Full of Money

by Bill James

  Vicar goes to door during this to be ready to shake hands with those leaving and say a word or two. As we heartily clasp, and I mutter thanks for her pulpitting, she sculpts a true smile and I get from her in a wonderfully considerate, pastorly tone: ‘They don’t like outsiders poking about, you know – a kind of impiety. Ever thought of golf reporting instead?’

  ‘Dangerous.’ I’m walking to the car. The sidesman catches up, passes me. He says: ‘Mene. Mene. Tekel. Upharsin. Ufucker.’

  I say: ‘By golly, you’ve got the gift of tongues. Pity about the rest of you, though.’

  Sun – later

  Possible tail? Old, small, navy, nearly unnoticeable Volvo behind me often, and perhaps oftener than I realize. Never too close, but always close enough. Also in the street near the flat. Not the probable Dean Feston figure from Happy Gardening Solutions. A woman, late twenties maybe, fair/blonde, looks tall behind the wheel. Sits very straight, as if on a horse. Wrap-around sunglasses. But perhaps she did follow from Happy Gardening Solutions. I’ve an impression now that such a Volvo appeared in the mirror on my way home then. Hindsight imagination? Reg. E117WP. Have to talk to her. She’s another point of contact. This could be important stuff.

  Over the past couple of days, Esther had read Tasker’s notes five or six times, but whenever she reached this point in them – the decision to go and confront Volvo woman – she felt startled by the bland stupidity of it, wanted to groan. In fact, the first time she read it, she did gulp and groan in disbelief. Oh God, this ludicrous impulse in reporters to unearth, to discover. They behaved as if they had (1) a licence and, above all, (2) a duty, to go barging into any closed, perilous area that interested them and ask their manic questions. ‘This could be important stuff.’ The cheerful idiocy of it! It could also be lethal stuff. Perhaps it had been lethal stuff. The registration was held by Happy Gardening Solutions. Did the fact that Volvo woman was a woman make him discount the dangers? Did Dean Feston anticipate Tasker would discount the danger if Feston sent a woman?

  I exit the flat by the back lane and nip around to the street. She’s parked against the traffic flow, driver’s side to the pavement. I’m approaching from behind the car and tap the closed window. She opens. Tries to look unsurprised. Isn’t. She gets a smile going, but it takes a while. Cared-for teeth. Squarish face, small nose, pout mouth, eyes not assessable behind the shades. Is a looker, though, no question.

  I say: ‘Can I help you in any way?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Why are you asking why I am here?’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Is it your concern?’ The smile gets into place here, takes the edge off her answer.

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Hardly,’ she said.

  ‘You’re waiting, are you?’

  ‘Well, I do seem to be waiting.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Yes, as you can see, I’m waiting.’

  ‘Who sent you? You’ve been behind me.’

  ‘I’ve been what?’

  ‘Tailing. What’s it about? You’re Pellotte’s?’

  ‘I’m what?’

  ‘Pellotte’s.’

  She started the engine. ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘I thought you were waiting.’

  ‘I’ve waited.’ She saw a gap and moved out across the oncoming traffic and joined the line of cars going the other way.

  Yes, about twenty-eight, estuarial accent, denim waistcoat over beige striped shirt/blouse, jeans. No jewellery.

  Not much of use, except proof she can brickwall. And force her way into a traffic lane.

  Not much of use to Tasker, Esther thought. Perhaps to others though. She decided she’d better get home now and share A Week in Review with Gerald. She could look at the interrogation transcripts tomorrow – re-look.

  Six

  Oh, but wasn’t this something? Alone in the hospitality room now, Sacheverell Biggs gloried. He watched A Week in Review on the big monitor and felt like a kingmaker. Or, actually, queenmaker. Either way, not just a waiter. More than catering. Look, yes, look at the Sandine woman! He, Sacheverell, had fixed her up with the astonishing, vivid sparkle she gave the programme, and the inspiring confidence, wit and energy. He and the Glenlivet. And especially the almost disallowed bonus Glenlivet. The crux Glenlivet.

  In addition to the sparkle, confidence, wit and energy, note the sex. Oh, yes! Like a sweetly flung lariat noose, it dropped irresistibly and extremely unresisted on Rupe. Sacheverell wouldn’t claim to have started all that up from nothing with the whisky. He’d admit she seemed this way as soon as she arrived in Hospitality. And after a while, it had turned very precisely towards Rupe Bale. Perhaps she was permanently this way. Perhaps she’d always find a Rupe Bale. But, now, her on-screen display made the hospitality suite behaviour seem half cock, so to speak. And Sachev felt entitled to think the drinks helped her campaign, made her bolder – even bolder. Oh, yes.

  For a second, while savouring this marvellous, blatant screen steaminess, Sachev did suffer a moment of worry on Rupe’s account. If he already had a love life, somebody watching this show might now be feeling foam-at-the-mouth jealous and very, very fucking vengeful. Hadn’t Sachev heard a kitchen whisper that Bale was seriously romancing the daughter of a big crook on the Whitsun estate? No, not a big crook, but Adrian Pellotte himself, known of everywhere, far beyond Whitsun? The biggest. God, dicey. However, Rupert, a gifted, surviving star of TV and radio, must have enough sense to know the risks around this kind of Sandine situation, mustn’t he? Mustn’t he?

  At home, Gerald, in front of the screen, said: ‘Look at Bale. This is courage, Est.’

  ‘In which respect?’

  ‘I mentioned him to you. He’s discussed by people in my group – knocking off Pellotte’s daughter.’

  ‘You were afraid the stress would upset his chairmanship.’

  ‘He has triumphed over such stress. This is what I mean by courage.’

  ‘Courageous to have a relationship with Pellotte’s daughter?’

  ‘Courageous to behave the way he is behaving with this other piece. He will follow his instincts, dauntless, unconstrained. He is the true artist. As you’d expect, I know, I wish to be associated with someone of such strong selfhood and integrity. I’ll be honoured to join this programme.’

  The panel were discussing a play, On the Frontier.

  ‘This woman might not be included next time,’ Esther said.

  ‘It’s not to do with the woman.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘It’s to do with him – with robustness of his spirit, the elegance of his spirit.’

  ‘Perhaps it will get up Pellotte’s nose.’

  ‘Of course it will get up Pellotte’s nose. It is the function of the artist to get up people’s noses when necessary.’

  ‘Bale might be punished.’

  ‘Of course he might be punished. It is the role of the artist to suffer for his beliefs and impulses.’

  Once they’d all gone off to the studio, Sacheverell always gave the hospitality suite a quick clear-up for when they returned, and then settled down before the screen in an armchair, with a coffee from the machine. Although the programme lasted only forty minutes, they had to do voice levels and so on before the actual broadcast began, and remained away for an hour and a half. Generally, Sacheverell would watch soccer or cookery until A Week in Review’s start time, switch to that for, say, ten minutes, then go back to soccer or cookery. Or anything but A.W.I.R.

  The point was, these panellists, and Rupe Bale, and Larry Edgehill and Tom Marland, sincerely, even fervently, thought their programme mattered, and Sacheverell considered he should give it a bit of a glimpse, out of . . . well, politeness. He aimed to have a small but sincere, admiring smile of congratulations in place when the team reappeared after the broadcast in Hospitality for their second stage bevies and reciprocal smarming, and he believed it would be disgustingly false if,
in fact, he had seen no fragment of the show. Of course, nobody among this crew present tonight would ask him what he thought of the programme. In their eyes, he was still and only the bottles bloke. They did not go along with Priscilla Sandine’s splendid, demented theory on the importance of waiters.

  Invariably, he switched back to A.W.I.R. from one of the other channels a couple of minutes pre end. If there had been any serious mishap during the forty minutes, such as someone throwing up or dying from a heart attack, he reckoned he would be able to sense it from the final sequence, no matter how cleverly Tom Marland might manage the cameras to avoid anything unsightly. Suppose Biggs were ignorant of the catastrophe because he’d watched a different channel, it would be an unforgivable error to greet them on return with his standard smile of congratulation for their studio brilliance. They’d realize he’d missed not just the vomiting or death but the whole show. This could be damn hurtful.

  In any case, tonight, once he saw how Priscilla Sandine immediately steam-heated the programme, he did not want to move on. She was as good as soccer, better than TV cookery. And, the truly marvellous thing – she made Rupert, in the chair, seem great and fully human, also. It mattered. Sach knew that one or two press critics had given him a mighty pounding lately. Sacheverell resented this. Surely, it should be recognized that Rupe kept the studio verbiage flowing pretty well, and managed to look fascinated by what panellists said, although mostly frog spawn.

  They had been to see the West End revival of a play that originally came out just before the Second World War, On the Frontier, and Sach wondered whether Rupe and Priscilla had sat together in the stalls and possibly established a special closeness. This might explain the screen zing now, flesh-to-flesh intensity, like Taylor and Burton in Cleopatra.

  Sach thought Rupe Bale’s job was to be the connection for this culture show with ordinary folk. Larry Edgehill, and those above him in N.D.L.tv, hoped a scattering of average viewers glimpsed the programme for long enough to note Rupe, and decide that, if he ran the thing, it couldn’t be above any fucker’s head. But Sacheverell knew that, despite this good gift, Rupe generally displayed what Sach called no fizz, a catering term for dud champagne.

  Now, Sandine magnificently altered this. And, tonight, Sach stayed with A Week in Review. Horny: they both came over horny – dangerously horny for Rupe. Suddenly, he sounded strong, cheerful, in command. Aroused? Sacheverell decided Rupe must have been banging her already, or must be about to, after the show, if the pair could wait. Yes, ‘dangerous’ was the word.

  Gerald said: ‘A chairman like Bale would entice the absolute best from me. I am someone who needs a foil, a Boswell. Bale could be it. I’m going to get in touch with Edgehill, the producer, and say I’m available.’

  ‘Are you sure Bale’s brilliance tonight isn’t entirely thanks to Sandine?’

  ‘Bale would sense immediately what I, uniquely, can offer the programme, and he would have the skill to draw it forth. I don’t wish to sound arrogant, Esther. I don’t say I can bring everything required for such a show, but I can bring something, and that something is special to me, is unmistakably Gerald Davidson.’

  Another ritual on these nights when A Week in Review went on air was that Flo Tait, N.D.L.tv’s Head of Programmes and a main board member, rang at the end of the show from home, or wherever she might be, to give Larry Edgehill her verdict. For democratic reasons, Flo liked to be called Flo, never Florence, never Mrs Tait. N.D.L.tv went in for first names. After the programme, she would come through on the wall phone just behind Sacheverell’s bottle table, and he often took the call first. She was suspicious of mobiles.

  Although people in the hospitality parties never asked Sacheverell what he thought of the programme, Flo sometimes would – sort of vox pop him. More democracy. And a management ploy. Tonight, the phone went off while the show’s final credits had only just started rolling, and nobody from the studio was yet back at hospitality. He left his chair and answered.

  ‘That you, Sacheverell?’

  ‘Hi, Flo.’

  ‘Did you see it?’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Fantastic?’

  ‘No other word,’ Sacheverell said.

  ‘Well, yes, one other.’

  ‘Which?’

  ‘Voracious.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘For each other. Those two! Rupert, Sandine – the making of the show.’

  ‘I wouldn’t argue.’

  ‘They gleamed on-screen. Near-porn. And yet depth, too. Terrific on Vagrain’s novel, The Insignia of Postponement. Jointly terrific.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Pinpointing the shifting symbolism of the old-fashioned diving suit and the lead boots,’ she said. ‘Captivating and thrilling viewers. People will long to read the book.’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘Ever seen anything like it – short of Taylor and Burton?’

  ‘I thought the same, Flo.’

  ‘Rapport.’

  ‘That exactly, Flo.’

  ‘I suppose Rupe’s shagging it?’

  ‘This is something I—’

  ‘If not yet, soon. Like tonight.’

  ‘Here’s Larry now,’ Sacheverell replied. ‘I must get around with the drinks, Flo. After a session like that they’ll be so dry.’ He handed Larry the phone. The rest of the studio contingent filled the room. Sach gave them a richer smile than usual. Most people headed for the bar-table. At this stage, Sacheverell stayed behind it to serve. He’d move around with top-ups later. He could hear Larry’s part of the conversation.

  ‘Yes, I thought it went quite nicely, Flo . . . Thanks . . . Well, thanks. I’ll tell them . . . Just somehow they seemed to hit it off . . . An affinity . . . Yes, . . . Yes, powerful, tangible . . . Sorry, Flo, I missed that. Is he . . .? Oh, I get you. I wouldn’t know . . . But it’s not really something I can ask either of them, is it? . . . Like in Cleopatra, you mean? . . . Oh, a lot of noise here. People all around now. It’s awkward . . . Well, he’s on a contract, of course. Probably six months. She – this was a one-off for her. A trial, really . . . Oh, I agree . . . A natural . . . Sorry . . . Did I hear that right? A totally new series for just the two of them? Did I hear that right? . . . You propose it? . . . Rex Ince and Selina will be cross. They’ve been nagging me to do something like that for them . . . I agree, Rupert and Sandine are probably better . . . It’s the din here – I didn’t get that . . . Drink? Oh, she had just a couple of looseners . . . Glenlivet, I think . . . Sach and I try to keep it to exactly the right level . . . An art . . . If it’s too much, panellists are liable to start talking out of their backsides . . . What was that? . . . Oh, in vino veritarsehole. Right. Well, yes, they’d have met at the gallery and the theatre for On the Frontier . . . Possibly . . . No, I don’t remember who sat with whom at the theatre. Yes, they might have, I suppose, if only to relieve the dreariness of the play . . . Sort of cinema back-row, you mean? . . . Tom realized at once how watchable they were in the show tonight and gave them plenty of camera . . . I’ll tell him, yes. He’ll be very pleased.’

  And Edgehill knew it to be all true, this magical metamorphosis of Rupert. Sandine did what she half promised Larry she would do. She’d ditched The Godfather, switched to Rupe and his blood, and so on. A bellyful of booze made her zoom, not nosedive. Grand! Edgehill had watched her performance, half thrilled, half appalled, thinking of Adrian and Dean. Pellotte’s daughter wouldn’t have enjoyed it either. She’d watch because her man appeared. Her man? Her man and who else’s? And Flo wanted the two of them, Ralph and Sandine, to put on reruns of this crotch concurrence in a series! Hell, marvellous!

  Larry saw Sachev Biggs was gazing at him, probably trying to read his reactions to Flo’s call. He gave Sachev a thumbs up. He didn’t deserve any blame. Or not too much, anyway. He was only a waiter, the bottles bloke. He hadn’t intended hanging a notice around Rupe’s neck, and possibly Sandine’s, saying ‘Dump me dead in a playground’. Possibly around Larry’s, t
oo.

  Sachev offered Edgehill a small, solemn nod in acknowledgement. Teamwork.

  ‘This has been a seminal experience for me,’ Gerald said.

  ‘I hope Sandine and Bale dodge that.’

  Seven

  There were no more notes from Tasker’s laptop and the next day Esther turned to the transcripts of the Dean Feston and Gabrielle Barter Cornish interrogations, done separately, of course. Feston had been questioned by Detective Sergeant Abner Cule, one of Esther’s best interviewers. He would have seen the Tasker laptop recovered notes. Esther skipped some preliminaries. Then:

  Cule: ‘Did you know the deceased, Gervaise Manciple Tasker?’

  Feston: ‘Not really know. Had met, as I realized later.’

  Cule: ‘Later being?’

  Feston: ‘After his death.’

  Cule: ‘How did you meet him?’

  Feston: ‘He visited Happy Gardening Solutions at Lesser Davit.’

  Cule: ‘You were present at Happy Gardening Solutions and saw him there?’

  Feston: ‘My place of work.’

  Cule: ‘Many people must visit Happy Gardening Solutions.’

  Feston: ‘Many, indeed, seeking solutions to their gardening problems, which is why the firm is called what it is, obviously.’

  Cule: ‘But you remember Gervaise Manciple Tasker?’

  Feston: ‘Of course, I didn’t know at the time his name was Gervaise Manciple Tasker.’

  Cule: ‘How did you discover that?’

  Feston: ‘The media.’

  Cule: ‘In what sense?’

  Feston: ‘I read in the papers and saw on TV News that a man had been found dead. There were pictures of him taken before this terrible event – the children’s playground, all of it.’

  Cule: ‘And you recognized him?’

  Feston: ‘Right.’

  Cule: ‘That would seem to indicate he’d made quite an impression on you – given that you would see great numbers of customers there.’