by Bill James
The pattern of the death scene was not easy to imagine, but ‘The Forgotten Murders’ had to attempt a tidy re-enactment. It seemed to assume that the two men had been surprised by the murderer, who was armed and kept them covered. One man was forced to tie the other into a chair and was then shot, and the man in the chair garrotted. Ralph had heard at the time that a piece of coal had been jammed into the mouth of one of the men, but this was not shown in the television adaptation. No faces appeared, with or without coal, in the concluding part of the television adaptation.
THIRTEEN
In the big sitting room of Harpur’s house, Sarah Iles bent forward from her chair, as if to get closer to the television screen and a better view, perhaps trying for a glimpse of some characters’ fronts and faces, not the back of their heads. She was looking, of course, for her husband’s stand-in; sure he would be here in this bit of theatre and praying that he hadn’t been in reality.
At the moment the screen showed a man apparently tied to a kitchen chair by his ankles and with his wrists bound together behind him. Another man stood near but then moved swiftly around to the rear. He was carrying an automatic pistol, and in the other hand a metre-long piece of thin rope or electricity cable and what looked like a broken-off segment of broom handle. The camera pulled away then stayed for half a minute on a third man. He wore a suit and lay face down and unmoving on the floor.
‘Oh God,’ Sarah said.
‘It’s only make-believe, Mrs Iles, like a play or movie, isn’t it, Dad?’ Hazel said. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘Absolutely,’ Harpur said.
‘Called faction,’ Denise said. ‘Very modish. A mixture of fact and fiction. Nobody really knows what went on, except the one or more than one who did it.’
‘He must have gone there with lengths of something to get him tied with and killed with,’ Sarah Iles said. ‘And that pole or stick – to get under the rope knotted around his neck and twist and twist. Blatant, awful intent. It was all schemed, like an … well, like an operation.’ These final words she spoke in not much more than a whisper. Harpur thought it was as though what she’d watched had wrecked her mind.
There was an advertising break during the programme and Harpur cut the sound by remote. Denise, who’d been sitting on the chesterfield with Hazel, stood and crossed the room to where Sarah Iles had a red leather easy chair. Denise knelt alongside it and took Sarah’s hand. ‘You’re still thinking of it as real, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘It’s not. You mustn’t get into a state. It’s something cooked up to excite and convince and hang on to an audience. It’s telly.’
‘But it’s accurate, isn’t it?’ Sarah said. ‘That’s how it was. The press said so at the time – a man tied to a chair and strangled, another man dead nearby.’ Harpur found her voice still weak, but she got the words out somehow.
Denise let go of Sarah’s hand, straightened and brought a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from her jeans pocket. She lit up and took a hard drag. Harpur knew this type of preliminary usually meant a few weighty words were on the way. ‘Yes, that stuff is accurate, the sort of framework,’ she said. ‘Basics only. But what’s upsetting you, Sarah – is it OK to call you that? – is the built-in suggestion that the man bringing the deaths is your husband, Desmond. It can’t say so, but the suggestion’s there, semaphoring itself to us like mad. And that’s all it is – a suggestion. And suggestions can’t be accurate because they’re not fact. Some writers do two ends to a story – to see which works best. It’s all variable.’
‘Denise studies all this sort of thing in university, Mrs Iles,’ Jill said, ‘such as what really is reality. That might seem an easy one to answer because reality has to have what is real to make it reality and what is real is usually there to be seen. But she told me that what’s known as theories exist about this kind of big thinking. Denise has to read the books of French tiptop scholars and follow their sharp way of seeing important matters and summing them up.
‘Often when Dad is sounding off with some of his ideas, if he’s been at Reader’s Digest, Denise will mutter a couple of words – sometimes in French, sometimes English – and it will prove everything Dad’s been saying for the last few hours is shaky. Dad doesn’t mind this because he loves her. Honestly, I’ve never seen him get ratty and/or spit when Denise made him seem half daft. It’s not just owing to great boobs. Deeper than that. He would never change Denise just because she knows awkward stuff from some of these Paris chew-the-cud gang over there, having a glass of red at a pavement café and discussing almighty topics with friends, such as the meaning of life, if it has one, and that kind of puzzler, while smoking Gitanes, just like Denise when she can get them.
‘Some of what they talk about and write about in their books can be useful. Mrs Iles, they don’t know you, of course, but their urgent, non-stop search for truth is about people everywhere. They help Denise see everything to do with this situation, so we’re very lucky, aren’t we?’
‘Really?’ Hazel said.
Denise went back to sit on the chesterfield.
Sarah Iles said: ‘Have they been able to persuade the television people, maybe bribe the television people, to put on that programme, Colin, knowing it will cause damage?’
‘Have who?’ Harpur said.
‘The crew wanting to destroy Desmond,’ she said.
‘Which crew?’ Harpur said.
‘He has enemies,’ she replied.
‘I should think all police have enemies,’ Denise said. ‘That’s part of the job. The higher the rank, the more enemies.’
The screen advertisements finished and the final part of the programme began. Harpur restored sound. The camera focused on the outside of the police headquarters building. The assistant chief appeared at the main entrance. He was in civilian clothes. An unmarked car drew up and he climbed into the back and was driven away.
‘Where was he going, Dad?’ Hazel said.
‘No idea. I wasn’t there when they filmed him.’
‘It’s symbolic,’ Denise said. ‘They want to hint he’s off to somewhere, anywhere, to get away from this case.’
‘Haze still frets about Desy,’ Jill said. ‘She doesn’t like to think of him out there in the world’s big emptiness, alone except for a police driver.’
‘Shut it, tadpole,’ Hazel replied.
Voiceover said: ‘Police still hope for progress in their hunt for possibly two killers. The investigation remains ongoing and new information is regularly added. However, relatives of the victims do not find it easy to accept these assurances. They would like the file closed, but not because the investigation has been abandoned, as they fear it might be. No, they long to hear the offenders have been caught, convicted, and locked up.’
‘I liked her,’ Denise said.
‘Good,’ Harpur replied. They were in bed. The house was dark. Sarah Iles had left and the children were in bed, too. Harpur had told Denise long ago about the affair with Sarah.
‘But it seems strange,’ Denise said.
‘What does?’ Harpur said. He thought he knew what, but it would be better if she said it.
‘She comes to ask a one-time lover to help safeguard her husband. Weird?’ Denise said.
‘Who else could she ask?’
‘And she finds her one-time lover with another lover,’ she replied.
‘You were kind to her,’ Harpur replied.
‘She looked distraught.’
‘Scared.’
‘Do you think Hazel and Jill realize?’
‘Realize what?’ Harpur said.
‘That there’d been something between you and her. You told me, but I don’t believe you’d have told them. They’re smart, though. Is that why Jill made the speech?’
‘Speech?’
‘About you wanting only me and it’s for more than my boobs. Also, you never spit even if I contradict you, because you love me.’
‘I do want only you.’
‘Good.’
‘I wa
nt only you at this moment, as a matter of fact,’ Harpur replied.
‘And as a matter fact I want only you at this moment,’ Denise said. ‘Do you think that would please Jill?’
‘I think she and Hazel take it for granted.’
‘Good.’
‘I would never take you for granted, though,’ Harpur replied.
‘Good. Just take me,’ Denise said. She stubbed out half a cigarette plus in the bedside ashtray.
FOURTEEN
The heart-breaking damage at the club he owned, The Monty in Shield Terrace, plus the bad injuries to some of the members and bar staff, brought a terrible confusion to Ralph Ember. He had always been vulnerable to brain-cringe in a crisis, which was why some called him Panicking Ralph, or, worse, Panicking Ralphy – neither of them to his face. Although he’d thought he had grown out of that weakness long ago, here it was again and at first he couldn’t see a way to fight it.
Dilemma. Oh, God, Ralph resented the mercilessness of facts, the jumble of demands on him: the club, the substances business, the family, the TV, the murders above all. If Iles was accused and put on trial, Ralph would feel bound to use his special influence to help him in all possible ways, and especially by very carefully worded, skilfully argued, sort of sincere, properly signed, letters to the prosecution, protesting the ACC’s innocence and all-round stalwartness. It was crucial to save Iles and his policies because he kept the city peaceful and safe, perfect conditions for happy trading in a full range of the commodities. Ralph did realize that this might sound selfish – as if all that mattered was his personal happiness. But, no, it wasn’t really like that. Ralph reckoned that if he had a contented, rewarding life, the whole city must be in a fine condition, too – peaceful and safe.
Suddenly, though, the city was not at all peaceful and safe: The Monty had been appallingly desecrated. Some even said the violence had been so large-scale it caused structural shifting. This was just the kind of deeply uncivilized incident he’d desperately struggled for months to avoid at The Monty. His well-known, grail-like plan to get the club up to the social and intellectual level of The Athenaeum, The Reform, or The Garrick in London would take a significant knock when news spread of that sickening, destructive shindig.
If someone in conversation mentioned his club, the response might be, ‘Oh, yes, The Monty, that’s the one where the woman’s rib-cage was smashed by an upended pool table one party evening, isn’t it? I think I’m right in saying it happened on the watch of ACC (Operations) Desmond Iles, aren’t I? She needed operations, but not his sort.’
Ralph could understand why panic had returned and hit him so ferociously. He detested Iles, but had been prepared to support him because he was good for tranquillity and sales. Was he though, now? Why should Ralph try to look after Iles if the ACC couldn’t see to his side of the arrangement? That was a neat bit of workaday logic, but it depressed Ralph. The city could not function properly without a dominant Iles.
But had Iles lost the knack or the will, or both, to dominate? Did Ralph have to look after himself and his club solo, unprotected? The idea unnerved him. Had his life and career been pleasantly safeguarded and smooth for so long that he had forgotten how to deal with major abrupt changes?
When he looked back on the grim events of that evening, Ralph realized that it had been an error to watch ‘The Forgotten Murders’ at home. Because of his absolute concentration on a single, stark aspect of things – the danger to Iles and therefore to vital and traditionally sheltered local commerce – he’d failed to see that ‘The Forgotten Murders’ programme might have a much wider effect than the demolition of ACC Iles. Ralph should have gone to the club for the viewing. He might have been able then to keep this evening’s tension from growing more and more threatening. Even if he’d stayed at Low Pastures for the broadcast, he should have driven to the club as soon as it ended. He had delayed, though, kept back by a wish to think over what he’d watched on the screen about the murders but also by a kind of smugness, stupidity and lust.
He knew he ought to have recognized much more vividly than he did that ‘The Forgotten Murders’ docu-drama was liable to inflame all sorts of venerable jealousies, hates, and enmities. Although the murders might be forgotten, these adjacent loathings were not. Yes, yes, Ralph knew strong dislikes probably existed among members of the Athenaeum and similar clubs, but they didn’t petrol-dowse one another’s jackets or hair and set them alight. Ralph believed there had to be acceptable standards. He regarded a club as like society in miniature, and any departure from order was liable to tumble into havoc. At The Monty that’s what the programme aftermath tumbled into – havoc. And at the centre of that havoc was the unmanageable, insistent question of Assistant Chief Constable (Operations) Desmond Iles.
Suppose this telly extravaganza did what it was obviously meant to do, provoke a new inquiry leading to murder charges against Iles. If Ralph’s calculated help for him was to be effective, Ember’s business and social status had to be generally recognized – recognized and respected. It would be difficult for this to work at optimum, though, if he became known as proprietor of a mucky drinking club that could slide into bloodstained, disgraceful anarchy without apparent cause or warning. How would a prosecution team be affected by a letter or letters from such a comically low-grade, guttersnipe source? Answer: hardly at all. He could imagine them in their farcical fucking wigs reading one of his letters and trying to guess what the W in his signature stood for. ‘Wanker?’ one of them might suggest, and they’d convulse from giggling. Saving Iles and consequently saving the current, splendid, cherished trading milieu, might be no longer possible.
Just before ‘The Forgotten Murders’ reached the final credits, and also before Ralph had known of any problems at the club, Margaret came back to watch the end of the show with him. She held his hand. This really pleased Ralph. It had hurt him when she left just after the programme began. That silly ‘I surrender’ gesture she’d made irritated him. After all, this programme could have a very rough impact on many lives, including the assistant chief’s and therefore hers, and Ralph’s and the children’s.
But, besides this, there came a more personal matter. He was someone with looks often compared by quite sensible, unflattering folk to those of a one-time top-billing Hollywood star. Ralph wasn’t used to being discarded by women. The reverse. They clustered around him. If there was going to be an earthquake, as in one of Chuck Heston’s films, Ralph was the type they’d want to be saved by from under wreckage – his vigorous, talented hands everywhere, ungloved.
He had a scar down one side of his face. This did not spoil the resemblance to Heston, though. In fact it seemed to fascinate many women, and they would finger the mark quite energetically, as though it could be prised open and give access to Ralph’s considerable inner being, so many fine, resolute impulses stored there on call. He wouldn’t consciously seek this kind of quaint attention, bordering sometimes, he thought, on idolatry, but if it happened he didn’t greatly mind. He felt he could not be blamed for the God-gift of his classic features, any more than a cheetah could be blamed for elegant, deadly speed in the hunt. Ralph’s view was that a face had only a limited spell at its best, and this should be given maximum use. Perhaps jealousy explained Iles’s childish malice. He couldn’t do much about that mountainous Adam’s apple. No wonder he liked scarves.
Margaret’s return and the hand-clasp had told Ralph a lot. She’d obviously begun to appreciate that her behaviour earlier had been cruel, flippant and insulting, absurdly the wrong attitude towards someone whose resemblance to the young Charlton Heston could be checked on a movie channel and never reasonably disputed. She probably knew she shouldn’t have made that kamarade signal. It suggested that he had her as part of a captive audience and wanted to force-feed her some TV tedium, whereas Ralph believed she longed to run gloriously free, like a fawn or Pekinese let off the lead.
Perhaps eventually she had worked out that Ralph would not be so tied to the te
lly unless what was being played out there had a crucial, possibly grave, meaning. She would know Ralph detested Iles. If she realized the programme was about him, though not named, she must sense something serious compelled Ralph to shelve personal aversion and learn what there was to learn about him.
Now and then, and particularly now, Ralph liked to make love to Margaret in the TV room, with the door locked in case the children tried to come in. Unlikely: they each had a bedroom telly over in the east wing of Low Pastures. It was crucial to Ralph that the television should be on while he and Margaret were enjoying each other. He saw this as a way of declaring their independence. It didn’t have to be a specific programme, just a programme. Ralph wanted to show their disregard for the clever people whose job was to make one programme glide easily into the next so watchers didn’t change channels or switch off. Ralph preferred having it off to switching it off. He had an identity to take care of – his. He’d make his own choices, thank you. He knew there had been shaky aspects of his character in the past and he had to put that right – provide an update.
‘The Forgotten Murders’ had finished and there was something else on now. Ralph didn’t bother to work out what it was – to do with health, probably; everyone had health, or didn’t have it, so TV loved camera shots of scalpels and heartbeat charts and billowy green surgical gowns.
On top of this, Ralph longed to show how much he appreciated Margaret’s decision to come back and sit so close to him, their fingers locked. He didn’t want Margaret to feel excluded from any part of his life, especially a part she probably didn’t totally understand – his obvious, compulsive concern for Iles. Ralph would prove even that could be put aside for her sake. He felt she deserved his generosity. He more than half regretted his rattiness when earlier she’d retreated from the room.
Ralph thought of himself as part of the large world outside, but she could be invited into it now and then. During his Foundation Year at the university he’d come across a poem by Thomas Hardy where he and his lover walked up a hill together. The hill had been there, of course, for millions of years. It was primeval. But the poet said the most brilliant event in this hill’s story was that those two hiked on it. Ralph thought this was very like Margaret and himself. There was a wide background to their lives, but they were special, unshakable, secure in it.
