In the Absence of Iles

  The judge said: ‘The Prosecution maintains Dean Martlew was put to death in an unknown location sometime shortly after the wharf visit. The difficulty here is not only the accused’s denial he ever knew Terence Marshall-Perkins to be the police. In addition, you might not think it sufficient for the Prosecution to try to demonstrate, through witnesses Rowan and Bates, that Dean Martlew was one of the three men at Dunkley Wharf. This, even if true, cannot of itself prove the accused killed Dean Martlew. The Prosecution asks you to make the following deductions: if you believe it to have been established that Dean Martlew was one of the three, then you will ask yourselves why would Ambrose Tutte Turton claim – backed by two Cormax Turton witnesses – that Mr Rowan and Mr Bates were mistaken, and have mixed up Terence Marshall-Perkins with Ian Lysaght Brain? The Prosecution argues that there can only be one answer to this: the accused wishes to refute any report that he was seen with Terence Marshall-Perkins on 8 June, the likely date of the murder. Why?

  ‘The Prosecution says the logical inference is that Ambrose Tutte Turton murdered Dean Martlew on or about that date. The Prosecution maintains that all the circumstances of the occasion, including the possible discovery by Cormax Turton of Marshall-Perkins’ real identity, point to Ambrose Tutte Turton as responsible for the death. I have just referred to “the circumstances of the occasion”: this kind of evidence is, in fact, called “circumstantial”. It is not the same as what is termed “direct evidence”, when a witness describes a crime that he/she actually saw being committed. Circumstantial evidence can only go so far and requires us – requires a jury – to fill in certain gaps. Obviously, this must not be done by casual guesswork.

  ‘Members of the jury, you have to look at those events you have decided to be true, and then ask yourselves whether they indicate beyond reasonable doubt that some other event or events would inevitably follow. In this case, it means you would come to the conclusion that Terence Marshall-Perkins did not leave Cormax Turton on 27 May, and was with Ambrose Tutte Turton at Dunkley Wharf on 8 June; and that the false evidence given by Cormax Turton indicates there is something to be hidden, namely, the murder of Dean Martlew by Ambrose Tutte Turton. Nobody else is charged with the murder, though Mr Maurice Cadenne appears also to have been present at Dunkley on 8 June. No explanation was given by the Prosecution for this omission, and it is for you to consider why this might be. Is it because the police have long been set on targeting a major figure in Cormax Turton, rather than an employee, and did not wish to widen the focus of their case, perhaps weakening it in some particulars? Or might there be some other hidden reason?’

  Iles said: ‘May I ask, Esther, is there someone who wears a bow-tie associated with you at all?’

  ‘What?’ she replied.

  ‘Or perhaps a stalker.’

  ‘Where?’ She glanced about. They were on the steps outside the court: an adjournment.

  ‘A musician, possibly,’ Iles said.

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘Or machine-gun hit-man.’

  ‘But where?’

  ‘Carrying an instrument in a case – woodwind, I think, if not a Kalashnikov. Bassoon?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Was watching you very intently from under the Central Market sign across the road.’

  ‘No, I don’t see anyone like that.’ God, she ought to be able to recognize Gerald.

  ‘You had your back to him. He seemed to realize I’d noticed his vigil and at once went out of sight into the market.’

  ‘My husband.’

  ‘Oh? A yellow bow-tie, red spots, worn loosely.’

  ‘Yes, my husband, Gerald. There can be complications. I expect you know how it is. You’re married?’

  ‘He really watched you,’ Iles replied.

  ‘He has an interest in trials – that kind of thing. Trials as trials.’

  ‘Especially when you are personally concerned, I expect.’

  ‘And court architecture – as symbolic of a particular law-and-order system, but in the broadest sense. He’d be much taken with the façade here.’

  ‘Fascinating.’

  ‘A professional bassoonist,’ she replied.

  The judge had broken for lunch. She said she would need a couple more hours afterwards before sending the jury home with instructions to come in tomorrow morning and start discussing their verdict. Iles had Mr Martlew with him.

  ‘Will he join you?’ Iles said.

  ‘My husband? I don’t know.’ But she doubted it and highspeed prayed he wouldn’t. There’d be something especially untoward about a disturbance in the street here, near the courthouse. He’d seen her with two men and would probably think he understood now why she’d discouraged him from coming to the trial. Perhaps he’d guess Iles to be Iles: Esther had mentioned the great tailoring, and it would be apparent to Gerald although 100 metres off.

  ‘I’ve suggested to Mr Martlew that we look for a pie and a pint somewhere,’ Iles said. ‘Perhaps if Gerald’s not coming back from his market visit you’ll eat with us?’

  Oh, God. ‘If he was carrying his bassoon he might be on his way to some work. They’ll phone for him in emergencies – when an orchestra or group is short, because of illness and so on. He’s mainly bassoon but oboe and clarinet also, if pushed.’ Maybe the Millicent had at last heard her hints and wanted him to do a rehearsal run-through for the tea dance this afternoon. Of course, she had never spoken of the possible Millicent work to him, fearing he would feel degraded and go into one of his all-out diva fits, bawling about crappy music for the ancient, limping, waltzing, early-home bourgeoisie. But if the offer had come seemingly direct and unsolicited . . . well, an offer was an offer in a bleak calendar. The hotel stood near. He might have wanted to announce his triumph to her. A call on the mobile could have seemed inadequate. It would be important for him to come to her damn prestige milieu, the court, and confront Esther in those surrounds with his proud, unique, earned news.

  And then, what happens? He sees her with Iles and Martlew. Gerald’s disappointment and rage would not get soothed by the comfy, local-produce aroma of Central Market. She wondered whether she should go at once and look for him among the traders. But, of course, if Esther found him he would ask – and ask at artistic-temperament volume, full shindig volume – how she could possibly know he was in the market. He’d disturb business, and pull a ready audience. An ACC mustn’t be associated with that kind of froth-flecked public strife among stalls selling cold meats or sisal matting. Police might be called. Gerald would have noted Esther had her back to him at first, and it was bound to make him even more embittered if he thought that one or other of the men had spotted him staring and alerted Esther. This he would consider cheeky and intrusive, and regard Esther’s acceptance of the tip-off as treachery, especially as it had been completely right.

  ‘I expect he mentioned the fucking bow-tie, did he, did he?’ She could imagine Gerald screaming something like that at her in the market. Occasionally, he could reveal painful, disarming self-awareness, though he still kept on with the fucking bow-ties. ‘This seemed distinctive and comic to him, did it, did it?’ Naturally, Esther would not admit the bow-tie had singled him out, and certainly not the ‘worn loosely’ aspect. She’d have said it was the bassoon made him noticeable. That might work. But it could also go wrong. The bassoon represented his victory, his recall to life, and earnings, and he had wanted her alone to share this with him today. Instead, the bassoon’s role had been hijacked and changed. It had become something that simply labelled him ‘musician’, just as carrying a broom said ‘road sweeper’. This, too, would wound and inflame him. On balance then, Esther decided it would be best not to seek him in the market. Besides, if he was on his way to a rehearsal at the Millicent he might have left the building via the rear doors, which would take him closer to the hotel.

  Martlew said: ‘I hope this doesn’t sound far-fetched and precious, but there’s something terrible, almost disorientating, about the way my son, Dean Martl
ew, became Terence Marshall-Perkins, or The Quiff or Wally, and then ceases even to be any of these, according to some voices, and turns into Ian Lysaght Brain. This struck me so before, of course, when hearing the actual evidence. But it seemed worse in the sum-up words of the judge. She sounds so reasonable and measured. It’s like my son had, as it were, disappeared, had been dissipated into so many forms, had lost his essence, even before he died.’

  To Esther it seemed a worthwhile chance for her finally to get some rapport with him. She said: ‘Yes, I’ve had the same thought, Mr Martlew, and –’

  ‘“Far-fetched”? “Precious”?’ Iles replied, thoughtfully.

  ‘I wouldn’t want my reactions to appear either,’ Martlew said.

  ‘Not in the least,’ Esther said. ‘These bewildering shifts of –’

  ‘Martlew, yes, you’re right, it does sound far-fetched and precious,’ Iles said. ‘Exactly the words for such chic twattishness. Fucking far-fetched and precious. I can’t stand “as it were” shit. Leave that to the writerly. Nothing of his essence was dissipated. He got shot from close and dumped in water. That’s not the same as dissipated essence. It’s slaughter and disposal. Bad, bad, bad. We’re here today because we’re mourning a real lad – your lad, Detective Sergeant Dean Martlew – so don’t pollute the genuine catastrophe with sale-price sodding pseudery about cliché crises of identity, OK? Many wish I’d have an identity crisis. They want me to decide I don’t exist and they’d landslide vote for it.’

  Quickly, Esther said: ‘This shuffling off of names and assumption of other names, perhaps it tells us something about the nature of –’

  ‘It tells us nothing about the nature of anything except about the shuffling off of names and assumption of other names briefly,’ Iles said. ‘That’s simply basic undercover equipment – no mysticism or psychobabble bubbles. Half the driving tests in London are passed by people masquerading for someone else. The substitute driver assumes a string of Learner new names every day. The one who takes the tests doesn’t go home to Camden Town all twitchy and confused about loss of identity – the “Who really am I?” blather. He knows who he is, and hopes the police don’t, he meaning she as well here, of course. He’s the guy with the money, that’s who he is. He’s got hundreds of quid in his pocket and more to come from the same charades tomorrow. It belongs to the one-and-only Camden Town him. That is, the original Mr Wheels him; the cash-heavy, undissipated essence of him; the himness of him. His advertising says, “Your name, my driving.” The judge obviously believes it really was Ian Lysaght Brain at Dunkley Wharf, anyway, the retarded old bitch, so she’d dismiss the last name change.’

  They began their walk to a pub. Esther resisted looking behind. It would be pathetic to seem scared Gerald might tail her. ‘I think it’s all right,’ Iles said.

  ‘What?’ Esther said.

  ‘He’s not there,’ Iles said.

  ‘I don’t have to worry about that either way,’ Esther said.

  ‘Good.’

  She hadn’t noticed Iles make checks to see if they were followed. ‘How do you know he’s not there?’ she said.

  ‘It’s the sort of thing I do know,’ he said. ‘At Staff College I was called Ungumshoeable Iles, hard to shorten.’

  ‘Those two did see my son at Dunkley on 8 June,’ Martlew said. He was between Iles and Esther as they walked.

  ‘I don’t have anything against people who run snack bars,’ Iles replied.

  ‘They described my son. Unmistakable,’ Martlew said, ‘when they gave their evidence and today, in the judge’s version.’

  ‘Rowan and Bates?’ Iles said. ‘Disastrous witnesses. Couldn’t they have been enhanced a bit?’

  ‘How enhanced a bit?’ Esther said.

  ‘Their testimony smartened up, given better focus,’ Iles said.

  ‘Someone else suggested a similar ploy to me,’ Esther said, ‘about the campaign against Cormax Turton generally.’

  ‘Who suggested it?’ Iles said.

  ‘A fine detective here. Bernard Stonevale. He was retiring. At his leave party.’

  ‘It’s good he should be out of the service if he can make disgraceful suggestions like that,’ Iles said.

  ‘But you just did,’ Esther said.

  ‘The ineptness of talking to you about it,’ Iles said. ‘And when he’s no longer active.’

  ‘You mean he should just have got on with it privately, done it?’ Esther said.

  ‘“A fine detective”, as you call him, would be able to get the feel of a situation,’ Iles said.

  ‘You told me to keep everything straight,’ Esther said.

  ‘I told you to keep everything straight and win,’ Iles said.

  ‘I did keep everything straight, to win,’ Esther said.

  ‘But what is win?’ Martlew said. ‘A conviction won’t bring back my –’

  ‘Not more fucking flim-flam, for God’s sake,’ Iles replied. ‘A win is Ambrose Tutte Turton locked up for ever as cold murderer of your boy, and the firm imploding soon after. Doesn’t that sound like victory? One villain inside and a villain network expunged. They might be scared of Cormax Turton,’ Iles said.

  ‘Who?’ Esther said.

  ‘Rowan and Bates.’

  ‘We’d have given them witness protection if necessary,’ Esther said. ‘They’d been told.’

  ‘Yes, but they might be scared of Cormax Turton, just the same,’ Iles replied.

  ‘Do you believe he was there on 8 June, Mr Iles?’ Martlew said.

  ‘Who?’ Iles said.

  ‘Dean,’ Martlew said.

  ‘For instance, to improve their value in the box, Bates and Rowan could have been briefed with special distinctive features about his shoes, say, or hand-jewellery, things they’d swear they’d noticed before,’ Iles said. ‘It was all there, I gather, on the body.’

  ‘What do you think, Mr Iles? Was Dean on the wharf?’ Martlew said. ‘If not, where was he during those days in late May, early June?’

  ‘And tonight, when you get home and he gets home, will it be all right?’ Iles said.

  ‘He’s intensely taken up with music,’ Esther replied. ‘It possesses him.’

  ‘Will it be all right, when you and he get home tonight? Iles said. ‘Some music makes them tetchy and cruel. César Franck.’

  They reached the pub and Iles bought ploughman’s lunches and beer for the three. In a while she saw Gerald look in at a window behind Iles and Martlew. Yes, like the starving kid in the restaurant picture, but less easy to sympathize with: she’d applaud a restaurant owner who went out, handed him a couple of old monkfish bits and told him to piss off. She smiled a quick, confidential smile at Gerald while the others were preoccupied with their food, and tried also to make it a smile that pleaded with him not to come in with his teeming lunacies and piffling resentments, while yet thanking him unstintingly for his husbandly closeness to her in a time of true tension. Off to the fucking Millicent you bilious roving soul. Esther didn’t mention that Gerald was there, because she thought Iles would be mortified at getting successfully gumshoed in daylight on a main street by someone with a lurid, loosely worn bow-tie on and carrying a bassoon.

  Gerald did not enter the pub and disappeared again. Probably he’d be thinking up some nicely structured malice for when he and she were next alone, if he had time for such ideas before the Millicent, or wherever the work was – malice not necessarily to do with César Franck. There’d been a time when she kept an excellent masonry hammer handy, but this had come to seem crude and unfair and she’d given it to a charity as very suitable for development work in the Third World. On the way back to the court, Iles said: ‘He showed again, did he, your clever music man? I thought the “Get lost, sweetheart” smile a masterpiece, and I’ve seen a lot of them from women.’

  * See Protection

  Chapter Fifteen

  Out-location of DS Dean Martlew: Esther’s narrative

  3. On the Waterfront

  Near
the start of that Millicent car park evening conference in Channing’s pool Rover, Dean Martlew had said: ‘Of course, I’ve been trying to get in on the dockside operations.’

  ‘Don’t rush them,’ Esther said.

  ‘I don’t know what that means,’ Dean said.

  ‘Don’t rush them. You make yourself noticeable. Too eager. Let things develop.’

  ‘They might not,’ Dean said.

  ‘No, they might not. But it’s safer like that.’

  ‘I’d have been wasting my time there.’

  ‘Patience – it’s one of the chief requirements in undercover. I know. I’ve done it,’ Esther said, and thought, Oh, God, so weighty, so historical!

  ‘Their docks operation is a sure route for me to Ambrose,’ Dean said. ‘I don’t see a route to Cornelius or Palliative at all. But Ambrose seems to control all their waterfront activity. Look, ma’am, so far I do some street-level, chickenfeed dealing with H and Charlie and this is about it. One up from a courier.’

  ‘How I began,’ Esther said, ‘though not so much Charlie about then. How most undercover starts.’

  ‘I’ll never get to the management that way. We’ve got to know the scale of things, haven’t we, if the prosecution’s to be worthwhile – how Cormax Turton is organized, the turnover, their substances suppliers, the pay Cornelius, Palliative, Ambrose draw? All right, I know we have something on their business structure, but no detail in depth. And I’m nowhere near discovering any of that.’