by Bill James
The removal of Waverton was an important first move. It should lead to those bigger, cleansing events. Also, because Waverton was local, Matilda and her chums would be able to see that an effective revenge operation had been carried out on their, so to speak, doorstep. They would be entitled to regard that as closure. Matilda’s mind would benefit, for sure. She would no longer have to think of him as a useless, dishonourable twirp. But so much for the immediate present depended on thoughtful, paralysed Ralph.
FIFTEEN
This dread of being downgraded, even despised, by his daughter for failing to avenge Naomi and Laurent had become obsessive with Shale. Because she and he were the only ones left at the rectory his longing for her respect mounted, and for the approval needed to keep it. Children could be very harsh and unforgiving. He knew. He remembered this from when a child himself. One terrible notion dominated his thinking now. Did Matilda assume he felt secretly thankful to the gunman for blasting his wife and son instead of him; and assume also that having been spared once he would avoid further risk and play along meekly with things as they were? That line of pathetic reasoning would sicken Matilda. It sickened Shale. He’d never felt like that about Naomi and Laurent’s death, had he? For God’s sake, no, no, no.
Agonizing like this, he grew more and more convinced that Ralph would never act. The deaths-swap scheme might have to be dropped. Time, success, education had made the bugger soft, Shale decided. If Waverton was to be wiped out – and he was to be – Shale would possibly have to do it himself. To hell with go-nowhere parking lot observation sessions.
Word went to chosen people in the business about an all-night rave planned for the Binnacle, an abandoned hotel on the foreshore. Confidentiality was crucial or the police would seal off the site and stop the party before it started. But, obviously a rave needed good stuff as well as the so-called music, and Shale’s company had received the whisper.
Manse thought he could spot a chance here. He didn’t mean just a routine chance to trade, but a bigger issue, the biggest, in fact. Leadership. In Manse’s opinion this ability to see and grab a sudden opportunity was the main quality of true leadership. He’d come across the word ‘gravamen’ lately, indicating the very heart of a situation. Well, as gravamens went, this skill at glimpsing and using fresh ways forward was probably the most precious gravamen for a chief.
Of course, Manse would admit that now and then this type of gravamen could lead a supremo into disaster. ‘Fuhrer’ was the German term for leader and, obviously, Hitler’s gravamen turned out catastrophic, when he decided the time could not be more right for an attack on Russia during World War Two. All the same, usually that gravamen operated well; often very, very well. He would send a dealer unit to the Binnacle, yes, and he’d put Waverton in charge.
It wasn’t the kind of crude scrum Manse normally attended personally but he thought this one might offer fine conditions for doing Waverton and getting clear. There’d be hundreds of kids present, in the building and spilling out into the hotel grounds, most of them dazed by the din and dosage, too intent on the merrymaking to notice very much of what went on around them. He would make a concealed approach; get into some dark clothes. He could drive to a spot a short way down the coast and walk back on the beach towards the hotel, then wait out of sight.
Waverton might emerge from the shindig to take a piss; obviously, the Binnacle’s toilets wouldn’t be working. Or he could have copped-on with some crack-happy, shag-happy girl customer and led her away for some privacy. Admittedly, that might make things a little more difficult for Shale. A double-handed shooting accuracy stance would be needed. He’d take a 9mm automatic. He was reasonably efficient with this model and used it regularly for target practice. It worried him that a girl might suddenly find herself blood-soaked and snuggled up to a deado. He hoped he could get Waverton alone, but he wouldn’t let consideration for the girl spoil what might be a perfect, delayed moment otherwise.
At home in the rectory, Manse hummed to himself an old song, ‘Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside.’
SIXTEEN
Ralph Ember heard about an up-coming rave the next day, or rather night, at the one-time chic coastal hotel and restaurant, the Binnacle, closed and empty for a long while now and well on its way to dereliction. Ralph always received a tip-off when this kind of event was planned, so he could send some pushers with a range of quality gear. Manse Shale’s firm got an invitation, too. It wasn’t the type of party Ember would usually manage on the spot himself, but he did think he might take a discreet look on this one-off occasion.
He decided he’d shoulder-holster his 8-round Walther pistol for the trip. It was a gun with no history, except for the original purchase. It had never been used other than in target practice. He’d thought his gun-carrying days had gone. He kept the Walther as a safeguard only. He liked its feeling of balance and solidity, and hadn’t bothered with any of the pistols offered by Shale. There were weapons by Smith and Wesson and Heckler and Koch that he admired almost as much, but lately he had gone for the Walther. Naturally, he’d get rid of it immediately afterwards if he killed with the Walther at the rave. Getting rid of a pistol was not all that easy, but a couple of headlands always had a good water depth even at low tide, and the Walther might end up on the sea bottom there. Possibly he’d give an S. and W. or an H. and K. a turn as replacement. Although Ralph had a definite fondness for Walthers he didn’t award them exclusive status and behave as if he had to have a Walther or nothing. Ralph would regard that as absurd.
He found the hotel on his ordnance survey map and saw it could be approached from the rear over a couple of fields. It would be dark, but he’d take a torch as well as the Walther and an approach shouldn’t be difficult. He’d leave his car a fair distance from the Binnacle and walk, then lie low somewhere and watch. The rave organizers would have brought a lighting system, and Ralph thought he might get some luck and spot Waverton clear of the crowd. He would need a piss, or he might have picked up a girl.
Ember felt confused at the way his attitude to the Waverton assassination programme had swung about recently. He could present himself with a list of the arguments against the ‘strangers’ plan, and they might for a while convince him that the scheme was mad and should be put to sleep. He’d remind himself that Manse Shale’s supposed evidence against Waverton amounted to hardly anything. And Ralph thought of the terrible impact Waverton’s death would have on Rose, his wife, and their child, Olive. Wasn’t Ralph himself a family man? If women hadn’t been so excited and pushy because of his looks, Ralph reckoned he would have been totally faithful to Margaret. He didn’t think she would accept his arguments that episodes with other women were really only a kind of politeness towards them, a sort of kindly duty, an obligation. Always he came back to the family.
Although he could rehearse these exceptionally logical and humane objections to the slay plan, ultimately Ralph found he had to ignore them. He still felt nudged, and more than nudged, towards a part in Shale’s cleansing scheme. There was one extremely crux point about Ralph Ember: nothing could motivate him more powerfully than the need to prove – to himself, and perhaps to others – that those filthy fucking nicknames, Panicking Ralph and – above all – Panicking Ralphy were undeserved and slanderously evil. Continually he looked for ways to nullify those outrageous smears.1 To have agreed to Manse Shale’s proposal and then to wriggle out looked, didn’t it … looked like panic? He could think of the withdrawal as logical and humane, but that’s not how Manse would see it, nor the people he told. ‘Typical Ralphy,’ they’d think and say. ‘Ralph Ember to a T.’ ‘Yellow.’ ‘Craven.’ ‘All blowsy talk.’ ‘Scaredy cat.’ ‘Chicken.’
He would not bring all that shit upon himself. He meant to escape from the slur and lies. He must grab this chance. To have spotted it was the result of genuine, even unique, leadership flair. Now, he must go that next distance and produce action from this flair. What seemed to Ralph very feasible was a well-concealed sp
ot at the Binnacle tomorrow night, a sighting of Waverton, preferably alone, but not necessarily, and the sudden, thought-free, irresistible impulse to pull out the Walther and give him three or four bullets in the chest and head. If he was with a girl, Ralph would try everything to avoid hurting her but he wouldn’t – mustn’t – let that prevent the required strike on Waverton. Some might maintain that any girl who went with the traitor Waverton should not expect a guarantee of safety, anyway. If she were injured or killed it could be regarded as collateral damage. Ralph would not take that line himself: too savage. But he would have a priority and nothing should interfere with it. Sod logic. Sod humaneness. As he helped out at the Monty bar he hummed an old popular song, ‘It’s a lovely day tomorrow.’
SEVENTEEN
Manse Shale, crouched behind rocks on the beach in front of the Binnacle, heard and saw a string of police cars, sirens blaring, blue lights flashing, arrive in a rush at the hotel’s main entrance and a dozen officers pile out, some uniformed, some not, and dash into the building. A fire engine appeared soon after and ambulances.
Christ, Shale thought, has Ralphy actually done him at last? This had become no place to be. Manse got clear and started the hurried walk back to his car.
EIGHTEEN
Ralph Ember, under a hedge at the side of the Binnacle heard and saw a string of police cars, sirens blaring, blue lights flashing, drive fast to the hotel’s main entrance. About a dozen uniformed and plain-clothes officers rushed into the hotel. A fire engine also appeared and ambulances.
My God, Ralph thought, has Manse lost patience and shot Waverton? This was not a good place to be. Ralph got clear and began the walk back quickly over the fields to his car.
NINETEEN
A death. The headquarters control room had a short collection of names given them by Harpur. If any one or more of these were involved in a police-attended incident, no matter how seemingly slight, he must be told at once. The flagged names were: Ralph W. Ember, of Low Pastures and the Monty social club, 11 Shield Terrace; Manse Shale, of the former St James’s rectory; Jack Lamb, of the manor house, Darien; and, only recently added, Rose and Frank Waverton of Viaduct Avenue. Denise Prior of 126 Arthur Street and Jonson—, without an ‘h’ – Court, University Campus, did not appear, though, taking into account this death, Harpur thought perhaps she should have been included.
It was Frank Waverton’s name that triggered the control room call. This came just after two thirty a.m. Harpur was at home, sleeping alone. Well, of course, bloody well sleeping alone. This could occur sometimes and especially in a university vacation when Denise would go back to Stafford to see her parents; but now was not a vacation period, in fact. He got up at once and dressed, including collar and tie. If you were going into the presence of a corpse you ought to look respectfully tidy. The bell or Harpur’s grunted replies must have awoken the girls and they both emerged on to the landing.
Hazel said, ‘The phone rang and rang, Dad, obviously important. I’d thought of coming in to wake you up.’
‘Me, too,’ Jill said.
‘I was asleep,’ Harpur replied. Although not 100 per cent conscious yet, he recognized the inane obviousness of this answer: his daughters wouldn’t have contemplated trying to wake him up if he hadn’t been asleep.
‘Do you sleep deeper when Denise is not in there with you, “co-habiting”, a word I saw in the press?’ Jill asked.
‘That’s an improper question for a girl to ask a father about his lover,’ Hazel snarled.
‘Why?’ Jill said.
‘You’re referring to intimacies,’ Hazel replied, ‘not outright, but that’s what’s behind it. We all know that “sleeping together” is a euphemism.’
‘A what?’ Jill said.
‘A milder, less blunt way of saying something,’ Hazel replied. ‘“Sleeping together,” means having it off and “having it off” is a euphemism itself. “Sleeping together” equals not sleeping for some of the time. People are scared of words and keep searching for vaguer and vaguer phrases to take the sting out.’
‘Well, under the duvet together without many clothes on is bound to be intimate, isn’t it?’ Jill said. ‘This isn’t strangers in a bed.’
‘Oh, so clever!’ Hazel said. ‘OK, beds are intimate, but there’s no reason to mention it in that crude way,’ Hazel said.
‘Which crude way?’ Jill said.
‘That way, the way you did,’ Hazel said. ‘Suggesting her constant, fierce demands made him lose sleep.’
‘Well, she’s young,’ Jill said. ‘At the university she studies French books and poems about passion, referred to as “amour”, meaning love.’
‘Really?’ Hazel replied.
‘The French are well known for writing about unusual, turn-on sex in many different positions long before the Shades of Grey book here. That’s why one of the positions is called soixante-neuf. French. It’s not saying there are sixty-nine positions but sixty-nine is the way the bodies are lying alongside each other. Denise’s got a lot of youthful strength mixed with this juicy, horny literature. This is quite a – as some might call it – “cocktail”. Maybe that’s one of the things Dad loves her for. She smokes but, being only nineteen, it hasn’t made her wheezy and full of phlegm yet. And she does lacrosse, requiring good lungs and suppleness of the physical frame to catch the ball in the stick-net from all angles and then re-fling – this suppleness very useful for the many positions in them euphemisms.’
‘Those,’ Harpur said.
‘Perhaps,’ Hazel said. ‘But some delicacy, some tact, are needed in considering Denise’s coitus power and contortions flair. It’s not like discussing breakfast.’
No. It wasn’t. Harpur wondered what an outsider would make of it if watching the three of them at this chewy, small-hours confab under the pale light of the landing’s long-life, economy bulb. He thought that one of those old-time artists who liked shadows and very concentrated, serious faces could make a forceful picture of it, called, say, Conversation At Night.
Hazel was wearing black pyjamas decorated with crimson broad arrows and the turquoise capital letters caption ALCATRAZ ROCK. Jill had on a long grey-blue T-shirt with another all-capitals, US message: SONNY LISTON, MUCH MISUNDERSTOOD, which she’d bought through the boxing souvenir company, F.M. Erra, on eBay.
‘Anyway, Dad, was it Denise saying on the phone that she’d be coming over although so late?’ she asked.
‘Why would he be dressed to go out if she was coming here?’ Hazel snapped.
‘She’s got her key, hasn’t she?’ Jill said. ‘She could go to bed. He would love to find her there when he returned.’
‘No, not Denise,’ Harpur said. ‘She was doing something else tonight.’
‘What something else?’ Jill replied.
‘A student event, I believe,’ Harpur said.
‘What student event?’ Jill said. ‘How can you sleep so deep if you know she’s “doing something else?” Don’t you understand what these student “events” are like? The students at these “events” I can assure you they don’t drink milkshakes.’
‘That’s a quote,’ Hazel said. ‘Fargo. The father-in-law.’
‘“Student event,”’ Jill repeated. She hissed these lifted words, to suggest Harpur might be half daft and goofily naïve. His daughters did accuse him of naïveté now and then. ‘I hate that word,’ she said.
‘Which?’ Hazel replied ‘Student?’
‘Lover,’ Jill said.
‘Why?’ Hazel asked.
‘It sounds so unreliable,’ Jill said.
‘What does that mean?’ Hazel asked.
‘It means unreliable,’ Jill said. ‘As if it won’t last. Switch on, switch off. In a TV play about things in the past there was an old sad song, “Lover Come Back To Me”. Not a chance, though. An “aching heart” gets mentioned, but it will have to go on aching – until another lover turns up, that is.’
‘I heard there’s a rave in an abandoned hotel,’ Hazel sa
id. ‘Denise there?’
‘Tonight?’ Harpur said.
‘It’s on social media, coded,’ Hazel said.
‘Dad doesn’t do raves,’ Jill replied. ‘He’a a detective chief super. Raves are chief inspector and below.’
‘It depends what happens at the rave,’ Hazel said.
‘All sorts of things happen at student raves, yeah,’ Jill replied. ‘That’s what I’ve just been telling Dad as regards Denise at a rave. But the kind of things that happen don’t need the police.’
‘Get some more kip now,’ Harpur said.
Yes, it depended on what happened at the rave. The control room call had been about Waverton at the Binnacle and what had happened. A death. Even without the Waverton cue Harpur would probably still have got the call.
The Binnacle Hotel – ex-hotel, latterly restaurant only, even more latterly, a wreck – overlooked the sea in a small bay not far from the concrete defence post left from the war where Harpur and Jack Lamb occasionally met at night, in what they hoped was secret, when Jack had something confidential and perhaps explosive to tell Harpur. Jack would generally arrive in army surplus gear as if he thought a warlike appearance would fight off at least some of the shame attached to informing. Lamb would never take money for tip-offs, but as quid pro quo, Harpur didn’t look too invasively into Jack’s fine art business.
The hotel should have done well, and it had for a time. I know this quiet, tucked-away, amazingly gourmet-friendly hidey-hole on the peninsula, not cheap but one is paying for true quality so can’t object. Please don’t blab about its location. Bidet in every room and Sky Sport. A sand and pebble beach lay in front with a view of two uninhabited islands, Nivot and Lesser Nivot, and the waves. While it was family-run and family-owned both sides of the business – accommodation and eatery – did OK-plus, despite the package-tour competition.
