by Bill James
Which pavement, pavements? They’d try to get an idea of that during their visit now. Hoskins drove. He had on one of those rural county, ginger tweed suits he fancied, waistcoat included, with pocket-watch gold chain across it. They were in a stolen Vauxhall. Hoskins’ big new Mercedes could have been recognized, and Hoskins’ big new Mercedes with four men in it intently eyeballing the street-scene might indicate something beyond a pleasure jaunt. Ralph thought the precaution was not much more than a twitch, though, forced by the long habit of business secrecy in that private private-sector. Didn’t everyone in both firms know there’d be an absolute, winner-takes-all tussle here soon? Ralph had amused himself with the fancy that the head-on clash was so inevitable there might be a foreboding of it in one of the Old Testament prophets. ‘For Pasque Uno had a little army and Opal Render did, too. And, yea, they did fall upon each other at the place called Mondial-Trave in the land of Peckham-East Dulwich, OK, not quite a holy place, but up there among the tops for grass and coke. And Pasque Uno said this terrain shouldest be theirs, but Opal Render said, “Stuff that, mate, it’s ours,” so get your catapults primed and go to Daniel for training if you like.’
Secrecy hardly mattered, and, naturally, some reconnaissance was bound to take place by each side. It would have been a dark laugh if PU met an Opal Render vehicle doing the same sort of survey. ‘Well, what ho there, gents! Are you looking for an idyllic picnic ground, like us?’ But it didn’t happen. Opal Render had possibly already conducted their on-the-spot tour, or would come tomorrow, or the day after.
Ralph was in the back with Greg Mace. Quentin Stayley had the front passenger seat. This had been Ralph’s first experience of major work for the firm and he’d felt excited, proud, determined to learn. Although he’d been in stolen cars before, it had never been for such a momentous purpose as this. His mind had been wide open and events and conversations imprinted themselves vividly there, imprinted themselves deeply there, imprinted themselves more or less immovably there; he could still do something he believed fairly close to a detailed recall.
Hoskins had said it was pointless to pretend they knew how the opening moves would go. Nobody could prescribe in advance the detailed moves of a battle. He saw variable elements depending on all sorts. They had to plan fluid, play adjustable, get at them how they could get at them – ‘ad fucking hoc, like.’ It had always seemed bizarre to Ralph when someone like Gladhand in a ginger, Royal Ascot Enclosure suit, and with the watch chain meaningfully across his waistcoat, broke up a word or phrase to stick ‘fucking’ between. But perhaps Gladhand had wanted to unsettle Ralph and others by the sudden mauling of the language style expected from someone in that sort of suit and with a fob watch.
Then Hoskins had gone on with an analysis along the lines of, ‘It’s possible we’ll destroy them right away and totally, which is, obviously, how we’d like it, nice and tidy. OR RIP. But maybe the luck don’t look after us quite so complete at once and what we got to do is impose ourselves, take over the shaping of things, drive any still-resisting remnants down into—’
He’d glanced right and briefly took a hand off the wheel and pointed with his thumb. ‘Here it is now, we’re just passing – drive them down into the Red Letter’s car park which, of course, is high-walled so we got them cornered and a final wipe-out can take place there. Again, nice and tidy, though not quite so simple as if it had happened earlier. Except at evenings the car park don’t usually get many vehicles. There shouldn’t be much for them to hide behind. Quentin, Greg, this is your position, the car park.’
‘Message received and understood,’ Greg said. He sounded relaxed, playful, ready to accept whatever Hoskins ordered. Greg was mid-twenties, very pale skinned, a good bit overweight, wearing a long navy jacket and khaki chinos, old suede desert boots, crimson, open-necked shirt, small, silver cross on a silver neck-chain resting on his chest.
Hoskins said: ‘You’re waiting there and you don’t stop them coming in, not at all, it’s what we want, but once they’re in you’ve got them, no exit. This should be the final ploy. You’ll be on foot, Quentin, Greg. We don’t put one of our own vehicles in the car park owing to possible gunfire damage making it undrivable, in which shitty case you two could still be there with your armament and them bodies when the 999 emergency call police arrive. It would be you who was trapped then. No trouble for them proving murder. But we’ll have a donated Lexus ready to pick up the two of you and disappearing as soon as you’ve done a neat and full wipe-out in the car park – chauffeur for this exit, Hector Lygo-Vass.
‘Hector’s not with us today, but he’ll get down here later and have his own squint, with good concentration on the Red Letter locality, to note what might turn out to be any special problems for a getaway motor, like some road-crossing patrol who thinks she got a right to step out and stop the traffic. Hector would prefer not to hit someone like that at speed. Hector’s a brill Wheels, thoughtful, twenty-twenty eyes, unflashy. Acceleration is his brother. His right sole got perfect intimacy with that pedal, like fused.
‘OK, landlord and owner of the Red Letter, His Royal-fucking-Highness, Clifford Grange, won’t be pleased at first with this outcome on his premises, the car park being, clearly, part of them premises He would rather not have artillery and subsequent deads and wounded littering that car park. He got notices up on walls there saying the pub can’t be responsible for no damage caused, but that’s only to do with bumps by vehicles, or vandalism. That sort of warning don’t really mean corpses in the car park, though. All right, all right, understandable. It’s unkempt and don’t do the reputation of a pub good, even a pub like Red Letter. But sod Cliffy. We can’t hardly go to him in advance and ask would he mind if we use that patch of ground to carry out a rather essential slaughter programme? There got to be a certain degree of confidentiality re these tactical plans.’
Ralph remembered that Greg Mace gave a big, deep chuckle. It had seemed wrong for someone so pale. He said: ‘We could tell him, “Cliffy, you might have thought this was a car park, but, really it’s an abattoir, though only on a temporary basis, so don’t get all fretful.”’
Hoskins said: ‘He got to be instructed how to think long-term, not just instant reaction to what will be a hot eventuality, I admit. Clifford should take into account that them few minutes of undoubted stress will lead to an enduring period of settled peace, not just in the car park but for the pub itself and the general Mondial-Trave area. Once these crisis minutes are over he can get his pub back to its settled position as a grand facility for sale of the substances, along with the beer and crisps. And that settled position will be even more settled and safe from aggro because there’ll be no other firm to jostle PU and cause division and upsets.
‘The short, fracas period of gunfire and disturbance should be regarded as a cleansing operation. Now, it’s plain I don’t mean what was called “ethnic cleansing” in the past such as around the Croatia and old Yugoslavia region. This is not to do with race, it’s about peaceful, untroubled trading, something, surely, to be desired by all, but unfortunately not available to all yet – and I stress, yet – because one firm got a kind of survival duty to squash the other. Goodbye OR, and God bless. Basically, the minutes of acute conflict and anxiety – nobody can deny they’ll come – but them minutes are ultimately a gain for Cliff Grange and the Red Letter, as well as the totality of the general environs. This will be the land of milk and honey and money.’
Gladhand had been gentle and persuasive, very suitable for the brave, perfect logic of his argument, Ralph thought. Ember had always been a great fan of logic. He loved watching, and even taking part in, the methodical, stage-by-stage progress towards proving a conclusion. Most probably humans were the only creatures in the animal creation who could do logic. Other animals acted very logically, yes – such as a fox killing a chicken, because the fox and its family had to eat, and the fox was stronger than the chicken. There wouldn’t be that stage-by-stage, but-on-the-other-hand move towards dec
iding to kill the chicken or not, though, because it came completely natural to the fox to kill chickens. No logic was needed and there was no other hand to supply a but. The fox just got its teeth into the chicken’s neck because that’s what foxes did and why they had that sharp muzzle so they could be theirselves and bite necks.
Dale would have been mid-thirties then, young to head a company. Possibly he chose the fogeyish, squire-type suits and the antique-style watch and chain to mimic more maturity. He had circled the big roundabout at the Dorothea Gardens end, then taken them back for another gaze at the Red Letter, the car park and the approaches.
Quentin Stayley swivelled in the passenger seat to talk to Hoskins: ‘I suppose what we got to hope, Dale, is that it’s not us who get pushed back into the terminal car park.’
Hoskins said: ‘Right, Quent. That is definitely a danger.’
‘Dale, we have exactness and precision about what occurs at the later stage, but an absence of that exactness and precision as to the opening minutes of the conflict,’ Stayley said. ‘The sequence is not clear. Il y a des lacunes, as the French would say. There are considerable gaps. I return to my recent remark: how do we get to the situation where we are pushing the OR lot back towards the Red Letter car park and are not pushed towards the Red Letter car park ourselves?
‘A spot-on observation, Quent,’ Hoskins agreed. ‘It’s why I said we got to plan fluid, play adjustable.’
‘It’s vague and chancy, Dale,’ Mace said.
‘It is, Greg,’ Hoskins replied. ‘I could see that, but your comments make me even more aware of them uncertain elements. Thank you. I’ll give further thought.’
This was so like Dale. He hardly ever got ratty and injurious because someone put a question mark on what he’d just said. Up to a point, up to quite a point, Hoskins could cope with others’ views on a situation. It was one reason he had the nickname ‘Gladhand’. He’d treat with civilized warmth and a decent smile almost anybody, even those in disagreement with him, and even those below him in the firm, which meant everyone in the firm.
All this was a long while ago, of course, and Ralph realized he might not have all the conversations absolutely as they were. But he certainly had their drift right. And, over the years, he’d continually gone back in memory to those days and nights, so things had remained pretty accurately, nearly verbatim, in his head. Some of the phrasing was so important that Ralph couldn’t have forgotten it, anyway, even if he’d wanted to. And the phrases acted as sort of bullet points to bring the rest of it back: ‘acceleration is his brother’ (Gladhand); ‘thought this was a car park, but, really, it’s an abattoir’ (Greg Mace); ‘fracas period of gunfire’ (Gladhand); ‘terminal car park’ (Quent); that bit of French from Quent that sounded like something to do with lagoons; ‘vague and chancy’ (Greg).
There was quite a whack from Quent Stayley on that Vauxhall saunter. He was about forty-five, thin framed, thin faced, maybe not too content with getting bossed about by someone ten years younger in a farcical suit. Quentin himself had on dark-blue jogging gear and red and white training shoes. He didn’t seem to have lost any of his fair-to-mousy hair and wore it in a ponytail fixed with a thick, red elastic band, probably discarded in the street by a postman. Ralph knew Quent had education beyond comprehensive school. He could get very articulate and bring in those bits of French without any special fuss. This seemed to show not just that he knew some French but that he thought the people he was with, such as Gladhand, Ralph and Greg, could also do French and would be familiar with the lagoons and how they came into the reckoning. He obviously had a certain kind of background. That day, he had moved about too much in his seat, as though pent up.
Ralph had felt a bit the same. Rehearsals and reconnaissance always bored him, though he recognized they might be vital. Ralph kept reasonably still and observant, memorizing systematically streets, buildings, the sculpture, that he already knew, but which he’d know with a lot more detail after today. Quentin also gazed about, but apparently had to move his whole body to cover the various perspectives, as if needing to see around lagoons. This restlessness in Quent didn’t appear to trouble Gladhand. He could be very patient and tolerant.
But, of course, to speak of someone glad-handing had a half suggestion that the display of friendliness was only display, a meaningless gesture, even phoney: for instance, politicians glad-handed among supporters so as to keep their vote. And only to keep their vote. They forgot everyone they’d glad-handed as soon as they’d glad-handed them.
Dale Hoskins could switch to very rough. Now and then it had been as if a knuckleduster figured on the gladhand. He was founder and leader of a firm and Ember realized this job needed more than the milk of human kindness, and less. Many nicknames radiated a pleasant, unhurtful nature, such as ‘Tiny’ for someone 200lbs and 6' 4" but several had a taint, or more and worse than a taint, such as ‘Panicking Ralph,’ ‘Ralphy’. Nobody called Hoskins ‘Gladhand’ to his face. Its tone was too uncertain. Best not to upset Hoskins, Ralph thought. Dale might garrotte you with that watch chain using both gladhands.
TEN
Esther on her lounger listened to a younger, lower-ranked, London-based Esther on tape: not someone she felt totally fond of. The gas fire fought a losing battle against the conservatory cold. Cloud blanked off the feeble December sun for a few minutes. She felt her voice came over as brisk, a bit clangy and know-all, maybe designed to shiver into fragments the glass ceiling that kept women from top police jobs then.
‘I want to talk today about Pasque Uno and Opal Render personnel,’ the recording said: this was more from the pre-operation briefing. ‘We have names – some names – of those likely to be involved in any confrontation. The list is probably not exhaustive and might contain occasional errors, but I think it’s broadly accurate. You will be notified of any necessary amendments.’ Lads, lasses, you can rely on me. I’ll decide what you can be told and when you can be told it. That was how she sounded, Esther thought. Listen up, underlings. She hoped she’d learned something about humility since then, or not so much humility itself but the semblance of humility. Top cops couldn’t be genuinely humble, for God’s sake. After all, the job was about going one better than the crooks – at least one better. Humility wouldn’t do.
‘Two sources, wholly independent of each other, naturally, have produced the names, and there’s a good measure of agreement between them. The sources are: (one), our original informant who also defined the likely location. That is, the Mondial Street-Trave Square junction and corner; (two), our own observation. We have maintained a continuous, clandestine watch at Mondial-Trave since it was tentatively identified, as itemized at (one).
‘I’ll take Pasque Uno first. Our informant gives the following line-up: (a) Dale (Gladhand) Hoskins, age thirty to forty. This, of course, we would expect. He is head of PU and accustomed to leadership, compelled by leadership: the noblesse oblige of the gear game.’
There’d been a projector to screen pictures of some of the people she mentioned, photographic quality variable. A few were official police mugshots. Others looked as if they’d been snatched, the target apparently unaware of the camera – angles sometimes awkward, a face and/or physique, part-obscured by other, irrelevant people or foliage or vehicles. That seemed true of the Gladhand pictures: two in the street, one with a dog, some sort of terrier, on a leash, and walking in what could be a park, possibly Dorothea Gardens. Rhododendrons blanked much of his jaw and upper body, though the dog came out well. One of the street snaps got him only in half profile, with a Royal Mail van and a billboard touting final days of a sofa sale behind. This sofa sale was always in its final days.
Esther said: ‘The heavy, three-piece lord-of-the-manor suit on Gladhand is more or less a constant. Social ambitions. I mentioned the noblesse. Middle height, square built. He can present a mild, genial personality, but has ample, standby stocks of grade-A savagery. Without it in that trade, he couldn’t have got to where he is so early. As a ma
tter of cred and self-respect, he must accept the same risks as his people, anyway. He can’t abstain. He’ll be there, no question. Preferred armament, Springfield semi-automatic. No convictions. Married. Infant twin sons, teenage daughter. Lives in large Cheyne Walk, Chelsea, property (four to five million pounds) containing a meditation suite, gym and indoor pool, stylishly minimal lounge furnishing – the “Black and White” room. Butler, Pedro, possible illegal immigrant. Continuously waistband armed.
‘(b) Hector Lygo-Vass, age twenty-eight. Specialist driver. Some rally experience. Family significant in Cumberland, at least until the war – a sizeable estate and mansion. Sir Brandon Coss Lygo-Vass big in two Wellington campaigns as young cavalry officer, including Lines of Torres Vedras victory, Portugal. Family in bad tangle with the Revenue over tax 1950s. Enforced sale to settle and meet legal costs. Possible injustice – or probable: Inland Revenue official sacked for some sleight of hand but no redress for the Lygo-Vasses. Resultant hatred-stroke-contempt in Hector for legality and due procedure. Also Springfield. Maybe PU got a two-for-the-price-of-one deal. No convictions. Separated. No children.
‘(c) Gregory Francis Mace, mid-twenties. Accountancy background. Accompanies Hoskins as negotiator on trips to bulk suppliers. Instant mental calculations. Uzi machine pistol. Served one year of two-year sentence for embezzlement. The picture is standard mugshot. Skin showing cell pallor? Gay partnered by general practitioner.
‘(d) Clive (Aftermath) Palgrave, thirty-four. Street pusher and general heavy. Possession and dealing convictions. Mugshots ahoy. Married, one child (d), one stepchild (s), both at school. Has survived several rough episodes, hence the nickname: always alive at aftermath, so far. Unrelated to Palgrave’s Golden Treasury poetry anthology, though doesn’t personally deny the link.
