Disclosures

by Bill James

  So, as well as making this heartfelt tribute to Gladhand, Ralph had determined to secure practical gains. He wanted to think of himself as a professional, and a professional had to deal in data as well as feelings. That ‘confederate concrete’, eloquent under his feet, must get accurately charted: potholes, camber, paving section-lengths before broken by a street junction, width from shopfronts to kerb. He’d pace out distances, assess shooting angles, note traffic density, though this, of course, might differ on the day; but he’d have a reasonable estimate.

  Ember had calculated that Scumbag Stayley was going to be mortified when Ralph came up with plentiful, credible, deeply relevant statistics. Stayley wouldn’t understand how Ralph could have amassed them all on brief there-and-back viewings in the Vauxhall, and, naturally, Ralph wasn’t going to tell him about the me-alone, on-the-hoof, supplementary survey. Very uneven flagstones for three metres here, and part obstruction by newsagent’s advertising boards outside shop. Ember speculated that Stayley might be forced to regard Ralph’s findings as a kind of supremely assured visual and mental skill, not very far from magic, and less far from genius, though, obviously Quent would never admit this. It had been time for Stayley to discover not just that Ralph excited deep and accommodating interest from a swathe of discriminating women, but that he could also reliably deduce the shape and stages of an impending battle, despite Stayley’s morbid chatter.

  Because of that surly, jealous prat’s architectured indifference to the Chuck resemblance, Ralph had been particularly geared up that day on his own, walking at Mondial-Trave, to get his perfect facsimile of the star acknowledged, and he keenly watched other folk for signs of shock and delighted wonderment. Over the years, Ralph had often noticed, while out on a stroll, some other pedestrian glance at his face, as in the ordinary way people did exchange looks, but then refocus, this time intently. Ralph could see what was happening and it amused him. The person he’d encountered would be saying to herself or himself, ‘That chap reminds me of someone, but who? Who? Cinema? TV? Celebrity? Movie Channel? Ah! Of course, he’s the image of a great Hollywood actor. Which, though? Oh, which? What was his name? Yes, got it, got it! Charlton Heston, yes Charlton Heston.’ Now and then there’d be a sudden grin and a nod, as though to reassure Ralph the likeness had been registered. It was a kind of congratulation for so brilliantly cloning Heston at his zenith. Most probably they’d thought he could do a similar job tomorrow and emerge as Humphrey Bogart!

  At Mondial-Trave, during his new exploration, there had seemed few people about, as a matter of fact. He could see a woman ahead having a long stare at the alderman, and at the base he stood on. A fan of cubes? Could she get off on old stone worthies? ‘My dear, he’s so constant, so there-when-you-want-him.’ She’d appeared very aware of her surroundings and therefore might instantly spot Ralph’s distinctiveness; ironically, however, distinctiveness as a kind of twin: Chuck twice! He was never altogether sure which he preferred – the instant appreciation by some stranger that here was an amazingly accurate image of Heston; or, alternatively, that two-stage, double-take process: the first a normal, casual exchange of squints, passer-by to passer-by, then, though, signs of the astonished realization in the other that Ralph might be a splendid reissue of Heston in his magnificently wholesome, heroic, leader-of-men days.

  It could be argued that the second of these responses was the more authentic and substantial because of the extra consideration given, not just a sudden eye-opener. But the ‘sudden eye-opener’ also had worth. In it lay the power of a glorious, undeniable revelation. Ralph had wondered which camp the woman near the alderman would be in, immediate or delayed. Something about her movements made him think she’d go for the more or less instinctive and instant and intuitive, the boisterously hormonal. Ralph had realized his next thought might be regarded as fanciful, but he’d sensed she’d feel cheated he wasn’t stripped to the waist like Ben in some shots. He didn’t object to that kind of yearning in a woman. In fact, it could be regarded as what made a woman a woman, this all-powerful, shameless urge in their very blood.

  SIXTEEN

  And then, as Ralph studied the woman thoroughly, trying to characterize her, gauge her impulses, on the admittedly slight evidence, he’d suffered a hellish, almost disabling, shock. Oh, God, why did he dream and kid himself that everyone was fascinated by Ralph W. Ember? His breathing had grown difficult for a moment, and he swayed where he stood, nearly staggered: it had struck him that he shouldn’t be speculating about what she’d make of him, but instead, worry about what he, damn late in the day, made of her.

  Christ, this was that police chief wasn’t it – Superintendent Esther Davidson, top detective at the nick, and, naturally, known and recognized by everyone seriously dedicated to the trafficking art: fresh skin, strong jaw; familiar, and classified as formidable and dangerous?

  Would this hairdresser’s shop porch give him adequate cover? He’d moved into the deep doorway next to a news-agent’s. What the hell was this cop doing down here, anyway? He could view from here, as through two window panes, the glass side wall of the entrance and the main front display plate, couldn’t he? She put a chummy, grateful hand on the alderman’s plinth, possibly groping his feet. It had been as if she took some kind of pleasure or reassurance in the solidity. He could part understand a need to do this. These feet weren’t made for walking, but they had given the alderman his sure and steady foundation for more than a century He stood – yes, stood! – for civic pride and fruitful industry: an inspiring example, Ralph thought. He decided again that he wouldn’t mind having a statue to himself like that at the end of a notable life. But – also again – he realized prejudice might prevent this. And, even if it did get commissioned by grateful authorities and built, some shit might come along with one of those spray cans – or the equivalent decades ahead – and overlay ‘Ralph W. Ember’ on the name plate with ‘Panicking Ralphy Ember,’ just as the monks used to overlay previous writing on parchment, but in this later case from malice, not economy.

  Davidson had on a dark blue or navy business suit, the skirt to her knees, medium black heels, a handbag on a strap from her left shoulder, a trilby-style cotton hat, also navy or black. He’d decided she didn’t look police, but legalistic, say a bailiff or court usher. There’d been a story around that she and her husband, Gerald, a professional bassoon musician, were sometimes erotically, and/or spitefully, violent with each other, and she might appear in public with sticking plasters, shiners and bruising on her face. Ember didn’t make out anything like that now. She was tall, nimble, slightly aquiline, with auburn hair worn long enough for a little of it to be visible from under the hat. Was she writing in a jotter? What, for God’s sake? She’d have been in her early thirties, he’d guessed, a 1960s baby, young for a Super. Her teeth had seemed all her own and unchipped, somehow intact despite years of matrimony.

  She’d turned and stared up for a few moments at one of the apartment blocks. But, no – that didn’t describe things properly. He’d adjusted the thought. He had the feeling her viewing was more specific than this, more focused; more meaningful, not just the building as a nice, imposing piece of conversion skill: commercial heritage, yet acceptably modernized. The changeover was completed years ago and she must have seen it many times before today; wouldn’t be gazing at it as if in awed admiration now. That might have been like a socialite New York drunk in a story Ralph had read who’d gone on a ten-year bender and was astounded when he dried out and rejoined the world to find the Empire State skyscraper in place on his regular playground.

  It had looked to Ralph that Esther Davidson was aiming her gaze towards a particular apartment window, perhaps four floors up. She didn’t seem totally sure which at first and her search took in two or three, but then, after a while, she’d appeared to fix on one.

  Did she wave at somebody in the apartment block? From her spot near the alderman, she seemed to give a very brief, crooked-arm wave in the direction of that selected window. O
r he’d thought that’s what it amounted to. The movement looked tentative, ambiguous, and was certainly very quickly over, no semaphore, as though she’d felt bound to acknowledge somebody in the chosen flat but feared she might draw the attention of others to the window. Well, she had drawn attention to the window – Ralph’s.

  He couldn’t be totally sure which apartment, but he narrowed the likelies to two. He’d glanced at both of them in turn and then re-glanced in reverse order but made out nothing in either. They didn’t need net curtains at fourth-floor level and anyone standing at the window looking out would be very visible. But no. Not for Ralph. Had someone been visible to Davidson, though – a momentary sighting, then withdrawal?

  As well as the slight wave there had also been a slight smile up to the window from her. It gave Ralph his glimpse of her teeth, seemingly her own and perfect. She was a long way off, so, again, there had to be uncertainty – about the teeth, and even uncertainty that she’d smiled. But definitely there’d been some communication in her momentary change of expression – smile, wince, grimace – evidence one way or the other of some sort of relationship. He’d settle for smile.

  So, if he settled for it, how did he settle what it meant? Why would she be giving a smile to an acquaintance, or more than an acquaintance, momentarily at the window, someone, or more than one, who dodged back and away once the basic rendezvous formalities had been done? It had obviously proved she knew a contact would be up there, watching. Davidson was more or less checking in: all present and correct, plinth examination proceeding, as per schedule. Checking in, who to? Ember had known that she and her husband didn’t live in one of these blocks. They had a house in Bromley, at the eastern edge of the Met’s ground. It wasn’t Gerald she’d waved to and smiled at. He might be touring with his bassoon, anyway.

  Did she have an affair going with an occupant on the fourth floor? Had the rough-house sessions with Gerald lost their giddy, rupturing charm for her? Maybe she’d found someone who could punch, elbow and kick better, and/or could take a punch, elbow and kick better and retaliate, so the bouts would last longer, involve considerably more delicious abuse. Might that explain the attempt at secrecy, he’d wondered. But, if so, why didn’t she get to him, not mess about with the monument’s granite feet, et cetera? Hadn’t she engaged in some kind of daft, pretend love affair with the alderman?

  She’d moved out from near the monument and wrote and/or sketched for a few moments in her jotter. She seemed to have switched off her interest in the apartment window; no further minimal dispatches. But had there been any return wave from what seemed to be floor four? Instead of maintaining contact with the window, she appeared to continue what he had been intending to do himself. Standing on the pavement, she’d begun to gaze systematically about and to make more notes of what she saw, a kind of fervent busyness.

  He’d felt certain she was describing features in the layout – shops, the alderman and his plinth, anti-parking bollards, street junctions, pavements, kerbs, the pub, a post office, perhaps this hairdresser’s, the newsagent’s – and measuring distances with her eye and recording them: not a bailiff or usher or cop now but an estate agent. Did she have someone like Stayley who needed to be persuaded of her abilities? It had scared him to discover they chose such similar approaches to Mondial-Trave. Bloody eerie. Character overlap? He was the budding Charlton one moment, Davidson CID, the next.

  More than eerie? That was an emotional, impractical kind of reaction, and Ralph had been concentrating hard lately on developing his business practicality: very necessary if he wanted progress within the firm’s corporate structure. And he had wanted progress within the firm’s corporate structure. Craved it. One of his cousins, an army officer, always spoke of promotion as ‘a step’. Ralph wanted a lot of steps. He’d recently come across the phrase ‘career path’. This was the kind of path that interested him. It could lead on and on. He knew that if he’d decided on joining the government Foreign Service, instead of Pasque Uno and the substances enterprise, he would have expected to get to an ambassador’s post in a major country, such as the U.S.A. or Russia, not some little bit of nowhere riddled with corruption and Aids. He’d tried to cool his brain and get it to interpret what the arrival and actions of Superintendent Davidson meant.

  He’d keep an eye on those actions for a while yet, but would have to get out from the cover of this shop entrance soon, or he’d become noticeable to the staff inside; maybe already was. He’d realized that could be a problem later – after the gunplay with Opal Render, and likely injuries and deaths: what point in the shooting if it didn’t produce injuries and deaths; Opal Render injuries and deaths: extinction of Opal Render in the interests of civic hygiene, and other interests, such as Gladhand’s and Pasque Uno’s? That was a practical summary of coming events.

  Police investigating – fishing for identities – would call on all these shops, the pub, the post office, the newsagent’s and the hairdresser’s, to ask about any unusual behaviour they’d seen recently. He, Ralph, had been unusual behaviour, had been until he could bugger off from the doorway. ‘Yes, officer, a man, twenties, lurking about in the salon entrance – “lurking’s” not too strong a term, I feel – lurking for quite a stretch gazing towards the alderman through the glass side wall of the porch, across the customer waiting area, and then through the front window. Something seemed to startle him.’

  The detectives were sure to like this, and ask for a description. Ralph would figure big on their list. He could imagine some replies:

  ‘He looked like one of those old film stars, officer.’

  ‘Which old film star? Lassie?’

  ‘Big, bony faced. Was El Cid. TV re-shows it every Easter, strapped dead on his horse so the troops won’t know they’re short of a chief.’

  ‘So we search for a replica Charlton Heston, do we? Not many of them about.’

  ‘Heston, yes, that’s it. Dead spit. Called “Chuck?” Gun enthusiast? Thought every American householder should be able to defend himself. In one film, he brought the commandments down from Mount Sinai, including “Thou shalt not steal.” But he reasoned some wouldn’t take any notice and still try to steal. The commandments definitely were on the side of goodness or it wouldn’t have been worth carrying them down the mountain. But there could be no guarantee they’d always work, and he knew it. So you should be able to shoot burglars’ heads off. This was part of the U.S. constitution. If his parents went to the trouble of calling him “Charlton” they wouldn’t be pleased to hear it devalued to “Chuck”, especially when that’s got alternative meanings such as upchuck. But possibly “Charlton Heston” was only a concocted stage name.’

  For a few minutes more Ralph had watched Davidson through the two windows. He remembered dredging up a quote, probably from the Bible, about looking through a glass darkly, then, later, getting face to face. This was a double glass, but the view didn’t seem darkened as a result; and neither had he wanted to see Davidson face to face, nor, more important, her to see him face to face: the dangerously memorable, bony, strong, Heston-type face. It wasn’t always a plus. She continued to gaze about and make notes, flipping over the jotter pages rather faster now. He’d guessed she might be sketching some of what she regarded as key spots. What made them key, though? Would her key spots match his? It surprised him that she didn’t produce a mobile phone and take photographs. Ralph had brought one. Of course, relaxing in The Monty bar now he knew the answers to many of the conundrums that baffled him at Mondial-Trave. Hindsighting reigned!

  Davidson had finished with the alderman and his feet and custom-made platform and walked towards the corner of Mondial, the jotter still ready in her hand. She turned into Trave Square and went out of sight. She did seem concerned with exactly the adjoining slices of terrain that Ralph was concerned with, that Gladhand was concerned with, and that Opal Render would be concerned with. At once, Ralph left the doorway and made for his car, briskly, but not at a noticeable, jittery scamper. Chuck would n
ever get jittery, would never scamper. He could move and move fast when necessary, but with unostentatious, decisive power. Ralph had decided there was no need to follow Davidson. She would probably only do in the Square what he had seen her do here, geography research. Her failure to use a camera still puzzled him. By then, most people had a mobile. A police superintendent would certainly have one.

  But then, as he reached his Volvo, a frightening thought had clobbered him: of course, of fucking blatant course, she might not need to take photographs because that was already being done, secretly from a high spot in the apartment block, de haut en bloody bas. Could this explain the gesture and the smile up towards that fourth-floor flat? ‘Hi, kids, surprise, surprise, yes, it’s your boss taking a personal shufti around the area and making notes to caption and augment your pix. No reflections on the quality of your work – always excellent – just a humble attempt to add an explanatory footnote or two.’

  Ralph hadn’t been able to make out anything unusual at either of the windows he’d concentrated on, but these might be clever, experienced operators, their work ‘always excellent’. They knew how to conceal themselves and their long lenses: basic to their training. Would any further photos by Davidson be redundant? Did she and her people have this ground under continuous, undisclosed surveillance, a confidential renting of an empty flat? Perhaps there was something similar in Trave Square. She might have to do another couple of discreet greetings signals there, de bas en haut.

  These photographers would be in addition to the normal CCTV coverage of Mondial-Trave. CCTV was just becoming commonplace. Gladhand’s stolen Vauxhall might be on film, which was why only a vehicle untraceable to Pasque Uno had been necessary. And Ralph had expected that the street battle, when it came, would probably require balaclavas or proper masks. Davidson and her officers, though, might want more particular subjects than CCTV could offer – precise, persistently tracked targets, recorded by official police cameras. But if there’d been photographers installed up there for God knew how long, why should Esther Davidson feel she had to carry out her own, on-foot scrutiny – a superintendent doing a dogsbody job? Ralph had failed to fathom this. For those jottered captions and footnotes? Again he’d wondered whether her motives might be similar to his – some very personal wish to correct or amend a previous error or deficiency.