by Bill James
‘And he gossips?’ Esther said.
‘He’ll talk weapons. Only weapons, the way some people talk only food or sex. He’s a technician. He enjoys that sort of professional chinwag. I can more or less keep up. He says Ambrose prefers this or that handgun, because of . . . because of this or that. They had some debate before choosing the Glock. Felix recommended it. Ambrose thought too much plastic. But Moonscape said the police use them, so they’ve been well tested and proved OK. He bought six, new, of course. I sensed something strange here, but I couldn’t spot what. So, I raised no questions, let him go on. We’ll chew over all sorts of guns. He’s an historian. I put in my pennyworth from what I know about pistols. I think I sound credible. This is general, not always to do with the immediate situation, but it helps things along.’
‘Step by step,’ Esther said.
‘Right,’ Dean said. ‘Coming at what I’m really interested in from him, but coming at it out of what to him will seem just experts’ gun gossip. Like, he’s read an FBI paper on what’s called “the myth of the one-shot-drop”. Know it, ma’am? Moonscape and I chewed that over a few days ago. Its message – no single shot will put a man down, out and harmless unless the brain is disrupted or the upper spinal column severed. So, it’s bullet placement not calibre that’s important. Size definitely doesn’t matter here. And other fallacies are hammered – the “myth of the proper handgun” and “proper ammo”. That Clint Eastwood/Harry Callaghan reverence for the Magnum would be crap on this reckoning. I’d seen the paper a long time back, argued over it in a group, but, obviously, I didn’t say so, because it was at Hilston. From the FBI National Academy, I think: tells officers how to survive these listed, stupid myths – rather vital if someone’s coming at you and you’re trying to stop him. We chatted about it – head as target, accuracy/distance ratios, two-handed, stiff-armed stance obligatory, when there’s time. That kind of general, happy, urban battle prattle.’
‘Excellent,’ Esther said.
‘But then, out of this, you see, we do reach something with a crucial bearing on now,’ Dean replied. ‘He thinks I’d be brill at “placement”, and therefore the “one-shot-drop”, whatever I was firing. A Moonscape laurel. I’m a talented warrior, a priceless, murderous find, and he found me.’
‘So did Mr Channing,’ Esther said.
‘Absolutely,’ Channing replied.
Dean said: ‘Cormax Turton might be against guns as routine equipment, but they also know guns can be deeply necessary now and then, and, when they are, CT want them used with max effectivness, Cornelius Max effectiveness.’
‘It figures,’ Channing replied.
‘And then yesterday,’ Dean said, ‘after some blasting away on the range, we’re having a coffee in his little office – he’s clean, of course, no drink or substances – and he says . . . well, it came out as more or less an aside, really . . . he switches back to those special-purchase Glocks, and mentions that Ambrose might be looking for someone like me – someone like me being someone who knows guns and can do a nice job with them – yes, Ambrose might be looking for someone like me because there’s been a CT Cabinet-level rethink on kit for the wharves. That’s the phrase, “a rethink on kit for the wharves”. He’s not in the Cabinet, of course, but he’d hear about gun matters because . . . well, because it’s his area and he has to arrange supplies.
‘Again, I perk up, super-alert. But, again, I don’t get what he means. I say, “What rethink, what kit, Felix?” I don’t call him Moonscape to his face, though some will. Management do, but not Cornelius himself. He’s very civil and old-style polite, unless things turn bad. “What kit?” Moonscape says. “Gun kit, the only kind I’d know about.” “Rethink how?” I ask. “They’ll carry,” he says. “Don’t they always?” I ask. “Terry, you know the CT rules. Guns for named jobs only,” he says. “Aren’t the wharves a named job?” I ask: I need to float the questions but not seem too daft and ignorant. “Yes, they are – now. That’s what I’m saying. This is new,” he tells me. “Why?” I ask. “Why?” he says. He sounds totally bamboozled. Lost. Defeated. Even insulted. The query’s beyond the technical, you see. We’d be into strategy. He doesn’t make guesses outside his expert, cordite corner. He despises what he’d regard as gab.’
‘That’s Felix,’ Channing said.
‘Well, we get back to his expert, cordite corner, and he’s fine again,’ Dean replied. ‘He says next time we’re on the range he’ll help me correct a bit of what he calls “right side yaw”. This will make my shot “placement” even better. He reckons a job with Ambrose would be good for me, and for Ambrose, because after the yaw’s been therapied I could unquestionably see off anyone looking unhelpful and remain unhurt myself: the object of all weapon training. Maybe he’s been asked by Ambrose to look out for someone capable. Confidentially, Moonscape thinks Cadenne and Tertiary are not gun naturals and although Coupland can do it all right, his heart’s not there. It hasn’t mattered previously. The wharf work wasn’t about guns. But Ambrose has decided it might be from now on. Moonscape doesn’t speak of Ivor Brain.’ Dean had another laugh: ‘I’d cultivated the “right side yaw”, of course, so as not to look suspiciously perfect.’
‘Yes, it all could be promising,’ Channing said.
‘Came out like an aside, you say – the suggestion about work for Ambrose?’ Esther asked. ‘That the word – “aside”? As if off the top of his head?’
It was dark in the car but she saw Dean frown. The executive pitch laughter seemed gone for good. He didn’t start shouting again, though. Perhaps she’d done what she feared and begun to unsettle him with her wariness, her jumpiness. Some of that cocky confidence might have drifted away, momentarily. Maybe this was for the good. ‘You think it’s an act?’ he said. ‘You believe “as if” off the top of his head is only as if, but not really? I’m being led? You believe we should abandon undercover because I’m rumbled?’
Channing said: ‘We’ve always assumed the cargo inspection rigmarole was a mask while they identified other desirable cargo. Cartons go missing. You mentioned On the Waterfront, Dean. Right. It’s not New York, but we have our rackets. Some boxed freight items are damn valuable. Perfume in bulk. Electronic equipment. Vintage claret. Art. We and the docks police get convictions. We’ve never been able to tie any thefts to Cormax Turton, though.’
‘Why I’m there – to make the link,’ Dean said. He’d half recovered his bullishness?
‘But take it gently,’ Esther said. She disliked the film reference – a dark, ruthless, mawkish movie.
‘Here’s a possible, probable, scenario,’ Martlew said. ‘Ambrose and party identify cartons they want – not their clients’ goods – no, not those pretext goods – but others they spot as juicy. This doesn’t happen every time or it would be stupidly blatant. Now and then. Manifests stuck on these boxes are often vague, traditionally vague. They need interpreting. Maybe Cadenne is fly at that. So, occasionally, they move on a container or more than one – perhaps especially when they’ve had a sharp, bought whisper from abroad about what’s inside some of the woodwork. They’ve most likely got dockside people paid to guide selected units to a wrong collection point. Wrong for the owners, not for Ambrose and CT. They’re waiting. They come by car, but they’ve got a van on call. Two in the van, plus driver, one in the Lexus, chaperoning.’
‘Could be,’ Channing said.
‘But maybe another firm – other firms – has/have cottoned on to what happens,’ Dean replied. ‘Wouldn’t we expect that? They’d fancy the prospect. All the real work’s been done, hasn’t it: maybe costly foreign information, bribed dockers, then identifying, misdirecting, misdelivering? They decide to waylay Ambrose and his support, van and Lexus. Easy-peasy.’
‘Classic hijack,’ Esther said. ‘Pinching what’s been pinched. Nobody’s going to complain to the police or supply the evidence, because the evidence would convict the complainant.’
‘If I can see that sort of plot, the professional
s can, can’t they?’ Dean said. ‘And, on top of this, there are the normal hatreds of Ambrose and CT around for all sorts of old grievances. Think of Claud Seraph Bayfield. He’s still a power, and no way a seraph, which is probably a let-down for his parents. Ambrose puts himself into very predictable spots at very predictable moments, and to date is accompanied by people who might know a bit about cargo, but not much about guns and minding. All an enemy has to do is discover berthing times at Laker or Dunkley or Great Stanton. Two gorgeous pluses at once could be on. Eliminate Ambrose and friends, and collect the prize load, whatever it is: they’d trust Ambrose’s nice taste for that. The Seraph owes one to Ambrose and Palliative after their very capable combined op against him. Ambrose would do as openers.’
‘It’s possible,’ Channing said.
‘But now there’s been a hint to Ambrose of possible ambush, or to someone in Cormax Turton,’ Dean said. ‘Yes, CT have an Intelligence Unit. It’s headed by a clever old wig-wearing, garlic-chewing piece called, I think, Dane –’
‘Sarah Lily Dane,’ Channing said.
‘What’s the answer to a hint like that?’
‘Consult Moonscape, you think?’ Esther said.
‘Then get Glocks,’ Dean said. ‘And possibly bring in someone who can offer one-shot-drops as the norm. Moi.’
‘Sarah Lily Dane will be the one testing Dean’s biog, will she, Richard – the Klaus, Lance, Hugo trail?’ Esther said.
‘It’s probably watertight,’ Dean said.
‘We worked hard on it,’ Esther said.
‘I’m not going to shift straight away from right side yawing to constant bull’s-eyes,’ Dean replied.
‘No, don’t,’ Esther said. ‘Humbly take instruction.’
Channing said: ‘We’ve been here long enough, ma’am.’
‘Yes,’ Esther said.
‘I’ll drive you to your car, Dean,’ Channing said. ‘Less exposed than a walk.’
‘Why would they want to set me up, Mrs Davidson?’ Dean said.
‘I haven’t said they do.’
‘No, but –’
‘Things are happening fast,’ Esther replied.
‘Too fast, you mean?’ Dean said.
‘Fast.’
‘Maybe the eight months of nothing from the investigation makes us think that’s normal pace,’ Dean said.
He said ‘us’, out of tact, but must mean her. ‘Perhaps,’ Esther said. Or even, yes. Had she become ACC Plod?
‘You think that they think I’m more likely to give myself away in a major job with them than as a small package pusher?’ he said.
‘I believe they very much want you to be OK – that is, through-and-through gifted crook, not two-timing, invasive cop,’ Esther said. ‘They’d like to think you a true one-shot-drop acquisition whose PhD thesis on “The Object of All Weapon Training” will be rewarded by Cambridge with acclaim, and which when applied in gang fights will put CT brilliantly ahead.’
‘And I try to behave like that,’ Dean said. ‘Perhaps it’s working. I’m on the way up.’
‘Possibly. I don’t question it,’ Esther said.
‘Excuse me, ma’am, but I think you do,’ Dean said.
‘Cormax Turton know that anyone infiltrating would aim to get to one of the top figures – Ambrose, Palliative, Cornelius himself. Maybe they’ll wait to see if you really agitate for the Ambrose job now you’ve had a helping of bait from Moonscape.’
‘You believe that’s what it is, all it is – bait?’ he said. ‘You don’t accept I’ve really got to Moonscape?’ He sounded sad and hurt. He’d reject – struggle to reject – the idea that Moonscape might be fooling him. No, no, it was Dean had to fool Moonscape.
‘Not every genuine villain would rush for a role where there’s a bad ambush risk – plus the chance of getting stopped, searched and who knows what by security at the wharves,’ Esther replied.
‘Oh? I think most villains with any guts and appetite would,’ Dean said. ‘They’re in a danger trade, anyway, and looking above all else for loot. There’d be more of that alongside Ambrose than in low-level substance dealing. And prospects would come with the new spot in the organization. It’s bound to be a major career move – with still more loot.’
Esther was being told, was she, that she had chosen someone for his guts and appetite, among other goodies, and shouldn’t go crumbly when these showed themselves in action? Fair? Probably. ‘Crooked firms are not like the Brigade of Guards where people volunteer for sticky duties because that’s what the Brigade of Guards and its sense of honour are about,’ Esther said.
‘I’ve got to take this sticky duty if it’s put my way,’ Dean said.
‘But, to repeat, wait for it to be put your way,’ Esther said. ‘Don’t shove yourself forward. Over-eagerness can betray. It smells.’
‘And if Ambrose does opt for me?’ Dean said.
‘He’s not someone you can turn down, anyway, not when you’re working inside Cormax Turton,’ Channing said. He drove over to the Renault. Dean transferred fast. Esther, watching him go, felt more fearful than ever. She could immaculately tabulate her pain. She liked tabulating:
1. Dean plainly had to take the Ambrose job if it came, or why was he undercover at all? A refusal – suppose Dean could refuse – would be like a boxer too frightened to get off his stool for the next round. But, of course, a boxer’s corner and management could decide to throw the towel in, surrender for him, regardless of what he wanted. Should she close down this Out-location?
2. The job might be part of a test or trap, something contrived by Sarah Lily Dane because she couldn’t get a clear biog of Terry Marshall-Perkins from Liverpool, France, Italy, Ruislip, Preston, where, so Terry Marshall-Perkins claimed, he wasn’t Terry Marshall-Perkins, anyway. Despite what Moonscape said, Cadenne, Coupland and Tertiary could be quite competent with a Glock, as well as Ambrose personally: competent enough to do Terence Marshall-Perkins if they stopped believing this cover, suppose they ever had believed it. Did they want him at the wharves and near the sea, so they could lose his body: a sea-change, yes, and considerable – from life to death? That was not something she could suggest to Dean as warning, but she did wonder, and she wondered, too, whether he had thought of it. Perhaps the appetite and guts let him blank off the idea. It was called audacity, and might often be admirable. She didn’t think she could afford very much of it, though. Of course, if Dean got washed up somewhere and it came to a trial, Ambrose and the others would never admit they went to the wharves armed. But they’d make sure, for extra flagrant innocence, that the bullet, bullets, in Dean did not come from a Glock 17. They’d assume he’d reported back to his managers with Moonscape’s planted account of selecting the armament, and they’d think, Forensic.
3. Or, the job with Ambrose might, indeed, be genuine, and the risk of a hijack plot, therefore, also genuine, meaning:
(a) Dean could get killed in an ambush, and Esther up to her hairline in blame.
(b) Dean would not get killed but drop-shoot one or more attackers, making himself chargeable for the death(s) and Esther up to her hairline in blame. Judge and jury would not care for that kind of gang fight gunnery from a police officer, even though meant in a good cause; the good cause being concealment of his status as a police officer, and confirmation of his identity as Terry, the gang fighter.
(c) Or, there would, in fact, be no hijack attack because rival firms chickened when they heard Ambrose had a one-drop-shot marksman aboard who’d been taught the object of all weapon training, and had survived in Liverpool, France, Italy, Ruislip, Preston. Dean would then be implicated in a successful, possibly massive container theft, and Esther up to her hairline in blame.
4. Or, forget most of this. The wharves and cargo business might be of only marginal, incidental relevance or none. Possibly Ambrose was amassing an army of all the talents for The War Of Cormax Turton Succession when Cornelius at last gave in to his eyes, knees and knuckles. Dean said Moonscape came from
the Turton branch of the family. Perhaps he’d be keen to help Ambrose with additional, dedicated personnel, especially someone skilled at the one-shot-drop, and who knew and endorsed the object of all weapon training.
Yes, she liked tabulating. Clearly, it seemed to put a system on things, even if there wasn’t one, or only one about to break up. But some tabulating could terrify her. Did the sweet paragraphs and sub-paragraphs add up to an injunction to lift Dean Martlew out of Cormax Turton now and, also now, extinguish Terry Marshall-Perkins, The Quiff, Wally, Klaus Nightingale, Lance Vesty and Hugo Maine-Sillett, of Liverpool, France, Italy, Ruislip, Preston, not necessarily in that order? Driving to headquarters, Channing said over his shoulder to Esther in the back: ‘It looks as if you were right, ma’am. Remarkable.’
‘In what respect?’
‘To prefer him. He reports tremendous advances – the well-founded chumminess with the armourer, if it’s all right. Yes, if it’s all right. Martlew’s astonishingly gifted. He’s made for undercover. Brilliant of you to deduce this when all you had was paperwork and an interview.’
‘Not at all like that. We chose him together,’ Esther said.
‘Well, yes, absolutely, ma’am. I forgot.’
She let the sarcasm go. He probably needed to have a bite back occasionally. It would help his morale.
Channing said: ‘Suppose the armourer is genuine. We’ve got three men on the docks now and then with guns and the possibility of a shoot-out next time a vessel brings in something especially desirable to one of the wharves. Well, obviously, ma’am, I’m wondering about our response.’
‘In which respect?’ Esther replied. Of course, she saw in which fucking respect, respects, but didn’t want to dictate too blatantly how he had to play things, though she would certainly tell him how he had to play things. On the face of it, he ran the Dean Martlew operation. She had appointed him. He must be allowed to do the deciding, some of the deciding, some of the simpler deciding; and, if possible, made to think he did some of the major deciding, too. He deserved that much. He was a very good man. He was a very good man or she wouldn’t have appointed him to this operation above Tesler. And if she’d appointed him, he must be allowed to do the deciding, some of the deciding . . . The logic of the sequence coerced her, almost.
