children thought this great. They considered it helped repair things.
Denise permanently left in Harpur’s wardrobe the short blue dressing gown and old pair of suede desert boots she wore here at breakfast, and they took this as a sign she belonged. A while ago, their mother, Harpur’s wife, Megan, had been knife murdered in the station car park after a late journey back from London by train, and they were bound to miss her still. For them, Denise brought some of that old, comforting completeness. Like Megan, Denise was something of an intellectual, but fitted in as natural to the household.