‘Which people?’ Iles replied.
‘When I say unfair, this got to be worse when it’s someone with a wound,’ Young said. ‘Inconsiderate. Kicking someone when he’s down on account of an injury. What I think of you as, Mr Iles, is someone who responds. Whatever the circs you will respond, because it’s built into you, like a damp course in a property, what’s known as “integral”, whether it’s in a theatre or anywhere else. All right, you start talking to the actors on a certain topic during some play. That’s what I mean - you respond. Dialogue means two-way. All right, so you gave them some back. That’s responding.’
‘I heard this Duke figure going on about abused heart strings and his fret and it must have touched something off in me,’ Iles explained.
‘Why I say you respond,’ Young answered.
‘Harpur here was banging my wife in all sorts of illicit or crummy situations not long ago and so I’m ever a prey to influences contained in terms like “abused heart strings” and “fret”, Iles said. ‘They come at me like an assault. If I were one for tattoos, these would be words on my forearm.’
‘We can sympathize with that,’ Young said. ‘I’m sure I’m speaking for Em as well as myself here.’
‘Harpur thought I shouldn’t have gone to the play a second time, but he would, wouldn’t he, because he’d know a repeat might lead to such a reaction?’ Iles said. ‘My nose getting, as one might say, rubbed in it.’
‘Almost bound to happen,’ Young replied.
Leo stayed on his feet. The rest sat down. ‘What we’re here for, Leo, Mrs Young, is to sort out what kind of organization was behind Jaminel and the murder of Detective Sergeant Mallen and, most probably, the journalist, Cass,’ Iles said. ‘We had a notion you might be able to help in this regard. I’m not sure whether you’re familiar with the Mallen killing, Mrs Young, but it took place on a stymied housing site of executive dimension properties known as the Elms.’
‘This is a problem - the what you might nominate “behind the scenes” aspect,’ Young said. ‘I should think the authorities picked you out for this task because of that ability I referred to previous, the ability to respond. And you have to bring support - so, Mr Harpur. Like a team.’
‘One of the Home Office women has the hots for him,’ Iles said. ‘There’s a sexual theme to much of his life. He’s giving it regularly to some undergraduate not much older than his daughters when we’re home. She sleeps at his dump in Arthur Street more often than in her student accommodation block. God knows what her parents would make of it - quite decent people as far as I can discover. They’re going to turn up one day, unannounced, as a lovely surprise on the campus looking for their daughter and someone will say, “Oh, she’s over with her bit of the fuzz as almost ever.”
‘Maud, the Home Office piece, hopes to retain me on the investigation, despite “Talk of the Town”, and the Chief here, because she wants access to Col. Or that’s one way of assessing the situation. It’s something like Humbert Humbert wooing the mother so he can get at her daughter, Lolita: not an analogy I’m fond of, though, because it makes me into a dumbo frump played by Shelley Winters. The other possibility is that she’s only playing at backing me because she wants to favour Harpur and win him top-dog position in this inquiry.’
‘I’ll get us tea, shall I?’ Young said. He went to the kitchen.
Iles said: ‘A lovely home, Mrs Young, with upkeep and heating an expense, I imagine, in inflationary times, even if the logs are from fallen timber on your own grounds. And do I remember right - two boys away at prep school?’
‘Why are you here?’ she replied.
Iles said: ‘As I explained, Mrs, Young, we—’
‘Yes, yes, the organization behind the Mallen killing. But why are you here, at Midhurst, at our home?’ she said.
Harpur felt surprised by her tone. It wasn’t aggressive or confrontational - not hissed as if they had no right to be here - a tidied-up version of Why the hell are you here? Bugger off. She really wanted information. It was as though Mrs Young, too, longed to know about the organization behind the Mallen killing, suppose there were an organization. Perhaps some of the fiction he’d given Maud to explain Emily’s reasons for going to the Elms house was not fiction at all, but right.
By briefing her laboriously just now about 14 Davant, Iles had given Emily a chance to say she knew it, had been there, had run into Mrs Mallen there. Yes, yes, everyone who reads a paper or watches TV news is familiar with the house. In fact, just to check it was nothing but what it is, an amalgam of the customary construction materials, I popped over there and did a bit of a survey the other night. Verdict? Solid. Not complete but, as far as it’s gone, solid. The standard recipe of bricks, wood, plastic, mortar. No glass yet. It would be stupid to include the easily breakable. But glass will come in its due time. However, she’d stayed blank.
Harpur had guessed the visit was secret, and this looked like confirmation. As he’d suggested to Maud, it might have been secret because she felt troubled about Leo’s business and his possible part in the Mallen execution. Maybe she had needed a reminder that the house was only that, a to-be-one-day, ordinary residence, not a dark symbol of something brutal and rotten in her husband. So, had Harpur’s spin to Maud been more than spin, truer than spin? She might have lived for years with the suspicion that Leo got most of the money for Midhurst, and the private boarding school fees, and the Mini Cooper, and his own cars, and Emily’s top-notch clothes, by brilliant crookedness. Now, for reasons not entirely obvious yet, she had possibly moved beyond suspicion. From Iles and himself she seemed to be seeking insights that would take her towards terrifying certainty. Could she be turned - turned into an ally, which would, most probably, entail turning herself into a traitor to Leo?
Iles said: ‘Wide-ranging, you see, Mrs Young.’
‘What is?’ she replied.
‘Our purpose this time. It’s not just a murder, but the context of that murder, and its possible connection with a later murder, the journalist, Cass. You, as I understand it, Mrs Young, are the chair of a museum committee,’ Iles said. ‘In that role you will deal with many single exhibits from ancient periods. Such exhibits are significant in their own right. But also, and perhaps even more significant, you will wish to see how they fit into their background; their context. Ours is a similar quest.’
‘You think Leo is part of that context?’ she said.
‘Wide-ranging, as I’ve already declared it, Mrs Young. We are seeing many people.’
‘And perhaps major, even commanding, in that context?’ she asked.
‘Wide-ranging,’ Iles said.
‘It’s a kind of attrition, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘What?’ Iles said.
‘You put a disguised spy into Leo’s companies.’
‘Not I,’ Iles said. ‘I haven’t that kind of power.’
‘I mean the police, the authorities, the Home Office. They have decided - I don’t know why - that there is something to investigate and ordinary methods are not adequate. A spy is needed.’
‘We don’t normally care for the term “spy”. It’s from a different profession. We call it “covert surveillance”. The word “surveillance” is neutral. It makes no assumptions: something might be found, nothing might be found.’
‘Bullshit,’ she replied. ‘You wouldn’t put an officer into that kind of dangerous situation if you didn’t feel more or less certain there was something to be found. It’s a judgemental act. What was it then that made Leo’s business a target? This is why I say attritional. You - the police, the Home Office - place a spy in the firm and then, when the spy is killed, you decide that not just the man with the gun is to blame, but others who put the man with the gun up to it, because the spy might destroy their racket. And so you come to our home with politeness bordering on smarm but actually intent on wearing Leo down.’
‘Wide-ranging, Mrs Young. We’ll be calling at quite a few homes. You mustn’t feel Leo is being victimiz
ed,’ Iles replied.
And then the combativeness and hostility left her, left her again, and when she spoke it was with a question that simply and maybe desperately sought information. ‘Why was this officer put into Leo’s companies in the first place?’
‘Covert surveillance is a recognized police procedure and is carefully supervised,’ Iles said.
‘I dare say, I dare say, but . . .’
Leo came back into the drawing room with a teapot and crockery on a plain wooden tray.
TWENTY-THREE
Leo was about 5' 5" with fair wavy hair worn long, and a fair moustache. He had a very small head and face, and Harpur thought his eyes, mouth, nose, chin and cheeks looked cruelly jam-packed in this limited area, like passengers on a rush-hour tube train. Young’s decision to nab some of the scarce skinscape for a moustache seemed half mad: an unnecessary extra that increased the impression of clutter. Harpur guessed Leo to be in his early forties. Emily might be a little older. Harpur and Iles had both observed a kind of uncertain cockiness about Leo’s body language. Iles had offered two comparisons. He said Leo’s short, stocky build put him in mind of the classic physique for a dauntless Welsh rugby fly-half, but, in Leo’s case, one who had lost his bearings after concussion in a game and scored a try at the wrong end of the pitch, against his own side. Or Iles saw him as a milkman who picked the career because, being short, he wouldn’t have far to bend when doorstep delivering, but who’d then found this did not compensate nearly enough in winter for having to get up in the dark.
Leo fussed over serving the tea, with special care to get the milk and sugar, or no sugar, absolutely right for Harpur and Iles. The fine points of hospitality seemed important to him. In a splendid house and grounds like Midhurst, Leo might feel a kind of noblesse oblige, though his personal strain of noblesse wouldn’t get him into Who’s Who. He said: ‘Mr Iles, Mr Harpur, some would resent a visit at their residence by senior police in a major murder inquiry. They would regard it as unjustified finger-pointing. But not us. Emily and I understand.’
Nonsense, at least in part. Emily did not understand the reason for the visit, or said she didn’t. Why are you here, at Midhurst, at our home? She’d quizzed Iles and Harpur, hoping for information. Using that ‘deconstruction’ trick taught him by Denise, Harpur decided Emily’s question fell into two bits. Why are you here at Midhurst? That is, as he’d speculated earlier: How have you got the fucking nerve to come nuisancing and ferreting at our place of status and distinction? And Why are you here at our home? That is, How have you got the clodhopping gall to come disrupting our quiet, rural domestic existence? Iles had fobbed her off, telling her the inquiries were wide-ranging (no hint of what the width covered) . . . in search of a . . . context (no definition) . . . we are seeing many people (no names).
Leo said: ‘We are proud to be listed among those regarded as possibly useful in this new inquiry. Naturally, absolutely naturally, everyone connected with Tom Mallen, also Parry, is likely to be called on. Routine. Unavoidable. Not to make them calls would be downright slackness. And, for definite, we did have a connection. How could it be denied? He worked for our firm. He was welcomed more than once into this very property on a warm and friendly basis. He had a favoured position. He had seemed to merit that. But then, the shocking Elms death and in due course the trial revelation of his true identity - a police identity.’
Emily said: ‘What we don’t know is why he was ever sent to snoop on Leo’s business secretly from inside.’
‘It could be the result of an anon, dirty tip from someone - a business enemy, maybe - wanting to damage us by putting in this bad word to the authorities, suggesting confidential checks should be done; the kind of rotten commercial smear tactics that so very regrettably sometimes occur,’ Young said. ‘Or like in the Soviet Union, as was, when someone might send an unsigned letter to the secret police saying a neighbour had called Stalin a shite.
‘But, in any case, as of now it don’t matter why he was sent. When the trial took place, after that horrible murder, nothing illegal or even slightly off-colour came out about the Young firm. Many foolish tales re involvement went around, but all of them discarded, dismissed. We was totally in the clear then, and the same now. Very much so. Even more.
‘We are glad, Emily and me, to give all the help you think you might need, Mr Iles, Mr Harpur. Your mission is a good and vital mission, a cleansing mission. The public are grateful for it, as they should be. We know you will do things totally right, and the slight malarkey at the theatre got nothing at all to do with whether you, Mr Iles, are someone fit for this kind of work when liable to certain mental surges. The theatre and plays affect people in so many different ways - joining in with the actors, for instance. I think of kids at the panto who shout a warning to their hero or heroine on the stage, “He’s behind you!” Yes, our two, away now, have done that at the King’s. Them children were in the drama as much as the actors! Same with you, Mr Iles, also at the King’s.
‘Or a member of the audience might get reminded by something in a play of very unpleasant facts in their lives, such as, with all respect, Mr Iles, the matter of your dear wife, mother, I understand, of your child, a daughter. This could clearly cause sudden distress. I hope, Mr Harpur, you will forgive me mentioning this, but it do seem to be part of the general picture. However, I believe, you are no longer having it away with Mrs Iles in various locales and vehicles, and you and Mr Iles are now more or less good mates for much of the time. There might be occasional rough moments, true, but that can happen to any pair of good friends, especially where one’s been shagging the other one’s missus surreptitious and it comes to light. This is what’s referred to, I believe, as “a bone of contention”, but that bone is only brought out now and again to be nibbled at, not by any means continuous. For quite long periods nobody watching would be able to tell how bad you, Mr Iles, have been hurt by your wife’s carry-on. Restraint - that’s what you often got, a true strength.’
‘This is the kind of hearty and generous endorsement of our work that Col appreciates enormously, Leo,’ Iles replied. ‘Also myself, of course, but Harpur, particularly, longs for approval by the community. In him it comes close to egomania, but is more or less tolerable, and it does have its pathetic aspect, also.’ Iles gave a small wave with his cup. Harpur felt this was meant as a sign of fellowship, despite his ego and pathetic need for approval by the masses.
They were in capacious, very comfortable brown leather easy chairs, what Harpur thought of as gentlemen’s club chairs, though he had never been in a gentlemen’s club. Back home, Panicking Ralph Ember would have liked to think the club he owned, The Monty, of Shield Terrace, might one day deserve that title, but the transformation would take a while, plus exclusion of almost all the present membership, including those locked up, or recently released, or between stretches locked up, or on bail or probation. The Monty was the only club Harpur knew at first hand. He and Iles would look in there now and then, trying to eavesdrop and/or sense anything about current and future projects - wedding receptions, robberies, beatings, christening parties, protection schemes, acquittals, territory campaigns. And because they were fond of Ralph.
Iles said: ‘It’s that bright, Home Office babe called Maud who’s interested in what we’ve dubbed the “context” of the Mallen death, Leo. Her job is to take the global view.’
‘That’s the way of them up there in London, isn’t it, Mr Iles? Trends. They’re concerned with trends. Something occurs and they’re not bothered about the thing that’s occurred as such but they ask theirselves, “What does this thing that happened tell us about trends?” They’re entitled to ask this because trends are meat and drink to Whitehall people. Meat and drink. If they think it’s a good trend they’ll try to help it along. But if it seems bad, they’ll want to kill it off before it gets to be more than a trend and is . . . and is what it is, like.’
Young’s drawing room looked out on to the gravelled front yard and then beyond, t
owards the sea. Emily’s yellow and black Mini Cooper was parked near the front door. Outbuildings to the right had been well restored and roofed with genuine slate. Framed floral prints hung on the drawing room walls, bland, unvivid. A fine, rosewood antique bureau and long mahogany chiffonier stood opposite Harpur’s chair. The floor was varnished hardwood strips covered here and there with Persian-type rugs, their prevailing, background colour a dark, warm red. Leo or Emily had some taste. In Harpur’s experience, Leo always dressed formally and had on a grey three-piece suit, button-down collared blue and white striped shirt, and azure silk tie, black lace-up shoes.
‘Maud’s persistent,’ Iles said.
‘Clearly, we could of asked for a lawyer to be present at this interview, a “sit-in” as they’re known, watching out for questions that might do damage, and putting the block on same for the clients’ sake, such as us.’ Young stopped and took a few seconds before he resumed. ‘But, no, no, not “interview”.’ He gave that a hard, confrontational, deep probe tone. ‘“Interview” sounds too cold and official - it should be “at this visit”, like of a hearty, cuppa-based social nature. We decided, Emily and me, that a lawyer would not be appropriate in these circs. There’s that word again - “appropriate”. Or, in very truth, we could say its opposite, “inappropriate”. This is how we regard the idea of a lawyer: inappropriate. Like an insult to all of us - an insult to you for suggesting you could be hiding something harsh and unfriendly behind a mock-up happy get-together under our roof; and an insult to us for seeming to brand ourselves, Emily and me, scared and needing an LLB in the room for protection.
‘What, I ask, have we to be scared of in this meeting? The answer comes so easy - nothing. In fact, the total reverse.’ Harpur thought Leo sounded delighted by the neatness of polar opposites. ‘This is an occasion where common interests can be discussed in reasonable, relaxed fashion. These interests might not be wholly the same on both sides - your side, Mr Iles, Mr Harpur, our side, Emily’s and mine - but nor are they head-on opposed to each other. There is plenty of agreement, and this can be improved and extended, which we’ll all agree, I’m sure, is desirable.’