by Bill James
‘Joachim Brown. Same first name as Hitler’s foreign minister, Ribbentrop – and, of course, there’s Saint Joachim apocryphally father of the Virgin Mary.’
‘That’s something to load a child with.’
‘Which?’
‘Both.’
‘Also called Turret. He can shoot.’
‘We’d probably have something on him,’ Harpur said.
‘You know Joachim Brown, do you? Brother an actor, Clement Porter Brown. Towards star status.’
‘Ribbentrop was hanged, wasn’t he?’
‘This Brown, extremely close to Ralphy.’
‘And only a courier?’ Harpur said.
‘Yet. My information is that Ember had, has, something very major lined up for him.’
‘Information based on what, Jack?’
As a formality, Harpur always asked this kind of question, and, as a formality, Lamb always ignored it. Any informant would. A source’s sources remained confidential, just as a source him/herself remained confidential. Tonight, though, Lamb had answered. ‘You know these Agincourt company get-togethers they have – his outfit and Shale’s?’
‘They still do that?’
‘A very intimate – sensitive – chat between Ralph and Turret at the back of the hotel. The edge of the car park.’
‘How do we know this?’ Another disallowed question.
‘I know it,’ Lamb said.
‘Ralph’s gone gay?’
‘Business.’
‘Someone saw them?’
‘Hurried. Furtive, you might say.’
‘But seen all the same?’
‘Obviously.’
‘How – if it was intimate?’
‘An accident. Someone going home early spotted them.’
‘As I recall it, the Agincourt car park is badly lit.’
‘No question – them. My source got under cover until they disappeared. A few minutes. Nothing more.’ Lamb had climbed on to the low, concrete circular wall, marking the outer limit of the gun site. He looked down across the gleaming city. He probably felt protective, like one of those ack-ack gunners, ready to fight off Nazi bombers in the war, though the city would have been dark, blacked-out, then. A concrete slab road, originally laid for transporting supplies and ammunition and troops up to the emplacement, was part overgrown but still usable, and Harpur had driven halfway up, then walked. Lamb had left his car at the bottom of the hill and done all the rest of the climb on foot. Now, he didn’t turn his head away from the sight below but spoke over his shoulder: ‘Ah. You were at the Agincourt car park, were you, Col? You saw this encounter, too.’
‘What are they supposed to have discussed?’ Harpur replied. ‘Not much, if they only stayed minutes.’
‘And they did, didn’t they, Col?’
‘Perhaps a chance thing. Possibly they came out for a smoke.’
‘They don’t. Not fags in either sense – gays or ciggies. These were talks about talks. Plainly, what we have to ask, Col, is whether Ralph has started to wonder what Manse is up to?’
‘Up to in what sense?’
‘They like monopoly, these boys. Cartels are very nice, but they prefer total, unshared control. It’s an imperative with them. Maybe Ralph has heard of the Manse search for pricey, big-name art. He – Ralph – wonders where the money’s coming from. He suspects Manse hopes to boost his loot by emerging as the one-and-only. Possibly Ralph put Joachim into Manse’s firm to read the signs. That’s the sort of move natural to Ralph. He’d see he’d better do something, but wouldn’t want to jump right in. Ralph is gradualism. Ralph is softly-softly. Ralph is keen to believe well of people, even Manse. He’d need evidence. Brown’s courier job should give Brown a reasonable start.’
‘Speculation, Jack.’
‘And he’s been at Low Pastures since the Agincourt. Briefing? Debriefing?’
‘No. Ralph doesn’t let his people into Low Pastures.’
‘I know. That’s why it matters.’
‘And why it’s unlikely.’
‘Almost certainly Turret in a hire car, driving past the Aspley farm one Sunday. Where else would he be going? The road stops at Ember’s place. Why a hire car? Disguise in case he’s spotted driving past the Aspley farm to Low Pastures?’
‘This Brown – young?’
‘Late twenties.’
‘Presentable?’
‘A little beard and a moustache.’
Yes, Harpur knew all that. He didn’t know Ember had let Brown into his house, though – if he had. ‘Ralph isn’t going to invite someone like that to Low Pastures. It’s because of his daughter. She’s a bit prone.’
‘I believe my source. Unusual, I admit, for Ralphy to do this, but we’re into crisis behaviour. Emergency, Col. Manse and Ralph might both regard it as crux time, kingpin time, monopoly time, fight time, grab time, taken-atthe-flood time, last-chance time. Ember’s rules crumble. To me, that looks like the start of chaos. No good to any of us. I can’t stand untidiness. We must have order. Iles and you have been able to deliver that so far. But from now on? Problematic, Col. So, I’m giving you the word. I don’t grass for the sake of grassing – only when I feel the whole civic system under threat. Those two together have helped maintain that system. Take one away and we tilt towards destruction.’
‘Have you checked what name he used to hire?’
‘Joachim Brown. It has to chime with the licence.’
‘And he’s missing?’
‘Brown’s not around Ralph’s outfit, nor Shale’s, come to that. We’re talking weeks, Col.’
‘As I said, London, Manchester, San Francisco. You’re building a hell of a lot on a mini-chat at the back of the Agincourt, Jack.’
Strangely, it looked as though Lamb and Iles had the same source about the Agincourt car-park meeting, Samuel Quint Aubrey Evox, from Manse Shale’s Health, Pensions and Security (HPS) staff. And, naturally, S.Q.A. Evox would also talk to Manse. This lad must perform a lot of word-in-your-ear stuff. So, did Iles as well as Jack know that Brown was ‘missing’? Did Manse know? Well, perhaps Manse knew it better than anybody. Possibly he’d actually arranged for Brown to be ‘missing’ after S.Q.A. Evox of the HPS section described Ember and Turret in brief conversation – would-be unobserved conversation. After all, this was why Harpur had come for a look-around to 15A Singer Road tonight. Brown might be dead here. After hearing about that Agincourt incident, maybe Manse waited for Brown to try some sort of infiltration – or might even have offered him some sort of infiltration, as a come-on. And had Brown tried it, and suffered for it? People like Manse could be very hard on spies.
Conceivably, Manse was even aware of Brown’s excursion or excursions to Low Pastures. This would really tell Shale that important schemes might be cooking. As far as Harpur knew, Manse himself had been invited to Low Pastures only once.* Jack, as ever, most probably had it right: Brown’s invitation signified. It must point to mightily sensitive, mightily root-and-branch plans. The prospect of these might have activated Shale. This thought, plus the disappearance of Brown, had pushed Jack Lamb towards that instructional, policy-forming remark: ‘Someone ought to take a look inside 15A Singer Road.’
As a proper start to his search there and pre Jack’s interruption on the cell phone, Harpur had stepped towards the door nearest him on the right. Except for the half-open kitchen door, this one was the least problematical. He knew it would take him into a bay-windowed living room at the front of the house. The curtains were open and, when doing his plastic card magic on the outer door, he’d been able to glance in from the porch and glimpsed easy chairs and a chiffonier. He realized he must use the torch very sparingly. The beam would be visible from the street, and could draw neighbourly attention, especially if there had been no lights in the flat for weeks. He would look like a burglar, as well as having the mind of one. A narrow light
beam in a black room might do more to suggest something fishy than if he switched all the lights on. By being discreet, the beam told of furtiveness. Just the same, he wouldn’t be putting all the lights on. Not yet. He gently turned the knob on the first door and pushed it back. He took one more step, which put him where he could see most of the room.
It was shadowy, though the large windows let in some light from the street. He went forward a few more paces and again briefly switched on the torch. He kept it pressed to his left trouser leg and pointed at the ground, to minimize spread. In any case, the ground – i.e. the fitted carpet
– interested him above all. If Brown were lying here that’s where he would most likely be. Harpur thought it improbable – improbable for this room, which could be examined through the windows from outside. The postman or Jehovah’s Witnesses might have done a peep and seen anyone lying there, possibly for weeks. A fair quantity of post lay in the hall. Harpur intended to go through that later.
Besides the armchairs and chiffonier, the room contained a settee under blue velvet or velveteen loose covers, a knee-high, glass-fronted oak bookcase with a few paperbacks and hardcover volumes on two shelves, and a couple of round coffee tables, one with an old copy of the Daily Mail neatly folded on it. An oblong mirror hung over the fine, traditional-style, floral-tiled fireplace, and silver-framed technical drawings on grey backgrounds were grouped on the facing wall. Harpur used the torch to check the corners of the rooms, then switched off and moved back towards the door and hallway. No Turret. Harpur intended to go through the flat quickly and see whether Brown, or anyone else, were here. If not, he meant to carry out a more thorough and systematic search, including the mail. He couldn’t really fashion a profile of Brown out of a chiffonier and blue loose covers. Harpur thought he’d risk pulling the curtains over in this room for a second examination, so he could switch on the lights and see properly – supposing the flat still had electricity.
He’d done a quick visit to the kitchen next, and found nothing there, either. Then he returned to the two closed doors to the left, giving on to rooms at the back of the house. He chose the first and eased it open. Not a bathroom. It must be the bedroom. The curtains were across here, and the room very dark. Harpur did one of his breathing exercises again. Nothing bad reached him. He thought the torch would be safe now. He switched on and lifted it to chest height so he could light up the room reasonably well. He moved the beam slowly from left to right. He saw a double bed, properly, even neatly, made, with a fresh looking, flower-decorated duvet cover. A Victorian or Edwardian slatted back wooden armchair in its natural wood colour stood near a massive, his-and-hers mahogany wardrobe, which carried a long mirror on each of its doors. A couple could check their outfits for the day simultaneously. To the far right he saw an antique washstand adapted as a dressing table, with a hinged, satinwood toilet looking-glass on it, Victorian, possibly earlier, he guessed. Brown or his landlord liked antiques.
Harpur decided he’d better look inside the wardrobe. It was easily big enough to take a folded body. He moved forward and got a double image of himself and the lit torch in the two door mirrors. Because of the general darkness of the room he couldn’t make out his face in much detail and felt glad of it: he might have been demoralized by the presentation of two lots of anxiety, both his. He’d been about to open the wardrobe when Lamb’s call on the mobile came. Harpur had let the wardrobe wait and concentrated on Jack’s warning.
Now, Lamb said: ‘No, it’s not Hazel. I’ve been able to get a closer view. I don’t recognize her. Very interested in 15A. She’s been riding up and down Singer Road, as if just out on a spin. Yes, riding up and down, mock-casual. Now, though, she’s focused.’
‘Focused?’
‘I think she’s spotted me and decided, So what?’
‘So what what, Jack?’
‘She’ll do what she wants, regardless,’ Lamb said. Then, further silence, until: ‘She’s stopped outside, Col.’
Harpur turned away from the wardrobe and moved quietly back to the room doorway. He could look from there towards the flat’s front door. It had a frosted glass panel. Harpur observed what might be the shape of someone holding a bicycle. Then that outline shifted, part dissolved, grew even less precise, broke into segments – the kind of effect frosted glass would bring sometimes. He thought the girl might have moved to put her bike against the outside railings.
‘She’s coming to 15A, Col,’ Lamb said.
Did Brown have a daughter, or an underage girlfriend, and did she, whichever it might be, have a key? Or perhaps her ‘focus’ was actually on the door to 15B, which Harpur had noticed at the side of the house. He could hope. But, no, she wanted 15A. And, also no, she seemed to have no key. Two long rings on the 15A bell sounded. The flat did have electricity, then. Harpur put the phone on to Silence and edged back a little further into the bedroom, so as to avoid her line of vision if the girl peered through the frosted glass. And, naturally, she would when no answer to the door bell came. She rang it twice more. He remained still. In a little while, he heard a click and, for a moment, thought she did have a key, or could do what he’d done with the plastic. Then he realized she must have pushed the letter box open. From his new standing point he could no longer see the front door but imagined she must be bending down to speak through the gap.
‘Joe,’ she said, ‘are you there? Joe? Mr Joey Brown – you inside?’
She waited. Harpur waited. She said: ‘I thought I saw a tiny bit of light, Joe. Well, I did. I know I did. Like a small torch, aimed down so as not to be noticed, but I noticed.’
Harpur wondered whether he could get out via the kitchen and the back garden if things grew really bad.
What would be really bad? Say, if a police patrol car came down Singer Road and spotted her crouched against the front door like a burglar – or like a police officer, according to The Secret Agent, if the police officer were Harpur. There’d be some questions for the girl and then the patrol might decide they’d better arrange for a look inside the flat.
‘I thought you’d come back one Sunday, Joe. I wanted to show you the stables,’ she said. ‘But how many Sundays is it now – two, three? I like just felt you’d come back. You know? – when you feel something so strong it becomes the truth? I think dad expected you, too, although he says no. Well, he would. But he’s worried, I’m sure of it. You can tell these things when you know someone really well, and I know dad really well, although I’ve been abroad a while. I biked down the road a few evenings last week and this week and the flat was always dark. And then that little gleam. It made me happy. It broke all that horrible, dead blackness.’
Not Harpur’s daughter, then, but Ralph Ember’s. Who else had stables? The older of Ralph’s girls was sent to France for schooling, wasn’t she – ‘abroad a while’ – and to get her away from a man, or men? Harpur had mentioned that to Jack just now. Lamb said Brown had been at Low Pastures. On a Sunday? Lamb also said Ralph was a worrier, and the girl said her father worried. Yes, Ralph did worry. The girl had a fancy name, didn’t she, almost as fancy as Joachim? Not Vanessa. Venetia?
She spoke more loudly, desperately. ‘Are you frightened of something, Joe? Are you hiding, pretending nobody’s in the flat, but really you are? So, you won’t put any lights on? Have you been in there all the time? Who are you frightened of, Joe? Is it to do with why you came to our place? I think a big bloke in a car might be watching the place, Joe.’ She increased her voice, made it urgent, as if afraid he was somewhere at the back of the flat now and unable to hear. ‘He started talking on a mobile – I think when he saw me. But he’s looking at 15A, too. He kept trying to hide the phone. So ... so ... what do you call it ... so vigilant. Do you think he saw the torch beam, too? Has he called up some other people? That’s what we’ve got to think, isn’t it? He could be a what-you-call – a pathfinder. Will his gang come? Oh, Joe, will you be all right?’
U
rgent footsteps sounded overhead in 15B, then came the clack-clack of someone descending stairs at speed. A man’s voice reached Harpur through the open letter box. ‘Hello.’
‘Hello,’ the girl said.
‘I wonder would you mind telling me what you’re doing there?’ In 15B, he must have heard the shouting and hurried down to investigate. He’d have emerged from the upper flat’s door at the side of the house, walked around and found Venetia crouched against 15A’s letter box.
She probably straightened now. Her voice was more distant, but Harpur could still make out what she and the neighbour said: ‘I wanted Mr Joachim Brown,’ she told him calmly. ‘So kind of you to come to help. I have an important message from an associate for him, a business message that brooks no delay, brooks no delay at all.’
‘Who are you? Who is your associate?’
‘We have been unable to reach Mr Joachim Brown by telephone – landline or mobile – and therefore my associate asked me to come and deliver a message in person, since it brooks no delay in a business situation,’ she replied. ‘My associate is unable to come himself personally, owing to commitments.’
‘What business situation?’
‘Timing is so important in a business situation,’ she explained.
‘I’ve seen you cycling up and down this road several times lately in the evening. I believe you’re damn well casing the area.’
‘Casing? What’s that?’
‘Don’t come the innocent with me. Picking a place for you and your mates to break in at.’
‘Some men look really interesting when they’re angry,’ she said, her voice softer, sweeter now.
‘Which men?’
‘It sort of lightens them up.’
‘What does?’
‘It shows they can be really emotional – not just angry but other feelings, too. Do you live here alone, I wonder?’
‘What?’
‘These flats – I should think they’re very nice and comfortable, are they? Oh, my name’s Venetia. But I don’t know yours yet.’
