‘Bad vibes?’ the Chief asked. ‘Is it really much more than that? Don’t mistake me,’ he went on hurriedly, ‘I certainly wouldn’t undervalue the instinctive perceptions of people as experienced as Desmond and yourself, but –’
‘You’re too kind, sir,’ Iles said. The meeting was in the Assistant Chief’s room, one of those informal sessions prized by Lane, who seemed to believe, on no good grounds known to Harpur, that in relaxed conditions Iles would be able to do him less damage. Harpur could just make out, concealed under the latest issue of Police Review on Iles’s desk, a copy of some heavy-looking book called Middlemarch, probably a novel. Iles did not like it put about that he was a reader.
‘Yes, what hard evidence? That seems to me the heart of it,’ Lane declared.
‘“The heart of it”,’ Iles repeated slowly. There were occasions when he made a meal of writing down and then underlining certain prime phrases used by Lane, but did not do that today, only nodded very emphatically a few times, as if acknowledging unique lucidity and grasp. His contempt for the Chief never diminished, and Lane’s ability to cope with him never grew.
‘I mean, what are we scared of?’ Mark Lane asked, and waved an arm sharply, to rid the room of all ill-based dreads and speculative funk.
‘A very fair question, sir,’ Iles replied. ‘What we’re scared of, I suppose . . . yes, this would be a balanced, considered, totally unpurple way to put it, what we’re scared of is that some act of inter-gang carnage is being planned which will load our patch with so many corpses, some possibly quite innocent, that we’ll look like Sharpeville plus the retreat from fucking Moscow.’
Lane said: ‘Yes, but –’
‘How do we know this, sir?’ Iles replied. ‘We don’t. Guesswork, and – what was your term? – “instinctive perceptions”. Yes, I’ll buy that. The mots justes as ever. I’ll admit to you that occasionally I like to get ahead of the villains, rather than merely cater for aftermath. Perhaps it’s an extravagant ambition, even fanciful, but that’s how I operate, for my sins.’
Feeling it was time for the straight man, Harpur told Lane: ‘There are one or two indicators, sir.’
‘Factual?’ the Chief asked.
‘You’re so truly rigorous, sir, I could think you were at Cambridge, not –’ As always, Iles pretended to forget Lane’s university. ‘Elsewhere.’
‘Half-factual,’ Harpur replied. ‘A lad in Benny Loxton’s outfit, Justin Paynter, seems to have disappeared, we think because he was about to spill something mighty and had to be stopped.’
As part of the drive to appear casual, Lane was seated on a window sill, legs comfortably apart in front of him, shoes not too clean and his socks crumpled. Lately, he had begun to grow plump on public lunches and dinners and his uniform bulged at the waist and top of his arms. He could have ordered a new one, but seemed to want scruffiness, so as never to look even faintly military. Today, because of the uniform and the strain of talking to Desmond Iles, his round, sallow face was tense, whereas normally he appeared cheerful and good-natured, full of kindliness. Iles sometimes referred to him as Mother Teresa, sometimes as Meals on Wheels. For some reason, which could not be tolerance, he seemed to have given up calling Lane, a Catholic, the Mick.
The Chief looked unimpressed by what Harpur had said: ‘I don’t really see the connection, Colin, Someone disappears and we assume he was going to reveal an outrage? Why?’
‘He’s a known source.’
‘Known to us?’
‘Not directly, sir,’ Harpur replied.
‘What does that mean?’
Harpur said: ‘Well, sir –’
‘Oh, don’t tell me: this is a source that feeds one of your sources, whom you can’t tell us about, of course, so we’re about fifteen steps from the actual truth. God, I hate sources, narks, informants – all that kind of dangerous morass.’
Iles, who was in shirt-sleeves, with his feet on the desk, said: ‘That kind of dangerous morass is called detection, sir.’ Although he sounded almost as arrogant and imperturbable as ever, Harpur suddenly had the feeling that something might be wrong, as if the ACC were coping with a deeply painful, private trouble. None of the usual relish was evident as he baited Lane.
Bravely, the Chief stuck at it. ‘All right, so let’s accept that he had something sensitive to reveal, this obscure, far-back nark. How do we know it was a possible gang-war incident?’
‘We don’t,’ Iles replied. ‘I’m sorry if I repeat myself. We have no certain knowledge, but it’s how things feel to Colin, and also to his informant.’
‘Feel?’
Harpur said: ‘We might be able to take it a bit further than that today, sir. My tipster thinks the missing man was possibly involved in some sort of recent unpleasantness at or near Panicking Ralph’s club, the Monty.’
‘What sort of unpleasantness?’
‘That we’re not clear about,’ Harpur replied. ‘I’m going to call on him today, see where we get.’
‘Violence?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘Have we had any report of that nature?’
‘No, sir,’ Harpur said.
Lane shrugged and stood, preparing to leave. ‘Well, it can’t be very much, can it, Colin?’
Wearily, Iles said: ‘We’re talking about the Monty club, sir, not Lambeth Palace. Monty’s is sometimes known as The Collection, because so many customers have records. Ralphy gets a very mixed clientele and does not seek a police presence, no matter what goes on there. Neither do his members. They settle things privately.’
‘We’ve checked hospitals?’ Lane replied.
‘He might not have reached a hospital,’ Iles said. ‘Benny has people who are first-aid enthusiasts.’
Lane brushed himself down, achieving an unnoticeable improvement in appearance. He looked like a St John Ambulance man after pushing through a British soccer crowd to treat somebody. ‘Benny: what’s he doing out of jail, anyway?’
‘My wife made the same point this morning, sir, and I couldn’t answer then, either.’
‘And how is she?’ Lane asked, evidently glad to grab a way into routine affability.
‘Sarah’s very active, sir, very zappy.’
‘Yes.’ He stepped towards the door. ‘We have a lot of workaday crime to deal with apart from the rumour of this future battle and, obviously, what I don’t want is a great expenditure of time and ingenuity on something that could turn out to be pursuit of a, well, a chimera.’
He almost whispered the word, probably sensing how much Iles would love it.
‘Ah,’ Iles said. ‘A long time since I’ve pursued one of those. Tidy turn of speed.’
Harpur said: ‘Everything else is going normally, sir. Nothing neglected because of this.’
When the Chief had gone, Iles said: ‘Change and decay. What remorseless devastation a job brings when it’s too much for the holder. Think of Tamburlaine.’
‘Who?’
‘Christ, Harpur, what’s wrong with you? Tamburlaine.’
‘Should I know him?’
‘Know him? C.L.J. Tamburlaine. The cardboard box and Christmas novelty firm. That’s what I mean, you see: forgotten already.’
‘The Chief’s not so bad, sir.’
‘Fine voice – amateur operatics. Fiery yet mellifluous in The Desert Song, I’m told. Sad, I feel about him, more than triumphant or vindictive.’ Iles’s tone changed abruptly, and Harpur went on guard, sensing he had been right to suspect the ACC had some personal pain. ‘And, as to everything going normally, Col, I gather we’ve been doing observations for thefts from the lorry park at Osborn Triangle.’
‘Sir?’ What the hell was this about?
‘Erogynous Jones came to see me on the quiet earlier with some rather bruising disclosures.’
‘Yes, we had him down there keeping surveillance from a van. Not much success.’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’
‘Sir?’
‘Col, he tells me he saw
Sarah in the drivers’ caff opposite. Truckers’ Den is it called?’
Harpur would have greatly liked to leave. ‘It’s all right, sir. Rough but clean. She’d come to no harm.’
‘Jones told me she was there for hours.’
‘Big meals. Drivers doing long hauls.’
‘Eventually, she met a man,’ Iles said. ‘Or, a man came in and met her.’
‘What, a trucker? Tried to pick her up, you mean?’
‘Jones had the idea they knew each other well, and that she was very pleased to see him, when he finally showed up. She was obviously waiting for him. Jones couldn’t see too clearly at the end because he had to get out of the van and find another viewpoint. He thought Sarah had spotted him.’
‘So, is he sure it’s her? Erogynous is a great observation man, I know, almost as good as on interrogations, but –’
‘He’s met her a few times at Force shindigs. No mistake.’
Harpur watched Iles carefully. The Assistant Chief had grown a little paler as he spoke, and his voice was becoming slightly metallic. Otherwise, he seemed reasonably in control, as much as ever.
‘– It’s odd we should have been talking to Lane about the Monty.’
‘Sir?’
‘For fuck sake don’t keep doing that. You sound like West Point.’
‘Why odd?’
‘Erogynous says he thinks the man she met is someone called Aston – Ian Aston, on the edge of petty villainy, though maybe no more than on the edge.’
‘Yes.’
‘Know him?’
‘Seen him.’
‘He uses the Monty, Jones reckons.’
‘Could be.’
‘Yes.’ Iles mumbled the next words. ‘The Truckers’ Den has rooms.’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Didn’t know? Not on your own circuit? They stayed, of course. There appeared to be some sort of row or recriminations, they made it up, and then upstairs to put all to rights. Tell me, is this embarrassing you?’
‘Maybe Erogynous –’
‘Should have kept it to himself ? No, I’m grateful. Col, I think I’ve been deliberately shutting my eyes. If one’s wife is putting it on a plate for somebody, it’s better to recognize the fact, wouldn’t you say?’
Although Harpur knew Iles liked answers to all his questions he did not give one to that. ‘I’ll see Jones never breathes a syllable of it.’
Iles smiled. ‘He’s promised me. But an ACC’s wife taking it from a minor crook in a roadies’ diner? Makes a ripe yarn, wouldn’t you say? He’s likely to stay silent?’ Iles stood behind the desk and reached for his coat. ‘If you’re going to see Panicking Ralph I think I’ll come with you. You don’t mind?’
Oh, Christ. ‘No, of course not.’
In the car, Iles, who was driving, said: ‘I found where Aston lives and went up there earlier on. Mind, I want to stress I had no intention of doing anything out of the way, nothing extreme.’
‘No, that’s hardly worth saying, sir.’
Iles had begun to shake and he gripped the wheel fiercely to keep himself steady. He let the speed drop to about ten miles an hour. ‘I’ll be great in a minute,’ he muttered.
‘Of course, sir.’
After a while, he seemed to improve and his driving became normal again. ‘Aston wasn’t there when I called and, apparently, hasn’t been there much at all lately. The place has been broken into, as if people were looking for him. I gather from neighbours nothing was taken. No damage. They said a woman has been sniffing about. It sounds like Sarah: good shoes, beautiful, highly strung, some fucking and blinding. Now, what do I make of that? She’s been up there at his flat, so I have to ask, is this a long-term, deep thing, not just a couple of joie-de-vivre jumps? Am I going to have to deal with this lad in a very serious way?’
‘It must be trying for you, sir.’
‘The best you can do, you half-baked arsehole? We’re talking about losing a wife, not belonging to the Labour Party.’
‘Heartbreaking for you.’
‘Of course, you’re adulterizing Mrs Cotton, so I suppose you might have a different view.’ Iles kept his eyes rigidly in front. ‘I want Sarah, Col.’
‘Of course, sir. She’s a great girl.’
‘Not of course. She does distribute herself a bit and for my own part I’ve wandered now and then, as you know. A mistake. To a degree, forced on me, but still a mistake. I’ll keep Sarah. Nobody must take her away, Col.’ He spoke without much emphasis, but as if it were unarguable. Maybe he feared setting off his frenzy again.
‘Women these days, they like to branch out once in a while,’ Harpur said. ‘It’s not just Sarah. They want to live right up to their impulses. We have to adjust. It’s only right.’
‘Once in a while or twice or three times. Look, Col, I’ll try to be reasonable, really try.’ He seemed to be losing the battle with himself and now he began to shout in those strange, high, metallic tones, sounding like son of Robocop. He still looked firmly ahead. ‘There’s no point in tearing one’s self to pieces over a bloody woman, no point at all.’
‘We all have problems, sir.’
‘Sorry, am I hogging the picture? Yes, there’s – well, all that stuff: your marriage. I shouldn’t go on.’ Once again he quietened. ‘Erogynous asked in his stylish, roundabout way whether I wanted Aston done over: something fairly disabling, long-lasting and character-forming. It could be handled by a team, but I refused absolutely. One can’t let one’s own people carry out something like that, it’s improper, though the offer was so British of him, gentlemanly.’
‘He’s coming up on a promotion board, sir.’
‘All the same. And he’s not even in the Lodge.’
‘Some of them enjoy an occasional outing. They say it tones the muscles.’
‘Well, I expect I’ll work something out privately to cope with Mr Aston.’
‘Yes?’
‘Oh, much better privately. I certainly don’t want anyone dead, Col.’
‘No, of course not.’
‘What’s he like, this Aston?’
‘Fair. Baby-faced.’
‘Can’t compete there, then. If you think about it, I suppose Garland was the same. Could be what she’s after these days. Is she proving to herself she can still pull the kids, or at least kid look-alikes? Garland, some kid! Additionally, what interests me, has Aston got anyone else at the same time? I mean, who’s transmitting to me altogether, what fraction of the world’s leg-over and legs-open population?’
‘Something we all have to ask ourselves, these days, sir. Yes. Aids is very democratic.’
‘You could sell that as a slogan.’
‘Here’s Ralphy’s.’ They went into the club. Although it was mid-morning, Ralph still had his dressing-gown on, an old, heavy, fawn and beige job, with a tasselled sash, like something in an eventide home for the irredeemably naff. Harpur would have expected a much sexier, more colourful item, say shiny yellow or scarlet, with narrow, black trim.
‘Old place looking grand, Ralph,’ Iles said, gazing appreciatively about. ‘Panelling behind the bar. It’s a real touch of venerable quality. Even with the sun shining in, things seem nice. Some clubs in daylight, well, right tips: frowsy carpets, snot on the wallpaper. Here, though, there’s a feel of, I wouldn’t say opulence, but something decently close to hygiene and odourlessness. Myself, I don’t mind full ashtrays. Better than on the floor, surely.’
‘What can I get you, gentlemen?’ Ralph asked. He had been talking to them on the customers’ side of the bar, but went behind it now and waved a hand at the shelves, showing the range of what was on offer. Iles had his favourite ‘old tart’s drink’, a port and lemon, Harpur cider laced with gin. Ralph drew himself a beer and pulled the dressing-gown tighter around his chest, like a woman worried about showing too much.
‘We think we might have had a bit of an incident in the vicinity, Ralph,’ Iles told him.
‘Yes? Incident? I don’t think I can help
you in that respect.’
‘We’re talking to all sorts,’ Harpur said. ‘Nice type of membership still?’
‘Ideal. Decent, homely people, skilled artisan types and their loved ones – looking for a little relaxation, a quiet evening, with perhaps a modest laugh.’
‘That’s it. Very heartening,’ Iles said. ‘It’s in spots like this that one sees the strength of Britain, the enduring saneness and generosity of spirit.’
‘We’re talking about five or six nights ago,’ Harpur told Ralph Ember.
‘Nothing comes to mind,’ he replied.
‘It might be a false tip,’ Harpur said. ‘We have to follow every possibility in a matter as big as this.’
‘It’s that important?’ Ralph asked.
‘You don’t think Harpur would be out of bed so early if it wasn’t important, Ralphy? I mean, look at you, still in that bloody horse blanket, and your false teeth in the glass, I bet.’
Harpur felt sorry for Ralph. He could see him urgently trying to work out why this inquiry took an Assistant Chief, and especially an Assistant Chief as malevolent as this one. And also trying to work out how much this Assistant Chief knew about his wife’s night-time habits. For somebody with his nickname Panicking Ralph was putting on a very reasonable show.
‘What’s through there, Ralphy?’ Iles asked.
‘Toilets.’ He prepared more drinks.
Iles walked over and opened the door to the corridor. ‘And the fire exit? Where does that come out?’
‘A yard we use as a car park.’
Iles entered the corridor. In a few moments, they heard him push the fire doors open. Harpur said: ‘Ralph, I gather that in the old days, when Valencia Esplanade was really something, businessmen and so on used to come through the short-cut from down there and do half their deals in the Monty.’
Ralph welcomed the chit-chat. ‘I’ve got some interesting pictures of it then, one with the mayor of the day standing just about where you are now, Mr Harpur.’
Iles came back. ‘How long’s the builder’s rubbish container been there, Ralph?’
‘Few weeks.’
‘When was it last emptied?’
‘Emptied?’