Play Dead

by Bill James

  The headquarters were not far from their hotel and they would walk.

  Iles came in to the lounge now and sat down. He wore one of his double-breasted, custom-made grey suits. Harpur thought the cloth radiated a kind of smugness, as though it had lain waiting hopefully in the tailor’s bale to be cut and stitched for a wearer worthy of its excellence, and could now glory in the fine luck that brought Des Iles. Harpur reckoned about a thousand quid’s worth, the shoulder padding totally right for Iles’s shoulders, and only Iles’s. There had been a time when Harpur foolishly tried to gauge the Assistant Chief’s state of mind by what he wore. It was a hangover from Harpur’s school days: he’d noticed that one of the teachers always seemed in an evil rage when he turned up in a tartan waistcoat. For a six-month spell Harpur diaried Iles’s garments - other suits or blazers and flannels - as against mood. He’d daily filled in a chart pinned to the back of his office door, and disguised as a breaking-and-entering record of incidents and methods. But he’d failed to find a relationship between outfits and temper. Destructive malice, for instance, could spring vibrant and hale from Iles, regardless of any fashion choice. Likewise, something very close to sanity and reasonableness might show, also regardless of kit. On Harpur’s chart the acronym ‘BSB’ might appear, indicating, on the face of it, ‘Bell System Buggered’ - i.e. the alarms of a warehouse had been totally neutralized by the thieves before their pinch. In fact the letters meant ‘Blazer (Single Breasted)’ and referred to Iles’s garb on the day. Against the BSB entry could be a couple of capital Bs, signifying the ACC had been a ‘Bloody Bastard’ while in this garment; or S & S, short for ‘Sweet and Saintly’, although in the same single-breasted blazer.

  Iles glanced at the Daily Star. He carried a cup of hot water, from which slight trails of steam rose, and sipped it with loud enjoyment now and then. Iles never took breakfast, said he’d been put off it eternally as a kid by the scatter-gun way his father ate baked beans on toast. On the day Iles told Harpur this, the Assistant Chief had, for a moment, reverted to childhood and instinctively raised a hand as if to wipe daddy’s mouth missiles from his face and hair. ‘Maud sends us here to look at the background and origins of an old murder and as soon as we arrive we get another, Col, most probably related,’ he said. ‘Fucking reporters. Why can’t they stay in the newsroom hacking celebrities’ voicemails, or fixing up big bribes by phone? What’s he doing out on a nothing road in the night?’

  ‘Cass was investigative.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It happens with investigative journos.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think it’s like this, sir, investigative journalists feel they have to get out and investigate. It’s what makes them investigative.’

  ‘Lying dead alongside a Ford Focus is not very investigative.’

  ‘They follow their nose, like us.’

  ‘And it leads them to a knifing.’ In a similar movement to the baked beans response as a boy, Iles raised his hand to his left cheek, as if reminded of his own nose region. ‘How do you think it looks now, Col?

  ‘What, sir?’

  ‘The impairment.’

  ‘Well, I expect you’ve examined it in the mirror.’

  ‘But I want your view, as its architect.’

  ‘It has a plus side.’

  ‘In which respect?’

  ‘Neatness.’

  ‘In which respect?’

  ‘It’s a perfectly rounded wound, not an untidy, crudely jagged skin rip, which would suggest a barbaric, wholly uncivilized attack.’

  ‘Would you say the way it was given was unbarbaric, then, Col, and civilized?’ Iles put his index finger on the hole. ‘Yes, it feels round. There’s a definite shapeliness.’

  ‘That’s because it reproduces the shape of the . . . well . . . implement.’

  ‘Which . . . well . . . implement?’

  ‘The one that did it.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘I thought you’d have got a glimpse.’

  Iles sipped again, sending his mind back in the pause. ‘I had an impression of something green - yes, a greenness swinging in on me at the end of your arm, like a scythe tinted by chlorophyll from brambles.’

  ‘That’s very perceptive.’

  ‘I was a detective. I perceive. At Staff College they called me “Des, the ever-open-eye”.’

  ‘A fine commendation.’

  ‘If something, of its nature, can be seen, I, Iles, will see it. What was green?’ Iles replied.

  ‘A Biro with faint old traces of green ink in its barrel.’

  ‘Yes, I thought a Biro. But difficult to believe. You actually carry one as weapon - no gun but a Biro?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Previous to this use, did you write green messages to that undergrad Denise with it? Intimate, hot green messages? Does green turn her on? Do I want that kind of horny, pleb excess in my blood stream, Harpur?’

  ‘It was there.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘There. Under me.’

  ‘There? Latent? Ready? You’re telling me God or Fate or Fortune or What-have-you made it available so you could break into my face despite rank?’

  ‘Chance.’

  ‘Some will find it hard to understand this injury, Col.’

  ‘Yes, it could be difficult for them to guess how and where it happened - the Elms mud and a role-play episode. It’s not the sort of thing that comes up every day or evening.’

  ‘In a way, a blemish of this kind takes away some of one’s self-confidence, Harpur.’ His voice had gone flaky, his tone shrivelled and pitiable. Occasionally, Iles could suddenly get like that: all the bombast, vanity and cockiness suddenly lost. Hadn’t it happened through self-condemnation not long ago in his suite back home?

  Harpur hated it when the ACC glissaded into uncertainty and weakness. If Iles could be reduced like this, anyone could. Harpur found the idea alarming, a step towards universal disintegration. Iles’s usual arrogance, iron unmeekness and mighty brain power helped keep the world, or this bit of it, reasonably OK. It was damned irresponsible of him to turn frail and humble: self-indulgence through abasement. His customary roaring offensiveness must be allowed to flourish. It was offensiveness in a good and vital cause. Now, though, the face jab seemed to have punctured him, deflated him. As face jabs went, Harpur considered this one had been exemplary for timing, location and sheer power.

  He said: ‘Yes. I see the awkwardness. You can’t very well announce you’ve been penetrated by a ballpoint. Oh, sure, Jane Matson mentioned that mot stating the pen is mightier than the sword but this probably wasn’t to do with an ex-Biro poking its way through skin.’

  Iles thought about things for a while, then said: ‘What I’d like you to do, Harpur, is go ahead of me, on your own, to the meeting with the Chief.’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’ Harpur yearned to help him back to full cantank-erousness and true Des-Ilesian disdain. Although his suit might be brilliant, it couldn’t on its own hold him together.

  ‘Then I’ll come in later,’ the ACC said.

  ‘Right. He didn’t seem to notice the wound in Ruth Bowles’s room. Or might have been too polite to mention it. In case he didn’t notice, do you want me to forewarn him, alert him to it, so he’s not surprised into uncontrollable giggling? I could explain its cause - the intense tussle at very much ground level on the housing estate, you out of your mind with jealousy; me as Tom Mallen/Parry; then you as the gunman and, I suppose, as Death.’

  ‘Death, yes. If you open your gob like that I’ll kill you.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘This might be too subtle for you to understand, Harpur, but what I wish to give is a lively demonstration of carefreeness, suave blandness on my part. I will show up - that’s necessary politesse - but I show up when I feel like showing up. Autonomous. I’m not bound by his holy Larkspur timetable and agenda. OK, I, without question, do display, quite prominently, a temporary unsightliness, but that doesn’t
mean I’m going to turn all crushed, unbuoyant, diffident.’

  ‘Few would ever accuse you of being crushed, unbuoyant or diffident, sir.’ Harpur realized at once he should have phrased this differently. His mind had momentarily gone slipshod again. Often Iles had rounded on that kind of attempted compliment, treated it as a blazing insult.

  ‘Which fucking few, Col?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll do the warm-up for you,’ Harpur replied. ‘You’ll be able to make a really worthwhile, debonair entrance, like David Niven in old movies, despite the Biro pit.’

  ‘Thanks, Col.’

  ‘What excuse shall I give?’

  ‘Excuse?’

  ‘For your absence.’

  Iles smiled a large, tolerant smile. ‘You don’t understand, do you, Col?’

  ‘Don’t I, sir?’

  ‘I have no need to offer an excuse. That’s the kind of man I am, you see. Excuses are for serfs, subordinates and minions. Mine is an independent, cheerfully casual approach to things. It will become apparent to him when I arrive. Probably he already realizes as much from our previous visit. This will confirm. I defy adversity. I have a wound, yes, but what care I?’

  ‘I’ll just say you’ll get there as soon as you can.’

  ‘Not as soon as I can. As soon as I wish. Let him see that neither you nor he can corral Desmond Iles.’

  ‘They don’t build corrals able to achieve that, sir.’

  ‘Who don’t?’

  ‘In general.’

  Iles gargled unostentatiously with the remaining mouthful of hot water and then spat it back into the cup. ‘A corral is a pen for animals, isn’t it, Harpur?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘I’ve been penned but in a rather different sense.’

  ‘Rather.’

  ‘When I arrive, Col, smiling in an unapologetic way as I enter the room, I’d like you to say in a pleased, enthusiastic, spontaneous tone, “Oh, here’s Mr Iles now! I’m so glad he’s been able to fit you in, Chief”.’

  ‘Right, sir. I’ll bone up on the spontaneity.’

  The ACC went back to his room. Harpur wondered whether he needed some private time to polish up his free-spiritedness. Harpur had a couple of hours before the meeting at 11.30. He left the hotel and set out down the main road, past police headquarters, to the shops. He wanted to get something to send his sister as thanks for looking after Hazel and Jill. She often helped out when Harpur was away. The kids got on fairly well with her.

  As he came near to the headquarters building, a man who’d been standing on the pavement outside turned towards Harpur and raised his hand in a kind of greeting. Harpur didn’t recognize him. He had on a new-looking Barbour all-weathers jacket, a green and gold cravat, a Royal Enclosure brown trilby, green corduroy trousers and brown brogues. On the floor near him was a large zipped-up holdall. ‘Mr Harpur? It is Mr Harpur, isn’t it?’ he said. The accent seemed local. ‘I was intrigued by that conflict you had on the floor at Elms with your colleague, Mr Iles, presumably.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ Harpur replied.

  ‘Or rather more than presumably.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘I thought you or he or both would come to this police building at some stage to, shall we say, “clock-in” on your repeat visit, much buzzed among the cognoscenti of such matters, so I waited around. You’ll ask, “Waited around to what purpose?” And the reply is, I sought contact. That, though, is possibly not a satisfactory explanation, for you might well than ask, “To make contact with what purpose?”’

  ‘This is puzzling.’

  ‘Clarification comes! Well, you see, depending on one thing and another in the flow—’

  ‘Which flow?’

  ‘Of life, obviously. Depending on one thing and another in this flow, I sometimes move in for the night at one of those uncompleted houses on Elms. Hence I could audience your, as it were, recent contretemps. This appeared all-out savagery, correct me if I overstate. Now, you’ll say to yourself, no doubt: “This man looks much too smart and clean and, in fact, fashionable, to be a dosser. His garments are of a county family mode.” It’s not the first time I’ve run into that type of reaction. Hardly so! But my answer is - always is - spruceness and a sustained style are even more required by someone leading what could admittedly be considered a somewhat unstructured life than by those in a more, shall we call it, without prejudice, yes, we’ll call it a more normal existence.’

  He nodded towards the holdall. ‘In there, besides a sleeping bag and toiletries, are what could be termed more rough-and-ready clothes for when I’m in a setting such as Elms for an in extremis short period. This is a turn-and-turn-about arrangement. If I’m in those rough-and-readies, my more impressive outfit will be in the bag. Then, before I come to a spot such as this and in these circumstances - conversation with a distinguished police officer - I can take this more presentable stuff from the holdall, where it is then replaced by the less presentable garments, and so, having duded up, appear bandbox fresh and tidy as I trust you’ll agree I am now, as if scheduled to visit a polo match later or that type of exclusive outdoor gathering.’

  ‘First rate,’ Harpur said.

  ‘The rumour was certainly around among the said cognoscenti that you and the Assistant Chief would return, or had returned, and this, obviously, helped with identification during the mud shindig, providing, as it were, a longlist of possibles.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘My resting place, not in the house, not number fourteen, you understand. Of course you understand. I’m not a superstitious or over-nervy person, but there are certain limits, I think you’ll confirm. So, to sleep in a house where the shots came from - this is beyond the acceptable, even for someone who, on a temporary basis, is seeking a crash-out lodging. That house might have been fine for me before, but not since. I could see that house - the gun lair as previously mentioned - yes, I could see it from the dwelling I’d picked, number eighteen. Well, obviously, or I wouldn’t have known about those antics of you and him in battle, would I?’

  ‘That’s a fact,’ Harpur replied.

  ‘It was dark and a bit of a distance, but nevertheless.’

  He stopped. Harpur could have helped him out and asked, ‘Nevertheless what?’ But one of the most elementary rules of interviewing or interrogating was you let the subject fix his or her own pace, his or her own punctuation. He’d be about fifty, Harpur thought; thick fair hair protruding under the trilby, a round, unlined face, lively blue-grey eyes: he seemed someone who’d had plenty of good sleeps, on Elms or elsewhere. His complexion went well with the countrified clothes. You could imagine him at his ease among polo ponies and chukkas.

  ‘Nevertheless,’ he said. ‘Yes, now what was that “nevertheless” about, though? Oh, dear! This is an adverb, but what was the verb it’s adding to? Ah, I remember. “Make out” - that’s the verb. Like so, then - nevertheless, I could make out it was definitely you, supine, and I guessed the other must be Mr Iles. When you were here last time, relating, eventually, to the arrest of Inspector Jaminel you both had your pictures in the local press and on TV quite a bit, and the reports said you were on an investigation into how the situation was being dealt with after the murder of the undercover man. So, most folk around here know how you look, but I admit I’m having to speculate that the one lying close to you in the rough stuff on the ground was Mr Iles. He had his back to me.

  ‘And Mr Iles - if it was Mr Iles, which I think it must have been - Mr Iles - and I say this with full appreciation of its seriousness, believe me - Mr Iles, he seemed to be trying to throttle you as you lay on your back there, like you’d had a quarrel, that kind of thing, an important quarrel if it made him want to kill you on the very place someone else got killed, name of Parry or Mallen, depending which end you’re coming from, as it were. Usually, an attack as all-out as that - strangulation of a friend or colleague - is about a woman, referred to by the French, who sort of excel at this kind of crisis, as “crime passionel”. I don�
��t know if you had been giving it to Mrs Iles and he found out, maybe caught you on the job, or in flagrante delicto, to hop from French to Latin. Revenge, like a vendetta, could bring on that sort of violence.’

  ‘Number eighteen suited you, did it?’ Harpur replied.

  ‘Obviously, what one looks for in this kind of venue is a property with the roof definitely on and weatherproof and the flooring complete, able to give a decent, consistent surface for the sleeping bag. A sleeping bag without a floor under it would not offer a good night’s rest, would it?’ He had a deep laugh about this and the cravat quivered, bringing some silver spots in the design out from where they’d been hidden among its folds. They gleamed mildly in the morning sunlight. When he’d recovered, he said: ‘Access through a front window where the boarding up had been part removed. This is so with several of the properties, if we can call them properties at this non-completed stage. As a matter of fact, I was downstairs trying to re-secure the boarding from inside so there’d be no intrusions while I slept when I saw the disturbance close to the house two along, the killer house. It’s grand to have a room of one’s own. Someone wrote a book about it. If you think of the Elms development, it’s a kind of crescent, isn’t it, like those famous terraces in Bath, giving the house where I was a good angle to view the possible throttle scene to the right.

  ‘You’ll ask, why didn’t I do anything to stop this dangerous tussle, such as shout or even get back out through the window and try to pull the two apart before terrible damage was done, namely wipe-out of you by him. Well, this is two big-time police gladiatoring. Do I stick my nose into that? Or maybe not my nose, but at least my voice. I don’t think so. Mr Iles - if it was Mr Iles - has got some grievance and he’s not going to feel sweet about it if someone from outside, such as self, interferes in a private brutality. What often happens in that kind of imbroglio is the two stop trying to hurt each other and turn on the third party, peacemonger, together. They - that’s to say, you, plus Mr Iles - didn’t know they - you and Mr Iles - were being watched by self and I decided it was better like that, safer like that. I was in my other, low-class, non-polo-match clothes. You and Mr Iles might think I must be some kind of tramp, and wouldn’t care to have your behaviour questioned by such a one. I didn’t exactly pass by on the other side, as the Bible says. I stayed put. But by staying put that’s what I was doing - passing by on the other side. Or turning a blind eye.’