Hotbed (3 page)

‘You could hardly be asked to keep labels on very various moneys, Mansel, showing their origin.'

‘Labels – exactly, Ralph. Crazy. You're quick. You get the point fast. Always did.'

‘Moneys flow in as a tributary might into a major river, and it would be absurd to try to distinguish one bit of water from the rest once this has occurred.'

‘My feeling, too, Ralph.'

‘It would be the view of anyone reasonable who examined this situation fairly, Mansel.'

‘One of the ARLs knew I was getting engaged and he come up with a nice ring, genuine stones. A
very
nice ring, and deeply, all-round genuine. He'd took it from someone after negotiations to cover half a debt. I'm not saying he ripped it off her finger, the fucking debt-dodger, but he claimed it, as correctly per the tradition and entirely no blood or flesh entailed in this recovery, he swore. Possibly he even gave a receipt. He said it would do me just right. He was trying to be helpful, Ralph, but I had to tell him I couldn't do that – not use a ring coming from that sort of quarter on Naomi. It would be unkempt. I told him to raise cash on it and make sure this cash went into the firm's account.'

‘You were always a one for protocol and the ordinary, fundamental, decencies, Manse.'

‘Someone got to be or where are we, Ralph? There's proper behaviour and there's behaviour.'

‘True.'

‘I know the one I'd pick.'

‘And most people would guess which you'd pick, Manse.'

‘I go for a big single diamond.'

‘That chimes with your personality, Mansel – unfussy, obvious, genuine worth.'

‘Well, I hope so. But, look, Ralph, don't let tales like that about Syb put you off.'

‘Off what?'

‘Off the best man job. Please.'

‘Put me off? As you say, these are tales,
only
tales. Speculation. Besides, nothing would prevent me from –'

‘I know – we all know – I know how you detests vulgarity and rough behaviour, especially in a church among vestments and effigies. If you hear this gossip, you might pull out, dreading a scene. But we need you there, Ralph, me and Naomi. Yes,
need
you. Like the ceremony wouldn't be complete without you. We're lucky to get a church that will take a couple of divorceds, but this luck is not worth a fart if you was to quit in disgust at what Syb might do and not wanting to be involved, which I'd recognize was within your rights.'

‘Nothing will stop me, Manse,' Ember replied. ‘Nothing. I've heard no stories, and even if I had I wouldn't care. This is a rare – a unique – privilege.'

Ember had one hand on the bar, about to pick up his drink. Shale put
his
hand over Ralph's and pressed down for a moment. ‘Thank you, thank you, Ralph. I know for definite Naomi will be
so
content now, content and proud. This is like that event in the Bible making a fine future, what you mentioned just now.'

‘Ruth's baby?'

‘True.'

God, Ember did need some rapid clarity on what schemes Manse had under way. Did this creepy hand contact really mean something, a wholesome, eternal bond, after all, an authentic thank-you, a bracing pledge, nearly at the blood-brother level? It was Ralph's shooting hand, immobilized for nearly a minute. When it happened, Ralph thought of that
Godfather
scene where Luca Brasi puts
his
hand on a bar and Sollozzo, the Turk, drives a knife through it, pinning Luca there while he's garrotted. Were those earnest pleas about the best man role real, or tricks, or traps? He must try to line up something with Brown and make the first approach now.

Alone in an old, unmarked police pool Ford, Harpur saw Ralph Ember take two or three steps from a rear door of the Agincourt Hotel into the car park, and then stop. They were graceful steps – what one would expect from Ralph. He believed he had style. Ralph probably thought he had more of it than others might, but, just the same, Ralph felt a responsibility to move elegantly and offer his profile at favourable angles. He seemed to be waiting for somebody. Although most of the car park was dark, a single security lamp near the door made him identifiable, but his profile couldn't at all come over in full glory through the dimness.

Naturally, Harpur wondered whether Ember had managed to get something going with a girl dinner guest or a waitress, and expected her to follow him out now, possibly for something quick and doggie, or, more likely, to fix an arrangement for a better time. Ralph could undoubtedly pull. He looked quite a bit like the young Charlton Heston in, say,
Ben Hur
or
El Cid
– the same fine boniness of face and tall, wide-shouldered body. A long scar along one side of his jaw intrigued some women and gave a pretext for fluttering their investigative fingers on him, stroking that slightly raised line of shiny pink skin until other shiny pink skin reached the agenda, while clucking with sympathy and big, admiring curiosity. They thought the mark must hint at a story, and a story with Ralph as magnificent, though damaged, hero. The damage rated for them as highly as the magnificence because it ignited their caring side. Harpur had seen women react like this to Ember several times and occasionally wished for a face scar himself. About Harpur, though, people said he resembled a fair-haired Rocky Marciano, not a film star: undefeated and unscarred world heavweight boxing champion just after the war.

But it wasn't a woman who joined Ember after a few minutes in the small patch of light. Instead, someone Harpur recognized as a commonplace courier member of Ralph's firm, Joachim Bale Frederick Brown, came and stood with him. It looked planned. As Harpur remembered him, Brown had a flimsy moustache and small beard, just about discernible, despite the shadows. Although he owned three first names, most people called him Turret, probably following a gang spat somewhere – not on this ground or Harpur would have recalled it. Brown must have done well in the fight. ‘Turret' suggested a blast-away all-rounder.

Ember and Brown talked briefly, earnestly. From where he sat, Harpur could hear nothing of what they said, but it definitely seemed more than chit-chat. The meeting had purpose, and, most likely, a secret purpose. Why come out into this murky yard otherwise? So, what kind of secret would a chieftain like Ralph share with this fetch-and-carry lad, Brown?

Harpur had no answer to that one – nor to a few others. For instance, he didn't altogether understand why he decided to come here tonight. These company dinners happened regularly and wouldn't normally interest him. They were for show only – no disclosures. Any information presented there had been sieved and pasteurized by Ralph and Shale. Occasionally, it was true, Harpur's boss, Assistant Chief Constable Desmond Iles, might suggest a joint stroll into the banqueting hall at about the oatcakes and various cheeses stage to queer the do and cause disruption. Iles loved – lived – to cause disruption. But he hadn't suggested a visit tonight. Once, when they'd invaded a dinner, Iles compelled silence and recited what was apparently a send-up of some famous poem:

‘Stilton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:

England hath need of thee . . .'

Iles had a lot of knowledge, some of it not much use, but plenty of it terrific.

Did Harpur's trip here now amount to more than an on-spec lurk? He lacked a precise motive for the stint, just sensed that somebody ought to take a peep. And he felt unable to send anyone from his department to watch, because he couldn't brief him/her on what to watch
for
. Why target a dinner? Harpur simply had what he described to himself as ‘a vague prompting', and he'd respond in person. This basic surveillance wasn't the kind of duty a Detective Chief Superintendent usually handled. But now and then he would feel forced to take on a private session of low-level, street-level, car-park-level policing, especially if such a session seemed perverse and non-delegatable.

‘A vague prompting'? Oh, hell! Some bright, fucking folderol wordage. Where did it start then? He thought he could spot the moment. His daughters, just back from school the other day, were discussing in that loud, Now-hear-this, know-all yap of theirs what one of them had read or heard – maybe in the classroom, maybe elsewhere – about a famous book by Karl Marx attacking capitalism. Apparently the argument there was that capitalists try to eliminate one another's businesses so that a smaller and smaller number of them can dominate. All capitalists have this deep, inborn, compulsive need to destroy rivals. The few surviving firms – or even single survivor – have the power then to fix prices as they like and milk the customers. Harpur's elder daughter, Hazel, had seemed to agree with this analysis. She said, ‘A bit like our well-known Ralph Ember and Mansel Shale, the drugs biggies here. They've seen off rivals and one day each might try to see off the other, so as to win total control of the market.'

This snippet of economic wisdom had got to Harpur, and especially Hazel's mention of Ember and Shale as examples. Harpur often thought of Ralph and Manse, of course he did. Any detective would. The discussion by Harpur's daughters had put some focus on his thoughts. Between them Ember and Shale had destroyed several small-time opponents, some foreign, and now dominated the trade without rivals. So far they didn't challenge each other, because they had a kind of pact – a practical, long-lasting, profitable, gentlemanly, cartel pact. But
how
long-lasting? Could each of them tolerate the other for ever – for ever meaning until death, or born-again conversion and a purified life, or retirement on amassed proceeds to France or Cyprus or the new Bulgaria? Were Ralph and Manse doomed by Fate, natural, commercial greed and survival instincts, to do final battle? Perhaps trade had slipped during the invasions by those small firms, and never properly recovered. This could make Manse and Ralph anxious – and extreme.

Ember and Brown seemed to have finished their short talk. Ralph obviously did not want to hang about there and began to move back towards the hotel door. Perhaps they'd made some sort of arrangement to rendezvous at another time in easier conditions. Had this been a talk about talks – future talks? Brown stayed put for the moment, probably under orders. They'd avoid re-entering the banqueting hall together, a give-away: yes, the meeting was confidential. Harpur had been lucky.

But, then, just before Ember disappeared, Harpur saw the outline in the blackness of another man over at the left corner of the building, apparently about to cross the car park towards the gates, perhaps to wait for a taxi. He might have come out from the Agincourt's front entrance and walked around the side of the hotel. When he'd taken a couple of steps into the car park he seemed suddenly to see Ember and Brown. Darkness and distance made any try at recognition impossible.

After about three minutes Brown followed Ember into the hotel. A little later, the other man came out from where he must have been waiting and watching at the edge of the Agincourt, and this time did walk across the car park to the gates and stood there, gazing left up the road. Harpur could get a better look now, and had an idea he was someone fairly significant in Mansel Shale's outfit. Harpur's mind failed to come up with a name, but he'd keep the description in his head and check with the Drugs Squad and/or some dossier pictures: about five foot ten, wiry dark hair, round-faced, say thirty-two to thirty-six. Did it matter? Had Harpur learned much? Perhaps, yes, he'd been lucky to witness these Agincourt happenings, but what did they amount to? He'd discovered Ember wanted a quiet chat with Brown. The two were noticed by No-name, who made sure they didn't know they had been spotted. So? Was this a good night's work? Had he been fortunate to overhear that bit of conversation between his daughters, and smart to come here as a result on arm's length reconnaissance? A Saab – maybe a taxi, maybe not – arrived at the gates and picked up the waiting man. It drove off.

In fact, though, it wasn't Hazel and Jill's words alone that brought Harpur to the Agincourt tonight. He'd been influenced by another conversation, maybe less woolly, more concrete and workaday. Harpur knew an art dealer, Jack Lamb. Occasionally, Jack spoke a useful word to Harpur. In fact, he reckoned Lamb the greatest informant known to any detective anywhere at any time. And he breathed his hints and more than hints exclusively to Harpur. However, Jack had his rules and conditions. He was selective about what he passed on. He could not be regarded as a mere grass – at least, not regarded by Jack, himself, as a mere grass. He took no money, but he did like to keep his business unharassed by very valid police nosiness. Harpur could help with that up to a point. Jack offered his whispers when he considered a crime or planned crime to be especially vile, cruel, sickening. Or when he feared some behaviour threatened the general peace, balance and overall worthwhile orderliness of things. Jack wanted a decent, serene scene where people had time to focus on their special interests, such as picture collecting, and had adequate disposable income to buy from him.

‘Manse Shale, Col,' Lamb had said.

‘What?'

‘Suddenly, he wants to buy big.'

‘Art?'

‘Pre-Raphaelites.'

‘Well, he's always been into those,' Harpur said.

‘This is major.'

‘He likes colour, shimmering frocks and auburn tresses. He's sold on tresses. Manse has all kinds of unexpected tastes. And he heard the Pre-Raphaelites formed a Brotherhood. He envies this. Manse yearns to belong to something intensely worthwhile, even noble. His firm doesn't fit that bill.'

‘He has an Arthur Hughes and a couple by Prentis. They came from me, and I'd give decent odds at least two are genuine. At least. But he's going up a level. He wants a search for anything by Burne-Jones or Rossetti or Hunt. These are much desired. These are rare on the market. We're talking heavy prices, we're talking lavishness here, Colin.'

They were talking heavy prices and lavishness in a small launderette they sometimes used for their conferences, on a drab street in a run-down neighbourhood. Each brought a bag of washing and they sat and watched through the glass front panels as the clothes and bedding did their slow antics among the suds. Harpur thought they could be regarded as a miniature but strong Brotherhood themselves – the detective and his informant. The washing, rather than art, gave them their link now. Harpur considered it reasonably secure here, though they didn't use any of their rendezvous spots too often.

‘He's getting remarried, Col.'

‘Well, yes, I'd heard.'

‘A woman called Naomi Gage. They met via art.'

‘Nice,' Harpur said.

‘In some London gallery.'

‘Is she a tresses person? Great to have a common interest, the same enthusiasms.'

‘Manse wants to impress her. So, Burne-Jones or Rossetti or Holman Hunt, to hang in the rectory. It's the sort of thing he'd do, isn't it? The massive Manse-type gesture. A need to show he really rates, and compensate for what he looks and sounds like. That's a fair whack of compensation, Col.'

‘I've heard of one of those,' Harpur replied.

‘One of those what?'

‘Artists.'

‘Good.'

‘Hunt. Religious? Lantern slides at Sunday school.'

‘
The Light of the World
,' Lamb said.

‘“Behold, I stand at the door and knock.” My Sunday school was fundamentalist and generally didn't approve of religious art and images – too churchy and idolatrous. But Hunt was OK.'

‘He helped start the Brotherhood.'

‘Grand.'

‘I've got some inquiries out for work by any of the three,' Lamb said.

‘Manse will be grateful.'

‘But where's the money to come from, Col?'

‘He does all right.'

‘He does all right. This has to be more than all right, though, a lot more. They say he draws £600K a year from the firm.'

‘Yes, I have it at about that,' Harpur said.

‘Fine, but finite.'

‘Maybe his fiancée's loaded.'

‘I haven't heard this.'

‘Would you?'

‘I would if she's seriously into art, not just a show-hopper.'

‘We ought to get some research going and see if she –'

‘Besides, Manse wouldn't touch her money, if there is any. You know what he's like.'

‘What?'

‘He's Manse.'

‘And?'

‘He's proud-stroke-vainglorious-stroke-fragile-strokeabsurd. He has to prove his grandeur. He pays.'

‘He does have a sort of crooked grandeur,' Harpur replied. ‘Sometimes he rides a 1930s-type heavy Humber bike, with chain guard to keep the oil off his trousers.'

‘I wonder if he's got something in mind, Col. Something fund-producing. Something
extra
-fund-producing.'

‘What kind of thing?'

‘A new situation.'

‘Which? A new
business
situation?'

‘Only Manse.'

‘Only? Only in what sense?'

‘Manse and his firm alone. And so the money booms – doubles and more.'

‘Monopoly?'

‘Monopoly. Twice as much business, plus push up the prices to whatever he fancies because there's no other supply.'

‘My daughters mentioned this.'

Lamb twitched. He stood six feet five inches, not at all how most people thought of an informant. They'd expect someone small, furtive and slight, say Toothpick Charlie in
Some Like It Hot
. A Lamb twitch needed space. ‘What? Your daughters?' he asked. ‘You mean two kids spoke about Manse possibly seeing off Ralph – possibly
killing
Ralph?'