When they was all sitting in Manse’s ‘den room’ after the children came home from school Laurent seemed fascinated to hear she came from London. He remarked that in the past the river Thames, dividing London into north and south, would sometimes freeze so solid that banquets could take place on it. He wondered if Naomi thought that, owing to climate change, this might happen again. Matilda pointed out how some now believed London to be the fashion centre of the world, displacing Paris. Did Naomi, a Londoner herself, think this correct? Naomi replied she couldn’t be certain on either of them points.
Then Laurent asked her whether she liked living in the capital with all its many undoubted facilities but some drawbacks such as overcrowding on the tube because of many foreign visitors wishing to see Buckingham Palace, the Houses of Parliament, Madame Tussaud’s and so on, especially Americans and Japanese.
Matilda wanted to know whether Naomi enjoyed express travel by train, which, because of motorization and even electrification, had improved a great deal since the first railways of the nineteenth century, when an important politician was killed by a locomotive at the opening ceremony of a new service between Liverpool and Manchester.
‘William Huskisson, 1830,’ Naomi said.
Manse felt a real thrill listening to them. It seemed grand that Naomi not only fucked so brilliant, with true sweetness, eyes rolled right back and sincere, very thankful gasps, but also had terrific knowledge over considerable areas, yet didn’t pretend she could answer every query they chucked at her in their welcoming style.
Chapter Seventeen
2009
Harpur thought he saw Iles begin to change. In any case, it was not a natural state for the ACC to agree with Andrew Rockmain on siege tactics. It was not a natural state for the ACC to agree with Rockmain on very much at all. Normally, Iles regarded him as one step up from grossest shysterdom, though, if the ACC felt generous for a moment, one and a half steps. He’d accepted Rockmain’s analysis because this brought comfort. Now, the comfort seemed to fade.
Iles had never been a great one for comfort. On the whole, he preferred rage. Comfort could fuck up and water down rage. Naturally, Harpur had become a tireless expert on Iles’s mood swings. He needed to be, in self-defence. ‘I see myself as protean, Col,’ Iles had said not long ago.
‘This is a word with considerable promise, sir.’
‘Meaning, capable of endless variety.’
‘That’s you to a T, sir. Or, because of the endless variety, you to a W or a J.’
‘Protean from Proteus, a sea god in classical times, who could alter his shape as he wished.’
‘Classical gods were so brilliant at that. One of my kids told me a god turned himself into a swan for a while –the whole thing, feathers, webbed feet, big wings, beak,‘ Harpur had said. ‘Other gods wouldn’t have recognized him – might have thrown him crusts.’ Although Iles’s shape stayed more or less constant, he could alter his mind and disposition as he wished, and at flabbergasting pace.
Harpur wondered now whether the ACC would order an immediate attack on the shop. Harpur’s own plan to try something solo might have to be speeded or shelved. They lacked an absolutely clear identification of the target, crucial in big team action, and this fretted Harpur. They knew from the officers who chased him on foot that he was middle height, slightly built, and probably between twenty-five and thirty-two years old with plentiful fair hair.
But there might be at least one other man in the shop. They had no description of him. Sergeant Pardoe thought he had glimpsed another male. Suppose this figure came close to the description of the wanted man – he could get shot by mistake in the rush and mêlée of an assault. The priority would be a quick kill to prevent ‘John’ turning on the hostages. But police could hit a hostage or hostages in error.
They had a couple of visitors in the command caravan. Harpur could see these men influenced Iles, especially the second. He influenced all of them, including Rockmain, but Iles above all. A sergeant had rung Harpur from the police cordon: ‘We’ve a Mr Gary James Dodd here, sir, age thirty-seven. He thinks he might know the woman forced into the shop from the street: his live-in girlfriend. He heard about the siege from somebody listening to local radio. At first he didn’t see a connection with her. She doesn’t usually shop in this area. She’d normally go to the Esplanade Tesco. But then he tuned into the radio station himself. He realized the description of the clothes is right, and her estimated age. So, just to check, he tried to get her on her mobile but it’s voice-mail only. He fears her phone’s been taken from her. He believes the woman could be Veronica Susan Cleaver, age thirty-two.’
The sergeant brought him to the command caravan. Dodd wore a decent dark suit and blue and silver tie. He must have come direct from his office. He was tall, very thin, his face sharp, pushy.
Harpur said: ‘We believe she and the others are all right, Mr Dodd. We have good contact with the man holding them.’
‘Good? How can there be good contact with someone who drags a woman in off the street and threatens her with a gun?’ Dodd said. Yes, the voice managerial, as well as his face. Harpur forgave. This lad was in shock.
‘Tell us about Veronica,’ Rockmain said.
‘Who’s in charge here?’ Dodd replied.
‘I am,’ Iles said. ‘Mr Rockmain is an adviser. Don’t be put off by his clothes and the skinniness of his neck.’
‘I can’t understand the tactics,’ Dodd said.
‘Which aspects?’ Iles said.
‘This is someone half mad or worse, isn’t it?’ Dodd said. ‘He’s already killed two harmless people. Now he’s got four more, and you do nothing.’
‘Tell us about Veronica,’ Rockmain replied.
‘I’m sure it’s she,’ Dodd said.
‘Always I thrill to neat grammar,’ Iles said.
‘We accept that it’s Veronica. But tell us about her,’ Rockmain said.
‘We have to try to assess how people might behave in this kind of situation, Mr Dodd,’ Iles said, ‘the hostages and the gunman. Mr Rockmain is our designated Psychology wallah. He got a straight B for it at O level.’
‘Veronica’s not a well person,’ Dodd said.
‘In which respect?’ Rockmain said.
‘Clinical depression,’ Dodd said.
‘Under treatment?’ Rockmain said.
‘She has been,’ Dodd said.
‘Medication?’ Rockmain said.
‘Yes,’ Dodd said.
‘Monoamine adjustment?’ Rockmain said.
‘Successful, apparently,’ Dodd said.
‘Psychotherapy?’ Rockmain said.
‘For a while, yes,’ Dodd said.
‘Now?’ Rockmain said.
‘She seemed to be coming out of it,’ Dodd said.
‘Hospitalized at any time?’ Rockmain said.
‘She was,’ Dodd said.
‘How long?’ Rockmain said.
‘A couple of months,’ Dodd said.
‘Locked ward? Psychotic features?’ Rockmain said.
Dodd said: ‘Something like this, it could – If she breaks down again, panics, becomes a nuisance, becomes what he considers a nuisance and a danger …’
‘We have to establish definite identity,’ Harpur said. Always that.
‘It’s Veronica,’ Dodd said. ‘She should have been home by now. She didn’t much like going out at all.’ ‘Symptomatic,’ Rockmain replied.
‘The loss of the phone – no communication with me or friends – will terrify her,’ Dodd said. ‘Everything that’s happened will terrify her. She’ll feel she’s away from all support.’
‘I don’t like it,’ Iles said.
There was the previous visitor, too. A couple of officers had been sent to find the husband of Mrs Beatrice South, manageress of the shop, and bring him back. Rockmain had said in a fine, comradely tone: ‘Mr South, we are indebted to you for joining us. We have some general assessments of your wife’s personality, but you will be ab
le to tell us so much more. We understand she is of a strong and calm nature and is likely to cope well with the special circumstances she now finds herself in. Obviously, this is a considerable plus. She will be an example to the other people held with her.’
‘Well, yes, Bea is usually pretty steady, but something like this – I don’t know. She’s never been in such a situation before,’ South said. He would be touching sixty, stout, bald, round-faced, in jogging trousers and a navy sweater, plimsolls.
‘We’re grateful for her presence,’ Rockmain replied. ‘We call it calmness, but perhaps we should go beyond that –it is courage.’
‘But you don’t know that she is calm in there, do you?’ South said.
‘I’ve confidence in her,’ Rockmain said.
‘You make it sound like she’s holding this situation together,’ South said. ‘But, really, it’s you, the police who should be taking control, isn’t it?’ He spoke more softly than Dodd, was more deferential, but the message amounted to the same.
‘We’re working towards that,’ Rockmain said, ‘believe me. Perhaps you could give us some instances where your wife’s calmness under pressure was apparent.’
‘In our holiday chalet when the lights went, Bea was the one who looked for the trip switch and put things right.’
‘Deciding it was the trip switch, then locating it, this is evidence of what we’d call a sequential thinker,’ Rockmain replied. ‘Excellent. In popular language – unflappability.’
‘She and the others are imprisoned by a fucking unpredictable killer,’ South replied.
‘Unflappability,’ Rockmain said. ‘Such a gift!’
‘Do you keep stand-by candles and matches in the chalet in case lights failure is nothing to do with the trip switch?’ Iles said.
‘I want her out of this shop,’ South replied.
‘I understand that,’ Iles had said. And a little while after South left, Gary James Dodd arrived, to argue the same case, but with extra power, though no swearing.
Chapter Eighteen
2007
Naomi had been to the rectory now and met the children, but Mansel Shale still frequently played over in his head all the exciting and also tricky bits of that key second trip he made to London to see her a while back. Although he considered too much secrecy very bad between people fond of each other, Manse obviously didn’t feel it convenient to tell Naomi he’d visited his solicitor, Joan Fenton, again to check over the Lowri, Patricia and Carmel legacies, and other details. Everything seemed tidy, and he signed the will, before going on to the restaurant meeting with Naomi.
Joan’s secretary signed as witness. She was white and looked quite a warm piece as she stooped over the desk with a pink fountain pen in her fingers. Manse didn’t see no rings on that hand nor the other. He thought it probably quite all right for Joan Fenton to have a white girl expected to jump when called by intercom – ‘Come in, would you, Angelica?’ – because Joan definitely knew law and its many wrinkles, most likely through a college and training, and therefore deserved the big job regardless of being black. Manse considered it quite interesting that Joan had a short and ordinary first name, but Angelica’s was unusual. Joan didn’t need any of that fancy help, owing to her prime qualifications, most probably after expensive courses which she passed with many a distinction. And again he thought he could feel centuries of family strength in Joan, most probably concerned with voodoo and the cure for snake-bite in them earlier days, but now updated into magnificent worship of the law, and a constant professional wish to fuck up attorneys on the other side.
Manse had realized even when he started out from home that this second get-together with Naomi would be very important, even maybe what could be referred to as life-changing. Nothing must muck it up. He could do with some life-changing. He would admit he had things pretty comfortable, but Manse saw himself as someone needing to be more than just comfortable. He wanted to feel devoted to a truly worthwhile home-sharer, and to have that devotion returned. Manse hadn’t taken Hubert V.L. Camborne with him as bodyguard on the second trip, considering it unnecessary. This would not be like going into Hackney and having all them friends and relatives of the late Denz around him, and possibly problematical on account of the two pistols popping simultaneous in a throat direction. In any case, Shale didn’t want Hubert to know too much. You could never tell how much these people talked, and who to.
Manse had discussed with Joan Fenton other points in the will, also, and heard about the divorce negotiations, meaning money. Ongoing: that was how them dealings had to be described. Manse decided it might be best not to mention the solicitor at all to Naomi. He could say he’d gone to a business conference, which in some ways it was: if he didn’t have a business there wouldn’t be no funds to leave in a will, would there?
As during the earlier time with Naomi, he believed it could sound like showing off to say he preferred a London lawyer to a local one. Well, hark at him! Manse despised flashiness. And if he told her he’d been to see the solicitor, Naomi would naturally expect him to explain something about it. She’d never ask, being too polite. But she’d wonder. He couldn’t see no need to put such unhelpful questions into her mind at that stage. Later on, if matters went OK, there could be alterations. Well, of course. If they went truly OK, long-term OK, Naomi would get her own generous section in Manse’s will, as Joan Fenton had suggested, no question – the only proper thing. Naomi would be taking on some peril by a full link-up with Manse and all the endless territorial shit, so she undoubtedly deserved a will spot, supposing she was the one left, which must be likely, but not certain.
Although they had gone to Naomi’s flat in Ealing during what he thought of as the Pre-Raphaelite and Geoff occasion, he certainly did not know whether she would ask him there again. They had talked several times on the phone, of course, to make arrangements for this visit in a social sense, but nothing definite about Ealing was said, and he still took care not to behave like pressuring her. All right, she had seemed ready for it that first time, but you could never be totally sure with a woman, unless it actually happened, bringing equal enjoyment for each, this being vital and the real test of willingness. Obviously, coming should be hung on to and hung on to until he could tell from the rhythm and breathing and the tightening nails grip in the cheeks of his behind that the finish would be harmonious for both, like a good platform duet at a sing-along. He booked himself a single hotel room at his usual Park Lane place for the night, in case he needed a bed. He had an account at the hotel, so they wouldn’t give a monkey’s if he failed to show, because of Ealing. The charge would be on the bill at the end of the month, unused bed or not.
Manse wondered whether he ought to tell her he’d booked the room, so she wouldn’t feel he came to London this time actually expecting to be tucked up with her at the flat, sort of partnerly, and banging her like totally entitled. That could seem so boastful and rude, even an insult, if he was reading her appetite wrong. Shale would hate Naomi to think he regarded most women as slappers. Although a number definitely went that way, this did not signify the lot did, for God’s sake. Royalty used to give a wholesome example and the Queen especially, even when young. On the other hand, Manse mustn’t let Naomi feel he didn’t fancy her, or that he had trouble getting it up owing to some defect, temporary or for keeps, a condition that could hit any man even in this twenty-first century with its stiffy pills. Would she decide he was strange, cold and, so to speak, half cock if she heard about the hotel? On the whole, he felt he better leave this room unmentioned, unless it grew very plain she would not be inviting him, perhaps because she was afraid that asking him back twice really gave a fuck-me-do-I’m-gagging-for-it-Mansel message.
Of course, he realized that if it had been Ralph W. Ember in a situation with Naomi, instead of himself, Ralphy would not bother much about treating her with honest care and patience. This stupid, arrogant business associate of Manse in main trade back home thought he looked like the young Charlton He
ston when he was Ben Hurring and El Cidding etcetera. And so he believed every woman of every age, education, race, religion and kink craved to satisfy him now, Now, NOW, NOW! – no need to waste time on chat, smarm and a show of genuine, simple respect for the female gender pre knickers-off.
Ember most probably thought that most he met didn’t even wear knickers, in case they missed their chance with him while getting them down. Ralph Ember behaved nonstop like he had an iron duty to stuff any woman he considered OK, because she’d be longing for him so bad, the way troops wounded in no man’s land during the Great War longed for stretcher bearers. Manse felt true disgust at Ember’s attitude, and knew he couldn’t share it, didn’t wish to share it. In fact, this attitude reminded Manse of certain animals, which shouldn’t be blamed, because nature made them like that, so the breed would continue. For them it was fuck and get fucked or die out, such as the dinosaurs. But human beings ought to go more gradual at first. Manse believed in delicacy.
When the secretary had left, Joan Fenton said she thought she could conclude the settlement soon with Sybil at £38,320. The will didn’t vary the payments to Carmel, Patricia and Lowri: kept them all on a thirtieth share, as suggested earlier. Joan had decided it might start what she called costly ‘envy actions’ if there were differences. Manse agreed with this. He couldn’t of picked one as deserving extra, anyway. They’d all been very positive and cheery, but never rowdy or careless with breakables, real pluses at the rectory, and clean. Manse would hate to think of these three bitter and squabbling because the will paragraphs dealing with them was skew-whiff. If one or more predeceased, their cut would go back into the general pot, not to the girl or girls still alive. It would seem wrong for one or two of them to profit on their own from a previous death.
‘Should there be something kindly in the will for Syb?’ Manse said. ‘Not big, but, like a gesture?’
‘What type of gesture?’
‘Sort of to say that not all our time together was bad. You know, “Let bygones” and such.’