by Bill James
‘Not yet,’ Lucy said. ‘I told you, you’re an Incomplete. You’ve some way to go yet.’
‘Do I want to?’
‘Do you?’
‘Probably not, but I’ve been snared, noosed.’
FOURTEEN
Working at home on the Emily-Ray file with its mentions of secret names, celebrity names, clandestine projects, Ian had a phone call, the voice educated, male, not unfriendly, but not friendly: a touch of Got-you-at-last-you-sod-and-don’t-imagine-you-can-do-another-toddle-off. ‘Mr Charteris? Mr Ian Charteris, journalist and possibly more?’
‘No.’
‘Not Mr Ian Charteris and possibly more?’
‘No.’
‘No what?’
‘Not possibly more.’
‘Mr Ian Charteris, journalist?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Forgive me for speculating – the “possibly more”. Guesswork.’
‘In journalism we don’t do guesswork,’ Ian said. ‘Facts are the thing. Facts are treasured. Who was it said “Comment is free but facts are expensive”?’
‘Yes, all that travel and bribery.’
‘First-class travel,’ Ian said. ‘It’s journalism’s attempt to look like a profession, not a trade.’
‘It’s facts I wanted to talk about, facts which to date might have been concealed. Or disguised as something else.’
‘Facts can be like that. Evasive. Hidden. One man’s facts are another man’s speculation.’
‘This is Milton Skeeth.’
‘Milton Skeeth?’
There was a pause as if he didn’t believe in Ian’s show of puzzlement, felt riled by it, considered it not based on fact as recently boasted about by Charteris, wondered why the fuck it was necessary, but, OK, whatever game he – Charteris – wanted to play, Skeeth would go along with it for now. Patience. Tactics. ‘I work in the theatre. I think I can claim it’s a name known to the Press.’
‘Ah, Milton Skeeth, of course,’ Ian said.
‘That’s it. I hoped it would register.’
‘We get rung up by so many people,’ Ian replied.
‘Who?’
‘Who what?’
‘Who get rung up by so many people?’
‘Journalists. We’re well known for it. Folk telephone to tell us things, or to tell us that things other folk have told us are not true. A hell of a lot like that.’
‘It must be arduous.’
‘Most of us wouldn’t have it any different. We live on these calls. They are our oxygen.’
‘I’m glad to learn this. Plainly, I am now making such a call.’
‘Quite often there’s preamble. We don’t complain. It gives us time to get the notebook open.’
‘I hear you’ve been talking to a friend of mine.’
‘This has to be a possibility. As I’ve said, we talk to many. It’s of the essence in our trade. Our profession, would-be. Heard from where that I’ve been talking to a friend of yours? This might help me narrow things down, because I’m sure you will have a great number of friends.’
‘I gather you’ve spoken lately to Jeffrey Dill,’ Skeeth replied. ‘Does that narrow it down?’
‘Oh, obviously, it does more than that! It immediately reduces the field to one.’
‘I believe it’s so, isn’t it? You met him?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘The meeting took place in a situation quite normal for him, but perhaps less so for you.’
‘Journalists get into all kind of situations. Think of Stanley tracking down Livingstone. That would hardly be customary ground for Stanley – if reporters, in fact, have a customary ground.’
‘Jeff mentioned it.’
‘You’re on those kinds of terms with him, are you?’ Ian replied.
‘Which?’
‘Shortened first names – “Jeff”. Would he call you “Milt”? When he mentioned it – the meeting – did he refer to it in, as it were, passing, or make a special point?’
‘He wouldn’t normally trouble me with that kind of thing. I deduced he felt anxious.’
‘Anxious?’
‘He wonders.’
‘About what?’
‘Oh, definitely he wonders. He’s a worrier. You wouldn’t think so to look at him – he seems so hale and solid and attuned to badger hunting. Would you have suspected he was a worrier?’
‘These would be the terms I’d use about him myself – hale, solid, remarkably attuned to badger hunting, as I can personally testify – not something third hand. Most probably you’d need someone of that nature. Not someone good specifically at badger hunting, but of that general quality.’
‘Need in which sense?’
‘It’s quite difficult for someone outside to visualize the kind of friendship you have – how it ever came about: you prominent in the theatre and, as I recall now, there’s a mighty family business. These on one side, and then Jeff and the badgers. Democratic and seemingly classless, a wide acquaintance with life, yes, yet a puzzle.’
‘When you say “outside” what exactly were you getting at there? “Outside” presumes a kind of inside, doesn’t it? I’d be interested to know how you see this inside from outside.’
‘In a sense journalists are always outside, trying to discover that “inside” you spoke of. It’s rather like barristers. We have to make ourselves specialists for a while in some topic, brief ourselves, so to speak, then probably forget all about it and move on to something else.’
‘Which topic are we talking about here? Which topic have you been briefing yourself on, and, possibly, getting briefed on? That’s why I added those words, “journalist and possibly more.”’
‘I don’t get that.’
‘The briefing. Not the briefing of yourself by yourself but by knowledgeable figures from a separate organization, a separate discipline. Possibly you are privy to exceptional information, exceptional in regard to its confidentiality, its secrecy, in fact.’
‘It was a terrific morning out with Jeff and his colleagues in rural surroundings,’ Charteris replied. ‘An eye-opener. No other term will do. Such luck to get their invitation and help. It’s quite a recherché sport.’
‘Colleagues, certainly. I don’t see why you shouldn’t call them colleagues.’
‘Oh, are you worried about one of them?’
‘“Worried” in which particular?’ Skeeth said.
‘You seemed troubled by the word “colleagues” – as if you had reservations about one of them, perhaps more than one. When you said, “I don’t see why you shouldn’t call them colleagues,” this seemed to set up some uncertainty, some tentativeness. Perhaps “partners” is better. They back one another up so well. This might be one of their chief strengths: they act instinctively together. Would you go along with that, or are there still some doubts about one of them, or more?’
‘Nailing a badger has to be a team thing, I gather,’ Skeeth said. ‘Cooperation of a high degree, men and dogs.’
‘You’ve never been on one of their hunts? This is the reason I felt perplexed slightly concerning the basis of your friendship. That side of things is so important to Jeff, isn’t it? You’re not up on dogs, yourself, are you – terriers?’
‘Malcolm was there, as well, I understand. That’s Malcolm Ivins. Rock-like is how I think of Malc.’
‘So you have met him, as well as Jeff?’
‘Some surprising facets to him as well as Jeff,’ Skeeth said.
‘Yes.’ Ian naturally remembered Malcolm holding the swollen sow high, declaring the pregnancy test positive, and issuing his statement about the need to be good sports and ensure a supply of more badgers to set the dogs on. Malcolm seemed to embody the spirit of Olde England.
‘Malcolm is a character,’ Skeeth said.
‘In fact, all of them seemed vivid personalities,’ Ian said.
‘“Vivid” is another appropriate term for all these lads.’
‘It was a privilege to tag along.’
‘Som
e I know better than others. But that’s only natural.’
‘Do you mean one or two actually hid their real personalities from you? You’re in the acting pursuit, so you’ll be used to people substituting another personality for their real one – that is, if any of us have a single real personality. Aren’t we all rather more protean than that?’
‘Malcolm, I have to tell you – in confidence, if you don’t mind – but Malcolm doesn’t always show proper respect for the rules,’ Skeeth replied. ‘For the law, in fact. That’s the other side of him, just as Jeffrey has his less obvious side, too.’
‘Why I said protean.’
‘Malc’s in useful touch with someone who’s in touch with someone, who’s in touch with someone else, who has the means of tying a vehicle’s registration number with unchallengeable accuracy to the owner’s name and address.’
‘Through police records?’ Crooked. So, it didn’t sound as though Malc was Jimmy Cagney or Novello or Attila the Hun.
‘Police records, yes, that line of country, I believe,’ Skeeth said, ‘but this is between us only. Malcolm is Malcolm.’
‘It’s wonderful you can be so categorical and definite. You see Malc as a sort of self-contained echo of himself, despite all we’ve been saying about human variousness.’
‘That kind of research into cop records is costly and takes a while. Payments required at each stage, cash only, of course, and not chicken feed. I don’t suppose I need to tell you where the expense falls. On yours truly. But it’s worth the outlay. How else would I get finally to chat with you? Anyway, the result is that, although I’m told Jeffrey and the others on the day knew you only as Ian, perhaps by design – I mean, yours, and you’re absolutely entitled to partial anonymity if that’s what you wanted – yes, although you were Ian and nothing more, Malcolm was able to take things further by passing the details of your Ford into this – I’m afraid it must be admitted – this rather illicit system. I don’t believe he meant harm. I hope you’re not offended. I’d hate you to feel you’ve been … well … I’d hate you to feel you’ve been victimized or callously exposed by illegal means.’
‘I have been, but you’d hate me to think so,’ Ian replied.
‘But Malcolm does like information, authenticated information. The fact that in this case the information was about you – your full particulars, of course – is almost a by-the-way matter. Simply, he has this thirst for data per, so to speak, se. A hobby, you could call it, an applied hobby. In many ways it’s an asset. Most ways. Considerably so. Some people are good at one thing, some at another. Information is Malcolm’s bag. Occasionally he will go rather too far in seeking to collect it. One has to concede that. There is a persistence to his work that may become obsessional. His motives can be misinterpreted – though I don’t say by you. Certainly not.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Of course, when Jeffrey told me your full name, as secured by Malcolm, I instantly recognized it from bylines in the Press, and, like all good journalists anxious for tip-offs, hints and whispers, you are in the telephone book, so we had a further guide to your address. You work for the Daily Mirror sometimes, don’t you? I’ve seen some of your reports there.’
‘Now and then.’
‘A tabloid and brash, but also with a very responsible, serious aspect. I love the Mirror.’ Suddenly, Skeeth went into acute excitement, or pretended to. It was as if he hoped to keep the conversation light and lulling and semi-rambling, so he could turn it gradually, imperceptibly, to what he wanted to know: the sort of technique Emily had suggested to Charteris for the Dill interview. ‘But, look, you’ve probably seen and even talked to “THE MAN THEY CAN’T GAG” – Peter Wilson himself, the paper’s sports writer, have you? That really must be something.’
‘Oh, yes. He’s easy to recognize at the office because anyone can see he hasn’t got a gag in.’
‘And Driberg – doesn’t he do some stuff for them occasionally, now the Express glory days are over? Such a distinguished commentator in his day. Rather promiscuous, I hear, and frank about it. He’s never given you trouble, has he?’
‘At the Mirror I’m known as “THE MAN THEY CAN’T SHAG”.’
‘Perhaps understandably it did perturb Jeffrey when he discovered you were a Press man. And Jeffrey perturbed and angry can be frightening. Extremely. His words to me were, “This bastard came pretending to be interested in rural sports and dogs, and all the time he’s a fucking journalist. At least a fucking journalist. He could be severe trouble.” This is verbatim. I can memorize lines as well as any actor. That “at least a fucking journalist” explains my “possibly more” gloss earlier. Jeff wondered what your purpose might be. And as this call would indicate, I suppose, I share that curiosity, would wish to ask you an explanation.’
‘Purpose?’
‘Your “underlying purpose” was how Jeff phrased it. He’s got a vocab, despite leaving school at fourteen. This would be an allusion to that duality we have been discussing. There is purpose – in its obvious, superficial meaning, namely badgers, and there is additionally and importantly a concealed aspect, such as the journalistic, and whatever else.’
‘Which whatever else?’
‘Yes, whatever else.’
‘You know him pretty well, do you?’ Ian replied. ‘I still find it perplexing when you’re from such different areas of life.’
‘He’s the kind who does look for underlying purposes,’ Skeeth said. ‘It’s his nature. Some people have only a surface concern for others’ purpose. But Jeff will always seek to unearth what underlying purpose lies beneath that surface purpose. He can’t be satisfied with appearances. This might be deemed a flair or, on the other hand, if disapproved of, a compulsive, objectionable invasive twitch.’
‘I simply had a great curiosity to see how the dogs worked in these conditions. Such a revelation!’
‘I told him it would be something of the sort – that you were probably a through-and-through terriers person and were keen to see the range of terrier activities. I had to try to allay his nervousness.’
‘Odd you should put it that way, because there have been occasions when an absolute stranger has come up to me and said, “I can tell from your face you must be a through-and-through terriers person.”’
Skeeth had a small laugh, the kind to indicate harmlessness and a wish for notional comradeship, as long as it led to some gain or gains for him. ‘Which terriers interest you most?’ he asked.
‘Jack Russells.’
‘Bonny, indomitable creatures. I’d have guessed these were your favourites.’
‘How? You couldn’t have read my face. We’ve never met.’
‘That’s a fact,’ Skeeth said.
‘The Patterdales are handsome,’ Ian replied.
‘I assured Jeff it would be this love of dogs that brought you into their company, but I have to tell you, Ian, he remained apprehensive. And he becomes difficult to cope with when he’s apprehensive. He can fall into extremism. He has great talents, but also this latent, unhelpful tendency. So I said I’d see if I could make contact and have a chat about things – see if I could sound out your thinking. I gather you first bumped into Jeff and others via a pub, correct me if I’m wrong, do.’
‘More the yard and car park of a pub.’
‘Its yard?’
‘I saw the dogs tethered there, and thought to myself, This looks promising. As anyone might have. I don’t claim this as in the slightest degree a unique reaction. Anyone interested in terrier breeds, that is.’
‘You just happened to be passing this country pub, out in the country – well, obviously a country pub would be in the country – you just happened to be passing, did you, when you saw the dogs?’
‘Luck, also known as serendipity.’
‘I take it you’d have been in the Ford when you spotted the dogs. You’d be gazing around on either side, but also, obviously, watching the road ahead, as a matter of safety?’
‘There they wer
e and quite noticeable, though not barking or fighting one another. Well behaved, like troops on a landing craft, keeping themselves in readiness for a fray. What one would expect from first-class terriers – confident their owners would return in due course, untether them and remove the group to a more terrier-like, active kind of situation. They’d know they had to save themselves for real conflict underground, not fool about squabbling or showing off. Yet there was nothing cowed or, as it were, hangdog about them. Dignified.’
‘What exactly made you think sight of the dogs was promising?’ Skeeth replied. ‘That’s how you described your reaction, I think. You declare anyone interested in terriers would have responded similarly, but I’m not so certain. This might be a flair special to yourself, but you are too unvain to regard it as such. You do not distinguish yourself from others, yet your – let’s call it affinity – yes, your affinity with these dogs in the yard – your immediate insight – does that: it does distinguish you from the majority.’
‘You wouldn’t ever see a covey of dogs like this in the yard of an urban pub. I can’t imagine it.’
‘Do you get into the country a great deal?’
‘It’s such a bracing change from London life, I always feel. Nature is so fulfilling.’
‘And noticing the dogs, you pounced on the chance?’
‘That would be a very apt description.’
‘This touched off something in you – the seemingly banal collection of dogs, yet, in your thinking, supremely meaningful? Or, perhaps “thinking” is not the word. This would be an instinctive response, rather than a methodically rational one.’
‘What might be called in religious lingo an epiphany, a revelation. These dogs took on a symbolic character for me. Does that sound pretentious, mystical? Sorry, if so. I can’t say whether all others would feel similarly. You could be correct on that. Country folk would possibly be quite used to such a sight and regard the dogs simply as … well, simply as dogs tied up in a yard while their owners have a pint. They might be sceptical about the attempt to give the experience overtones.’
‘Yes. But it’s like so much in life, isn’t it – an opportunity shows, such as your glimpse of the pub car park dogs, and one either takes it or sees it disappear, perhaps for ever. Had you gone back a day or two later there might have been no trace of the dogs.’
