by Bill James
Iles said: ‘Your clothes inevitably suffered blood staining, Gerald, through contact with Mallen. I hope you were reimbursed for cleaning costs.’
‘Fine,’ Gerald said. ‘Only jeans and a donkey-jacket. My shopping gear.’
‘Good. On the other hand, a badly marked suit can be a real problem, especially if poor quality. Oh, yes, I’m afraid there’s no shortage of quaint suits around. The mud has to be removed, certainly, but will such a ramshackle outfit stand up to getting tumbled and pummelled at the cleaner’s? That’s so, isn’t it, Harpur - the anxiety?’
‘About what, sir?’ he said.
‘Misshapen suits can come out even more misshapen,’ Iles replied, ‘shoulder pads gone knobbly.’
‘But Gerald told us he wasn’t wearing a suit at the time,’ Harpur said.
‘I’m making a general point,’ Iles said, ‘re: crap suits going from awful to very much worse.’
‘General points are not my area, sir. They’re too . . . too, well, is “general” the word I’m after? But I do recognize muddy suits generally are quite a topic for general discussion,’ Harpur replied. ‘It’s a side of things I must catch up on - one of my blank spots.’
‘You didn’t notice an uncapped Biro among the detritus on the ground when you were down so close to Mallen, did you, Gerald?’ Iles replied, in a smooth, sing-songy sort of friendly, hate-hiding voice. This tone usually indicated some kind of smart-arse shock was en route from the ACC. So, yes, he’d seen the pen as dagger on its way to or from him, or both.’
‘Biro?’ Gerald said.
Harpur noticed Jane swing another gaze over towards the pierced cheek. She was a tall, lean, shrewd-looking woman, long-faced, with brown eyes, hair fair-to-mousy with some grey over the ears. To Harpur she looked the sort who could make the connection between a hole in someone’s face and a former working Biro. He would trust his own estimate of her rather than follow Iles’s teaching and look for clues to her personality in the cormorant.
‘Traces of green ink on the pen,’ Iles replied.
‘Some people like to brighten up their writing,’ Harpur said. ‘The content might be dull, so they go for vivid, vitalizing ink, like bright wrapping paper around a dud pressie.’
‘That’s another of Col’s phrases, you see - “vivid, vitalizing ink”,’ Iles said. ‘It’s quite impromptu, yet his schooling was pathetic. The alliteration and vowel music are entirely of his own make, uncribbed. He’s what’s known as an autodidact, meaning he looked after his own education. Unfortunately, he isn’t satisfied with autodickacts, meaning keeping it to himself, self-pleasuring.’
Although viewing Iles’s injury obviously unsettled Jane and Gerald, it seemed to Harpur reasonably OK now: clean and dry at the centre of the bruising, with small furls and fronds of ruptured skin around its rim, like a springtime campion flowering pink in black soil. The Biro obviously had a very considerable rarity among Biros as species. Throughout the whole country there surely wouldn’t be many of them that a senior police officer, lying in rough terrain to rehash a murder, had used on an Assistant Chief Constable’s cheek bone, to stop the ACC strangling him in a vendetta convulsion away from home.
Iles had seemed to need the elementary, though understandable satisfaction - even joy - from getting his fingers terminally around Harpur’s windpipe. He’d had the loaded Walther in his pocket but didn’t draw it, to scare or use. He must have wanted the intimacy of flesh on flesh, to parallel the behaviour of Harpur and Sarah Iles, in fourth-rate rooming joints and so on, that her husband aimed to avenge. In any case, bullets could be matched to that pistol, which was booked out in Iles’s name. It would be flagrant. Did he have the Walther aboard now as they talked to Jane and Gerald?
Gerald had obviously been thinking about Iles’s last question. He repeated the query. ‘Biro? Near the body? There was all sorts of small-scale trash on and in the soil,’ he said. ‘Is it important?’
‘It came to Detective Chief Superintendent Harpur’s - that is, Col’s; he allows the familiarity - yes, it came to Col’s knowledge,’ Iles said. ‘Don’t ask me how. He has avenues. Someone phones him and whispers “Biro” or “pen”, then cuts the call, but it’s enough to get Col’s brain going. Oh, yes, there’s a kind of brain there. I’m not sure whether he’d consider the Biro important.’
‘Important in what sense, sir?’ Harpur said.
‘Yes, important,’ Iles replied.
Harpur said, ‘Well, a building site: when it was still active, brickies, plumbers, surveyors, roofers moving about all day, so we should expect such thrown-away items. Perhaps a ring-pull from a can, shreds of an old newspaper - that sort of thing. Higgledy-piggledy.’
‘Very true,’ Iles said. ‘Possibly a sample in miniature of our disordered civilization, if it deserves that term.’
‘Which, sir?’ Harpur said.
‘Which what, Col?’
‘Which term?’
‘Civilization,’ Iles said.
‘This is a theme of yours, sir - the withering of standards, then looming chaos. The Biro has touched it off,’ Harpur said, ‘to its credit.’
‘Anyway, let’s get back to the established path, the beaten track,’ Iles said. ‘I know Colin believes we should be focusing our thoughts on that by-way over the Elms site.’
Of course, it was the Assistant Chief who’d first emphasized its possible relevance. Iles did this sometimes - credit Harpur with one of the ACC’s ideas, as though Iles himself would regard it as vulgar and pushy to tout for possible praise, possible recognition: what he called ‘tuft-hunting’. He didn’t require praise, thank you very much, you condescending sod. He knew his value. He despised most people, anyway, and would regard their praise as worthless, and possibly presumptuous. He didn’t require recognition from others, thank you very much, you kowtowing creep. He recognized his genius. His mother had helped with that. Harpur had no idea what the hunted tufts were, but, whatever they might be, Iles didn’t want one. Tufts were a no-no. He hunted crooks. Nobody did it better.
‘Plainly, Mallen was not on that beaten track,’ Iles said. ‘Many metres off course. The question Col would ask is, how come Mallen went so far adrift - so far off the most direct, quickest route from Ritson to Guild Square? We were told he’d been called by mobile to an urgent rendezvous in the Square. Why had he wandered off like that, apparently chosen such a devious approach?’
‘Of course, there was no urgent rendezvous for him in the Square,’ Gerald said.
‘But Mallen didn’t know this at the time, did he - or ever, come to that?’ Iles said. ‘The supposed rendezvous was part of a plot to get him on to ground where he could be efficiently and secretly executed, a proven spy.’
‘On to the Elms, yes,’ Gerald said. He and Jane were both in their early thirties, Gerald about as tall as Jane, more heavily made, with ruthlessly cropped fair hair, and a boyish, confused look on his face most of the time. That might not be permanent. Iles often had this effect on people, whether they appeared boyish or otherwise. Harpur had never heard anyone actually ask, ‘God, is he real?’ about Iles, but he thought plenty would like to.
‘Not simply on to the Elms, was it, though, Gerald?’ the ACC said.
‘Oh, I see the point you’re making, Mr Iles,’ Jane said, a kind of awe at his cleverness in her tone.
‘Yes?’ Gerald said. His mixed-up-kid face became more mixed-up. He obviously didn’t like being corrected by Iles, nor getting left behind by Jane. He had a middling-to-big job in IT.
‘What Col has observed, in his acute style, is that Mallen had to be steered away from the usual track so he would enter the pot-shot precinct in front of the property that might one day be number fourteen Davant Road; in front of this property and specifically and exclusively this property,’ Iles said. ‘Elms, yes, but here, exactly, on Elms. Number fourteen Davant had a dedicated function that night - turret. The gunman was already installed upstairs there and prepared. But he could act only if Parry/Mallen o
ccupied the ambush zone - a very limited zone. Accurate pistol shooting is not easy, not even for a skilled marksman. He needed Parry/Mallen to present himself as target in a very precise and predictable spot. There might have been rehearsals. They’d certainly have to come over to Elms pre-op and sort out the right incomplete house for their gunman - one with the staircase, manageable locks, and a bedroom window that gave a view of the appointed slab of terrain: from a view to a death.
‘Of course, the house they picked would determine which was the appointed slab of terrain. Maybe one of them had done a previous, preparatory stroll through Elms towards number forteen, pretending to be Parry/Mallen, so the lad in the house could check angles and range. Then, fine, it’s all set up - or as much as it could be without Parry/Mallen actually included yet. But, these are perfectionists. The stand-in victim is told to make the approach just once more, double or treble checking. And what if he has a Biro in his pocket, the top section long lost, and puts it on the floor as a marker for the re-run or re-re-run? Instruction to himself: “Get to the Biro, get mock-hit, get mock-dead, get an Oscar.” There’d be enough moonlight for it to be seen - maybe even for it to glint a little, like a navigation buoy.
‘Naturally, when Tom Parry/Mallen came that way on the actual slaughter night, he wouldn’t know he should seek out the exactly right bit of ground. But our pal with the gun does know which is the exactly right bit of ground and, having this as reference point, can adjust his aim and angle to suit any slight variation. Thorough planning and timetabling had gone into this termination project, this cleansing-of-the-firm project, but it did require some cooperation from Parry/Mallen - unconscious cooperation, obviously. He has to be in what Harpur would probably call “the right ballpark”.’ Iles sat back in his chair and drank a little tea. Then he said, as though deferentially: ‘I believe that’s a fair summary of your thinking, isn’t it, Col?’
‘Along those lines, yes,’ Harpur said. He felt a kind of buddiness with the supposed gang member who, before him, might have done what Harpur had done last night - acted as Parry/Mallen on his appointed way to destruction. And had the sniper launched some Iles-type shoot-bang-fire pop sounds to imitate the blasts due for Parry/Mallen soon? Perhaps this Parry/Mallen replica keeled over as if twice struck in key regions, the way Harpur did later. The 14 Davant corner of Elms could figure as a training base for the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, or a commando unit.
‘We’re going at matters arse-backwards,’ Iles said.
‘In which respect, sir?’ Harpur replied.
‘We’ve placed Jane and Gerald in front of the house, attending to Tom Mallen on or near the special location. But we haven’t worked out why Tom left the normal path - the path Jane and Gerald had been following until she saw the chucked garments that turned out to be Mallen - left the normal path and drifted over towards fourteen, a drift of forty metres.’
‘You’re right, Mr Iles,’ Jane said.
Gerald edged his way into things. Getting talked down to by cops in his own living room might badly piss him off. The conversation had gone away from him. He seemed to resent the enthusiastic way Jane agreed with the Assistant Chief. She said, ‘You’re right, Mr Iles,’ as though it meant, ‘You’re always right, Mr Iles.’ This was, though, the type of accolade the Assistant Chief might dismiss as stupidly redundant. He already knew himself to be always right, and expected others to know it, too; know this as so plainly a feature of the ACC that to hail it like a discovery was offensive, a kind of impertinence.
Gerald said: ‘Excuse me, Mr Iles, but one is bound to notice that on the left side of your face you appear to have sustained—’
‘The Assistant Chief is very hands-on,’ Harpur said. ‘Some of us try to get him to take fewer front-line risks, but he’s not made that way. For him, leadership is leadership. I heard that in a previous posting he was known as “Audacious Desmond”.’
‘No mere backroom pen-pusher?’ Jane replied. ‘Though some do say the pen is mightier than the sword.’
‘A pen can give a nasty dig when pushed,’ Iles said.
Gerald said: ‘Your injury, Mr Iles, is one that—’
‘If there’s trouble, the ACC is as likely to be personally involved as any of his people,’ Harpur said.
‘But you - you’re one of his people,’ Gerald said. ‘You’re not injured.’
‘I could show you,’ Harpur said.
‘What happened?’ Jane replied.
‘I’m very glad you asked,’ Iles said.
‘Yes?’ Jane said.
‘Oh, yes,’ Iles said.
‘Mr Iles wouldn’t want it thought that this wound and contusion suited his face so well that they were not noticed - or at least not considered worth mentioning,’ Harpur said.
Jane said, ‘Simple politeness might have stopped us from—’
‘Mr Iles is man enough to know when he has become exceptionally unsightly, and it’s not in his frank and open nature to ban all comments on this outstanding, if not unique, ugliness,’ Harpur said.
‘Thank you, Col,’ Iles replied.
‘But who could have done this to him - to an Assistant Chief Constable?’ Gerald said. His tone had mellowed. ‘The injury - so near his eye.’
‘Yes,’ Harpur said, ‘as if calculated.’
‘How?’ Gerald asked. ‘Who?’
‘So, Tom Mallen comes in at the flattened bit of fence just like Jane and Gerald,’ Iles replied, ‘and for a while, say fifty or sixty metres, follows the direct path, as almost everyone would. But then he swings away. What does this seem to indicate?’
Jane said: ‘Well, it could be that he—’
‘It indicates extreme caution,’ Iles said. ‘Or even a touch of panic.’
‘In what respect, sir?’ Harpur said.
‘He’d seen something,’ Iles said.
Jane said: ‘But couldn’t it be that he was called to - the gunman shouts through the window space to him by name, suggests he should come that way, past fourteen Davant?’
Iles put a bent hand up to the side of his mouth as if to make his voice carry better. ‘Over here, Tom, so I can nail you, you treacherous, ratfink bastard,’ he cried. He lowered his hand. ‘Is that how you think it went?’
Jane ignored the put-down. ‘Just calls his name. That might be enough, surely. Tom would want to find out what was going on - perhaps a change in the plan. After all, it’s a very fluid situation.’
Iles said: ‘This is an undercover officer, aware continuously that his cover and his life could get blown. Don’t you think he’d be wary of wandering off to a comparatively lonely part of the site because someone yells his name? This is not like a lad’s mother fondly calling him home from vandalizing a parked car to have his tea.’
‘He’s used to risk. He can’t be over-careful. It’s not that kind of job. After all, going on to the site in the first place carried risk, didn’t it?’ Jane said.
‘And he wouldn’t want to add to that,’ Iles said.
‘We don’t know his thinking,’ Jane said.
‘We guess. We deduce,’ Iles said. ‘We fix on what’s likely.’
‘Subjective,’ Gerald said. ‘People will guess differently, deduce differently, fix on different factors as likely.’
‘Mr Iles is remarkably tolerant and definitely always conscious that some people don’t see things as he does,’ Harpur replied. ‘He pities them unstintingly. On the whole he considers it best to ignore their views. That’s a fair summary of your thinking, isn’t it, sir, positive, though with a negative core?’
‘Tom leaves the normal route to avoid risk, not increase it,’ Iles replied.
‘I don’t understand that,’ Gerald said.
‘He’s on the path and then, suddenly, doesn’t want to be on the path,’ Iles said. ‘Indeed he eschews the path. It has become a hazard for him, rather than a safe beaten track: something to be escaped from at once. Why? None of this came out at the trial, of course. The prosecution was intereste
d only in the death outside fourteen. How he got there didn’t matter to their case.’
‘You say he’s seen something,’ Harpur answered.
‘But what, Col?’ Iles said.
‘Not something, somebody, perhaps?’ Harpur asked.
‘Good, Col,’ Iles said.
‘Somebody ahead of him on the path he doesn’t want to see?’ Harpur said. ‘Or be seen by.’
‘Good again, Col.’
‘But who?’ Gerald said.
Jane gasped slightly. ‘Ah, I think I get it,’ she said.
‘Good,’ Iles said.
‘Get what?’ Gerald said.
‘He’s been ordered to take a route across Elms,’ Jane said, ‘because this makes a fine killing field, as they see it. They know, though, there’s what you’re calling the “beaten track”, Mr Iles - the usual path followed on Elms by nearly all the short-cutters. Parry/Mallen is likely to take this. But getting him on to the site is only half the job. They’ve decided that one property gives the best billet for their marksman, and it’s reasonably secluded. Parry/Mallen has to be directed, persuaded, tricked, pressured, shepherded into going that way, rather than continuing on the standard track. So, they arrange for an obstruction.’
‘Good,’ Iles said.
‘An obstruction?’ Gerald asked. ‘Part of the fence?’
‘The somebody already mentioned,’ Jane said.
‘This somebody is an obstruction?’ Gerald said.
‘The somebody doesn’t actually, physically, obstruct but makes Parry/Mallen divert,’ Jane said.
‘Who could do that?’ Gerald said.
‘Ah,’ Harpur replied.
Jane said: ‘I don’t know why, but my feeling, my instinct, is that this must be another police officer, or perhaps more than one.’
‘Excellent, Jane,’ Iles said. Harpur guessed the ACC would be thinking of that long neck on the cormorant. Jane didn’t have an unusually long neck, but might have a less obvious affinity with the bird. The cormorant could scoop out fish from well under the river or sea surface, whereas Jane could brilliantly retrieve instincts and truths from her subconscious. It was always a mistake to dismiss altogether an Ilesian theory, not only about art - about anything, including cormorants, although they were currently suffering a cull.
