‘We felt it only respectful to look in,’ Iles said. ‘Well, actually, Harpur is a bit of an old-style purist, but I don’t necessarily see him as obsolete on that account. No, not necessarily on that account. He objected, didn’t want to come. His words: “Those people can do without us.” I at once objected, as you’d expect. I cited his word “us”. What made up that “us”? Did he mean us a unit? Or us as two separate entities, yet joined for the sake of his argument? In neither case should he presume to speak for me. “These are our neighbours, Colin, just as we are theirs,” I said. “At such a time, they are entitled to our backing. This is a resonant, indeed, touchstone event. Turrets don’t grow on trees.”’
‘Ah, that’s puzzling – I saw they called him Turret in one of the papers, too,’ Naomi said ‘Why?’ From her appearance, she had struck Harpur as the questioning sort. ‘Obviously, I know what a turret is in say an aircraft or tank, but was Joachim Brown given that name because –’
‘Sorry,’ Iles said,’I’m mixing my metaphors a bit. Turrets aren’t the sort of things that don’t not grow on trees. But you’ll see what I’m getting at.’
‘Turret, why?’ Naomi said.
‘Welcome, indeed, to the . . . well, yes, to the community,’ Iles said. He lightened his voice, grew congratulatory: ‘This is very fine of you, Naomi.’
‘What?’ she said.
‘To attend in support of Mansel at such a distressing time. You are, I think, new to the scene here, and yet you so readily make yourself a part of it, for his sake. Manse and Ralph naturally feel in equal measure such time-honoured bonds to someone like Joachim. They will put on a brave show because it is in their characters to put on a brave show, yet the grief, the shared grief, is inevitably there. And you, Naomi, splendidly help Manse bear his.’ Iles leaned forward suddenly and shook Shale’s hand. ‘But I must congratulate you on the engagement, Manse!’
‘Thank you, Mr Iles,’ Shale said.
‘I hope that much-travelled bitch, Sybil, doesn’t come and mess it all up on the day,’ Iles said. ‘Have you provided against this foul possibility, Manse? She has the balls. Excuse me, do, Naomi, but one must speak of these things. In the long run, it’s for the best. We all set great store on this wedding, want it to avoid farce and/or carnage. It is a wedding that will, perhaps, in due course, chase away at least some of the sadness of today’s proceedings and what led to them.’ The ACC released Shale.
‘True, Mr Iles,’ he said. ‘Life goes on.’
‘Tell Joachim,’ Harpur said.
‘Many of us who’ve known Manse for long felt it would be marvellous, therapeutic, if he could find somebody who’d permanently bring joy and warmth to his home,’ Iles replied, ‘providing a new mother for those sweet children, Matilda and Laurent. Manse has needed and deserved a loving, established environment, and now . . . well, now, here you are, Naomi! Oh, yes, birds flit in and out of the ex-rectory at Manse’s invitation, but without any real, satisfying continuity. Mansel deserved better – and, in due time, he has gloriously got it, via you, Naomi. Bravo!’
‘You’re police, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘Why so concerned about Mansel’s family life?’
‘Oh, dear, we’re rumbled! Yes, I’m police,’ Iles said. ‘And Harpur. Manse mentioned us, did he? I’d like to have heard how he put it. Or would I? Perhaps, though, it isn’t necessary to say Harpur is police, given the diameter of his neck and total appearance. But I – well, you can imagine that many are surprised to learn I am police! Utterly disbelieving! People who guess at my profession simply from how I look and dress and so on – my demeanour – suggest I must be someone very highly placed in the British Medical Association secretariat, though completely over any drink problem. Or they wonder if I’m the definitely straight Master of one of the bigger, mixed Oxford colleges, yet with no hint of scandal involving girl undergrads. However – sorry, sorry, you ask, why so caring re Manse? Harpur, I know, worried about him acutely. Unrelentingly. He visualized Mansel quite often sleeping entirely alone in his vast ex-rectory. Oh, yes, quite often. But, then, Harpur does worry.’ Iles’s tone darkened: ‘Mind you, talking of beds, I don’t say he worried too much about me or my feelings when infiltrating my wife and –’
‘Let me congratulate you, too, Manse,’ Harpur said, taking his hand.
‘Thanks, Mr Harpur,’ Shale said.
Iles said: ‘If it’s not anxiety about Manse – and perhaps it won’t be now he’s so happily at one with you, Naomi – if it’s not Manse that Harpur frets over it will be Ralph here. For instance, I’m sure Harpur looks at this death of Joachim and wonders. Wonders what? you’ll say. Well, I gather from Harpur that this was someone – Joachim, I mean – someone very close to Ralph, in the sense of being a prized workmate, involved in most of Ralph’s main dealership ventures. What concerns Harpur, with his sort of quite valid mind, is that, if someone like Joachim gets his head half blown off, and his face given the blade, or blades, before being pitched into brambles, who’s to say Ralph in person won’t be next? This is the kind of step-bystep thinking Harpur can manage and is, in fact, not too bad at. If anyone is banging on re the indispensable requirement of a good education, I always say to them, “But what about Harpur?” They are silenced. You see what he means, Naomi, Mansel? Yes, he would ask, who, who, is to say that Ralph in person won’t follow – Turret as an opening shot, then his boss? Would, for example, you say it, Manse, if, entirely at random, oh, yes, entirely, if entirely at random you were asked – would you say that Ralph is in no similar peril – would you say it, Manse, knowing the local conditions as you do?’
‘Shock – bad, deep shock, that’s what come over me immediate on hearing of a death and abuse like that,’ Shale said. ‘Well, it’s bound to, for sure, isn’t it?’
‘How did you hear of it?’ Harpur said.
‘And lying there undiscovered for so long,’ Shale replied. ‘This is sure to add to the grief, in my view. A wood up a hill like that. Weather. Like you said, Mr Iles, brambles. This is a total wild scene. Animals nosing into him willynilly. Don’t tell me there’s no foxes or stoats and that sort up there. And Turr . . . And Joachim just laid out for them. I’m not against Nature as Nature. No. It’s obviously truly environmental in some aspects, such as the sea joining up five continents, but is this dignity for Joachim, dumped without consideration of any sort in foliage?’
Ember must have signalled to a barman who now came out with drinks on a tray. The staff knew Iles’s and Harpur’s tastes. There was a port and lemon for the Assistant Chief – what he called ‘the old whores’ drink’, the mixed cider and gin in a half-pint mug for Harpur, and a black-labelled bottle of Kressmann’s armagnac and three brandy glasses for the others. Ember almost always took Kressmann’s.
‘Was Joachim done elsewhere, then relocated?’ Harpur said.
‘“Done elsewhere”?’ Naomi asked. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Done somewhere else,’ Harpur said.
‘“Done”?’ Naomi said.
‘Harpur’s into low speak,’ Iles said.
‘Killed?’ Naomi said.
‘Then transported and ditched,’ Harpur said.
‘How would Mansel know?’ Naomi said.
‘That’s a point,’ Harpur replied. He was aware of Ember listening hard to this conversation, but pretending not to – pretending to give all his concentration to the armagnac.
‘This will be such a positive, wholesome local occasion,’ Iles said. ‘How good it is that in the midst of death today we can talk so affirmatively about joy and love. This Turret was a spy and total shoot-first menace, wasn’t he, Manse, a peril to many, including you?’
‘Was what?’ Naomi said.
‘Joachim – such a flair for . . . well, for people,’ Ember replied. ‘Flair. No other term will do. An almost mystical power. Innate. His ability to get on with all sorts. His kindness and good humour. I do hope your wife
is well, Mr Iles, able to settle better, perhaps, these days and nights.’
‘And what’s that about, for God’s sake?’ Naomi said.
But Ember didn’t reply, once more gave the armagnac attention. He loved to project his profile while sipping this high-grade West France tot. He seemed to feel that the armagnac plus his features and physique together helped create much of his image – his features and physique recalling the young Heston’s. Ember was married, with a family, but also did pretty well alternatively. He had that obvious scar along one side of his jaw and this could intrigue admirers, with its suggestion of a rough, brave, hazardous, ultimately triumphant past. They would speculate on the kind of all-out, hand-to-hand battles he must have been in, possibly – most probably? – as leader. Wasn’t El Cid, as famously played by Heston, a leader, even when dead and strapped on to a charger, to inspire his men still?
Once, Harpur had watched a woman busily finger Ember’s scar as though convinced that if only she could hit the right code combination the blemish would open like a door, and give special access to the inner rich Ralphnesses of Ralph. Naturally, Ember’s enemies said the wound came from no noble passage of arms. Some maintained he’d fallen forward when drunk on to an open tin of baked beans, the lid still fixed to the can and sticking up like a circular saw, not a moving circular saw but jagged and able to give a hearty wound. This version said he was afraid to go to Accident and Emergency in case they thought he’d been in a gang fight and reported it to the police – the kind of gang fight some women decided he had been in when they noticed his scar. He’d done first aid on himself and, so the tale went, then ate the baked beans cold although they were awash in blood as well as tomato sauce. The scar remained more noticeable than it should have been because he’d failed to get it stitched and treated properly at the time.
‘And the ring?’ Iles said. ‘May we see the ring?’
Naomi held out her hand and showed the large single, square diamond in a silver claw.
‘That is so typically Manse!’ Iles said. ‘The uncluttered excellence. Many, if they were asked to sum up Mansel in a couple of words, would say “uncluttered excellence”. That’s even without having seen the diamond.’
‘Why was he called Turret?’ Naomi said.
‘Tell us about the wedding? Where?’ Iles said.
‘St James’s,’ Shale said.
‘But, of course! Perfect,’ Iles said. ‘You live in what was once the St James’s rectory, don’t you?’
‘I felt it sort of right to do it this way,’ Shale answered. ‘Such as continuity.’
‘Yes, yes, plus a symmetry to it,’ Iles said. ‘Already you have a link with the church through your property. But now this link will express itself through a further link, that between you and Naomi celebrated in that same church.’
‘I thought of it like a responsibility,’ Shale said.
‘Yet, not a burdensome responsibility but a joyous one,’ Iles said.
‘So joyous,’ Shale stated.
‘And need one ask who is to be your best man? Could it be other than Ralph? Doesn’t this give a wonderful new dimension to a relationship already of memorably brilliant quality? Perhaps one could even say it sanctifies that relationship.’
‘Yes, Ralph has generously agreed,’ Manse said.
‘Some would argue Turret Brown, an intelligencer, only got what he’d been asking for,’ Iles replied.
‘Who?’ Naomi said.
‘Who what?’ Iles said.
‘Who would argue that?’ Naomi said.
‘Some,’ Iles said.
‘But which some?’ Naomi said. ‘Why would they argue it? How come a name like Joachim?’
‘You’ll have stimulating times with Naomi, Manse,’ Iles said. ‘The questions etcetera.’
On the other side of the club, three or four women and a couple of men started a sing-song, accompanied on a comb wrapped in what was probably two sheets of low-grade lav paper, and blown on by one of the men, like a kazoo, a shallow, buzzing, unmelodious din. The numbers seemed mainly old: ‘You Always Hurt the One You Love’, ‘Roll a Silver Dollar’, ‘Jealousy’, ‘Run Rabbit Run’, ‘Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf’, ‘There’ll Always Be an England’. One of the women conducted with two arms, both a beat behind the singers. Harpur thought Ralph would detest this – not just the paper-and-comb, and the age of the music, but any maudlin pleb noisiness. It was out of tune with what he wanted for the club. He’d realize this was another Monty feature not likely to be met with in the Athenaeum or the Garrick. That kind of membership was never going to perform some number like ‘You Always Hurt the One You Love’, accompanied or not, and the lavatory paper would be of higher, softer quality, unable to vibrate. As the singing began, Ralph looked angry for a few moments, but then must have decided to put up with it for now. Ralph had a doctrine. He wanted the club different but while it was not different, such as now, he must tolerate the Monty as presently existing. In any case, if he intervened they might defy him and he and staff would have to eject them. It would embarrass Ralph to have scrapping and breakages while Harpur and Iles watched, particularly rough stuff on women. Violence was even less the kind of behaviour he wanted for the Monty, particularly on a funeral occasion. Harpur had often heard Ember speak of decorum, as a quality he demanded at the club, or, at least, desired. A long time ago, Ralph told Harpur that one of the most dismal sights he’d ever had to encounter was a ginger wig – man’s or woman’s – discarded on the floor, under a radiator, after a fist fight at the Monty.
Harpur guessed Ralph would let the singing continue unless the choir climbed on to pool tables or the bar and performed. He always reacted to that. But it was people who leapt up and dangled from The Marriage of Heaven and Hell that could make him most furious. This hadn’t happened yet this evening. He’d know it couldn’t ever happen in the Athenaeum or the Garrick – even less so than the lavatory paper music – because there’d be no hanging bulwark there and, even if there were, the membership would probably not include the sort to monkey-swing from it. Ember treated that kind of behaviour as an insult not only to himself, but also to William Blake and artists generally.
‘And Joachim, so versatile,’ Ralph said. He’d want to get attention off the damn demeaning singers.
‘I’ve heard that,’ Iles said.
‘In what ways?’ Naomi said.
‘Several,’ Iles said.
‘Yes, there would be several if he was versatile,’ Naomi said. ‘That’s what versatile means. But which several?’
‘Various roles,’ Iles replied.
‘Which?’ Naomi said.
‘Manse must have noted his various roles, I’m sure, although Joachim didn’t work for him but for Ralph,’ Iles said. ‘Important to distinguish. I say, Manse, what would have been the first word to come into your mind in one of those free association tests if someone mentioned the name of Joachim Brown? Don’t tell me! Don’t! I know it would be “versatile”.’
Shale said: ‘Well, I –’
‘Oh, yes, “versatile” would be your instant reaction,’ Iles replied. ‘But that’s when he was alive. Clearly now your first word to describe him would be “dead”.’
Naomi stared for a few moments at Iles. ‘I’m trying to work out why you’re only an Assistant Chief, not Chief,’ she said. ‘So much aplomb and disdain.’
Harpur knew this could be a bad sort of thing to bring up with Iles. There were times when the ACC would speak that word ‘Assistant’ with its insistent, snivelling ‘s’ sounds, as if it were a dirty, immovable curse, placed in his title by those ranking above Iles, and full of hatred, envy, and wise fear – fear that if they did not keep him at Assistant he would soar past them in the hierarchy and make it his main and expertly managed task to fuck them up good and continuous.
‘Mr Iles is not obsessed by crude ambition, as some offi
cers might admittedly be,’ Harpur said. He thought it best to get in fast and do the answering for the Assistant Chief on this.
‘You mean like Skule in Ibsen’s drama, The Pretenders?’ she said.
‘Ah!’ Harpur replied at once.
‘Ibsen’s a Norwegian writer, Col,’ the ACC said.
‘Skule – ultimately lacking what Ibsen refers to as “the great kingly thought”,’ Naomi said.
‘Mr Iles loves theatre,’ Harpur said. ‘Many’s the play he knows, in his own right.’ Harpur moved away before Iles could talk for himself. In any case, Harpur wanted to look at some other sections of the crowd, do a bit of an inventory, remind himself of who was in circulation these days. For instance, like Iles, he’d thought Humphrey Maidment-Fane – familiarly, and aptly, Unhinged Humphrey – had still some time to do inside, but he was here, over near the door, chatting with Matt Bolcombe and a few others, apparently coherent.
When Harpur had taken a few steps, a man of about thirty with fair, curly hair, middle-height, thin, wearing heavy spectacles and a black tie on a very white shirt touched his arm and said: ‘You’re Harpur, yes?’ A grand voice, totally audible and precise above the club din. A presence. Something familiar about him? ‘I’m Joachim’s brother. C.P. Brown.’
‘Yes, a resemblance. Hair. Build.’ Had Jill, or ‘the word’ to those in ‘the loop’, said actor?
‘My parents went straight back to London after the service. They both have evening surgeries. But I wanted to see people here. It seemed necessary. In fact, no more than courteous.’
‘Which people?’ Harpur asked.
‘On my parents’ behalf as well as my own. Someone said you were head of detectives, pointed you out. And he mentioned there’s another top officer in the club tonight, also. It seems . . . it seems . . . unusual?’
‘I’m sorry about what happened.’
‘We’d all more or less lost touch with him,’ Brown said. ‘I gather he worked for the man who owns the Monty – Ralphy Ember. But doing what? Ember has another business, besides the club?’