Hotbed

  A woman’s voice was added now. She must be in slippers or stockinged feet. Harpur hadn’t heard her move across 15B or come down the stairs. ‘What is it, Graham?’ she said.

  ‘I have an urgent message for Mr Joachim Brown,’ Venetia said. ‘It brooks no delay.’

  ‘He hasn’t been in his flat for weeks,’ the woman said. ‘We heard the shouting but couldn’t get the words.’

  ‘She was talking into the letter box,’ Graham said.

  ‘Someone watched the flat from a car,’ Venetia said.

  ‘Which car?’

  ‘He’s gone,’ Venetia replied. ‘Drove away. I think he guessed I’d seen him. Someone big.’

  ‘Oh, of course, of course. Eyewash! I don’t know what’s going on here, but it has to stop. Push off now. And if I see you in the street again – not just tonight – any time – I’m going to call the police.’

  ‘I was telling Graham how fascinating some men look when they’re cross,’ Venetia replied.

  ‘Please, go,’ Graham said.

  ‘I wonder if you have a piece of paper and a pencil?’ Venetia said. ‘I’d like to leave a note for Mr Joachim Brown, on behalf of my associate, since the matter is urgent and brooks no delay.’

  ‘No,’ the man said. ‘This is ridiculous.’

  ‘Oh, that can do no harm, Graham.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Venetia said.

  After several minutes, Harpur heard something pushed through the letter box. ‘Now, get lost and stay lost,’ the man said.

  ‘So grateful for all your help,’ Venetia said.

  Harpur gave it a quarter of an hour before moving or making any sound. Then he crossed the bedroom and looked quickly into the wardrobe. He did not find Brown. He rang Lamb. ‘I’m coming out at once, Jack.’

  ‘I’m in Cobalt Street. Left out of the house, then second left. I say again, this is a bright kid. She’d spotted me.’

  ‘Ralphy’s daughter.’

  ‘Ah, so she would be bright.’

  Harpur picked up Venetia’s note and the mail and put it all into his pockets. He checked the road then let himself out, closed the front door and went to Cobalt Street. Jack drove him to Harpur’s own car, parked a few more streets away. When Jack had gone, Harpur switched on the interior light in his Ford and read the sheet from Venetia: ‘Mr Joachim Brown is invited to a Sunday with the Welsh cob and others. Coffee and/or wine will be served. RSVP ASAP.’

  Chapter Five

  Of course, Ralph Ember knew his anxieties about Turret Brown might be stupid, a kind of panic. People in the trade moved around, looking for the best scene – meaning where the money was bigger and easier. Free enterprise signified you could run free. Maybe Turret had heard tales of beautiful gains in London or Manchester or San Francisco. And so, ‘Farewell!’ Or not an actual ‘Farewell!’ No official leave-taking, no giving of notice. Just a flit, a sudden absence. And this would be especially true of anyone in a dogsbody job, with no real status or stake in the firm, no fully bought loyalty. By now he might have his own firm somewhere, using all the skills he’d been taught here, but using them for himself. Soon, there might be word of him and the scale of his new business from London or Manchester or San Francisco.

  But Ralph couldn’t totally believe this. For a start, Brown had started to emerge from a dogsbody job into something bigger and more promising. He’d sounded interested in a future with Ralph’s outfit, and at once accepted a dangerous commitment to help make it secure. Yes, there’d been some cheek at Low Pastures, and some near-insolence, but a deal had resulted. And Brown did not appear money-driven – or not very efficiently money-driven: hadn’t he settled for five a week, though he might have got eight, or even ten? There’d been real excitement in his voice when he described to Ralph how Shale began to show him special trust. Or seemed to.

  Or seemed to. A ploy, a lure, a trap? Had Shale expected the approach, deliberately encouraged it, then acted? Did someone spot Ralph and Turret chatting behind the Agincourt? Was Brown identified driving to Low Pastures? Manse might sometimes sound untreatably thick, but he could join up hints and make a tale. He wouldn’t own a company, otherwise. Shale didn’t dawdle, and if he sensed a threat he’d pounce at once to eliminate it. Yes, eliminate it. Brown had reported that Manse more or less invited him to look over the Shale outfit. Didn’t that sound bad? The constant darkness of Brown’s flat at night troubled Ralph. Always that blackness on the ground floor, and, usually, lights upstairs in what Ralph assumed to be 15B. These past couple of weeks he’d detoured slowly through Singer Road a few times quite late to look at 15A from outside. Never any change. To go via Singer added only a mile to a trip Ember would have made, anyway: he generally went to the Monty for the last hour or two of the night, to make sure the wind-down stayed unviolent, put the takings safe, and check security at lock-up.

  Tonight, Ralph went by the Singer route again. This time, though, he stopped and pulled into a space about 100 metres away from 15A. He decided he’d watch for ten minutes. He realized this would probably be as useless as simply passing through, but he’d give it a try. Ralph had an idea Venetia might occasionally come to look at 15A, too: perhaps even call there, some evenings, though earlier. This influenced him. Venetia would disappear for a couple of hours with her bike from Low Pastures and, if asked, say she’d gone to visit a school friend. He could tell she’d been a little wowed by Brown. She still wowed easily despite nuns. He’d mentioned his address while she was present.

  Then, Ralph began to think that perhaps his daughter showed more guts than he did. He felt convinced she would not merely cycle past if she came to look for Brown. Almost certainly she’d go to the front door and ring or knock, no messing. Ember always reacted fiercely to a charge of cowardice, even one brought by himself. He knew about the harsh nickname some gave him – Panicking Ralph, or Panicking Ralphy – and he struggled to make this disgusting label look wrong. Surely he should at least match what his fourteen-year-old daughter did – or what he imagined she did. It might not be enough just to park here.

  When Brown was around and working it would have been mad for Ralph to go to his front door, even at this time of night – perhaps especially at this time of night, an unusual hour for visitors. Their connection had to remain as secret as it could be, regardless of Brown’s insistence on coming to Low Pastures. But Turret Brown was not around and apparently not working. Different priorities took over. Top of these might be the question: did Brown’s insistence on coming to Low Pastures in fact help get him slaughtered? Second question: had he been slaughtered at 15A and left there? Suppose he had little contact with his family, and no partner or regular sex life, he might lie unfound at home for . . . well, for as long as he had been missing. Ralph should try to find out the truth, shouldn’t he? After all, he, personally, not his teenage daughter, sent Brown into those special, assured perils.

  Duty niggled Ember, and the pressure began to nudge him towards one of his panics. It was the absence of choice that did it. To go to Brown’s front door probably involved no particular danger. But Ralph always hated, resisted, any sense of compulsion. He wanted options, alternatives. Now, he couldn’t see any, and he felt a line of sweat build across his shoulders. He feared that the old, long scar along his jaw had opened up and begun to seep something colourful but unattractive towards his collar. These were standard symptoms of an Ember panic. He put up a hand to touch the scar, and, of course, as ever, found it utterly intact. But this did not console him much. To believe a leakage was happening proved an attack. However, the fact that he could lift a hand to touch it showed full paralysis had not moved in yet. This amounted to something like a victory. But he wished he had parked nearer to 15A. He would not be able to rely on his legs for a while.

  So, he waited for three minutes then left the car and began to walk towards 15A. And – another triumph! – his legs did it well enough. He reckoned anyone wat
ching would regard this walk as confident and bonny. To his mind, it was plainly the walk of someone unafraid of approaching Brown’s front door, or almost any front door; and of a man who had fathered a daughter unafraid of approaching Brown’s front door, or almost any front door. These thoughts made his legs even more powerful, by a kind of compound interest. The sweat across his shoulders dried and did not resume. There had been a battle with himself and he had won it – that’s to say, the part of himself which was not Panicking Ralph but rock-like Ralph had won it. He gave the bell two considerable, very unapologetic rings and waited. Ember felt that nobody more dauntless and determined had ever stood in this porch and rung the bell. Although he did not know the history of the house and flat, he believed this must be one of its most significant moments. He could look into the hallway through the door’s frosted glass panel and see who might come to answer, if anyone did. It surprised him that no heap of post lay there. After three weeks, he would have expected at least a pile of junk mail.

  Then he heard light footsteps and for a second imagined it must be Turret responding. Ember squinted hard into the hall and prepared a greeting, severe yet familiar: Joachim, you undisciplined, dilettante sod, where the fuck have you been? But he saw nobody. Then he realized the sound of those footsteps came from the stairs to 15B. The door of that flat opened and a man came around to the front porch. He wore a dressing gown and slippers. ‘Can I help?’ he asked. To Ember, it seemed the man had expected to find someone else here, and quickly adjusted what he meant to say, and its tone. Quickly but not altogether.

  ‘I’m looking for Mr Joachim Brown, a colleague,’ Ember said. ‘He lives in 15A, I think.’

  ‘A colleague? Excuse me, but may one ask where?’

  ‘Yes, a colleague.’

  ‘You see, we’ve had some . . . well . . . activity here tonight. My wife and I are rather on edge. We’ve been keeping an eye, as it were. And an ear! We heard you approach. It’s very late. I thought I should come down.’

  ‘Activity?’

  ‘A caller – that is, another caller, before you.’

  ‘Is it unusual for Mr Brown to have callers?’

  ‘Well, he’s not here, you know.’

  ‘I thought I might catch him in.’

  ‘As you see – no.’

  ‘And the same for the previous visitor?’

  ‘A young girl.’

  ‘Called here?’

  ‘On a bicycle. I’ve seen her in Singer Road before, sort of idling along, but obviously interested.’

  ‘Obviously interested in what?’

  ‘The flat. 15A.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. But, to guess: perhaps because it looked unoccupied? I can’t say.’

  ‘Unoccupied and a potential break-in target, you mean?’

  ‘One mustn’t rush into suspicion, agreed. But that kind of thing makes one uneasy these days, you know. And nights. Excuse me, but perhaps you have another explanation. Possibly, I should not have spoken as I did – speculating without evidence. It’s true, she did shout some messages through the letter box. Do you know this girl, I wonder?’

  ‘Who is she? How can I tell?’

  ‘She said she wanted to deliver a business message on behalf of “an associate”. It would brook no delay. That was the phrase – “brook no delay”. She said her associate could not reach Mr Brown by telephone and was unable to come to Singer Road personally, because of business commitments. So, she’d been sent. We couldn’t hear what she actually called through the letter box but it did not appear to be the communication that would “brook no delay”. Only her attempt to reach Mr Brown. It sounded a bit quaint from a child – “an associate”, “brook no delay”.’

  Venetia liked sending up jargon and fruity phrasing. Where had she come across ‘brook no delay’? And she’d love the crazy pomp of ‘associate’ and ‘commitments’. ‘But she didn’t say who the “associate” was?’ Ember asked.

  ‘I wondered, you see, if, in that case, you were the associate – the commitments now having been put on hold or concluded, so you could call in person, rather than sending her?’

  ‘What is it, Graham?’ A woman from 15B joined the man. She, also, wore a dressing gown and slippers.

  ‘Another caller for Mr Brown, dear.’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s not here,’ she told Ember.

  ‘I mentioned the girl with the bike,’ Graham said. ‘And the way she said she was acting for someone else, and the business message she’d been sent to deliver.’

  ‘Does this gentleman know her?’ she said. ‘It must be a very urgent matter – I mean, the time. Nothing wrong, I hope?’

  ‘Urgency can certainly become an element in business, I’m aware of that. Deals, and so on – the special moment may be crucial,’ Graham said. ‘Perhaps she was genuine.’

  ‘Mr Brown hasn’t been there to our knowledge for weeks,’ she said.

  ‘Sally is right,’ Graham explained.

  ‘We’re perturbed by all this . . . all this interest in 15A,’ Sally added. ‘Mystified.’

  ‘The girl said someone was watching the flat from a car across the street,’ Graham added.

  ‘Oh?’ Ember said.

  ‘But I don’t know. I saw nobody like that. It is worrying, mind, this sudden rush of . . . well . . . activity.’

  ‘She wrote a note for Mr Brown and put it through the letter box,’ Sally said. ‘I don’t know what the message was, though.’

  ‘Perhaps this was the one that would “brook no delay”,’ Graham said. ‘She seemed to realize eventually that nobody would answer the door, and so the message had to be delivered differently, although this, in fact, might involve a delay. Obviously, would – even if, on the face of things, the message would not brook it.’

  ‘Which kind of car?’ Ember replied.

  ‘Which kind of car what?’ Graham said.

  ‘Someone watching the flat from a car – which make of car?’ Ember said.

  ‘By the time she spoke of it the car had gone. That’s what she said.’

  ‘She didn’t describe the car?’ Ember asked.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Or the man?’

  ‘Big,’ Graham said. ‘He had a mobile phone.’

  ‘Hasn’t everybody these days?’ Sally said.

  ‘And watching?’ Ember asked.

  ‘That’s what she said,’ Graham replied. He sounded constantly disbelieving, but wouldn’t actually say so, presumably in case Ember knew her, had sent her.

  ‘All this is worrying,’ Sally said. ‘I can see you’re concerned about the car and the man watching. Is this something to do with your business?’

  Well, yes. But Ralph said: ‘It’s all so baffling.’

  ‘May I ask – what is your business, and, presumably, Mr Brown’s?’ Sally said.

  ‘I wondered if the car might have been a Jaguar,’ Ralph replied. Manse drove a Jaguar. He wasn’t especially big, though.

  ‘You think you know who this watcher might have been?’ Graham asked.

  ‘She said simply “a car”, did she?’ Ember answered.

  ‘Did you send her, owing to commitments on your part?’ Sally said. ‘This would explain a lot – and be a comfort.’

  ‘You’re not the police, are you?’ Graham said. ‘I mean – the questions. Was it a colleague watching from the car? Many officers are big. Is something wrong? Is Mr Brown missing – not just not at home, but missing? Or, then again, it wasn’t you, personally, watching from the car, was it? You’re . . . well . . . not small. Did you park elsewhere and come back? Don’t mind my asking, will you? We’d like to understand what’s happening. I think that’s reasonable, in the circumstances.’

  ‘It’s funny, but I can’t see any note in the hall,’ Sally said, looking through the gla
ss panel, ‘or any mail at all.’

  ‘Oh?’ Ember said. ‘The frosted glass makes it difficult.’

  ‘There’s nothing. She did put the piece of paper through, didn’t she, Graham?’ Sally said.

  ‘It might flutter away a bit, Sal.’ Graham did a session at the frosted glass, then turned back to Ember. ‘In case Mr Brown reappears soon, should we give him a name, a number, so he can get in touch – I mean, if it really is a matter that brooks no delay? I feel this would be neighbourly.’

  ‘And I’m sure I’ve seen the postman call here as I left for work – three or four times over the last few weeks,’ Sally said.

  ‘Suppose she was right about someone watching the flat, why would that be?’ Graham said. ‘I hope he realizes there are two flats here, and that 15B has nothing to do with 15A. One can be drawn into things inadvertently.’

  ‘Entirely inadvertently,’ Sally said.

  ‘It’s disquieting,’ Graham said. ‘We’ve had hardly any contact with Mr Brown. You know that phrase people use on TV news when they find someone living next door is a mass murderer or serial rapist – “he kept himself to himself”.’

  ‘And likewise ourselves,’ Sally said.

  ‘What?’ Ember said.

  ‘Keep ourselves to ourselves,’ Sally said. ‘I don’t mean standoffish, but respecting others’ privacy, and expecting ours to be respected in its turn.’

  ‘It’s that kind of neighbourhood, and we like it so,’ Graham said.

  ‘Have you heard sounds from 15A, sounds you might not have taken much notice of at the time, but now, looking back, you wonder about them?’ Ember replied.

  ‘Sounds?’ Graham said.

  ‘Something beyond the normal,’ Ember said. ‘Possibly not seeming something beyond the normal at the time, but now, in hindsight, and in view of developments, perhaps different. There’ll always be a certain amount of noise heard between flats in one property – that’s routine. But, possibly in retrospect, significant, not routine at all.’

  ‘When?’ Graham asked.

  ‘Say, just before he disappeared,’ Ember said.