Full of Money

by Bill James

  ‘This is a discovery for you, isn’t it, Mrs Davidson?’ Caple said. ‘I look after you, as ever.’ She heard the winged chariot of quid pro quoism hurrying near. ‘I know you’re stuck – the Tasker investigation going nowhere. And the buzz says bullies from the Home Office and the Mayor’s office grow stroppy. But now – now you have these papers. They’re waiting for you in Pine Street. What could be referred to as a breakthrough.’

  ‘Thanks, Ivor.’

  Big matey sigh again. ‘And then this carry-on about the dud notes and the shop. You might be able to do the same.’

  ‘Same as what?’

  ‘You look after me.’

  ‘As ever.’

  ‘Now you know the full tale you can see I’m spotless, a victim, that’s all. Someone passes me phoney bills, but I don’t recognize them. Who would, except an expert?’

  ‘Or a shop,’ Esther said.

  ‘I say “passes me phoney bills” but you’ll query this. All right, it’s not quite true, I know. Nobody passed them, in the usual meaning of passed.’

  ‘No, not the usual meaning.’

  ‘But I thought you’d be able to explain the special details to your people, without saying too much, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Esther went with Gerald to N.D.L.tv’s studios to meet some of the people concerned with A Week in Review. Gerald would not take part in the actual broadcast this evening but could familiarize himself with the place, and the procedures. There’d be a drinks reception first. Then, as she understood it from Gerald, they could watch the show from the hospitality suite and, afterwards, re-meet the panellists and programme staff as they relaxed. The invitation to Gerald had specifically mentioned Esther. She thought she’d enjoy things, as long as Gerald stayed reasonably civil and controlled. He’d been fairly unfebrile lately. Perhaps N.D.L.tv had been warned that Esther should be present to manage him. She knew Gerald was referred to here and there as ‘the loon with the bassoon’.

  The producer introduced himself, said how pleased he was they’d come, and that a busy and distinguished musician like Gerald had agreed to take part in a future show.

  Esther glanced around the room: ‘I don’t see the Sandine dynamo,’ she said.

  ‘Not tonight. Panellists vary. But Sacheverell Biggs, our drinks man, is blessedly always here!’ He approached with his tray. Esther took white wine, Gerald, Glenlivet.

  ‘Will you miss her?’ Esther asked.

  ‘Who?’ Edgehill replied.

  ‘Sandine,’ Esther said.

  ‘In what sense?’

  ‘She lit things up lately, didn’t she?’ Esther replied.

  ‘You could cut the sex with a cheese wire,’ Gerald said.

  ‘We have some lively people and topics tonight,’ Edgehill said.

  ‘And Bale chairing?’ Gerald said. ‘He’s great. Or great when Priscilla Sandine is there to do some igniting.’

  ‘Great, regardless,’ Edgehill said.

  ‘I see him by the door with the Pellotte woman,’ Gerald said. ‘Has she come along to show who owns him? She gave us a blast about Sandine.’

  ‘No need for such enmity,’ Edgehill said.

  A middle-aged woman holding a glass joined them: possibly gin-and-bitters. Esther felt she should recognize her. ‘Ah, here’s Nellie,’ Edgehill said. ‘Head of News and Current Affairs. She often invades for a free drink.’

  Yes, Esther had seen her at police news conferences occasionally. Nellie Poignard? Big, hearty-looking, vigorous.

  ‘This is grand,’ she said.

  ‘What?’ Esther said.

  ‘To catch you on the premises, Chief Superintendent,’ Poignard said. ‘I’m constantly trying to get Larry to give me useful insights. He’s hopeless. Or secretive. You might be better.’

  ‘Insights?’ Esther said.

  ‘The estates. He lives on Whitsun. I tell him something mighty is brewing up there – and on Temperate. We have two leaderships with problems, Amesbury in Temperate, Pellotte in Whitsun, both desperate to hang on to their thrones. They’ll do anything to secure themselves, including all-out warfare. I ask Larry for privileged glimpses. He acts blank, blank, blank. No barometer at all.’

  ‘All’s set fair, as far as I can see,’ Edgehill said.

  ‘Oh, stop! The pointers to imminent trouble pile up,’ Nellie said. ‘Above all, of course, that killing. The journalist. And the foul display.’

  ‘An ongoing inquiry,’ Esther said.

  ‘Progress?’ Nellie said.

  ‘Ongoing,’ Esther said.

  ‘We’ve found he went out to Happy Gardening Solutions and to St John’s Church on Temperate,’ Nellie said. ‘Reconnaissance?’

  ‘I thought we were here for a sodding arts programme,’ Gerald replied. He would grow dizzy and eye-popping if Esther became central to the chit-chat, not him, when the only reason they were here was him and his fame.

  ‘And now a different car outside Pellotte’s house,’ Nellie Poignard stated.

  ‘Oh? That’s meaningful?’ Esther said.

  ‘I get up to Whit and Temperate occasionally, just driving around for the . . . well, for the flavour. More than ever recently. I smell crisis. It’s a BMW, but not ADP 12. If he’s bought a new car he’d have transferred the cherished number plate. So, has ADP 12 been vandalized, broken into, needs garage treatment? My God, what would this say about his position on Whit and in the firm? People don’t fear, idolize him any more? Insurrection? What’s next? Yes, what’s next?’

  ‘Who gives a twopenny toss?’ Gerald said. ‘These damn degenerates.’

  ‘Cars go in for servicing,’ Esther said.

  ‘Missing for days. I’ve done several trips.’

  ‘Obsessional, Nellie,’ Edgehill said.

  ‘Even BMWs need repairs now and then,’ Esther said.

  ‘That’s what I mean,’ Nellie Poignard exclaimed. ‘Why? ADP 12 has been savaged?’

  ‘Wear and tear?’ Esther suggested.

  ‘ADP 12 is this year’s model,’ Nellie said.

  ‘Or damaged elsewhere,’ Esther said. ‘Perhaps he’s been lent a courtesy car.’

  ‘Ask sweet Dione,’ Gerald said. ‘She certainly knows how to open her gob. We ran into her and Bale at a concert.’

  ‘But what kind of answer would we get there?’ Nellie said.

  ‘Tell us about tonight’s items, would you, please, Larry?’ Gerald snarled. ‘I know that ultimately this evening I’m going to have my mind engaged with something worthwhile. Ulti-fucking-mately.’

  And ultimately Esther, Gerald, Dione Pellotte and Sacheverell Biggs watched the programme together in Hospitality.

  ‘Hell, it’s true,’ Dione said, ‘Rupe’s a dud without that shag-me-do, juicy bird Sandine.’

  Biggs said: ‘He won’t drink before a show. Mistake. They have to talk so much shit that only a few good toddies can get them through.’

  ‘I expect you watch every week, do you, Sacheverell?’ Esther said.

  ‘I’m usually here alone.’

  ‘Ah,’ Esther said.

  ‘What happened to your father’s car, Dione?’ Gerald said.

  ‘Car? Did anything happen?’ Dione said.

  Fourteen

  ‘I told him blunt, no messing, Mr Edgehill, you wouldn’t want to get pulled into something like that,’ Udolpho Wentloog-Jones said. ‘These are unsafe times, what with the journo and other matters.’

  ‘You echo one of my colleagues at work.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘“Unsafe.” She thinks there’s going to be big, tumultuous bother.’

  ‘Bright. But, of course, he would say there’s no intention to pull you into anything like that, not in a major fashion. He says he only wants to ask for your help on the very outside edge of the situation – hardly into it at all, really, according to him – and definitely only a one-off. “Intercession.” That’s the term he used. A lot. He says he needs somebody to provide intercession on that one-off basis, on
ly that – the one-off basis.’

  Edgehill had called in as usual for his morning papers. He said: ‘What makes him think that I—?’

  ‘So, Hodgy asks, would I just speak a word to you, nothing beyond that, and only this once? Naturally, he’s heard you had a big chinwag with Pellotte and Dean in Gideon the other day. Everybody’s heard that, haven’t they? A major buzz item on Whit. And, he says, a friendly big talk by the look of it, nothing to do with putting the frighteners on, or with reproaches leading later to a swat, as might be the usual cause of a conversation with those two. Well, you told me that talk was mainly to do with the arts – a really civilized discussion, although roadside. He thinks this shows you must be on decent, comfortable terms with them.’

  ‘It was a conversation. That’s all. Unexpected. No special meaning.’

  ‘The BMW becomes part of the setting for this happy conversation, and they’d never use it to run you down, in the present state of things between you and them. As a matter of fact, I’ve seen them around in a different car lately.’

  ‘I heard about that.’

  ‘Servicing, most likely.’

  ‘Or repairs,’ Edgehill said.

  ‘His car doesn’t get vandalized. Who’d risk it?’

  ‘No, I meant adjustments to the engine, the exhaust – that sort of thing.’

  ‘Anyway, what he’s getting at, when he says about intercession, is you’ve obviously got good access to Adrian Pellotte and Dean and you’d be able to offer it – intercession. They called on him – at his place, Larch Street. That can be an unhelpful sign. But this time they were in a hurry – on their way to something special. He’s afraid they’ll come back to attend to things, though.’

  ‘Which things?’

  ‘Sort of “on hold” while they were elsewhere.’

  ‘And what’s his name again?’ Edgehill replied.

  ‘Hodge. Gordon Basil Hodge. GBH, as he’s known sometimes, meaning grievous bodily harm on a charge sheet. But he’s not really like that. He wins awards for pushing. Remember that sad situation with Gladstone Milo Naunton, God rest his soul? But Hodge is all right. I come across him often – in the way of business. More or less a mate. Yes, Larch Street.’

  ‘The newspaper business?’

  ‘The business.’

  ‘The business in the sense of—?’

  ‘The business.’

  ‘He wants me to intercede on what account?’

  ‘Yes, intercede. Or to put it simpler, speak a word.’

  ‘To Pellotte and Dean?’

  ‘He knows you look in here most mornings for your Sun and Guardian, getting a good range,’ Wentloog-Jones replied. ‘That’s why he thought I’d be able to pass a request. On his behalf. Like interceding about interceding.’

  ‘He’s got problems with Adrian Pellotte and Dean?’

  ‘This can happen.’

  ‘What kind of problems?’

  ‘Any problems with them are going to be serious. They don’t go in for small problems. They had a collection of particular stuff in the boot of the BMW,’ Udolpho replied.

  ‘What particular stuff?’

  ‘When they called on him,’ Wentloog-Jones said. ‘He saw it for himself.’

  ‘What kind of stuff?’

  ‘This BMW, ADP 12, will obviously be just a car most of the time, like anyone’s vehicle. And useful for when they want to chew the fat with you on Gideon in an amiable and artistic fashion. But if it pulls up outside your front door with particular stuff in the boot, that’s a different aspect.’

  ‘What particular stuff?’

  ‘I didn’t want GBH hanging about here to meet you, like by accident. Pellotte doesn’t believe in accidents, except the ones he causes. I can do without that kind of trouble. I’ve got a business to look after.’

  ‘A newspaper business?’

  ‘Of course, what else?’

  ‘You don’t want to get pulled in.’

  Udolpho served some other customers. After they’d left, he said: ‘Like you, Larry, I am not indifferent. In a way he’s a chum, a business chum, and he has needs.’

  ‘Is he in the newspaper business?’

  ‘A business chum.’

  ‘The other business?’ Edgehill said.

  ‘The word would get around if the meet-up happened here. There’s what’s known as a centrality about this newspaper stall. It’s a hub for many. They talk. And Gordon won’t call at your place in Bell. Same reason – the word might get around. Pellotte could work out what was going on – Hodgy trying to find allies. Allies against him – Adrian Pellotte. I said, phone you, but Gordon doesn’t like phones – scared of intercepts, and in any case he wants . . . he says he needs the face-to-face, so he’s not just a cold-call voice out of nowhere pleading for favours. He’d like it on a more friendly, equal-to-equal foundation.’

  To Edgehill he’d be a voice out of nowhere pleading for favours wherever and however they spoke. ‘I’ve got to get my train, Udo. If he’s in touch again say I don’t think I can help. I’m sorry, but he’s misread things. Badly misread things. I’m not on matey terms with those two. They wouldn’t listen to anything I said about Hodge, even if I’d met him. I’ve no idea what’s in the BMW boot when they visit.’

  ‘I think he might do the same.’

  ‘Same as what?’

  ‘Wait in the station and get the train with you, the same train like bump into you. One of those accidents which aren’t.’

  ‘The Tube? Why do you say that?’

  ‘I think he will.’

  ‘A rush-hour train for heavy conversation? Some chance!’

  ‘Travel along, then talk to you where you get off – Chancery Lane? He seemed to have heard it’s Chancery Lane. The studios are up that way? He’s done research. In the streets there it will be all right to get a chat going. You won’t be recognized in a different district, either of you.’

  ‘He told you this?’

  ‘Told me some. I worked out the rest.’

  ‘Stalking?’

  ‘It’s necessary. Well, as he sees it, it’s necessary. Things are poor for him. As he sees it. Shall I tell you what to look out for? About five foot ten, thirty-one to -four, dark hair – a lot of it, wedge-piled at the front – most likely a jogging suit, navy or black. Or maybe a denim jacket on jeans. Long face. Inclined to smiling. It doesn’t mean much – not the way he feels now – but he makes the effort. Scared. There are two children.’

  So, Edgehill glanced about for someone matching this at the entrance to Whitsun Festival Station. If Udolpho was right, it must be where the first contact would be made – before Edgehill became hard to spot in the commuter crowd on the platform. If Udolpho was right. Surely, he couldn’t be right. Why the fuck would Hodge believe Edgehill had enough influence with Pellotte to persuade him to call off . . . ? Call off what? A hunt? A vengeance sortie? A punishment operation? A postponed execution?

  He saw nobody loitering near the turnstiles who came anywhere close to Udolpho’s description, whether round- or long-faced, jogging suit or denim. He saw nobody smiling and loitering near the turnstiles. He saw nobody loitering near the turnstiles at all. People at this time in the morning did not smile or loiter. If Edgehill located a feasible Hodge, he had at least three choices. He could make as though to get on the next train, but, once the supposed Hodge followed him aboard, leave it swiftly. Or he could unexpectedly, swiftly disembark at Holborn, the station before Chancery Lane, just as the doors started to reclose, keeping Hodge stuck. Film and TV drama constantly used these kinds of last-minute train-hopping ploys in chase stories. He knew the techniques. Or, of course, Edgehill could do everything normally and let Hodge make contact when they both alighted at Chancery Lane. That wouldn’t commit Edgehill, but it would be a human and humane, large-minded, uncowardly way to deal with these apparent troubles. And Edgehill felt some curiosity.

  Actually, after a while, he began to turn the situation upside down. He’d started by scheming t
o avoid Hodge. Now, because he’d failed to locate him, he felt defeated, incomplete – he wanted to locate him, needed to locate him. He didn’t. He boarded a train and failed to hop off at Holborn. Nobody accosted him in Chancery Lane on his walk to the studios. He slowed from his normal pace. God, might it be too late to intercede, supposing, that is, Edgehill ever could have interceded? Where the fuck was this thirty-one to -four year old long-faced, smiling figure in a jogging suit, or denim and jeans, five foot ten inches of him under a frontal ton of wedge-forming black hair and father of two? Wouldn’t it have been wrong, knowing of Hodge’s distress, to pass by on the other side – pass by on the other side of Chancery Lane station: i.e., the Holborn stop?

  At noon there was a routine meeting of programme makers – Drama, News/Current Affairs, Sport, Arts, with Flo Tait in the chair.

  She said: ‘I get good, though very unofficial, intimations about A Week in Review’s chance of a Best Programme Award at the upcoming Media and Press Presentations, Tuesday week. It’s unofficial because they don’t do a long list, but I gather we’re longlisted!’

  ‘Great,’ Edgehill said.

  ‘However, what’s the future?’ Flo asked.

  Nellie Poignard, burly and untentative, said, as if tentatively: ‘Very, very preliminary idea, Flo, which I’ve spoken of to Larry, to Larry as Whitsun resident, not Larry as producer of A Week in Review. An idea not in any sense formulated at present, but we’re wondering about an in-depth survey of the estates, Whitsun and Temperate, with filming – the objective being to chart the endemic tensions and their apparent sudden increase. Our indications are that something fairly cataclysmic is building there. When I say “there” I appreciate this is vague, given that we’re talking about two estates. But probably in the frontier territory, the continually disputed frontier territory of the substances business. We think we see a . . . well . . . we see a root and branch situation that would give a programme countrywide, network, interest, not just the London end. Even international.