by Bill James
‘This film says lawyers and the Mafia are different?’ Iles asked.
‘Hilaire Wilfrid Chandor,’ Jill said. ‘That’s the name the buzz comes up with. He’s Property, or supposed to be.’
‘Which buzz?’ Harpur said. ‘Insights from skateboarders and junkies down the bus station?’
‘Some people deal with him, buy from him or his team – and not property,’ Jill said. ‘He’s like starting up as a street firm, trying to.’
‘Which people?’ Harpur said.
‘People,’ Jill said.
‘People down the bus station caff?’ Harpur said.
‘Property is what they call theirselves, but really it’s the other stuff,’ Jill said.
‘Themselves,’ Harpur said.
‘And then the computer,’ Hazel said. ‘I mean, you know his name – Graham Trove from London. You could see if he’s on it.’
‘Nothing,’ Harpur said.
‘But you did try,’ Jill said.
‘Routine,’ Harpur said.
‘It shows you’re worried,’ Jill said.
‘Routine,’ Harpur said. ‘Gossip around the bus station from pushers etcetera isn’t what we’d call real information.’
‘You know all the stuff we’ve heard and something extra, do you, Mr Iles?’ Jill said.
‘This is a very early stage,’ Harpur replied.
‘Of what?’ Hazel said.
‘A very early stage,’ Harpur said. But does the buzz tell you Chandor took on someone new lately, with a London background possibly like his own? Harpur could not actually ask this, though, because he’d just dismissed bus station gossip and needed to keep it well dismissed for now.
‘He’s going to be big,’ Jill said.
‘Who?’ Harpur said.
‘Hilaire Wilfrid Chandor,’ Jill said.
‘Who says?’ Harpur replied.
‘This is the word around,’ Jill said.
‘Ah, not “the buzz”, but “the word around”.’
‘He’s moving in on one of the princes,’ Hazel said. ‘That’s what we hear.’
‘Princes of what?’ Harpur said.
‘The substances trade,’ Jill said. ‘So, it’s either Mansel Shale or Ralphy Ember. Has to be. The ones Mr Iles uses to keep things peaceful.’
‘All the world wants peace,’ Iles said. ‘I think of the United Nations.’
‘I don’t know which,’ Jill said.
‘Which what?’ Harpur replied.
‘Which one Chandor will try to push out,’ Jill said.
‘Doesn’t the buzz say?’ Harpur asked.
‘I’d think Manse Shale,’ Hazel said. ‘Ralph Ember’s got that club and the money from there on top of everything else. He’s too strong. Letters in the paper about the environment. Ralph W. Ember has civic status.’
‘And Manse Shale is single parenting,’ Jill said. ‘Difficult.’
‘Your dad’s an expert,’ Iles said.
‘But Manse Shale picks girls to live in and maybe help,’ Hazel said. ‘Like a rota. Most have heard about this.’
‘Well, I suppose your dad has that kind of help, too,’ Iles said.
‘No, Mansel Shale’s arrangement is not the same as dad’s,’ Jill said. She grew a bit agitated. ‘All right, he’s got Denise from the uni, and she’s here sometimes and sleeps over and does terrific breakfasts – fried bread, black pudding, everything – but she’s the only one. Isn’t she the only one you’re interested in now, dad?’ Both Harpur’s daughters could be tough on morals – his. They feared everyone born in or near the liberated 1960s slept around by nature.
‘You mustn’t fret, Jill,’ Iles said. ‘I’m sure he’s devoted to Denise, his sweet and loving local undergrad.’
Now and then, unpredictably, Iles could be helpful, considerate even.
‘Denise is busy this time of the year working for exams,’ Jill replied. ‘So she stays at her Jonson Court room in the student residences, which is Jonson without an h, being named after Ben Jonson, who wrote many plays, and not Samuel Johnson, who did the first dictionary, and is with an h. She told me that. We like her.’
‘Your dad’s lucky,’ Iles said.
‘Well, he does need someone,’ Jill said. ‘Someone. She is the only one, isn’t she, dad? She’ll be missing just a few weeks. Denise is nineteen and very pretty but she doesn’t mind dad’s age or clothes or music, honestly. She knows French poetry and all sorts. We take them early morning cups of tea in bed, but then Denise gets up and does the terrific breakfasts with fried bread and –’
‘The point is, this is the way of things in business,’ Hazel said.
‘Which?’ Harpur said.
‘We did it in Economics in school,’ Hazel said.
‘What?’ Harpur replied.
‘A business has to move forward all the time or it will get hit by something new and up-coming,’ Hazel said. ‘It can’t rest. Known as “company stagnation”. Remember how Rover and MG went under.’
‘They say Shale and Ember are worried,’ Jill said.
‘Who does?’ Harpur replied.
‘This is the word around,’ Jill said. ‘And something funny at Shale’s house.’
‘The rectory?’ Iles said.
‘One girl I know – her dad’s a locksmith. He had to change every lock, inside doors as well as out. He shouldn’t of told her this, but he did because he was a bit puzzled, or even shocked. Marks of a break-in at a window. And a mess at the top of the stairs.’
‘Shouldn’t have told her,’ Harpur said. ‘Some think a locksmith should be like a priest or a solicitor – everything confidential.’
‘Yes, well, she is his daughter, ‘Jill said. ‘It’s like private.’
‘But she told you,’ Harpur said.
‘Yes, well, I’m her friend,’ Jill said.
‘And you told us,’ Harpur said.
‘You knew it all already, did you, dad?’ Hazel replied. ‘Has your informant been spouting?’
‘I don’t think we had any break-in reported from the rectory, did we, Col?’ Iles asked.
‘A mess?’ Harpur said.
‘Supposed to be he spilled some sauce,’ Jill said.
‘Spilled sauce can be a grave trouble,’ Iles replied. ‘Stains not easy to get out.’
‘You do know all this already, don’t you?’ Hazel said.
Harpur said: ‘When you were asking around did –’
‘Did Meryl Goss come with us?’ Jill said.
‘Did Meryl Goss go with you down to the bus station and so on?’ Harpur said.
‘She gave us her address and mobile number in case we heard something,’ Hazel said. ‘She’s staying at a Bed and Breakfast in Quith Place.’
‘Yes. We’ll have those at headquarters since she reported Trove missing,’ Harpur said. ‘Did she go with you?’
‘We thought it was a good idea,’ Jill said.
‘She went with you?’ Harpur replied.
‘To give her something to do, not fret and that on her own in a Bed and Breakfast,’ Jill said.
‘And she heard the buzz?’ Harpur said. ‘The odd suggestions about Property not being Property, and the Chandor name?’
‘That’s all she’s got, isn’t it, the buzz?’ Hazel said. ‘Nothing else is happening. Nobody is told anything.’
‘As always,’ Jill said.
‘And the girl reporter?’ Harpur said.
‘Kate?’ Jill said.
‘The Evening Register,’ Harpur said.
‘Yes, she came,’ Jill said.
‘I thought she would,’ Harpur said. ‘She’s building a yarn.’
‘But Meryl doesn’t want her to write anything,’ Hazel said. ‘Not yet.’
‘There isn’t anything to write, is there?’ Harpur said. ‘Only the bus station buzz.’
‘So far there’s nothing to write,’ Hazel said.
Next morning, Harpur took an old, unmarked car from the pool and drove to what had been dockland and was n
ow the marina. He’d done a local check and found Chandor had his home and offices here. It was a useless kind of visit, he knew that. He hoped he might see Meryl Goss on her way to ask Chandor if, as a property dealer, developer, he had any knowledge of Graham Trove, who’d arrived in this area to join up with a property dealer, developer, but who’d disappeared. Possibly she suspected now, thanks to the buzz, that someone dubious in property might be the sort to know about Graham Trove. Perhaps she’d be with the journalist. They tended to stick, journalists. It didn’t look as though Meryl knew of any London connection between Trove and Chandor or she’d have concentrated her search on him before this.
And if Harpur did see her or them, what came next? For the sake of Meryl Goss’s continuing safety, should he try to stop her or them and explain that Graham Trove probably had his throat cut on an ex-rectory stairs, that his body had been subsequently carted away by a restoration party, and the spot tarted up with cleaning liquid and sauce while Iles watched? Harpur shelved this problem. Most likely he would not see her, them. Coming here and hanging about was a kind of conscience twitch, little more than that. The nagging by the children and their worries over someone like Meryl Goss could often get to him.
He parked and stayed in the car, watching the converted bonded warehouse where Chandor rented a floor of office space. This would be less obvious than patrolling on foot. After a few minutes, though, he noticed the stubby shape of Mansel Shale who was patrolling on foot, taking the ozone, gazing about under that heap of dark hair with his gleaming, ferrety eyes, engaged on some serious sightseeing. When he reached the car, Harpur lowered the window and said: ‘Bracing here, I always feel, especially a.m., isn’t it, Manse?’
Shale bent down to talk: ‘Such an improvement, such an inspiration, Mr Harpur.’
‘What?’
‘The marina – when compared with the derelict old spot this used to be. Rebirth, very much so, enlightened, bold.’
‘True indeed.’
‘As you say, Mr Harpur, “bracing”. A walk sets me up for the day.’
‘Mr Iles is crestfallen,’ Harpur replied.
‘This saddens me, despite the bracing effect here.’
‘For interrupting something so meaningful and confluent with Syb in your gallery. He asked me to look you up and apologize. I knew you liked to greet the day at the marina. So, here I am.’
‘One of my kids thinks that strutting fucker, Iles, was in her bedroom, Harpur, while we were away,’ Shale replied. ‘She had this feeling immediately she met him in the rectory after school. I could see it. Well, you’ve got children yourself, Mr Harpur. You know how they can be with instincts and that.’
‘Mr Iles has promised he’ll ring up in advance from now on if we’re going to call, in case you’re busy stoking a relationship at the time. Just say “Free” or “Not free”, Manse – that’s, obviously, if you can reach the phone, in the circumstances. No need to use a lot of breath.’
Chapter Five
One of the main points about Ralph Ember was his belief in duty. Although Ralph hated jargon and cliché, he thought his belief in duty probably deep enough to be called a mantra. All right, pretty soon he wanted to kick out most of the present ugly membership of his club in Shield Terrace, the Monty, so he could begin the admittedly quite tough process of raising it to the social level of, say, the Athenaeum, or at least the Garrick, in London. But, as to now, while the Monty’s clientele remained its rubbishy self, he still recognized the obligation – yes, the duty – to behave as a host should behave and treat people who belonged to the club as if they definitely counted for something regardless. Often, he would get out from his spot behind the bar and do some true mingling with this prole crew, giving and receiving conversation, smiling appropriately, discussing undangerous topics. During one of these fraternizing sessions he heard about the staining at the top of Shale’s stairs in the rectory, and the changing of locks throughout.
Almost at once, then, Ralph Ember decided he would invite Shale for dinner at Low Pastures, his own home. Of course, he recognized this as an immense shift in view. Normally, he would never have let Manse, or anybody even fractionally like Manse, into his manor house, entailing possible contact with the fabric and Ralph’s family. Ember’s older daughter, Venetia, still at school, could be very unchoosy about men and might not even notice the ferretiness of Shale’s eyes. Ralph had sent her to a convent-type place in France for a while to see if nuns would damp her down, but she was back here now. Just the same, Ralph felt determined to ask Shale over. And, if he wanted to, Manse could bring one of those women he kept around his place from time to time, and only one, so there’d be a nicely balanced four at table, Ember and Margaret, Shale and the specially chosen squeeze. This should help keep Venetia off Manse. In any case, she and Ralph’s other daughter would not be dining, having eaten earlier.
Ember intended to treat Shale’s woman, never mind which, with total politeness. In fact, he’d go beyond that and show warmth, as long as she managed the civilities and maintained them, even after rich dishes, aperitifs, wine and liqueurs. He wanted no puke, no come-on drooling about Ralph’s resemblance to the young Charlton Heston, no political, religious or underprivileged-state-of-women rants. Just as he would give any current member of the Monty full courtesy regardless of their absolute lack of class, so any guest at Low Pastures deserved proper treatment until his or her behaviour grew unforgivable. After all, invitations were rare and only those who on the face of it did deserve proper treatment got one, or came with someone who got one, such as Manse – for an evening. In fact, Ember felt nearly certain Manse wouldn’t ever contemplate turning up with two or several women, if he still had several on his books. He could be fuddy-duddy. Apparently, Shale always restricted it to a solitary partner in the rectory at a time. This would be partly from dread of catfights on the premises causing shrillness and potential damage to the fucking art he gabbled about so much. Also he’d have consideration for his children, Matilda and Laurent – God, who hatched these names? Despite his indisputably authentic backwardness and crudity, Manse did follow some rules. Plus, he would experience vast awe from being asked to Low Pastures at last, and when meeting Margaret he’d want to seem something as close to polished as he could get, and sexually ungross. Ralph would have caterers in, people who knew the kind of excellence he required as a norm.
Staining and the locks – Ralph picked up this tale from Felix Tullane, or Empathic Felix, as he was known. Ralph detested the nicknames of some club members. He realized certain people in the Athenaeum probably had nicknames, but these would be standard and rather British, to do with appearance or careers, such as Rusty if ginger-haired, or Sparks for someone who ran power stations – not mocking, and possibly the total opposite of someone’s character. Ralph wondered whether Empathic actually had empathy for anyone bar himself. But Empathic did know a house-painter and decorator who gave him tips now and then on promising places to burglarize, and passed information about the rectory, where he’d been working. Empathic was not major enough or mad enough to consider doing a house owned by Mansel Shale, for God’s sake, but he’d listened. Then one night in the club, when Ralph took on a kindly socializing stint with the Tullane family party and friends, Empathic mentioned that mess at the head of the stairs which looked like blood to his pal, although it had been attacked by scouring liquid, then disguised with sauce. And, apparently, while the redecoration was under way, a locksmith did a total refit. Ralph had seen the decorators at the rectory when he called on Manse but naturally lacked the vital background as to cause.
‘My mate says it was like someone got it on the stairs,’ Empathic said. ‘I mean, got finality. Everyone knows stairs are a peril. You can be done from up top, you can be done from behind. Right, Ralph? Basic. Ever see off someone on stairs yourself?’
Obviously, the first thing Ralph thought about the staining was some roam-the-home boisterous sex game, such as ‘Hail Veronica!’ or ‘The Brahms Mosaic’, had
gone badly excessive with one of those birds. The line between ecstatic pain and heart failure could blur. Manse looked the kind who’d like pervy stuff and give it some effort, perhaps too much effort – that snub, greedy face and his fat lips. Had he pushed the risks beyond? If so, Manse would do a temporary clear-up, dump the weighted body in the sea, with or without help, and afterwards order full renewal of paper and carpet for safety, and as high-minded tribute to the departed one.
But almost immediately Ralph realized his idea did not take account of the locksmith. If Manse accidentally killed the girl himself while sporting out of control with her he would not be worried about intruders. So, perhaps the blood around the stairs came from an outsider, not, say, an inadvertently haemorrhaging Manse mistress at all. To clarify this, he’d need to find out whether all the girls given interludes of hospitality by Manse were still alive. People in the club would be certain to know their names. Ralph could recall Shale once speaking admiringly of someone called Carmel and her terrific knowledge of porcelain and Mein Kampf. She might be a type willing to seek new frontiers during love frolics, but could come unstuck.
‘Manse told them a stumble while running upstairs with sauce,’ Empathic said. ‘My mate agrees there was sauce, no question, but not only sauce – this is the point – and sauce put on as a final layer, over the original. In the house are two kids, and they keep on talking about the sauce so my mate thinks it definitely was not just sauce – the way those kids repeat and repeat it, as if needing to back up Manse, like hiding something, the same as how the sauce itself seemed to be smeared there to hide something. Kids in a blue and black school uniform when they get home. Private. Manse Shale has the money for that. Well, obviously, or he would not be doing redecorating just because of sauce or what’s under the sauce.’
Empathic’s mother, early seventies, in a beige suit, was among the big Tullane family group. She said: ‘I can’t understand how anyone would have a bottle of sauce, and an open bottle of sauce, going upstairs or coming down.’
