by Bill James
Manse had ten thousand on him in cash. He hadn’t known what price ring Naomi might of gone for and he’d needed to be ready. Ten grand was five hundred bills. You couldn’t use fifties in this sort of deal. Perce would not take them. Hardly anybody would take them, there was such beautiful duds about. Fifties was worth taking trouble over the illustrations and paper quality. Forgers did, and fifties had become like a dose of the clap – you didn’t want one, and definitely not a hundred and twenty-six, which would of been £6,300.
So, he had £10,000 in twenties: four wads spread around different pockets of his suit. The thing was he wouldn’t like Perce to see he’d come with £10,000 because that might make him ratty. He’d think he didn’t charge enough. He’d believe Manse had expected to pay more but did some very smart beating down just now. All right, the deal was done and Perce couldn’t go back on it – wouldn’t go back on it, because of the rules and his pride. People as tall as Perce went in a lot for pride, and especially when their name came from history. Next time, though, Percy might fight for a tougher bargain. Manse believed in planning for the future. Although he didn’t think he’d be getting engaged ever again, or definitely not for a while, anyway, he’d probably come to Perce for other kinds of jewellery. Most likely Naomi wouldn’t want to celebrate the Clay–Liston fight every year, but she might have different crucial dates to remember.
The other point about the cash was, Manse wondered how Naomi would regard it, settling up in note bundles, not by a cheque or card, which would be the way people paid where she came from. They wouldn’t flash rolls. Most likely they’d consider that vulgar, like bookies at the course. ‘Percy and I will just pop into the little office here, Naomi,’ Manse said. ‘The paperwork. Guarantees, that sort of thing.’
‘Fine.’
She seemed to think this was quite OK. Perhaps Naomi felt that the paying side of today shouldn’t get mixed up with the lovely loving and romantic side. Manse could definitely understand that. It was what he meant about not having crude price tickets on these jewels of true, deep affection.
In the office with Perce, he pulled out bills from three pockets and noticed him looking at the one Manse hadn’t touched. That was obviously the trouble with notes. A quantity had bulk. Someone who did a lot of cash deals, such as Perce, could manage a rough totting up of what you carried just by a gaze at the tailoring outline. Manse counted out three hundred and fifteen twenties. That still left £1,200 from only them three pockets, which Manse replaced. There would be another £2,500 not handled at all, just folded and unbothered in his left jacket pocket. Perce wouldn’t be able to do an exact tally by glance, but he’d know it was more than two grand and less than three five. He didn’t look too joyful. Well, fuck him. He used to be a damn good snort customer, fine money and reliable, but now he’d gone clean as clean, the dirty failure. If they all suddenly turned negative like that businesses everywhere would fold. Had he thought of such very serious results of his selfishness? Not at all. Although Shale still kept coming to his shop for purchases, Percy did not do even a whisker of buying from Manse these days. So, yes, fuck him.
‘A lovely woman, Manse,’ Percy said.
‘Thank you, Perce.’
‘What she has is dignity, but not a cold dignity. There is warmth present.’
‘Warmth is one of her qualities. And dignity, yes.’
‘Composure.’
‘Certainly.’
‘She is evidently familiar with the London scene.’
‘She is much respected there.’
‘Which particular aspect of the London scene?’
‘She has an easy, straightforward way with people which is considerably appreciated in the capital, where so much is to do with appearance for appearance’s sake.’
‘Well, yes. Does she know the … well, the context here?’
‘In which respect?’
‘Your business.’
‘Oh, she’s getting used to the rectory now,’ Shale replied with some excellent heartiness. ‘It’s a change from her own place, a flat Ealing way, very comfortable and very nice –I certainly don’t look down on flats – but obviously not quite the size of the property here! She loves the high ceilings and cornices and mahogany frame french windows to the garden. Cornices thrill her. I don’t think there’s many of them around in the Ealing district.’
Perce gathered up the twenties and put them in a desk drawer. He didn’t count them. He did have some manners, and, in any case, Manse had counted them aloud as he put the bills on the desk. For Perce to repeat would be a smear. They went out of the office and rejoined Naomi. ‘This has been a true delight, Percival,’ Manse said. ‘I know I speak for Naomi, too.’
‘A shared pleasure, I assure you,’ Perce replied.
At home, the children were really excited by the ring. They sat close to Naomi to get good gazes at it from all sides. They enjoyed the ways colours seemed to appear and change in the diamond as light hit it from different angles. He knew they would never speak to her about Syb’s engagement ring, comparing them. They could feel from inside theirselves without being told that this would be the wrong topic and might hurt Naomi. Syb’s was one of them triples, as a matter of fact, though not bought from Perce whose shop wasn’t there then. That’s what Syb wanted – a triple. Manse had gone along with this. Well, of course. Even when younger he’d believed women should have a say in things, quite a few things – not just rings –because they was entitled to make some choices for their-selves, seeing some of them definitely had brains and might know quite a bit about life. He had thought then, and still did, that Syb was a triply kind of person.
He didn’t mean to be rude or make a criticism of her. There had to be some people who the triple suited or they would not have triples in the shops, would they? A triple could be right for Syb, but for Naomi the single stone was just as right. The children used to look at Syb’s ring and was fond of it, but they wouldn’t say to Naomi something like, ‘Our mother had a three-diamond ring, known as a triple, this not being the same as yours, which is a diamond on its own.’ The children behaved now like they had never even seen a triple. They talked like a single diamond for a ring was the only sort of ring, and fine. Naomi stayed truly patient with them, letting Laurent and Matilda really take their time admiring.
Manse found it wonderful to watch the three of them on his furniture, so happy with one another. Families could be a fucking pest now and then, such as Denz’s brother and cousin, to do with the death, but families could also be terrific, and he considered Naomi was helping get this family back to being a close, loving crew again, despite the children’s mother, gone with some roofer or vet or maybe a chef.
Laurent said there was the famed nursery rhyme in which a star twinkled in the sky like a diamond, but also another much more serious poem where the writer stated he, himself, was like an immortal diamond because of his everlasting soul, even if his body wasn’t up to much. Matilda knew some history of diamonds, such as India and Brazil in South America, where they first came from, and she mentioned that the Greek word for a diamond meant ‘unalterable’.
Manse didn’t mind the children going on like that about how a diamond was something that lasted, and had therefore become important and quite thumbs-up for engagements and marriages after. When Perce had talked like that he was just being fucking snide, the snide, hinting sod, remembering Syb. But Manse believed the children felt really pleased that the ring might mean something good. While they talked with Naomi about it, he went to the den room and phoned Hubert. Manse told him to get over to the rectory right away and bring Quentin Noss. Because there might be line tapping he didn’t say why, but Hubert would guess it must be urgent. Manse knew the kind of pistol Hubert liked best, but he would have to ask Quentin about his favourite.
The children went to bed and soon afterwards Naomi said she’d go upstairs to pack for the journey tomorrow. Manse took the Arthur Hughes off the wall and opened the safe. These days he had two Gloc
k 17s, two Walthers and three Brownings in there, plus plenty of their suitable ammo. He thought Hubert would most likely take the Glock. He said he fancied a weapon used by police because they would pick a gun that really stopped the bugger hit. In a little while he and Quentin Noss arrived. Manse did not regard this as a simple situation, not at all. He told the pair he wanted Naomi protected, to stick with her nonstop, and stay unobserved.
But he would not like them to think he needed to find out on the sly whatever she did when she wasn’t at the paper or at her flat in Ealing, although that’s what he did want them to find out. He could imagine Hubert and Quentin putting it around that he didn’t trust Naomi and had to get her spied on. This could make Manse seem scared and pathetic. And it would be really bad if Perce mentioned here and there about the engagement ring being bought, and these two mentioned here and there that Manse had to have her followed because he didn’t know what she would get up to in London. He didn’t know what she might get up to in London, but he wouldn’t want to seem stupid and cunt-struck – buying a pricey ring for someone who might be giving him the run-around and getting banged undisclosed on the London circuit.
Of course, Hubert and Quentin would think his worries was about some other man up there, or men. He did not tell them about the facilitating. He considered it best to keep that kind of information confidential. It would trouble Manse if he saw they regarded Naomi as some sort of high grade pusher. But that was how they might regard it. They would be like Perce and probably not understand the commercial term, ‘facilitating’. Manse told them her London office address and the name of the restaurant, plus business, home and mobile numbers. Before her first visit to the rectory she’d given him some photographs of herself to show the children, so she wouldn’t seem a stranger. He laid these out on the table for Hubert and Quentin to study, and Hubert borrowed two, one a profile, one head-on.
Quentin took a Browning. He was short, going fast towards gross, with thick-framed glasses. He knew the technical side pretty good and asked Manse now whether the best thing would be to put a trace bug in Naomi’s luggage. But that seemed foxy and grim to Manse, especially as she might find it. He said no.
Manse locked the safe and put the Arthur Hughes back. When he went up to bed Naomi was sleeping, and he felt disappointed. He had hoped they could make love, because this was an important day and it would have been a sign that even though she was going to London tomorrow her true life went on here now. However, he thought it would be crude and roughhouse to wake her up. Her left hand was on top of the duvet. The diamond ring made a lovely show in yellowy light from the table lamp.
He guessed she had deliberately settled down like that so he’d see it and feel great about it when he came to bed.
The opal and the amethyst was out of sight under the clothes. Good. Get that fucking Oz opal buried. This was a woman who could sense his thinking, even if she had gone asleep early on this considerable day. He felt a bit ashamed of putting Hubert and Quentin on to such a caring lover, but he didn’t cancel their orders. He was glad, though, that he’d refused the bug. Besides, how would it get fitted? He didn’t want someone like Quentin wearing them glasses going through private clothing in her case with his fat fingers. Manse had told them fucking strong not to get seen by her. It would be fine as long as she didn’t know she had tails sent by Manse.
But it looked like she did know she had tails sent by Manse, or, anyway, that she had tails. Manse arranged for Hubert to call a pay phone from a pay phone at exactly 6.30 p.m. next day. He came through to say they’d lost Naomi. ‘I think she’d spotted us, Manse. She did all the usual counter moves on the underground, learned from TV espionage tales and Joseph Conrad’s The Secret Agent, of course.’
‘Ah, yes,’ Manse said.
‘Sit down in a carriage and then exit back on to the platform just before the train goes. All right, we were ready for that one, and only Quentin had got on with her. I’m waiting in case she does the bale out, and I take over. I follow up on the escalator. She immediately goes back down on the one next to it and picks the opposite side platform for a train going the other way. I’m with her. I don’t see her looking at me ever, and I didn’t see her look at Quentin, either. She’s bloody fly, Manse, if you don’t mind me saying.’
Manse did, but he only grunted He hated a word like that – ‘fly’ – stuck on to Naomi. It made her sound like some street con merchant with the three-card trick.
‘Yes, an expert,’ Hubert said. ‘What’s her background?’
Fuck her background. Just do the job I sent you on, prick. But Manse stayed silent.
Hubert obviously realized he’d get no answer, and in a minute started again with this dismal yarn. ‘She gets on the first train to arrive. So do I. She makes like she’s about to do another leap. I leap. She stays. The train pulls away.’
So this fucker, Hubert, was not so fucking fly, was he? How about fucking ‘useless’? How about ‘dick-headed’? How about ‘a liability’, especially if he did some talking where he shouldn’t?
‘Quentin and I rendezvous by mobile at her office,’ Hubert said. ‘We can’t tell whether she’s in there, of course. I phone and ask to be put through to her. The girl says Naomi Gage only rarely comes to the office these days and is not expected this week. It might or might not be true, we couldn’t tell. At lunchtime I went into the restaurant you mentioned, said I was looking for a friend, but she wasn’t there. We decide we ought to visit the Ealing flat to check if that’s where she’s gone.
‘We get a cab and ask him to take us to a car hire firm. We rent a Focus, in case we need to watch her place – less obvious from a vehicle. There doesn’t seem to be anyone in the flat. Hard to be sure, though. It’s afternoon and someone in there wouldn’t need lights yet. We watch the building for ninety minutes. Nothing. We quit the car and walk to the flat’s front door. Quentin is good on locks, as you know, Manse, podge or not. He opens up. This time he wasn’t all that clever, though, and there’s a little splintering. She might notice. We do a quick but very thorough survey. More nothing.
‘Listen, Manse, she has two pictures hanging in that style you like – the Pre-Raphaelites. But, of course, stupid of me, I expect you’ve seen them there. Quentin says it would be a good notion to take both and then this break-in would only look like an art robbery, not someone being charted, which could lead to awkward inquiries. Obviously, you wouldn’t be able to receive the pictures, Manse, because she’s living in the rectory and would recognize them. Quentin says he knows someone who will buy high quality art, and not make too many queries about where it came from. It seems an idea – he’s bright, greaseball or not – but I tell him any proceeds must go to you, because the art has been lifted in the firm’s time.’
Suckholing bastard. ‘They’re posters,’ Manse said. ‘The frames are worth more than the pictures. Twenty quid would cover the lot.’
‘Posters? Like pop star rubbish for kids’ walls?’
‘Prints. By the million. Sink them somewhere.’
‘Really, Manse?’
‘You’re not going to take them back and hang them, are you?’
‘Quentin will be disappointed.’
‘Oh, dear, I’ll blub, shall I? When do you think she spotted you?’
‘Not sure. Is it important, Manse?’
‘Of course it’s fucking important. If she noticed she was followed from here she’ll know who sent you, won’t she?’
‘Well, I thought she’d guess that, anyway. Are there other interests who might tail her?’
‘That’s what I wanted to find out,’ Shale said.
When Naomi came home next day, Manse said: ‘So how did it go?’
‘Great – and many compliments on the ring.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
2009
There were four statements. Harpur read them again.
1. Mrs Beatrice South, aged fifty-two, of 11 Masterman Avenue, shop manageress.
As was usual, I op
ened the shop at 8.30 a.m. on Wednesday, 3rd June 2009. Mrs Maureen Hyde, a voluntary worker who helps on three days a week, arrived at 8.35. At about 8.50 the first customer, a middle-aged man, entered the shop and went to look at items on the Books, CDs and DVDs shelves. Just after 9 a.m. the shop door was pushed open violently from outside and a man and a woman came in. The man had a pistol in his right hand and was holding the woman with his left hand around the neck. She seemed to be trying to free herself by tugging at his hand with the fingers of her right hand. But he pulled her with him into the shop.
I thought the man was in his late twenties, the woman older, early thirties. The man slammed the shop door shut and began shouting at the four of us in there. It was something like, ‘Don’t anyone try anything. You’ll be all right.’ There was swearing among these words, which I don’t want to repeat here. I now know the man to have been Lance Stanley Sparks and the woman Veronica Susan Cleaver.
Sparks shouted at us to get to the middle of the shop and keep still. ‘This is loaded,’ he said. He put the gun against the woman’s head for a moment. The man customer shouted, ‘No, no, we’ll do what you say.’ Then Sparks let go of the woman’s neck and pushed her towards the centre of the shop. He screamed at the rest of us again to get there, too, and not ‘to try anything’. I believe we were all too frightened to ‘try anything’. I’m usually reasonably calm, but that morning I felt terrified. I was standing, but feared my legs would go.
It was impossible at the time to know why he acted like this. It was obviously not a robbery. There’s not much worth taking in a charity shop. So, it was as though he’d gone mad and unpredictable. Nobody could tell what he might do next. This was the frightening part of it. I wondered whether Sparks and Cleaver knew each other. Maybe this was some kind of lovers’ quarrel or a domestic crisis that had spilled into the street, and then into the shop.
