by Bill James
Harpur did spot that the ACC must have decided it was about time to start torching Sir Matt’s silver-leaf grandeur. Iles’s words just now were mild, but blatantly piss-taking. The others in the room had clearly noticed this, also. Francis Garland and the two search officers looked deeply relieved. They exulted. The true, traditional Iles was once again on show – viciously polite, ruthless, ungovernable, for quite lengthy stretches more or less sane. Normality – Iles’s – was struggling to re-establish itself, like morale in a beaten army. For months, all the Force must have felt uneasy that he appeared pasteurized, neutered, under a new Chief. As one of its opening ploys, the current Upton regime seemed to have reduced and squeezed Iles into his restricted role as an Assistant Chief, and only an Assistant Chief. Or, as he would hiss-spit it, Assis . . . ssstant Chief. This would disturb people. It suggested life had become gravely unbalanced: that the organization here had developed a perilous tilt because Iles no longer supplied his time-tested, malign, stabilizing ballast.
But these anxieties could be buried now. He’d returned with a splendid array of fresh, poisonous trickery. He had begun to restore some of his patiently, meticulously crafted discord. Because of him, the local police scene suddenly reverted. It grew recognizable and coherent. It would conform to the beloved, awkward, pre-Sir Matt mishmash pattern. Did Upton realize what was happening, the poor, articulate, benighted, beknighted sod?
‘That is a phrase with scope, sir,’ Iles had said. ‘“Nature abhors a vacuum.”’
‘Well, certainly,’ Upton said. ‘Why it has survived, I expect.’
‘Timelessly useful,’ Iles said. ‘Nature’s not one of your here-today-gone-fishing-at-the-weekend items.’
Upton said: ‘But perhaps we shouldn’t get too preoccupied with a form of words. I want to consider how we—’
‘If we analyse that phrase, “Nature abhors a vacuum”, we come up with some fascinating results, I believe,’ Iles replied, joyfully steamrollering the Chief.
‘Yes, unquestionably,’ Upton said, ‘but—’
‘Not only fascinating in an academic, seminar sense, where ideas are kicked about for the very pleasure of kicking them about – to no practical purpose,’ Iles said. ‘We, it can be reasonably stated, are concerned with the application of these ideas.’
‘Indeed, yes,’ Upton said.
‘It’s why analysis of this particular idea is worthwhile, in my view,’ Iles said.
Upton said: ‘Yes, yes, but—’
‘I think that in the phrase “Nature abhors a vacuum”, Nature is put forward as something good, something lofty, impeccable, something inherently right, something setting fine standards. This is Nature in the Wordsworthian sense – Nature as a supreme, benign, godlike entity. Not Nature as in the unpleasant, dark phrase “Nature red in tooth and claw”.’
‘Absolutely,’ Upton said.
‘Good,’ Iles said. ‘And if I were to ask my four colleagues here, I’m sure they would agree, too. Is that not so, Col?’
‘Nature is quite a massive notion, true,’ Harpur replied. ‘Many’s the time I’ve become aware of that – just look at the Atlantic, or lice infestation, or Lord Heseltine’s arboretum.’
Iles began to tremble a little, producing a strobe effect from the silver buttons of his uniform. A fleck of saliva dropped to the table. It shone weakly there under the lights like a poor imitation diamond. Harpur, of course, recognized these signs, and he thought Francis Garland would, too. Harpur dredged hard in his brain for a distraction.
Iles talked direct to Upton. ‘Although new to this region, sir, you’ve probably got on the tom-toms that both Harpur and Garland here were banging my wife not so long ago, though at different times. Oh, definitely not during the same months. This I can assure you of. That would have been seedy, a simultaneous turn-and-turn-about arrangement. There was no what one might call overlap. But they will most probably have a different definition of “Nature” from the one you and I hold. They would consider they were only reacting to irresistible, endemic dong prompts from Nature when giving one on the quiet to a very senior officer’s wife. I don’t think, however, we need to follow them in that perverse and perverted reading of the term “Nature”.’
Upton said: ‘Desmond, please, these are concerns that you, you only—’
‘You’ll naturally wonder, sir, where this kind of activity took place. I have to tell you: certain known flophouses, public parks, cars, including police vehicles, and—’
‘“Nature” figures in many a tag,’ Harpur said, ‘such as “force of Nature” and “laws of Nature”.’
Iles abruptly came out of the flashback cuckold-fit, as was his style when forcefully interrupted – like someone emerging from a petit mal episode. ‘And then “abhors”,’ he said. ‘This is a mightily powerful word – beyond “hates” or “loathes” or “despises”.’
‘That’s so,’ Upton said.
‘Now, if we have something as good as Nature abhorring at full pitch a vacuum it must mean, mustn’t it, that there is nothing worse than a vacuum, or else Nature, a generally uncarping, even generous, old biddy, would not find it abhorrent?’
‘That might be a fair inference,’ Upton said.
Iles jumped: ‘Therefore, we must all agree, mustn’t we, that if drugs firms occupy that vacuum – thus, in fact, putting an end to the vacuum by their presence – this must be better than an absence of drugs firms, for such an absence will result in a vacuum, won’t it? That was the kind of commendable situation – the tenanted vacuum – yes, the kind of commendable situation we had while Manse Shale ran his business. Perhaps it will resume under Shale’s successor.’
‘But I wish to fill that vacuum by other means, Desmond,’ Upton had said from his head-of-the-table place, in a sweetly level, fuck-off-you-fartarsing-verbalizing-fool kind of tone.
‘With what, sir?’ Iles said.
‘With what in what sense?’ Upton replied.
‘“Fill that vacuum” with what?’ Iles said. ‘People selling sarsaparilla? Or giving out Bible tracts? Or recruiting youth for the war in Afghanistan? There will always be drugs, sir. It is better that the dealing should be confined within an area – the notional vacuum area, as it were – and expertly supervised by fine, though freewheeling, grossly libidinous, folk like Harpur here and Garland. Plus, of course, the Drugs Squad.’
‘You think Shale’s successor in the firm will bring stability?’ Upton said. He consulted a note. ‘Michael Redvers Arlington? You consider he can maintain peace and order? This is someone, as I’ve been told, Desmond, who from time to time believes he is the late General Franco and, wearing a tricorne hat bought from some military uniform shop, gets on the phone to today’s German Defence Ministry to request the bombing of the Basque town Guernica by Field Marshal Goering’s aircraft. “It’s General Franco calling.” I gather he can’t speak German or Spanish, so compromises with English. Delusions of grandeur would hint at schizophrenia or bipolar disorder.
‘As far as we know, he isn’t addicted to anything at present, so these mental troubles start from deep within, are integral, not merely prompted by come-and-go outside influences – say, H or crack. Perhaps the name of that road here, Valencia Esplanade, planted the Spanish idea in him, and it has stuck. Megalomania? Oh, I recognize that Bertrand Russell said although most lunatics suffered from this, many great men in history did, too. Maybe that’s the bet Shale is making. And you, also, think Arlington is one of the great men of the future, do you, not a part-time madman?’
Iles said: ‘Well, sir, we all have our little spells of—’
‘I hear he vows to throw his enemies over a cliff to avenge the Rightists killed like that at Ronda in the Spanish Civil War, at least according to Hemingway in For Whom the Bell Tolls.’
Iles said: ‘I suppose we’re all inclined to say things when excited that—’
‘But Arlington and the ruins of Mansel Shale’s firm are not my principal concerns at present,’ Upton said. ‘
I want the elimination of Ember as a trade master. Our two Enter-and-Search Officers with us today will give a survey now of the Low Pastures interior and the outbuildings. They will, of course, accompany you on any visit you make to Ember’s property.’
After their excitement at seeing Iles get back to being Iles, the pair of officers had slumped a bit in boredom when he went on about his wife and the parks, etcetera. Most headquarters staff had frequently witnessed and heard this kind of outburst from the ACC. Some enjoyed every further performance; others did not. Anyway, now the two perked up and on a conference easel showed flip-chart plans of the manor house and sketches of its grounds, stables and gardens.
‘Essential, as ever, in this kind of project that the search is swift,’ Upton said, ‘so that no destruction or concealment of evidence might be effected. But I hardly need to say this to people of your experience, Desmond, Colin, Francis.’
Iles said: ‘Ralph Ember is—’
‘I read in The Times that Stephenson, head of the Met, talking to the Police Foundation, estimates that only just over a tenth of the most prosperous organized criminal gangs in Britain are effectively countered by police,’ Upton replied. ‘Six hundred and sixty out of six thousand. I want us to be one of that six hundred and sixty. I want us to be in that tenth, and near the top of it, or actually first, Desmond, and I wouldn’t say we are at present. Would you?’
Iles said: ‘With someone like Ember we—’
‘Would you claim we are in that tenth, Desmond?’ Upton had asked.
Iles said: ‘What we have to remember with someone like Ralph Ember is—’
‘I certainly shall not presume to enter into the details of how this operation is to be conducted,’ Upton said. ‘But I thought it only wise and helpful to order up these drawings for our meeting today.’
In the lift, Iles said: ‘Col, this one isn’t a cunt, not like that cunt Mark Lane.’
The ACC prepared the Ember visit over the next few days. Now, as the team entered Low Pastures, he said: ‘Chief Inspector Francis Garland is in charge of this little excursion, Ralph. He is Gold command. Harpur and I are here as observers only. We considered someone of your standing required our attendance. Garland has his unsavoury side, but that shouldn’t affect things now.’
‘What are you looking for?’ Ember said.
‘Well, I’m glad you were here to open up for us,’ Iles replied. ‘This is a true, stout front door, as one would expect in a property of such character.’ He fingered it respectfully. ‘Wood at its most genuine and formidable, fashioned to keep out rabble and rioters, not some three-ply, curling-at-the-edges job. I don’t think our bold battering-ram would get anywhere, trying to knock this door flat, but we did bring it, just in case.’
‘If I knew what you’re looking for I might be able to help you,’ Ember said.
‘You’ve always tried to make things easier for us, Ralph,’ Iles said. ‘Don’t think that’s unrecognized, though some – some with power – misunderstand you.’ He sighed at the absurdity of this attitude, plus its cruelty at not recognizing Ralph’s virtues. ‘There are a few who regard R.W. Ember as a sliver of criminal shit. Nothing that I say can move them from this view, and, as you would expect of me, I speak plenty in your favour, with many references to your accomplishments – verifiable references.’
‘Oh God,’ Ember replied.
* * *
1 See Girls and previous titles
FIVE
Margaret Ember would normally half wake up when Ralph returned from his club at around three thirty a.m. and joined her in bed. Now, though, she came to with 4.16 on the illuminated night clock. Ralph was not beside her. At once she made herself fully alert and listened. She could hear no movement in the house. Perhaps he’d been delayed. Occasionally, that would happen. Special celebration parties for, say, a christening, or bail, might carry on past the usual two a.m. shutdown. Ralph could be flexible. He believed in social duty, and social obligations, even to the kind of society that used The Monty. Although he wanted to make the club different – classier, and, yes, distinguished – until it was classier, even distinguished, he would dutifully act as the host of how it was at present.
But his absence now fretted her, merged into that general uneasiness about the trade scene since Sandicott Terrace. On top of this, she’d always worried because Ralph loaded himself with the day’s takings and carried these alone to the club safe upstairs, or motored them to the out-of-hours bank strongbox. It was only a short trip, though long enough and well-known enough for trouble. She could still worry about Ralph as Ralph, not merely as someone who commanded a gang, and who might bring distress on the children and herself. He was her husband, had been her lover. From certain angles he did look gloriously like the young Charlton Heston, and she still felt tenderness for him, despite the sections of his life and thinking deliberately walled off from her. She believed that whatever he did or thought in those unreachable areas they would be intended for the benefit of her, Venetia and Fay.
But, of course, he might get that wrong, get it absolutely upside down: he could be delivering them into obvious major risk. She was aware of a customary, harsh dilemma swiftly taking her over again as she lay there seeking sleep: should she stick with Ralph because he loved them, wanted to protect them, brilliantly provide for them? Or should she and the girls put distance between themselves and him because he couldn’t help exposing them to big peril? He was Ralph Ember, business associate and possible competitor of Mansel Shale in the snort, smoke and needle vocation. Shale had apparently been selected for wipeout. It looked as though things went wrong and his wife and child took the bullets instead. This disaster could produce a lot of resentment and call for at least matching revenge; possibly, enhanced revenge. Honour might be involved: Sicily didn’t have a monopoly on vendettas. She knew some would regard the calamitously messed-up execution as typical of almost any operation Ralph tried to run. That would not cause enemies to go any easier with him and his, though. She wanted her daughters unhurt, alive.
Because segments of Ralph’s history, and of his present, remained hidden from her, she couldn’t tell whether the contempt for him held by some was fair – held by some males only: women warmed and swarmed to him. But Margaret didn’t want to be linked to an incompetent, a fool. Of course, everyone knew he had his absurd dreams for The Monty. She could put up with those. He believed, or pretended to, that given time he could turn the Shield Terrace haunt into something like one of those super-respectable London clubs, say the Athenaeum or Boodle’s.
He seemed greatly to like the Boodle’s idea because of the craziness of the name, and the fact that Churchill once belonged: this was the calibre of membership he would insist on for The Monty in its new form. Ralph had told her he wouldn’t take the Boodle’s title for his relaunched club – would probably be prevented by law from doing that – but he would aim for a pleasant, Boodle’s type atmosphere, except he’d let women in, which Boodle’s didn’t. His hopes were mad. But almost everybody cherished some impossible yearnings. They could help keep one hopeful and active. Kid boxers aimed to be Ali; male golfers would like to be Woods, especially on account of the girls. Recently, Margaret came across a saying by the famous American writer Mark Twain: ‘Don’t part with your illusions. When they are gone you may still exist, but you have ceased to live.’ Probably, Ralph knew how ridiculous his fancies for The Monty were, but he needed a grail to keep him positive. Nobody despised him for this kind of bonkers reverie. He’d look deeply and truly idiotic, though, if associated with a disastrous fault in the targeting of Manse Shale, and possibly other workaday faults, concealed from her. God, Ralph, how and when did you get to be such a mess?
Someone rang the front doorbell. It was a strong, urgent kind of ring. She thought: ‘Hell, something’s happened to dear Ralph. They’ve come to tell me face-to-face. Oh, Christ, how, but how, could I have planned to ditch Ben Hur?’ She swung out of bed, grabbed her dressing gown, and opened the doo
r on her way to answer. But then she heard what she recognized as Ralph’s footsteps, shoed, moving swiftly in response across the flagstoned hall. He glanced up to where she stood on the landing and with his hand spread gave a little wave. She took it to mean she shouldn’t panic: things were OK, and he’d see to any caller. She was terrified.
He seemed to have expected the visit; it must be why he wasn’t in bed. She tried a big whisper that she hoped would carry: ‘Ralph, don’t open the door. Who’s out there at this hour? Is this part of it?’ No time to define the ‘it’. She wasn’t supposed to know much about the ‘it’, anyway – it being the Sandicott murder spree. Was he armed?
He waved again, signalling: Relax, dear! El Cid can cope, though he didn’t actually say anything. His walk became almost a swagger. He opened up, no hesitation, no squint through the judas hole.
And no gunfire, thank God. She heard someone exclaim faux-fondly: ‘Ralph, here’s a treat!’ No, not just someone: she thought she recognized the voice of that insolent, egomaniac, eternally mystifying cop Assistant Chief Iles.
Ralph said: ‘I heard you’d be showing here at around this time today.’ And then there was another voice, apparently coming from behind Iles. She couldn’t make out these words. Iles began to speak in a foul, smarmy tone about the quality of the front-door wood and about searching Low Pastures.
She went back into her bedroom. If there was going to be a houseful of police, she’d better smarten up: important for her image as well as Ralph’s. Iles would notice any scruffiness, probably have a full-out giggle at it and expect his crawly troops to do the same.
She applied some swift improvements then went downstairs to stand with Ralph. Iles, in uniform, was still on the doorstep. Behind him she saw that other nuisance officer, Harpur, wearing plain clothes. And behind him the search people waited: a lot of search people.
