I Am Gold

by Bill James

  ‘A parked silver car over there,’ Matilda had said. ‘Most likely a Mondeo. Automatic fire.’ The Mondeo had been waiting for them. Sandicott Terrace was ideal for the attack, short, narrow. The Jaguar would be moving slowly as it turned into the street and possibly slowed further as it pulled out to pass the parked Mondeo, or, possibly Toyota. Then, up would come the automatic pistol, and the blast would take in the Jaguar’s windscreen, Naomi Shale, the passenger window and the boy in the back, not quick enough at getting down on account of curiosity: ‘It has to be that twat Ralphy, or someone hired by him.’

  Fully automatic pistols could be very inaccurate. The force behind the bursts tended to make the gun jump and fire high. But the distance between the two cars here would be minimal and some bullets were sure to spray the Jaguar. Its driver took hits and, out of control, it mounts the pavement on the wrong side of the street and is stopped by one of those low, front-garden walls, destroying half of it, but not more because the car had little speed. Iles was standing near the wall wreckage now.

  At first, Harpur did think of the setting as perfect for the onslaught, but doubts came. For one thing, the Jaguar might have veered the other way, left instead of right, and hit the Mondeo, perhaps making it undrivable, cancelling any getaway. And then there was the timing. The scheme seemed to have been to let the Jaguar come alongside and open fire through the lowered Mondeo driver’s side window. Even though the Jaguar might not have had much pace, the shooting would need to be very quick, more or less instant. Did that explain why Naomi Shale was hit instead of Manse? Iles had suggested error. Yes. There’d be no chance to correct a misidentification. In fact, only the Jaguar might have been identified. The driver was assumed to be Manse because he usually drove the Jaguar on the school run and elsewhere. Had this been a sloppily planned and casually organized attack, its main calculation that some fraction of a machine pistol’s volleys at next to no range, car-to-car, was certain to hit? Spot the Jaguar. Have the Jaguar abreast. Fire. Leave. Get to the motorway. Job done.

  Of course, there were people on their doorsteps now. Perhaps one or two had seen something, if they’d been looking out on to the street when the shooting began. Harpur would get them all interviewed, but didn’t expect much. There might even be cell phone pictures. Tapes closed off both ends of the terrace. Four officers erected a tent over the Jaguar. Iles came around the back of the car and joined Harpur. ‘How do you visualize things, then, Col?’

  ‘Well, I’d say –’

  ‘You’ll be worried about the route.’

  ‘Well, yes, sir. How would –’

  ‘How would they know they should wait for the Jaguar in a back street chosen to fool them?’

  ‘It’s difficult to –’

  ‘She’s probably the sort who wouldn’t like being ordered by Manse to vary things. New wife, has to establish herself. Hoity-toity. But she accepts there could be some point to what he says. So, she does get off the big road and treks through suburbia. To work a bit of self-assertion, though, she keeps the varying to along the same ground every time, so the arrangement is half Manse, half her. This procedure has been noticed, borne in mind, perhaps during previous absences by Shale.’

  ‘Do you know her to be that kind of woman, sir?’ Harpur said, and realized at once he’d tripped. Oh, God, what a sodding mistake.

  ‘They’re all like it, Harpur. They hate being what they call male-constrained. They’ll break out from the well-ordered and proper, as of right.’ Iles’s voice galloped and skitted towards a scream. ‘But I hardly need to tell you this, do I, when we’ve all heard how you in your fine, inhuman, destructive fashion –’

  Harpur’s mobile phone called him. Iles swung a fist, trying to knock it from Harpur’s hand, but he’d expected this, of course, and had made sure he’d tightened his grip. ‘I suppose you’ve got some way to set that off your fucking self to save you when a conversation gets awkward, concerning women,’ Iles said.

  Harpur took the message. ‘The Control Room says we have road blocks in place, sir.’

  ‘A woman, such as my wife, apparently normal and well placed, will suddenly decide she –’

  ‘We’ve closed ten miles of motorway in both directions.’

  Iles came back fast from his agony interlude, as he usually would, like someone emerging from a petit mal blackout: ‘Let them know we’re dealing with a machine pistol, Col. That’s a lot of wild fucking fire power.’

  Chapter Six

  When those personal death ideas first came to Manse he did think for a while about his own funeral and the art, but he had also tried to push the worries away. Jitters, he decided. They’d pass. But, as well as this, he naturally wondered who would want to do it, if people really came to finish him. He could not discuss this with Naomi, or with other top members of the firm. It seemed to Shale that Naomi didn’t understand all the details of his profession, and he would prefer it to stay like that for now. This was a lovely, kindly, intelligent woman. She deserved to be screened off from the quirkier sides of Manse’s activities. He wanted her to shop and buy interesting handbags and shoes.

  Obviously, that would not be her total existence. She had many genuine capabilities. But he’d like her to concentrate on the handbag and shoes side for now, anyway. Naomi had only recently become a full part of his life, and didn’t know some of the folk who might want to smash Manse –hadn’t even heard of them. It would be foolish to bring such people back into focus.

  Also, if he mentioned to some of the major members of staff that he had these unexplained, unexplainable, dark fears, they’d think he was breaking up, coming to pieces. They’d think it because they hoped it. Dear Manse is pissing down his leg. They’d love this. That’s what being staff meant, major staff especially – henchmen and women who spent three-quarters of their time scheming a takeover. They’d act sympathetic, yes, and probably recommend some psychiatrist or mood pills or high grade snorts, but one or more of them might decide Manse had gone frail, into hopeless brain decay, and could be shoved out of the leadership and replaced. So, although he reassured himself often that these panicky ideas were … panicky only, he decided he ought to make a private list in his head of some who might like to see him killed – that is, additional to staff people and his long-time business associate, Ralph W. Ember.

  In many ways the end of Shale’s chauffeur/bodyguard a while ago was only to be expected, but it definitely gave him certain anxieties. Did his own worries about death have to do with what happened to Denzil Lake? Denz had family. The dossier on him said his relatives and chums might be pretty roughhouse, based in the borough of Hackney, London, and familiar with weapons. These could be the sort of people who would not accept that Denzil had done himself, and come looking for those they thought did do him, or ordered it. Yes, or ordered it. Why, why, why, should they doubt it was suicide? London people could be like that – twisted, nosy, uncooperative.

  Denzil had been found with the barrels of two fired pistols in his mouth, and the ruination of his face, head and throat was exactly what could be expected from such a well-aimed double blast. Wasn’t a gun in the mouth a very usual type of suicide? Didn’t it seem obvious that if he put two pistols into his mouth, not just the one, he wanted to be sure everything went OK, that is, his death? Belt and braces. But, of course, some smartarses thought it would be nearly impossible to pull both triggers at exactly the same time, and, if he didn’t, he’d be too damaged or dead from the first shot to fire the second. That was their line. Also, they said the recoil would of flung at least one of the pistols away from the body, not left both between what was left of Denzil Lake’s teeth. Manse regarded that argument as troublemaking and unnecessary.

  Then, the fucking coroner’s court decided on an ‘open verdict’. That is, it might be suicide, or it might not. Untidy. Feeble. Lawyers told Manse it meant the court couldn’t be sure Denz actually intended to kill himself. Well, if you’d been shown up as a total traitor, and then put two loaded guns in y
our mouth, wasn’t that enough to prove you wanted to end it, and had a perfect reason, such as guilt and shame for betraying Manse and his business?

  Naomi did not know about Denzil and the rather swift way he had to be removed from his appointment in the firm. This was one of those historical aspects best left alone, in Manse’s opinion. He had not even met Naomi when Denzil decided to pass on like that. Manse later had thoughts about his own funeral, but he also went to Denzil Lake’s, ten days after death. Well, of course. For a long while Denz had acted as his true aid and protector. Only a few knew what a disgusting secret enemy he’d been under all that loyal show. And at the funeral things had struck Manse as reasonably OK. Funerals could be very perilous gatherings, even more than weddings or christenings. ‘Show me families, I’ll show you spite.’ Manse had hatched this saying after several very poor experiences.

  But here the family and friends had seemed all right, and ready to believe Denz had finished himself, or ready to behave as if they believed it. He was known to have a fondness for off-beat handguns, so that to put a pair of Spanish Astra .38s in his mouth, and not just the one, chimed well with his fads. People at the funeral told Manse they sympathized with him over the loss of a brilliant and even noble employee and mate. Manse had replied with similar good remarks, but to do with Denzil as a wonderful son, father, nephew, drinking pal. There had been a couple of chats at the gathering after the cremation absolutely unconnected to mourning, but, as far as Manse could work out at the time, they were not bitter or dangerous or hate-laced. No, the reverse, really.

  Manse would of thought it disgraceful if people at a funeral spotted the outline and bulge of a pistol under his made-to-measure dark suit jacket, and he’d chosen only a small, .22 revolver, not the 9 mm H. and K. And it was totally unneeded. Of course, he had no proper bodyguard any longer because Denz was gone in that sudden, extremely absolute way of his. For the funeral, and only for the funeral, Manse did take Hubert V.L. Camborne with him, from the outfit. Manse realized that to bring a bodyguard could be regarded as just as crude and insulting as going armed. But Hubert had been quite a friend of Denzil, and might rate as a mourner. Manse told Hubert to give out full sadness, at least at the beginning, not actual blubbing but pain in the face.

  Naturally, Manse did some wondering about him. Maybe a pal of Denz must know what a piece of rot he’d been. Might Hubert be part of that rottenness? Manse made himself hope he wasn’t, but you never knew who these people had contact with and spoke to, for example, even to police, such as that sly bugger, Harpur, so smart at herding informants. Some risks you had to put up with. At those conversations with a couple of Hackney people after the crematorium, Manse had deliberately not insisted Hubert should be present. He could stay at the bar. This made it look as if he had no guard role. Hubert, too, carried only a small pistol, not at all drawing attention to itself.

  In Manse’s view, the style of the funeral was OK, although in London. Manse and Hubert had gone up in the Jaguar. Manse arranged for Quentin Noss to take the children to and from Bracken Collegiate. It would have to be in the Audi this time. Manse’s older sister would move in and look after Matilda and Laurent while he was away.

  Shale had offered to pay for the funeral, as a gesture towards one of his prominent ex-personnel, plus £500 into the kitty for drinks and snacks afterwards. But the Hackney lot wouldn’t have it. They stated Denz was their boy and all the costs had to fall on them. The costs didn’t fall too hard: it was a very ordinary turn-out, no horses with plumes and no wreaths as big as bandstands, perhaps because Denz had spent most of his career away from London, and wouldn’t be widely known here. Anyway, Manse liked the ordinariness. The service and crem trip had seemed quite tidy – foul, gutter-looking people, most of them, but able to behave tame and reasonable now and then, such as the send-off for Denz. Manse felt glad he and Hubert had made the big journey in tribute. Shale agreed deeply with the vicar’s text today. It said nobody was without sin. So true of Denzil Lake, the fucking ratting bastard in his economy box.

  Denzil’s body had been released by the coroner after some sort of basic inquest, but then much later on came the full thing, and all the so-called evidence and rubbish from experts – also so-called – leading to the open verdict. It was after this that Shale began to feel matters might change up Hackney way. Maybe people there would take a different view of Manse and what had happened to Denz. So, thoughts about his own possible death began to give Manse bother. Why did they have to bring up at the second inquest all them stupid views re pulling the two triggers at once being impossible, and the flimflam about recoil?

  No, there’d been nothing awkward and snotty like that at Denz’s funeral. In fact he’d been aware of a special, respectful regard for him from several in the main, ugly, grieving group. This showed itself best in private talks at the after-crem drink-up and buffet. First, Denz’s brother, Egremont, wanted a confidential few words. Later, one of Denzil’s cousins had also approached for an intimate chat. These meetings were brief but could definitely be described as sort of constructive. Manse felt that built into them lay a true recognition of his distinction, power and reliability.

  The conversations had a terrific sameness, although they took place separately and could not of been overheard. The thing was, Egremont told Manse it would be a sweet, natural, even holy move if he took over the late Denz’s position in Manse’s firm, following the death. Half an hour afterwards, Lionel-Garth Field, the cousin, mentioned to Manse the same idea, but, of course, about hisself, Lionel-Garth. Each said this arrangement would help honour and maintain a precious and esteemed family link built by Denzil with Mansel and Mansel’s business company. There would be what Lionel-Garth called ‘continuity’ despite the abrupt withdrawal of Denzil.

  Both Egremont and Lionel-Garth assured Manse they wouldn’t object to moving out of London with their households to join Manse’s operation. Lionel-Garth said he’d have no worries about education for his children because he’d heard that the school where Manse’s son and daughter went, Bracken Collegiate, did a fair job. Egremont pointed out that his son was away, boarding at Charterhouse, his public school, and a shift of domicile from London would not affect him.

  Manse listened to both with what he regarded as outstanding politeness, a decent, unmocking smile often in place. Naturally, he would never consider taking either of the sods into his firm. He wondered if Denz had let the people in Hackney think his position with Manse was executive level or even boardroom, not caddie. Egremont and Lionel-Garth probably imagined a lovely salary and fine bonuses would flow. But Manse was not interested in one or the other for even a nothing job like Denz’s, although the firm did need to expand because of upped sales after a grand marketing campaign, especially of coke.

  Them two came from the same bloodline as Denz, and Manse had seen what that could do. The genes factor might be weaker in Lionel-Garth, but some traces of it must exist, enough to turn Manse off. However, he quite enjoyed these interviews because they’d shown that people here regarded him as someone worth trying to butter up, and who had a definite right to go on into the future for a while. Life Manse regarded as worth hanging on to hard when possible, and clearly too good for a jerk like Denz.

  Manse liked to dossier the main people he met. He carried a small recorder and would speak his impressions into it as soon as he could. ‘Egremont Lake, about thirty-eight, younger brother of the late Denz. Hackney tribe. Big-jawed, narrow-eyed – blue – about six feet tall, 185 pounds. Face square, nose never broke or if so very sweetly surgicalized, skin pale, but not jail-pale, pale like he’s sent the blood to a safer place in his body, such as elbows. Voice half smarm, quarter threat, quarter ordinary. Suit suitable, dark, double-breasted, nearly a fit, buttons too big, like trash bin lids. Shoes proper black, a good shape, not made in Vietnam. Cockney accent with some smoother bits, maybe learned from his son in the public school. No scars (or, hidden by the same surgeon). Hair dark, full quota, no grey, layer-cut w
ith a slim oblong hanging over left forehead – so fetching. Nimble enough. Some sudden silences in the sales patter, which could mean true sadness about Denz.’

  And then the cousin: ‘Lionel-Garth Field, slobbier than Egremont. Grossish face. Deep slabs of fat under the eyes and porking out the cheeks and neck. Like a “Before” picture in one of them colonic irrigation brochures. Much gut. Five feet six or seven, early forties. About same weight as Egremont. Fast talk, and plenty of gasping from the effort. No clothes could really make a job of him. Jacket taut on the flabby shoulders and trousers tight on calves. Crimson and cream training shoes, just right for a funeral. Stout lips that seemed to fight each other like two snakes when he got excited. He got excited when he described what he could bring to the firm. He broke that into bullet points – (a) energy, (b) man management skills, which included women, (c) the common touch, when needed, (d) accountancy flair. Mousy hair receding. Bald spot.’

  Chapter Seven

  The elderly couple whose low, front-garden wall had been half destroyed came out from the house and stood on their bit of lawn staring at the tented Jaguar. Iles said: ‘We’ll get the damage repaired immediately. Mr Harpur has a notebook.’

  The woman shrugged. ‘It’s not of much consequence. But those poor people in the car – terrible.’

  ‘Yes, terrible,’ Iles said.

  ‘Is there rhyme or reason to it?’ the man said. ‘You’re a high officer. I can tell from your uniform. Not coarse material and you seem unruffled. So, what is your view?’

  ‘Some people have their own rhyme and reason,’ Iles said.

  ‘Yes, another way of life, and now it has forced itself into ours,’ the woman said.

  ‘It’s Mr Harpur’s and my job to prevent that,’ Iles said. ‘We’ve failed you, unforgivably.’