Hotbed (20 page)

‘Humphrey, here's Joachim's brother. He's a member of the Garrick where there's a six-year waiting list, so you'd better get your name down and tout for sponsors.'

‘Joachim, such a loss,' Maidment-Fane said and took a mouthful of the armagnac. ‘I think your type of spectacles are coming back in, Mr Brown, and understandably.'

‘Did you know my brother?' Brown said.

‘Remarkable versatility,' Maidment-Fane said. ‘Many have mentioned this. If you spoke his name to someone, that's what they would respond with: “Joachim? Remarkable versatility.”'

‘But in what area? I don't ask for detail, just the ballpark,' Brown said.

‘Where do these fucking spasms come from, Unhinged?' Naomi said.

‘The fact I'm dressed like this now, Mr Brown, does not indicate in any way disrespect for the memory of Joachim,' Maidment-Fane replied. ‘This was a man who knew the value of caution.'

‘At the Garrick I believe it's a rule that everyone wears a suit, even given the slightly racy, bohemian character of the club,' Ember remarked. ‘I'd most likely stipulate the same dress code in due course, but probably only as a request at first. Guidance. Denim, see-through garb, combat camouflage outfits and apache gear I'd definitely like to ban as soon as possible. Although clothing could never convey the whole personality of a club, it is a gauge.'

Iles said: ‘Necks mark easily, as witness love-bites. But yours looks untrammelled, Naomi. Although Humphrey does turn savage now and then, he's generally useless, all curses and thumbs. And now and then I think about breaking them. Now, for instance.'

Ember noticed Alec Maximilian Misk's mother beckon excitedly to him from across the room, her smile touched by rampant friendship or something akin. My God, did Iles have it right about this scum family's ambitions, Monty ambitions? The Assistant Chief's words came back and battered Ralph: ‘Things mesh, things interlock – Alec's massive new boodle, Joachim's death, your known dissatisfaction with the social rating of the Monty. I'm used to taking the overview. One sees that everything is of a piece.'

‘Joachim might possibly have a child, children,' Brown said. ‘This we are entitled to know about, and, in fact, duty bound to know about. They're possibly needy following his death.'

‘I offered to bring him into a project of mine once, good profits, very minor personal risk,' Maidment-Fane said, ‘but he declined in wholly polite and reasonable terms. He was someone who so clearly knew what he wanted. I, of course, bore him not the slightest grudge. On the contrary, I admired his clarity of mind.'

‘Which project?' Naomi said.

‘We have all kinds of enterprises here,' Iles said.

Ralph decided there was not much for him in this slippery, pry-pry conversation and went to find out what Mrs Misk did want, leaving Maidment-Fane, Naomi, Brown and the others to their chatter. He saw a spare chair at the Misk table and calculated that, if he took it, the singing might not spread again, because the two women would surely lack the gall to take part while Ember sat with them. For now, the music remained stilled after ‘Mares Eat Oats'. He wanted to keep it at least ghettoed in a corner of the Monty or, preferably, silent altogether: the silence of the little lambs, happily poisoned by that fucking ivy. If the singing did get to be a severe nuisance he'd drown it with disco numbers over the club sound system. He took the Kressmann bottle with him.

Even without those semaphored invitations from Mrs Misk and the mad speculation put forward by Iles, Ralph would have looked for chance of a talk. To update Monty records, he especially wanted a word with Alec Maximilian Misk – Articulate Alec, as he was cruelly known. His data might need adjusting. True, a week or two ago murmurs had gone around the Monty that somehow Alec had wangled himself into the team who did that copycat bank raid on International Corporate Diverse Securities, and came away with a very delightful, individual share in untraceables. Ralph needed confirmation of this gossip. Never would he put unsubstantiated matter on members' dossiers, even encrypted.

It was the press, not Ember, who gave the International Corporate Diverse Securities raid the ‘copycat' title, because it seemed so accurately modelled on that huge loot-suction job done at the Northern Bank in Belfast, maybe by the IRA, in December 2004. Although the takings from ICDS in Kelita Street, Holborn, London, were not up to the Belfast haul of £26 million, the methodology looked similar: basically, get among the bank executives' families and keep them hostage until the managers coughed the codes and let the money go. Ralph thought the idea came from a Robert Mitchum film,
The Friends of Eddie Coyle
.

‘Perhaps this setting for what we'd like to discuss will strike you as strange, Ralph,' Mrs Misk said, as soon as he joined them. ‘I mean, a funeral occasion, and the all-round grief for Joachim Brown.' Although that seemed half-apologetic, to Ember her voice sounded as if she knew she had something immense and brilliant to tell him, and didn't really give a monkey's about the setting, nor about Brown.

So, should Ember smell ICDS takings? Or was he influenced by the Iles rubbish? Ralph said: ‘Life goes on and –'

‘But, as it happens, we've recently been brought into touch with death and grief ourselves, though an unviolent death – a full-of-years relative on my side of the family,' Mrs Misk said.

‘Ah,' Ralph said. Money? Money. Money. Grief hadn't stopped their slaphappy singing, had it?

‘We've received considerable legacies, Edna, Alec and I.'

Money. Swag masquerading as inheritance? At once Ember offered the Misks a balanced, beautifully shaped response: ‘Always I'm confused in such cases about whether to offer congratulations or commiserations, since a legacy clearly implies, as you say, a death, perhaps of a greatly loved one.' He gave this fine, sympathetic gloom, but not too much, in case the legacies mattered a sight more to them than the loved one, who might have been hardly loved at all, just loaded, full of years and double incontinent. That is, of course, of fucking course, supposing there had ever
been
a loved one to confer the supposed legacies, and not simply a lumpy lump-sum dollop to Articulate – and therefore to the Misk women – from the emptied Holborn bank. Very constructively, however, Ralph went on: ‘I reconcile such opposites by thinking that the departed, though much missed, would wish his/her bequests to affect positively the future lives of those so favoured. This would be his/her motive, surely, in selecting them as beneficiaries.'

‘Due sadness and regret, but yet, as you say, a positive aspect also, Ralph,' Mrs Misk said.

And Ralph sussed it was this positive aspect that put the clang and assurance into her voice, almost like religious conviction: boodle zealotry. ‘Certainly,' he said. The ICDS product, as he heard it, varied from £21 million to £12 million. Even the larger amount did fall a whack short of Belfast, but both these lesser figures were clearly satisfactory millions, all the same, and so were the eight possibles between – that is, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19 and 20. Articulate collected a sweet slice? Ralph and most other people familiar with Misk would have considered this sortie beyond his class, dogsbody role or not. Several accounts said he'd been an outside man, sentrying in case of police; others that he ran the phone link at one of the hostage homes.

Anyway, tales putting him on the operation persisted, and lately, Ralph had noticed a new jauntiness in Articulate. That's how Ralph would describe it, ‘jauntiness'. In his view, jauntiness in an established Monty member such as Alec often meant a portion of recently obtained safe loot, ‘safe' signifying two factors: (a) it had been lifted from someone's
safe
, for example a Holborn, London, bank's, and (b) the notes were old and, therefore, reasonably
safe
to spend, though unostentatiously.

Usually, Ralph saw in Misk the standard, niggly, comical, defeated self-obsession of a small-time crook who pathetically believed that next week he'd be big-time, and who'd pathetically believed it for an age, these next weeks having long ago slipped into the doomed, exceptionally small-time past. His present Monty profile would rate him like that. Wrong? Out of date? Alec's nickname came the satirical way some blubber lump weighing 300 pounds might be called ‘Slim'. More than any other quality, Articulate lacked articulateness, so, joke of jokes, label him with it. People had mocked his taste for sullen silence. And, until now, in Ember's opinion, Misk was the feeble sort who put up with mockery, possibly even expected it, not someone formidable and esteemed enough to get asked on to an enterprise like the ICDS, all expenses paid, retrospectively. Things changed? Things changed.

‘I remarked to Edna and Alec, “We'll have to – absolutely have to – have to talk to Ralph Ember about this,”' Mrs Misk said.

And now, of course, of fucking course, he knew Iles had heard the truth somehow. Often he heard the truth somehow, of course, of fucking course. Just the same, Ember had refused to accept this slice of Iles-type truth until the boom and lunacy of Mrs Misk's ‘
absolutely
have to – have to talk to Ralph Ember about this.' Naturally, there'd been a moment when he'd wondered if the motive for her eagerness to get him close was merely, rampantly, sexual. These old birds had their needs and hots and some could still get antiquatedly aroused by his jaw scar and general charm. But, no. They aimed higher than his trousers. This was about the Misk gains laughably fictionalized as three bumper legacies: the Misk gains and the Monty.

‘Our bequeathed monies we wish to be used . . . well, that word again, Ralph . . . positively,' Mrs Misk said. ‘We would like to enhance.'

‘If I may say, this is what I would expect of your family,' he answered. ‘Positivism.' Keep it unspecific, vague. But he realized now that using capital in something like the Monty redevelopment might look highly wise to them. It would be discreet, confidential. They mustn't flaunt the wealth. Crucially, the funds should not be spent in a style that drew attention or people would start asking how Articulate and his family grew so rich so fast. Such people might be police people, such as Iles or Harpur. Hazardous. Or they might be villain people who'd decide that if Articulate had a lot they'd get some of it, at least some of it. Hazardous. But money committed to the Monty would probably not come to the notice of outsiders.

‘We do not want these gains frittered,' Mrs Misk said.

‘I'm always gratified to hear of the responsible use of money,' he said.

‘Or to put it briefly, Ralph, we want to share in – to aid – to share in and aid some scheme we can admire and feel spiritually enlarged by,' Edna said. Fervour ruched her voice, too.

‘In which respect?' Ralph replied A waiter brought more brandy glasses and Ember poured for the four of them.

‘Such a worthwhile project,' Mrs Misk said.

‘That's what we seek, you see, Ralph – something worthwhile, something we can tangibly improve.'

‘It's not easy,' Edna said.

‘Yes, to be a part of it,' Mrs Misk said. ‘Of your vision.'

‘Of my vision? In which respect?' Ralph replied. Oh, God, he knew which respect, and Iles knew which respect: they wanted to use their dirty boodle to buy into the new Monty. They actually thought he'd let them invest in the club, take an ownership share of the Monty – the transformed Monty, as it soon would be.

She said: ‘We know you have wonderful ambitions for this place, Ralph – makeover ambitions. Well, everyone knows it.'

‘These inspire us,' Rose Misk said. ‘We wish to be involved.'

‘Yes,' Articulate said. He had always seemed a bit passive as well as tongue-tied. His mother, and especially great aunt Edna, handled family policy. Mrs Rose Misk would be over sixty and Edna well over seventy. Their combined life experience left Articulate doing catch-up. Even now, although Articulate somehow gave off the impression of a new confidence and bounce, he did not speak very much. The women dominated, maybe domineered. Edna almost always wore flashy red or green leather – trousers and tasselled jacket – including to major, formal Monty events such as the après funeral. Today, red.

‘Our admiration for your plan is why, as Rose remarked, we wish to be part of it, Ralph,' Edna said.

Ralph saw now why he'd sensed a religious flavour in what Mrs Misk had said: resurrection of the Monty
was
a religious project, but for Ralph, and only for Ralph. Of course, of fucking course, this approach squared with that sod, Iles's analysis: they'd make the offer when Ember's morale seemed low following the death of Brown. They considered he'd be especially vulnerable, malleable. Yes, these things interlocked. Or the Misk women
thought
they did. A slight case of error. Ralph and the Monty would survive the wipe-out of Joachim Brown.

‘The funds – the legacies, that is – could be so vital, so supportive here,' Rose Misk said. ‘Definitely,' Articulate replied. It sounded forced from him, though.

‘Your plan, your brilliant scheme, will cost you considerably, Ralph,' Edna said. ‘Now I know you're not by any means poor, and I hope you won't regard this as presumptuous, but we could help bankroll the transformation

– would be proud to help bankroll the transformation.'

‘Exactly what I meant by not frittering,' Rose said. ‘An estimable and, in our view – Edna's, Alec's and mine – a magnificently promising commitment.'

‘Definitely,' Articulate replied.

Edna said: ‘Without, I hope, being cruel or snobbish, Ralph, we look at the club as it is now – the type of member, the need for a freakishly decorated bulletproof slab up there to guard you, that frightful, yet necessary, quelling incident just now with Unhinged – we look at all this and cannot believe the Monty today – a virtual hotbed of criminality – we can't believe it satisfies someone of your taste and refinement. We join in the singing, yes, because we . . . because we're here . . . in the Monty as it is now . . . and we don't want to seem aloof . . . but . . .'