The black and white gave another example of Gladhand’s determination to be in vogue, and possibly even in Vogue. He had mentioned to Ralph on an earlier visit that he’d been impressed by a magazine article about the ex-politician Lord Mandelson’s home, where the theme was minimalist. Dale had said anyone could see why such policy makers wanted a sense of space around them. It was a kind of encouragement to them to let their minds roam widely, as if in the inviting emptiness of their study or lounge.
Such an uncluttered domestic setting spoke to them of opportunity and of creative potential. Gladhand needed similar conditions for his own thinking about business and PU. He had adopted the same style of furnishing and, as a consequence, could bring opportunities and creative thinking to the firm. Ralph had thought that he, too, might follow Gladhand’s domestic scheme.
In Gladhand’s lounge the walls and ceiling were radiantly white and the few chairs steel-framed in black with plump, black cushions. By contrast, in the meditation suite, which Dale had twice shown him earlier, khaki hessian covered all the walls to suggest a serious, non-gaudy approach to things. Gladhand had said an interior decorator advised him that meditation and hessian were made for each other.
In the lounge, there was a small, low glass table on curved, black metal legs. Gladhand and Quent were seated near it, Gladhand in a heavy beige cardigan, check shirt and matching cravat, tan slacks and brogues: fogey-at-home style. Stayley had on jeans and a denim waistcoat over a dark red, open-necked shirt. The red rubber band holding his ponytail looked thicker than usual, as though he considered his hair had become especially vibrant and required more severe restraint, for its own good, like, you could say, an unbroken-in pony.
Hoskins had stood at once and came forward to shake Ralph’s hand and, with maximum enthusiasm, point him to one of the chairs. As to nicknames, anyone could see how he got his. ‘Celeste and the children are out visiting my sister, I’m afraid. They’d have loved to see you, Ralph, I know. Melanie’s home for Christmas after her first term at boarding school. A teenager now! We started young!’ A teapot, milk jug and sugar basin stood on the table, and a plate of oatmeal biscuits, plus a couple of china cups and saucers. The china looked almost transparent and good, decorated with pale flowers and berry illustrations.
Ralph wanted to learn about china. He’d do some research on the various makes and marks when he had time. It surprised him that Dale had obviously developed a hefty knowledge of fine products and the funds to buy them, although still young. He started everything young – not just a family! Ember aimed for this kind of swift career advance himself, which was why he valued his post with such a strong, growing firm as PU.
Pedro had withdrawn after showing Ralph into the room, but now reappeared briefly carrying a silver tray with another cup and saucer of the same design as the others. He placed these on the table and left again, without making any humorous remark. Ralph had thought of the underlying Sig when Pedro bent over the table to put the cup and saucer there, but that movement didn’t seem to send unhelpful pressure to the trigger, and the delivery went along OK. Gladhand wouldn’t want that kind of injury in such a neighbourhood. The word was sure to get around. Neighbours would wonder what kind of butler it could be who carried a pistol while setting up afternoon tea. The media would spell out the accident with some bluntness.
He poured for all of them, asking about milk and sugar, put a biscuit on each saucer, and resumed his seat. Dale had something deeply unimpoverished-looking about him. He was square-built, not fat, but his face and neck had a smoothness and a slightly bulging quality, seeming to suggest this might be only the surface and that there was plenty beneath, like an iceberg, where what’s on show is only a fraction of its mass. He’d possibly found a diet that really packed the stuff in tight and solid, yet it remained ready – and even keen – for reinforcement.
After a little general chit-chat things had become serious. Now, at The Monty office, Ralph sat down in the big old leather arm chair he kept there and began to read from page i of his painstaking notes.
TWENTY-ONE
Q spoke first – to be expected. He said Dale thought I had sounded ‘sort of alarmed’ on the phone. Quent put on a lovely, caring voice, caring and superior. So, why couldn’t Gladhand himself tell me I’d sounded ‘sort of alarmed’? Had Stayley been appointed Personnel Director of PU and IC members’ welfare? I thought this was a bit shifty of Dale.
‘Something had disturbed you, Ralph?’ Quent said this last bit like it wouldn’t take much to do that as I was already a nervous wreck. I let it go. I had decided to keep things sweet as far as I could. This, after all, was about people’s lives and the future, or not, of a fine, gold-chip business.
So, I replied, mild and reasonable, that I wouldn’t say alarmed or disturbed, although, of course, I had been alarmed and disturbed. Still was. Gladhand and Q would find out soon that it was right to feel alarmed and disturbed, and barmy and stubborn not to feel alarmed and disturbed.
‘What would you say you were, then, Ralph?’ Stayley asked.
‘Perhaps “troubled”,’ I said. ‘Perhaps very aware of change, Quentin.’
‘“Troubled” on what account, Ralph?’ Stayley said. ‘“Aware of change” in which respect?’ It was spoken gently, invitingly, like a teacher trying to get an answer out of some blockhead kid, such as, ‘What number is one more than two?’
‘Fortuitous,’ I replied.
‘Ah,’ Stayley said.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Fortuitous.’
‘But fortuitous in what particular?’ Stayley said.
Dale sipped his tea and took a bite of the biscuit. He seemed relaxed. There came a stage, though, when ‘relaxed’ meant dozy, slack. Well, all right it was part of leadership: you showed you were not perturbed so you didn’t perturb others, especially didn’t perturb someone who had already sounded ‘alarmed’ on the phone. But I had to make him understand that he shouldn’t feel relaxed. Relaxed was ridiculous. Relaxed wasn’t cool. Relaxed was smug. Relaxed was blind. Why I’d said ‘change’. ‘I’m sure Ralph wouldn’t be one to call this special mini-conference about something trivial,’ Dale said. ‘He is, as he has mentioned, troubled and this means we have to get to the root of that trouble.’
I thanked him for this. I said I was grateful for his trust in me, and what I meant was it seemed quite a bit different from that twat Quent’s attitude. Of course, this wouldn’t bother Quent. He had such an ego he didn’t care much what others thought of him and his behaviour, not even Dale. Someone of Quent’s age flourishing a mangy ponytail obviously didn’t give a toss about others’ opinions. ‘Pray, take me as you find me.’ ‘Thanks, but no.’
‘Although Ralph hasn’t been with us long, he has learned the basics very fast,’ Dale said.
For his note Ralph remembered he’d tidied up some of Gladhand’s grammar. It would have seemed a mockery always to put things down exactly as he said them. Dale had never sorted out the difference between ‘hasn’t’ and ‘haven’t’ or ‘he’s’ and ‘he’ve’, and he liked ‘got to’ for ‘have to’. He had still been calling the street ‘Chain’ Walk, not Cheyne, pronounced Cheynee. That hadn’t mattered much. It didn’t stop him buying the house full price, cheque up front, no mortgage. He said the estate agent almost fainted. London had a ‘Fetter Lane’, so maybe there could have been a Chain Walk, too.
‘To do with what, then, Ralphy, the “trouble”?’ Quent said.
He knew sticking the ‘y’ on would irritate, but I made myself stay calm. He stared at my face to see if I rage-twitched. He’d enjoy that. I didn’t. This situation should not be made even worse by objections to a ‘y’. It would be out of proportion. I said: ‘There’s a leak.’
Dale stopped chewing for a second. He’d had a shock. Although this was a minimalist room, he could still get a rough, maxi surprise in it. But then, he resumed his work on the biscuit. He had to look steady, unshaken, even if he wasn’t. He had to seem that kind of man. This cou
ld make everything tricky later in the meeting.
‘Leaks from where?’ Stayley said.
Me: ‘I don’t know.’
Q. ‘You do know there’s a leak but you can’t tell us where it’s coming from?’ (Satirical – very.)
Me: ‘No, I can’t. I’ve seen the result, but I can’t tell how it happened.’
Stayley shrugged. It meant, ‘Hark at him! He brings us a rumour, or half a rumour, and expects us to get the jitters.’ But Q said: ‘A leak as to what, Ralph?’
Me: ‘Mondial-Trave.’
D: ‘What about it, Ralph?’
Me: ‘The police. That’s why I said fortuitous.’
Q. ‘Maybe, but fortuitous how? What was fortuitous?’
Me: ‘Davidson.’
Dale: ‘The dame detective?’
That was his phrase, ‘the dame detective’. This worried me. If it had been Quent who said it, I wouldn’t have been bothered. It was the kind of sniping disrespect he specialized in. But this was Gladhand. It sounded like he wanted to make her seem slightly comical, not a difficulty they needed to fret about: think of a pantomime dame; or sex items as in that song, ‘There is nothing like a dame.’ Maybe he really didn’t think much of her, which might be a mistake, an underestimate. This was a woman, acting head of the C.I.D. while the Chief Super was off sick. She must have some brain, some toughness. Perhaps she offered a real threat. It could be foolish to ignore that. Remember Adolf and the Russian winter. Or perhaps Gladhand didn’t really discount her but was trying to keep his confidence up, and Quent’s and mine. Leadership. Either way, he made me anxious: she could be a danger he didn’t recognize or a danger he did recognize but pretended he didn’t. Leadership?
Q. ‘What about her?’
Me: ‘Why I said a leak.’
D: ‘I’m not clear what you’re getting at, Ralph.’
Q: ‘No, Ralph.’
Me: ‘At Mondial-Trave.’
D: ‘At Mondial-Trave when?’
Me: ‘Today.’
Q: ‘She was? How do you know?’
Me: ‘I saw her.’
‘Q: ‘You saw her at Mondial-Trave?’
‘Me: ‘Yes.’ It was like a police interrogation. ‘Near the monument and so on.’
Ralph hadn’t recorded descriptions of his state of mind, but he could recall that, as he’d feared, the atmosphere became hostile at around this stage in the conversations – hostile even from Dale, very hostile from that prat, Q.
D: ‘When did you see her?
Me: ‘This morning. A few hours ago.’
Q: ‘You were at Mondial-Trave this morning?’
Me: ‘Yes. A couple of hours ago.’
Q: ‘Alone?’
Me: ‘Yes.’
Q: ‘But why?’
Me: ‘I wanted to remind myself of the terrain.’
Q: ‘Why?’
Me: ‘In case the clash with Opal Render takes place.’
Quent had to jump in with his Educated Evans impersonation then. He asked why I had to go into the ‘subjunctive mood’. Obviously, the smart, college-boy sod expected me to say ‘The what?’ and gasp in admiration at his way with the dictionary. I wasn’t going to fall for that one, though. I just stayed quiet, like I hadn’t heard this. Silence – quite a weapon.
Naturally, Ralph knew what the subjunctive mood was now. He’d done a Foundation Year towards a mature student degree. But back then, maybe not.
Q: ‘The subjunctive. Expressing doubt. Why do you talk as if the rumble at Mondial-Trave were uncertain?’
That ‘were’ instead of ‘was’ would most probably be part of the subjunctivitus.
Me: ‘Why do you say I sound uncertain, Quent?’
Q: ‘Your words – “in case” the clash takes place, like it might not.’
Well, of course in bloody case. The detective dame and her wandering put everything into the subjunctive mood, didn’t they? Only an imbecile would fail to express doubt now.
D: ‘Davidson alone there?’
Me: ‘Note taking. A jotter.’
Q: ‘Note taking as to what?’
Me: ‘Terrain.’
Q: ‘Like you?’
Me: ‘Possibly signalled to colleagues in one of the flats.’
Q: ‘Which colleagues?’
Me: ‘I don’t know.’
Q: ‘Did you see anyone?’
Me: ‘No.’
Q: ‘Signalled how?’
Me: ‘Perhaps a small wave. A smile.’
Q: ‘“Perhaps”?’
Me: ‘She’d be careful, discreet.’
Q: ‘Why?’
Me: ‘The person, persons, in the flat might be on secret surveillance. She wouldn’t want to point them out.’
Q: ‘Surveillance of what?’
Me: ‘Like I said, terrain. The Mondial-Trave area. They’re in an upper floor. They could have a whole stretch of ground in view along Mondial and to the Trave junction.’
Q: ‘Why would they be watching?’
Me: ‘On account of the leak.’
Q: ‘The supposed leak. And what is the supposed leak supposed to say, Ralph?’ (Further rotten satire.)
D: ‘Well, it’s obvious what Ralph thinks, isn’t it?’
Q: ‘I’d just like to hear it from him, Dale, that’s all.’ He sounded ratty because Dale had interrupted the questioning.’
Me: ‘The confrontation.’
D: ‘You believe someone’s whispered to Esther Davidson that there’s going to be a fight with Opal Render?’
Me: ‘At Mondial-Trave.’
D: ‘By surveillance you mean a camera?’
Me: ‘Possibly a camera, yes.’
Q: ‘You didn’t see one, though?’
Me: ‘No.’
Q: ‘A camera for what purpose?’
Me: ‘To record any activity.’
Q: ‘You’d be activity, wouldn’t you?’
Me: ‘I tried to keep out of sight. A hairdresser’s porch.’
Q; ‘You hung about, drawing attention, in a hairdresser’s porch?’
Me: ‘I watched through two panes of glass. I don’t think I could have been observed.’
Q: ‘But the people in the hairdresser’s – customers, staff? They’ll remember, won’t they? After the battle police will swamp the shops and so on, asking their questions. This could give them a lead.’
Me: ‘They looked too busy in the hairdresser’s to notice me.’
Q: ‘No customers waiting? Gazing about?’
Me: ‘I didn’t notice any.’
Q: ‘But you’d be looking the other way, wouldn’t you, Ralph – not into the salon? You’re watching Davidson. How long were you standing there on show?’
Me: ‘Say ten minutes, maybe less. Possibly they’d think I’d arranged to meet someone there.’
Q: ‘Maybe. But nobody else arrived.’
Me: ‘I’d been stood up!’
Ralph went on to page ii.
D: ‘Why would Davidson make notes, Ralph, if she had a camera showing the scene for her?’
Me: ‘I don’t know. Some people are brought up on paper and handwritten stuff. They’re never totally happy with visuals.’
Q: ‘We’d been to see the terrain, as you call it, nice and anonymously in the stolen Vauxhall, yet you go down there in full view, I can’t understand that.’
Me: ‘Not in full view. I’ve said I used the hairdresser’s.’
Q. ‘But you had to get to the hairdresser’s. You’d be walking on the pavement in the open for a while, wouldn’t you, right in front of the camera, if there was a camera?’
Me: ‘I’d be exposed a short while.’
Q: ‘You were at Mondial-Trave to no real purpose, because you’d already had a double chance to view the ground. There and back in the Vauxhall. That had been the specific aim of the trip.’
Me: But I couldn’t concentrate on it because of you and your fucking gob. I didn’t say that, though. ‘Just to confirm a few things, Quent,’ I replied.
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Dale stays quiet for a while, finishes off his tea, pours himself another, then tops up for Q and me. Now, Dale asks the big question, the very big question – what did I make of it all – what did I make of Davidson being there and the camera – if one existed? He’d slapped Quent down by saying what I was thinking. Now, though, like Q, he wanted me to speak my thoughts. He seemed confused, off balance.
What I wanted to say was simple. It would explain why I had telephoned and why I had come to Chelsea so fast. I believed I’d been watching preparations for a police hit on the firms. Plainly Davidson knew that famous bit of military teaching: ‘Time spent on reconnaissance is never wasted.’ I could have developed this: ‘Time spent on reconnaissance is never wasted, even if a camera was doing the same job, and even if, for me, I’d been there in a Vauxhall.’ But I saw it would be stupid to rush in and blurt this at them. It might sound like panic. I don’t want that foul reputation.
These two sentences in the notes always gave Ralph on re-readings a tremor. The word, ‘panic’ had a touch of chilling clairvoyance to it. Out of those circumstances would come his stinking nicknames. But these notes said he must avoid seeming to panic. He’d failed?
He continued his reading: the paragraph that came next was a kind of concession. It backed up the case against him, didn’t it?
A woman had strolled in Mondial-Trave, possibly making notes about the area, possibly sending a tiny wave and a momentary smile to an apartment block window. OK, it wasn’t just a woman but an important woman detective. All the same, he’d admit that a lot of imagination – maybe scaredy-cat imagination – would be needed to make these glimpses add up to warnings of a police surprise welcome party. ‘I was shocked to see her there,’ I said. (God, so feeble, so evasive.)
‘Right, you were shocked. What of it?’ Quentin said. (Satirical.)
‘We can understand your shock,’ Dale said. ‘It’s natural. But that shock will pass. Maybe it’s already starting to pass.’
I wanted to shout, ‘No, it bloody isn’t. This was a shocking shock, and it sticks. It would be dozy to ignore and forget this shock.’ But I didn’t.