by Bill James
Jack had declared recently that he’d come to feel tainted, degraded, by this informing arrangement and it must end. But he’d rung today saying he’d come across something so bad, he had to speak of it. They should meet once more.
There was a launderette ritual, and it took over again now. They’d each bring a bag of washing with them. The launderette cycle for cleaning and drying lasted well over an hour, which gave Jack plenty of time to spill. Perhaps too much. He could be terse. On some visits they’d sat silent for most of the session, lulled by viewing the spells of bubbles and frothy splashes in the drum. Perhaps because this occasion was such a breach of Jack’s terminating decision, he seemed to start quite nervously – chatty and off centre. ‘There’s a splendid Western film with Henry Fonda that comes on to one or other of the movie channels regularly, Colin, The Ox-Bow Incident.’
‘I don’t get on with Westerns. All those damn lariats.’
‘What I wanted to discuss today, Colin, is not the ox-bow incident but the Oxfam incident,’ Lamb replied. ‘Venom. Vigilantes. A baseball bat. Accusations of lusting for the considerably under-aged. Iles. Violence – that is to be expected if Iles shows up, and he did, at, I gather, a gallop, and with silver-leaf cap on.’
Under the previous system, the launderette had not been their only secret dialogue spot. Sometimes they’d choose – or, rather, Jack would choose – an ancient concrete defence post on the foreshore, left over from the war; and, alternatively, there were, not far from this, the remains of what had once been an anti-aircraft battery site in the 1940s. It had an approach road, still usable; the gun emplacements; and brick foundations of a barracks hut for the crews, this demolished a couple of decades ago. Jack loved these military spots and what he referred to as their ‘overtones’. To enhance this mood he’d usually come to the pill box or anti-aircraft area wearing army surplus garments from the forces of any or several combatant nations – Britain, France, Germany, Italy, the United States, Russia. He preferred these two locations for their evening or night get-togethers. Jack heard the overtones loudest in the dark – could visualize through a loophole the enemy trying to sneak ashore in the shadows, or imagine the ack-ack ordnance banging away at blitz Heinkels or Dorniers. The present conference was an early afternoon, daylight rendezvous, and so the launderette.
‘That pavement fracas – you in a Golf, I believe – came to my notice, Colin.’
‘Came to your notice how?’ It was the kind of question no informant would ever answer, but also the kind of question Harpur generally did ask: a tic.
‘Oh, yes, came to my notice, as you’d expect, Colin. This city speaks to me. If it didn’t, I’d have been of no assistance to you, would I? People whisper to me, and I sometimes whispered to you.’
‘When it, the city, spoke to you, what did it say?’
‘It said what I’ve mentioned, Colin: the Oxfam environs and staff, vigilantes, mayhem, a misunderstanding, Des-Ilesian instinctive thuggery. All in very plain view, after all. I’m certain about the misunderstanding being a misunderstanding. I don’t believe you’d go after infants, regardless.’
‘Regardless of what?’
‘Oh, yes, regardless, Colin.’
‘Thanks, Jack.’ In a way, Harpur had always found the undercover rigmarole absurd, whether here, in the launderette, or at one of those ex-army installations. After all, he would openly visit Jack in Darien now and then, and Jack had once come to Harpur’s house in Arthur Street and would also phone there. But Jack had seemed to like these occasional episodes of fleeting subterfuge. Perhaps they excited him, as well as giving him two-out-of-three chances to get warrior kit on. Whatever his motives, Harpur had gone along with Lamb’s wishes. The information that came from Jack was often crucial, indispensable. Possibly, he’d savoured these hideaway powwows because the need for such furtiveness would remind Harpur of the risks Jack took for him. But Harpur didn’t need reminders. Although Lamb always argued that he informed only about matters he regarded as disgusting and/or deeply antisocial, Harpur knew this kind of explanation wouldn’t save him if he were ever found out. Among the people Jack might have to deal with then, a grass was a grass until the grass was under grass, not necessarily in one piece. No launderette could get the stain out of narking. No wonder Harpur could hallucinate awful damage to him.
‘But what we have to ask, Colin, or what I have to ask, anyway, is whether the Oxfam connection is really a connection at all,’ Jack said. ‘Because something occurs near a certain point – a certain shop, in this case – it doesn’t mean that this point-stroke-shop is integral, does it?’
‘Integral to what?’
‘Integral to what is taking place near the Oxfam shop but not necessarily anything to do with it, except that two thickos on duty that day helping the charity come out with the baseball bat because they’re in the grip of what I’ve called a “misunderstanding”.’
‘Oxfam does very fine work abroad,’ Harpur replied. ‘No dispute.’
‘But as to connections, links, Colin, perhaps after all there are some, and not based on mere local geography.’
‘Connections, links, between whom and what?’
‘Or who and whom? Let’s consider what these two Oxfam louts appear to have been thinking when they began their foolish attack. They believed you were on the lurk, waiting to get filthy satisfaction from the sight of toddlers close at hand. I’m told they actually spelled out this indictment.’
‘Told by whom?’
‘Now, we have to inquire, Colin, how that piece of pavement outside Oxfam comes to offer a vantage point for paedo glances – for, at the least, glances,’ Jack replied. ‘Answer? More or less next door to Oxfam is, I learn, a children’s nursery, namely Silver Bells And Cockleshells.’
‘Learn from whom?’
‘Bingo! We have the connection, the link, haven’t we, Colin?’ Lamb replied. ‘Timed parking spaces for shoppers. So convenient. So ostensibly ordinary. You could have been sitting there waiting for the missus to come back with the groceries. As we know, the Oxfam pair put a different interpretation on it, but they are a special, benighted case. One or both of these phoned the police, we assume.’
‘Which we?’
‘They meant to detain you there until officers arrived, if necessary by clobbering you cold with the bat. Of course, they don’t get any old cop. For reasons we haven’t discovered, their call goes to the Assistant Chief, and he delightedly spots there could be interesting scope for brutality. He decides to handle the situation personally, perhaps hurriedly, privately, gluing the cap to his head so as to indicate, when it remains fixed, that law and order will always prevail, and prevail without much sweat and with no loss of daintiness.’
‘Mr Iles likes to feel he symbolizes rectitude. It’s always best to behave towards him as if he really might,’ Harpur said. ‘This response is an act of civility and goodwill. No harm is caused.’
They basketed their stuff and then transferred it to the dryers. They returned to their seats. Lamb said: ‘So, we have dismissed Oxfam and pederasty as reasons for your Golf sojourn. What other reason could there be?’
An elderly woman in a kind of plaid cape sitting behind them seemed to have caught some of Lamb’s words. She leaned forward and whispered: ‘My God, it’s into Oxfam now, is it? And golfers? Not just celebrities, so called.’
‘What is?’ Jack said.
‘That peder-what-you-call you mentioned – the kids thing, abuse, and that.’
‘Don’t worry, madam,’ Lamb said. ‘We have it in hand.’
She nodded and drew back again. ‘Good on you.’
‘Thanks,’ Jack said. He spoke more quietly to Harpur now: ‘I’m not going to ask what you were doing there in Brendan Street.’
‘I’m grateful, Jack.’
‘Because I know you wouldn’t tell me. Info flows only one way in our arrangement, doesn’t it?’ As ever, he sounded matter-of-fact, unbitter.
Harpur said: ‘I can tell you qui
te straight it was part of an investigation, Jack.’
‘Well, fine. I think I might have guessed that.’
‘Yes, an investigation.’
‘But which? What kind?’
‘Yes, an investigation,’ Harpur said.
Lamb smiled, a tolerant, forgiving smile. This troubled Harpur. It was as if Jack didn’t mind being brick-walled. Harpur thought that might mean Jack knew something Harpur didn’t, something to outstrip easily whatever he could have told Jack. Such situations between Lamb and him had happened frequently, though Jack wouldn’t usually smile-smirk about them. Naturally, an informant knew things his/her detective didn’t or there’d be no need for the informant. Perhaps, though, what Jack had called the one-way flow of confidential stuff under their ‘arrangement’ had struck him as exceptionally hurtful today, and he felt angry. Or perhaps he smiled – genuinely smiled, no smirk component at all – yes, smiled because he had something brilliant for Harpur and took healthy, comradely delight in it. Harpur would prefer to think this was the reason. Of course he would.
‘I don’t know whether you understand properly how these things work, Colin.’ Jack was speaking at normal volume again now.
‘Which things?’
‘Discovery. Revelation. As implemented by me.’
‘It works, Jack, that’s what matters.’
‘We have to ask why it works, though, don’t we?’
‘Do we?’
‘When I refer to discovery and revelation, these do not come to me suddenly out of nowhere. I’m not Saul, soon to be Paul, on the road to Damascus.’
The woman bent forward again. ‘That Damascus is a different kettle of fish today, isn’t it, because of the war in Syria,’ she said.
‘Saul is advised to stop kicking against the pricks,’ Jack replied.
‘These days it’s sometimes hard to know which ones are the pricks and which are the others.’ Her drying finished, and she took it and left.
Lamb said: ‘Let’s look at my role, Colin, shall we? It’s like this. I hear of a street disturbance and the details. Certain folk know I’m in the market for such material.’
‘Which certain folk exactly?’
‘But then I have to move into the following, more challenging phase,’ Lamb replied. ‘How to assess and interpret this material. For instance, I discard Oxfam and fix my thinking on the Silver Bells And Cockleshells nursery. I have to ask – to ask myself – I have to ask, what is the real nature of this nursery? There is, of course, an apparent simple answer to this: it is an established facility in a pleasant street and occupying a handsome building. You’ll notice that I’ve emphasized the word “apparent”, Colin. I have to try to get behind that mere appearance and seek out its essence – seek out the reason it is under observation by you. And I am aware that if you know the true answer to this you will probably not tell me – a professional reticence, which I can more or less entirely sympathize with. But what I have to consider, also, is that you might not know the hidden function of that nursery yourself. I sense this to be probable. Hence, I go to certain folk – not necessarily the same certain folk who drew my attention to the street disturbance. I go to certain folk and ask them to look “in depth”, as it might be termed, at SBAC.’
‘So which are these different “certain folk”, Jack?’
‘A very determined, comprehensive yet discreet scan takes place,’ Lamb said. ‘Does the name Harbinger resonate with you?’
Yes, the name Harbinger did resonate with Harpur, or rather the names Harbinger, plural, though not linked to SBAC, as far as he knew. But, then, how far about all this did he know, as Lamb had suggested? ‘Amy and Leyton Harbinger,’ Harpur said. ‘They kept a pub, Cork Street area. A talking parrot in the bar. On the walls, framed photos of boxers and bouts.’
‘They did keep a pub. It did have a talking parrot and pug pics, including one of Rocky Marciano, undefeated heavyweight world champ, whom some say you look like, Colin, except you’re fair-haired. But none of this is what you remember them for, is it?’
‘I think they’re both in jail.’
‘They are both in jail and will be for at least another year, I gather. Not for keeping a pub, though.’
‘Didn’t they run an under-the-bar gun business?’
‘Congratulations! Yes, they ran a deeply illegal, nice little arms shop on the quiet there, Amy the main figure. A small back-room to do the private deals in. At a price they could supply any type of handgun, given a couple of days’ notice, payment in cash only. Leyton got the stuff from undisclosed sources, Amy managed the actual face-to-face selling side, with no inquiries from her about the articles’ possible use: a kind of positive, intensively cultivated, “I-don’t-want-to-know” ignorance. This was a beautifully organized, smooth-running enterprise, gradually polished and perfected over the years. But then tragedy: some of this weaponry was traced back to them after a considerable turf war shoot-out with casualties, including a couple of deaths.’
Their drying ended. As they loaded it into the bags, Jack said: ‘You see the significance now, do you, Colin?’
Yes, Harpur thought he saw the significance, but the significance was damned hard to accept. ‘Of the Harbingers?’ he asked. It would have been lame-brained if he’d meant it.
‘Obliquely of the Harbingers. Their absence. However, that’s the past. We have a thriving go-ahead city here. Quite abruptly, arbitrarily, it has lost one of its major amenities, hasn’t it? Not the Harbingers’ pub. A new landlord could soon be drafted in. But the pub is only one aspect of the trade previously done there, and probably not the most profitable aspect. A very handy, homely, concealed armoury has been lost. I’ve heard of people temporarily stunned by grief as a result. Gun customers used for yonks to dealing with the Harbingers find themselves bereft. These are customers who don’t like to retain a weapon for too long in case it can tell a story – tell a story to someone like you and your Forensic boys and girls. They crave change. They adore newness. For them it amounts to a kind of hygiene. Substantial projects might be in the planning stage, and fresh accessories will be needed, but none are available. How can this be remedied, Colin, for remedied it must be?’
‘God, Jack,’ Harpur replied.
‘Quite. Were you drawn somehow to Brendan Street, possibly without knowing exactly why?’
‘You’re saying SBAC, a toddlers’ nursery, is a replacement for the Harbinger pub?’
‘There is a small back-room at the nursery, I’m told – the proprietor’s office, equivalent to the Harbingers’ tucked-away arbour for Amy and her dealing.’
‘So near the children!’
‘It’s the monstrousness of this, Colin, that leads me to speak – the devilish exploitation of a nursery’s innocence and harmlessness. As you appreciate, I do not bring you information willy-nilly. It must have a moral core. This situation does, I think you’ll concede. It is exceptionally exceptional – why I have ditched my embargo for this once.’ Jack picked up his bag of laundry and moved towards the door. ‘Farewell, Colin.’
TWENTY-TWO
Basil Gordon Loam realized he would have to go back to The Monty and try to get his .38 Smith and Wesson returned. That refusal by Judy Rose Timmins, the flinty cow, to come up with something for him at the nursery had really shaken Enzyme. It seemed disgracefully in restraint of trade, an arrogant defiance of normal commercial principles recognized and abided by worldwide. He had the means to pay for the items – pistol and bullets – yet she would not permit the transaction; actually physically fought with him to prevent the sale, a teddy bear jammed between them. Yet on the other side of that office door and down the stairs dear little children, trustfully left at SBAC by their parents or parent, played and wandered, only metres from the mixed-gender violence and glaring misuse of a teddy.
Plainly, Timmins was not entitled to dictate how he should employ his money, or not employ it, in this case. It was an unforgivable infringement of his personal status and dignity, and therefo
re upon the reputation of his family, despite the widely recognized, triumphant way they had long ago established themselves in tea. If a previous Gordon Loam had wanted a replacement sidearm it would have been a simple, open purchase, the armourer proud to have such an eminent customer. Enzyme felt humiliated, and the fact that this appalling behaviour by Timmins had taken place in a nursery made it definitely worse, definitely more degrading – as if he were a child having controls imposed on what he might and might not do.
And then, outside in Brendan Street, he’d intercepted, in an entirely civil, polite fashion, the other cow, the green Peugeot woman, who’d pretended – cow, cow, brazen cow – that she was simply a parent earnestly seeking a kiddie haven, and not just someone like himself with a terrifically different purpose, such as acquiring a piece. It would be unusual for a woman to come looking for a gun, but possible. She might have been there to get a shooter for someone else – a lover, partner, husband, brother, boss – who led a dodgy, maybe crooked, life, and who didn’t want the risk of attending Silver Bells And Cockleshells in blatant search for a weapon. It could be rather like drugs traffickers using innocent-looking women as ‘mules’ to smuggle commodities through airport security.
Or the Peugeot lady herself might be in some kind of work that brought dangers and threats so she needed means to defend herself. There were small ‘purse’ pistols sold in the United States and probably obtainable on order via SBAC. Peugeot woman must surely have been able to see he needed immediate support, but didn’t offer to help change the cruelly negative mind of Judy Timmins for him. Enz knew why Judy’s attitude had shocked him so deeply. On previous visits he’d thought she’d shown some intelligent deference, realizing he came from a clan with quite a distinguished name and history, substantially helping to make British tea drinking a major national foible. He did not claim that without Loams there would have been no tea habit in Britain, but it might not have been on such a scale and at such an early date. On one of his first visits Timmins had personally prepared cups of tea for both of them – no Fern involvement then – and he’d pointed out to her the pleasant fitness of this. She had readily concurred with a charming smile.
