‘I’ll be reasonable but quite firm,’ Ember said.
‘Quite firm won’t do with them,’ Sybil said. ‘They’ll persist like wasps. You’ve got to squash them.’
‘Who are they?’ Venetia said, but lost concentration on that. ‘And, God, the waistcoat, Mr Shale! This is really sublime. Look at the sublime waistcoat, Fay! This is history unleashed! That waistcoat plus the shirt – well, really intemperate. Mr Shale, give dad some lessons in modes, will you?’
The bell rang again, tentative but persistent, yes, a bit like wasps. Ember went out into the hall and glanced at the monitor. One would be about thirty – maybe a year or two more – the other around twenty-three. They both looked much too good for Manse, but Ralph thought this must be true of any even marginally presentable woman. Think of Manse’s nostrils. Ember would almost never have a firearm on him in his own home, for heaven’s sake, and he felt these two were probably alone and harmless, though maybe emotional and bitter on account of Sybil’s return to the rectory, if they’d heard of it. He opened the door and stood square in the space so they could not rush past and get through to the dining room and inconvenience Sybil or Manse or the two. Ralph considered this kind of protection another of those inescapable duties of a host. If you invited them you looked after them, no matter how dubious they might be. The front door was wide, as used to be the case for all front doors of gentlemen’s homes in earlier periods to give a castle-like feel, and Ember knew he could not entirely block any attempt at entry. He also knew he must be nicely framed in the space if these women had brought someone on contract with a gun to back them up and do their revenge. Just the same, Ember stayed there. When it came to matters of guarding his home or his club he hardly ever fell into one of his terrible panics. Territory backboned him. This would be so, even if Shale hadn’t apparently taken over the panics.
‘Mr Ember?’ the younger, taller one said. ‘Yes, it’s Mr Ember, isn’t it?’
‘Ralph W. Ember,’ he said. ‘Can I help you?’
‘We went to the Monty.’
‘Yes?’ Christ, who were these two? They wanted him, not Syb or Manse?
‘People said, “Try the Monty,” when we asked around. And, naturally, I knew of the club and said, “Yes, good idea.” ’
‘In which respect?’ Ember replied. ‘Asked around about what?’
‘People there know a lot, don’t they? The buzz. Your membership is very . . . well, very various, isn’t it?’
‘We aim for an interesting cross section,’ Ember said. ‘Important for a club’s dynamics. Just consider, would you, the many types at the Garrick or, even more so, the Groucho?’
‘We’re looking for someone. We showed a picture at the club, but no luck. A member said you’d probably be at home at Low Pastures – in case you, personally, might know the man we’re searching for. I’m from the Evening Register. Kate Mead. This is Meryl Goss, a Londoner. She has to go back soon. She’s a little desperate.’
‘I’ve got the photo here,’ Goss said. ‘If you could look, please. What is it with this city?’
‘In which respect?’ Ember said.
‘Indifference,’ Goss said. She wore jeans, desert boots and a navy jacket. Her fair-to-mousy hair had been done in small spikes. Although he regarded this as a ludicrous error, to Ralph she looked a warmer prospect than Kate Mead. God, he must be getting old.
‘Is everything all right, Ralph?’ Margaret said. She had followed him to the door.
‘Someone missing, apparently,’ he said.
‘Oh, dear,’ Margaret said.
‘We thought Mr Ember knows so many people and might recognize him from the photograph,’ Kate Mead said.
Margaret must have realized then that these were not women who’d lived on shift with Manse. ‘I think they should come in so we can see properly under the lights, don’t you, Ralph? Stop standing there obstructing, like the Rock of Gibraltar.’
‘Yes,’ Venetia said. ‘This sounds really important if she’s come all the way from London looking.’
‘Right,’ Ember said. ‘We have guests, you know.’
‘Get an eyeful of the mauve shirt,’ Venetia said.
‘Our friends might be able to help,’ Margaret said. ‘Mansel Shale also meets a lot of people.’
‘Oh, yes, with so much style he must get around or it would be wasted,’ Venetia said. ‘Stupendous clothes-sense like that deserves a bigger audience than he’ll get at Low Pastures. Who wrote the poem about a flower blushing unseen and wasting sweetness “on the desert air”?’
Ember led them into the dining room and made introductions. ‘These ladies have lost someone,’ Margaret said.
‘No, Meryl has lost someone,’ Kate said. ‘I’m a journalist tagging along.’
‘Is this for the Press?’ Shale asked.
God, he did sound shaky.
‘The police have been told, but Meryl’s not sure they’ll really help,’ Kate said.
Meryl put the photograph of a man aged about thirty-five, dark-haired, strong-featured, on the table alongside Sybil’s liqueur glass. Ember did not recognize him. Shale gave the picture a long stare and shook his head. ‘No.’
‘No, nor me,’ Margaret said.
‘No, but a dish, if I may say, Meryl,’ Venetia replied. ‘Fay, come and look. Know him?’
‘No,’ Fay said.
‘I reckon that’s a Paul Mixtor-Hythe suit,’ Venetia said. ‘More modern than Mr Shale’s but still a classic.’
Sybil looked and said: ‘No, afraid I can’t help.’
‘Is there some background?’ Ember said.
Kate said: ‘He’s Graham Trove and came here to meet contacts in property development.’
‘Property development?’ Ember replied.
‘Property development,’ Kate said.
‘No names?’ Ember said.
‘Difficult, very difficult,’ Shale said.
‘Just arrived and disappeared?’ Venetia said. ‘Bizarre.’
‘Of course Meryl has already tried many property firms for information, but no go,’ Kate said. ‘We had a list from the Chamber of Commerce. The buzz says it might have been someone called Hilaire Chandor. We’ve been there, but a blank. We need some more factual stuff before we approach him again.’
“Can we offer you something?’ Ember said. ‘Wine? Armagnac? I’m sorry we’re a disappointment after your trek out here.’
‘It’s a lovely old house,’ Kate said. ‘Such a sweep to the drive. I adore bare stone.’
‘A feature, yes,’ Ember said.
‘A sort of . . . well, genuineness,’ Kate said.
‘That has to be the word,’ Shale replied.
‘Well, thanks, anyway,’ Meryl said.
‘We’ll keep on the alert for him, I promise,’ Ember said.
‘Absolutely,’ Venetia said.
‘We can always reach Kate at the Register,’ Margaret said.
Ember brought a couple more balloon glasses from the sideboard and gave Meryl and Kate some armagnac although they hadn’t replied to his offer.
‘You know, you’re incredibly like Charlton Heston when younger,’ Meryl said. ‘When he was younger, that is.’
‘Charlton Heston! Good Lord! He’s the El Cid one, isn’t he?’ Ralph replied. He found it a damn pity she might be going back to London. Desert boots could do a lot for legs, as long as they were good to start with. He liked to think of the man-made soles striding out over broiling sand, with the heat getting up the inside of her thighs, until the boots eventually reached an air-conditioned hotel with plashy fountains and garden tables under sunshades, where he’d be waiting wearing something cool and well-ironed in khaki or jungle green.
‘Chuck Heston – big in the American gun lobby,’ Venetia said. ‘ “Every home should have one.” ’
‘Yes. I’ve heard that about Mr Ember before, a Heston look-alike,’ Kate said.
‘Dad loves it when people mention the resemblance,’ Venetia said. ‘When wom
en mention it, but always pretends he’s amazed. It’s called modesty – or as near as he gets.’
After the two women had left and the children were back watching TV, Shale, Sybil, Margaret and Ralph sat for a while in the drawing room with their drinks. Sybil asked: ‘Would they really expect you or Manse to say if you’d seen the man in the photograph, Ralph? Don’t they understand about you two – and one a local reporter, supposed to be au fait with local matters? Bare stone walls cost money and where do they think the money comes from? Yes, you’d imagine she’d know the scene, wouldn’t you? You’d imagine she’d realize that whether you knew him or not you’d say you didn’t because saying you did could lead almost anywhere and lads like you don’t care for uncharted ground.’
‘It’s always best to be civil to such people,’ Ember replied. ‘They’re entitled to do their search.’
‘Civil but uncommunicative,’ Sybil said.
‘I couldn’t be communicative because I have nothing to communicate,’ Ember said.
‘And likewise,’ Shale said.
‘This is two invasions tonight from the bad world beyond,’ Sybil said. ‘Manse and I first, then these two.’
‘Oh, really, we don’t think of you in that way at all,’ Margaret said. ‘Always welcome.’
‘Indeed, yes,’ Ralph said. Sybil hadn’t gone into actual tears, so he more or less meant this.
‘What’s that bitch going to put in the fucking paper?’ Shale replied.
‘Only that someone’s missing and Ralph Ember and Mansel Shale don’t know anything about it,’ Sybil said. ‘Or their wives, or the Ember daughters. Can that matter? If she puts anything at all in the paper. People go missing every day. Routine, not man-bites-dog stuff or even dog-bites-man.’
‘The Press – you got to watch them,’ Manse said. ‘Continuous. They can do bad bloody damage. They don’t care, as long as it gives them a big headline.’
‘Damage how?’ Sybil said.
‘All sorts of ways,’ Manse replied. ‘I believe there should be a law of privacy.’
‘But in this instance,’ Sybil said. ‘It’s a nil response, isn’t it? What harm?’
‘You got to watch them, that’s all I say. Think of them two reporters that done Nixon in a film on TV sometimes.’
Margaret took Sybil to freshen up. Ember said: ‘That’s a very nice gesture, Manse – the redecoration and locks and so on, if they’re to welcome Syb back. Yet typical of you.’
‘I thought I got to do something to sweeten things. I mean, Ralph, them other females who been giving me companionship and so on – that’s not pleasant for a wife to think about.’
‘But she’d left you, Mansel.’
‘Even so, I felt the repapering etcetera, like a compliment. In any case, I had a little stumble carrying a bottle of sauce on the stairs and so some staining. I saw I could put that right and at the same time do a what you call for Syb.’
‘A gesture.’
‘Right, a gesture for Syb.’
Ralph remained quiet for a couple of minutes in case Shale decided to cancel the bullshit and say what had really happened on the rectory stairs, as described by Empathic’s decorator pal. The great thing about ferrety eyes was they never changed from being ferrety, so you couldn’t read much there. Their eternal message – ferretiness. Manse picked up his glass and said: ‘Here’s to what’s been a great fucking evening – lamb, wine, Kressmann’s – on your magnificent property, Ralph.’
Ember raised his own glass in response and drank. Then he said with a thorough smile: ‘And here’s to a grand future for you at the rectory, Manse. Between us, we have given this region marvellous, sustained peace.’
‘I don’t suppose we’ll get the sodding Nobel Prize for it, though,’ Shale said.
‘I believe we are appreciated by those with a proper regard for this city,’ Ralph replied. They drank again. When Margaret and Sybil returned, Ralph topped up all round and Manse mobiled his driver and told him to bring the Jaguar in half an hour. Of course, Denzil Lake was a goner now. Manse must have taken on a successor. When the car arrived, Ralph went out to have a look. The replacement looked pretty solid and weathered. Ember knew Denzil used to defy Manse sometimes and refuse to wear the chauffeur’s cap supplied, because Lake thought it made him look like the dogsbody he was. This driver had that kind of shiny peaked cap on and didn’t seem to mind. He jumped out of the car to open the rear door for Sybil and Manse. ‘Thank you, Eldon,’ Manse said. Eldon’s jacket tightened as he bent swiftly to the Jaguar door handle and Ralph thought he saw the outline of something sizeable in a shoulder holster.
Chapter Six
Harpur took another trip alone down to the marina and the region of Hilaire Wilfrid Chandor’s offices and home. He recognized this as no more logical than his last visit, but he went, just the same. Harpur still worried that Meryl Goss, trawling for property contacts, collecting gossip at the bus station caff with his children, and elsewhere, would have heard Chandor’s name and come here calling and questioning. Probably dangerous, if all his suppositions were right. And they would be.
It troubled Harpur that a police failure to find her man – a police failure even to look for her man – could push Meryl into risk. Harpur knew his daughters would feel a mix of rage and shame if he let things go bad for her. Although they’d accept that an adult like Graham Trove had a right to disappear or not as he fancied, the girls would expect something extra from Harpur, because Goss actually came to Arthur Street looking for support. They’d regard this personal contact as giving them and Harpur a definite guardianship role. In his daughters’ opinion, if people called at the house they became sort of dependants, wards. This could be a right nuisance, but Harpur feared his daughters’ contempt. Oh, hang on, he’d put it a lot higher than that. Harpur longed for their esteem, struggled to earn and keep the girls’ admiration. As a single parent he lived for their approval. He could tell that the plight of this beautiful, sad, committed woman, Meryl Goss, searching in strange territory for her lover, would grab their feelings. In fact, her plight reached his own feelings, especially as Harpur more or less knew the search to be hopeless, and Meryl’s lover dead. He could not tell the children that, nor even hint at it, and couldn’t tell her, either.
Harpur saw only one way to help. He must make sure she did not drift into peril herself now by taking repeated inquiries to the wrong place, meaning the right place – Hilaire Wilfrid Chandor. What Harpur had to contemplate was the terrible possibility that not just Graham Trove’s but Meryl Goss’s body might one day turn up on this ground. Harpur’s daughters would regard that as a disgusting, cruel blunder by him. And he’d see it like this himself. Then there would be Iles.
Apart from Goss, Harpur worried that Manse Shale should have been doing his little survey here, the medicinal morning stroll, obviously casing the area. Why? He planned retaliation? Had he built a big hate against Chandor – saw him as an insult and threat? That’s how it had seemed on the Iles illegal transcript, hadn’t it? Shale would be inclined to fight – to hit before he was hit again. He’d grown used to success and peace, and might want to remove anyone who jeopardized these. No, not might. Manse would. Perhaps removal of Chandor could be treated as a boon by Harpur – by the police generally. But bullets loosed off among ordinary, uninvolved people in an ordinary street could not be.
This time, Harpur parked a distance from the handsome old converted bonded warehouse that housed Chandor’s offices and walked. Although much of the marina layout was cluttered tat, a few Victorian and Edwardian dockside buildings had been magnificently adapted to new roles. Manse enthused about the marina and, yes, parts of it did look good.
Harpur felt a need to be on his feet, he felt a need to be clearly seen, a reckonable presence. He thought he might have to intervene, not just observe. Now and then he got these feverish, white knight impulses. He felt he had to save Meryl Goss, already stalked by tragedy, though she couldn’t know that yet in full. It was lunc
htime. If Goss wanted to reach Chandor she would possibly attempt to confront him in the street at some predictable moment, like arrival, lunch, or working day’s end. And the same tactics could appeal to Manse Shale. Perhaps Manse had discovered during reconnaissance that Chandor left the offices at, say around 1 p.m., maybe going home, maybe on his way to a restaurant. This wide marina highway could be turned into drive-by land – a big volley through the open window, windows, of a stolen, moving car and fast exit. It might appear fairly simple to Manse. Traffic here was usually light. Shots should not get blocked by other vehicles, getaway not hindered by jams. One essential: the ambush must happen close to the office building, for fear Chandor came out and jumped into a car. Shale might have thought of all this. He’d moved currently into a rich, sedate, rectory-blessed existence, but he wouldn’t forget basic urban foray wipe-out tactics – the same kind of urban foray wipe-out tactics which . . . yes, the same kind of urban foray wipe-out tactics that most likely helped land him this current rich, sedate, rectory-blessed existence. He’d blasted his way to tranquillity, hadn’t he?
As Harpur approached the bonded warehouse just before 1 p.m., feeling pretty relevant and saintly, he saw Chandor, plus a couple of other men, emerge from the front of the building, Chandor between the two looking fully Nordic. Protection? Well, naturally protection. Harpur thought he recognized the pair from the Monty. Chandor had on jeans and a short denim jacket. The two companions wore dark suits, white shirts, broad tie, flunkey garb, the suits loosish, perhaps to shroud weapons. Harpur walked a bit faster. In fact, the three did not get into a car but came towards him on foot, which should mean Chandor was making for his house, in a side street near where Harpur had parked. He got some amiable chat ready.
When Harpur and the three were a few metres from one another he saw a car, a blue Renault Laguna, coming at a brisk but unostentatious rate from behind the Chandor group. One man drove and Harpur believed there might be another in the back on the near side, but bent low. A thicket of Shale-type dark hair? It looked as though the driver had a scarf arranged around the bottom part of his face – nothing as telltale as a mask, yet doing a good concealment job, just the same. Who wore a scarf in June? He seemed a burly, athletic type. Yes, someone with a dark thatch still crouched on the rear seat. As Harpur reached Chandor and friends, the car was alongside and Harpur, in that public service style of his, stepped to the left and put himself between it and them, between it and them and other pedestrians.