Hitmen I Have Known

by Bill James

  ‘Vengeance is a very tricky area,’ Jo said.

  Mil went to an open-topped box near the bar where they kept the colour option boards. He rummaged for a while and then picked one out. He replaced the board already on the easel with it. The new board was entirely different from the previous one. Instead of a wall section, this board displayed a graph made by a series of columns of different heights and in a range of shades. On the left upright was a series of escalating numbers climbing in units of five thousand.

  ‘A quick representation of our charges, Ralph,’ Jo said. ‘We obviously can’t label the columns in case of police curiosity one day, but I can give you an indication of what each stands for, and you can see for yourself how it’s priced by reading the figure on the upright. I have to stress that these are prices today. We cannot guarantee to hold them at that level if there are delays and changes in the general economic situation, for instance, possible inflationary pressures.’

  As she spoke she pointed to the appropriate parts of the diagram. ‘The fees range from the simplest, uncomplicated, single-shot death in a favourable location – the pale green column – to, say, a plural assignment in difficult surroundings and on the same date – this crimson column. In your case, Ralph, I think it’s the mauve here: a solo target, choice of location left to us, no tracing problem, you say, but a vengeance complication. Vengeance can mean there’s a lot of malevolence around. It can go on and on, sine die, tit-for-tat.’

  ‘Corny pun possible on die,’ Mil said.

  ‘Where vengeance is the theme, there’s likely to be uncontrolled spreading of retaliation, reciprocity in stage after stage, especially where there are big families concerned,’ Jo said. ‘We might get some of the peril ourselves if the job isn’t managed perfectly. So, we have to add a premium for vengeance. The short, turquoise column shows the premium. We’d be using our own equipment, of course, so I’d say we are talking about this point here on the upright: a charge of 30K. GB Pounds. We supply and use our own equipment, swear a gagging oath in case of arrest, all compris.’

  ‘Well, talk,’ Ralph replied.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  They did talk, though not for long. Ralph considered it would be disgracefully poor taste to spend time haggling over price. After all, this discussion concerned someone’s very life and how to snuff it out. Naunton Favard was toe jam, but, like any human, or near-human, he could be helped along to a more or less dignified death. The extremely respectable fee earmarked for his extinction would help eke such last-ditch dignity on to the former shit-stirring sod. OK, so no question he had a dead brother. But did he think he was the only one who’d suffered that kind of loss? Did he imagine his commonplace grief excused the terrible damage he’d caused to The Monty’s prestige interior, including abuse of a pool table leading to rib breakage? This was egomania. Wasn’t this perversion? Values? He wouldn’t know what the word meant.

  As a matter of fact, Ralph thought Mil would demand more than £30,000, and he’d brought £20,000 for the half down-payment. It was settled that Ralph would deliver the completion tranche within forty-eight hours of hearing Naunton Favard was officially dead. If Ralph wanted a progress report he could telephone, giving the name Sidney Engard Junior, and ask Jo or Mil whether the new consignment of William Morris wallpaper had arrived. That is, had Waistcoat been done?

  Ralph wasn’t totally comfortable with this coding because someone might ring genuinely wanting William Morris paper. Quite a few people went for all that greenery, tendrils and fronds. Once this paper was in place on the walls of a room, it would be like living inside a healthy bush. Some city people liked to hark back centuries to their rural ancestors, without actually becoming rural. OK, it might not be Sidney Engard Junior ringing, but there was room for confusion. After all, it wouldn’t actually be Sidney Engard Junior ringing if Ralph made a call. He thought the arrangements were becoming too complicated.

  Mil had said: ‘Make sure you add “Junior” to your Engard name. It’s a Yank touch, not something we use in this country, so no chance of error. Fortunately you’ve got a youthful voice. Ralph, a.k.a. Daddy Boy’s Sid.’

  Yes, Ralph would agree about his voice, one facet of a general, all-round youthfulness. He didn’t get the gamekeeper’s jacket recommended by Lance Staple, though he had followed Lance’s suggestion and gone for fifties. These he distributed in wads around his pockets without spoiling the expensive hang of his custom-made suit. He would hate to have bulges while on a delicate business mission.

  When unloading, he had to be subtle. He didn’t want Mil and Jo to see he had more with him than they’d asked for. Spontaneously, Jo might think up some new, special risk factor so he’d have to cough another hundred fifties. Ralph made a slow, very methodical handover, planting the packages one by one on the bar. God, how naff to have a bar in a jumped-up garden shed, but he needed this kind of solid platform for the instalment ritual.

  Of course, Mil and Jo might regard it as strange that he seemed to know in advance exactly how much they would charge. Or perhaps they’d feel impressed to be dealing with someone who had such brilliantly sharp intuition and accurate instincts. Ralph could believe he did give out that kind of considerable aura. This wasn’t something he had to work for. Auras were either there or not. In his case they were and he felt grateful. But it seemed to him that the methodical way he laid the money out for Mil and Jo – the plonking deliberateness – showed there was a nitty-gritty, workmanlike side to him as well as that other mysterious, almost-spiritual flair.

  They would be aware of a completeness in him. Although they did not know the detail of why Naunton Favard had to be seen off, they’d certainly understand that only someone very stupid would wilfully offend Ralph Ember. No doubt some of this respect was due to the Charlton Heston resemblance. That could produce a kind of awe in people he met, even if it was for a second, third or more time. But, leaving aside this glorious fluke, Ralph felt he had what could only be termed ‘a presence’, something that others quickly appreciated and which came from the very core of him, needing no assistance from Ben Hur or El Cid. Ralph felt that when he was in company, regardless of how large the group, everyone there would sense he was near because of this stunning power of ‘presence’. Ralph believed that even people in such a group who had not seen him face to face would be conscious of him nearby, so it could not be a matter of resemblance to Chuck Heston, it was his – Ralph’s – own influence. He never spoke of this extraordinary radiance. He was afraid it might sound like vanity to mention it.

  Mil and Ralph went back into the main shop, and Mil said in a voice for everyone to hear, ‘Those tints you’ve chosen will set each other off admirably in your home, sir. We will deliver Thursday a.m., in plenty of time for redecorating to commence on the Monday.’ He and Ralph shook hands in full view. Ralph was conscious of a special gravity: one of the fingers now clasped by his would be the one that pulled a trigger to finish Waistcoat. In Ralph’s opinion this created a remarkable bond, dedicated, temporary and half paid for. It went beyond and beyond again the recent phony merchandising chatter.

  Jo stayed behind in the pav, probably to count the money. Although that might seem distrustful and mercenary, Ralph did not blame her. He was a stranger to Jo and she knew nothing about his honesty, or its absence. Of course, she would notice the Charlton Heston likeness, but that didn’t really have much to do with business finance. She might need more time to build solid rapport with Ralph. But it did not mean Jo had no interest in sex, merely because she seemed so focused on accountancy. Ralph thought that when he brought the next payment, things might grow more relaxed, Waistcoat being dead, and he could try an approach, if he and Jo should be alone at some point. He thought it would be unkind to treat her as though she had no feelings outside her job. Ralph always recognized that there were undoubted obligations for someone with his extraordinary, flagrant appeal to women.

  As he walked back to his car, Ralph enjoyed the memory of Jo’s slightly irreg
ular and very white teeth, and neat, unobtrusive chin. At the same time, though, he tried to work out if he was being tailed. He didn’t turn to see who exactly was behind him, but twice in shop windows he noticed the reflection of a man in a beige lightweight jacket and jeans, perhaps thirty-five years old, mid-height, solidly made, dark hair thinning, thin dark beard.

  But this was a busy road with plenty of pedestrians, and some of those were also reflected in the glass walking after him. Ralph thought the man he singled out, though, appeared to keep a very constant space between him and Ralph, made no attempt to overtake when Ralph slowed to use a crossing and reach the multi-storey car park on the other side of the road. The summer jacket also crossed, keeping that same distance from Ralph and staying with him.

  Ralph decided to leave the car where it was for now. He passed the multi-storey, came to a café, went in and ordered a coffee. The jacket didn’t enter after him – had presumably continued on while Ralph was opening the café door, his back to the pavement. He took half an hour over the coffee. The man was not in sight when Ralph emerged. Had his imagination been working too hard? He collected his car and drove out of London and home. He reckoned he’d dealt with Mil and Jo fairly well, though there were bound to be some stresses, given the kind of topics they were concerned with. Had those stresses been more acute than he’d realized? Had they pushed his mind a bit off balance, made him feel vulnerable and – that disgusting, appalling sneer from the past – panicky?

  TWENTY-NINE

  Amy Rouse Zole and her pair of Home Office back-ups stayed overnight, and at the start of the morning meeting she said: ‘Ember?’

  Harpur thought the word came over as undoubtedly a question, not a statement, but offered no vocab either side to help with meaning. Harpur felt like it was like a voice crying out in the wilderness, a voice of someone knowing things were not right – such as being in a wilderness – but not able to say why or how, only to pipe up with a solo word in search of clarity. Where the fuck had context bolted to? So, one question hatched another, and together they produced nothing.

  ‘To do with Ralph?’ Harpur asked – making question three, and not much more than dud repetition; pathetic, really, giving her leadership of the moment: Please, please, please, tell me what you’re getting at, Amy.

  ‘What to do with Ralph?’ Iles said urgently. Four. Another plea. The assistant chief abominated evasive language, unless it was his own and required for a trap.

  ‘Olivia’s had an interesting email from the Department,’ Amy said. ‘They like to prove they never sleep. It’s about a murmur they’ve received from the police. Olivia’s in charge of info inflow for me, and Vince has done a polished decrypting job. I travel nowhere without them.’

  ‘Always at your distinguished service, Amy,’ Vince said.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Olivia said, ‘a privilege, indeed, the cause of much envy.’

  Harpur couldn’t work out whether any two of them, or all three, had slept together, but he thought he detected a different kind of relationship on show today. Olivia and Vince no longer played zombies. They seemed lively, more forceful, less flunky-like, even though they’d just gushed a stream of flattery – but joking?

  Apparently, they’d called at the local newspaper office and BBC regional headquarters yesterday afternoon to ask journalists familiar with the area whether they detected undercurrents of hate that might at any time produce further local violence. Harpur understood there’d been a mix of responses.

  He thought this fairly hopeless research, but Amy might feel they had to justify the cost of their trip somehow. She could write up these visits to the press as very useful, though they would retail only hacks’ indecisive guesswork. The minister wouldn’t be satisfied with their report, but at least there’d be a report. Harpur couldn’t see how Ralph would figure in it. Amy’s opener today – ‘Ember?’ – was a mystery. How did it tie in with the Department’s tip-off from the Metropolitan Police she’d mentioned?

  ‘We need to go back a little in time,’ Olivia said, ‘and widen the outlook.’ She was about twenty-three or less, mixed-race, Chinese-Brit, small-featured, bright-eyed, slim. She had brown hair worn very short and did some gesticulating, usually in tune with what she said. As far as Harpur could tell, her accent had nothing to do with China. They were around Iles’s conference table again. Occasionally she passed her palm over some of its surface in a series of slow semi-circular movements, as though hooked on the feel of wood.

  ‘We’re informed that the Met think a décor shop in north London, Kingsbury area, called Jo’s And Mil’s after the owners, might be a front for some other kind of trade and have it under continuous covert surveillance,’ she said. ‘Standard observation methods: a first-floor hired room opposite, parked vans and cars on shifts. Unfortunately, they haven’t been able to install a bug. Someone’s always on the premises. There’s a flat.

  ‘Customers can get genuine materials and colour displays, but probably there’s additional very private commerce. A garden shack gets some to-ing and fro-ing. The Met don’t want their operation compromised so won’t disclose what sort of business, but we can speculate, can’t we? Drugs wholesaling? Executioner contracts? Money laundering? Thieved jewellery or fine art and antiques disposal? They are very interested in callers at the shop – some of the callers, that is, of course. Obviously, the aim is to break up a network of whatever species it might be and get everyone in it sent down. It’s a long-term operation. They insist on keeping control.’

  ‘Are you telling us Ralph was there?’ Iles said.

  ‘Olivia is telling you that Ralph Wyverne Ember was there,’ Amy said, her voice flat and conclusive, killing off in advance any possible argument. ‘It’s why I made a question of his name: what was his purpose?’

  ‘But identification?’ Iles said. ‘How could there be identification?’ Harpur knew the ACC would do and say whatever he could to stop this cocky trio from getting ahead of him. He’d find this notion preposterous, especially on his home ground. Aheadness he loved.

  ‘Ralph had an early part of his career in London,’ Harpur said. ‘He might have been recognized. It was a long time ago, though. Seems unlikely.’

  ‘Detectives shop-watching tail some customers when they leave. Police want to smash the whole set-up,’ Olivia said. ‘There’s the shop and there’s the shop’s special contacts. These are needed for the eventual prosecution file. It’s all slightly random, though. They can’t gumshoe every customer. They pick possibles. Ember has a notably scarred face, I gather. It suggested to the officer in charge that this customer might have a shady background, so was worth sticking with for a time.’

  Vince read from a notepad. ‘The email says the police used one of their routine euphemisms for this figure – “a person of interest”.’

  ‘Some reckon Ember stumbled in the kitchen and fell against an open baked-beans can with the lid half up,’ Iles said.

  Olivia ignored him. ‘Ember is tracked and, after a tail-switch, leads to a multi-storey car park where he picks up his vehicle. The distance from the shop apparently helped convince police from the moment he was seen approaching that this customer needed looking into. He didn’t park nearer, perhaps, in case his car seemed associated with the shop.’

  ‘Did he know it might be into some sort of villainy?’ Iles asked.

  ‘Possibly,’ Olivia said. ‘The new tail can’t follow any further because he or she is on foot, but the police now have the registration number, make and model. Scotland Yard’s know-all computer provides the name and address of Ember. His particulars are then fed into another mighty computer which reveals that the Home Office is uncomfortably concerned about a shambles at The Monty club owned by someone of that name, possibly a symptom of general alarming tension over three unsolved murders, those of Raymond Cordovan Street, Clifford Jamieson – known as You-know-who, Paul Favard. The Yard have a word with the Department, give a summary of events, and our duty officer decides it’s something Amy
is currently involved with and should know about. The encrypted email arrives pre-breakfast. Vince moves in on it immediately.’

  ‘Any message for Amy has to be given priority, regardless of what else I might be engaged with,’ Vince said. ‘It is an obligation and a pleasure.’

  Harpur felt this unction might be another instance of jolly, deliberately overblown banter, but Iles didn’t seem to get it. That could happen with him: he expected most people to be unspeakable and so, if they acted unspeakable as a take-off, he didn’t see the difference between that and how they really were. He fixed his attention ferociously on Vince and on what Vince had said. For a couple of seconds the ACC looked as if disgust with the last couple of moments might have paralysed him. Once or twice before, Harpur had seen this kind of reaction in Iles when he was affronted by someone’s – what he called – ‘professional ooze package.’ The assistant chief’s soul-suffering would be exceptionally severe now because Vince was a code-breaker and should bring light and a true revelation, not the dismal lyrics of a run-of-the-mill bum-suck.

  Iles continued to stare at Vince for a time. The paralysis probably prevented adjustments. Harpur thought the ACC must be re-examining in his mind what he would regard as Vince’s sick drivel – that is, if Iles’s mind wasn’t paralysed, too.

  But then the ACC began gradually to loosen up. Maybe he’d decided that Vince was covered by one of the assistant chief’s favourite maxims, ‘Hell is other people,’ which he could do in French as well. Vince, tall skinny, middle-aged, long-craniumed, grey-moustached, had to be put up with. He was temporary and so were the other two. They could be short-term tolerated. That’s how Iles would see things. He’d soon be back to the areas and realms where he dominated/domineered. ‘Ember,’ he said, a pronouncement not a query. It sounded like a wipe-out of Amy’s shilly-shally with the name.