In the Absence of Iles (23 page)

‘When you tell them which you were where, do they act as if they want to keep the right name for the right place, so they can do their inquiries?’ Esther said. ‘This is what I was getting at – do they say each name and place several times, as if to get the pairings into their memory? Or possibly make a note?’

‘I can see they might do that if they wondered about me,’ Dean said. ‘ But my instinct is they don’t.’

‘Or someone getting you on to a hidden recorder?’ Esther said.

‘I do listen for any hints of that – whirring, clicking,’ Dean said.

‘Why? Did something make you think they might be recording?’ Esther said.

‘Just basic alertness,’ Dean said.

‘Devices these days don’t whirr and click. There’ve been improvements, or we couldn’t bug people ourselves,’ Esther said.

‘I’m pretty sure it’s not happening,’ Dean said.

She decided to move to other topics. She might unnerve him, otherwise. ‘So, they let you loose on rag-tag-and-bobtail assignments first, and note how you do. Yes, the way I started.’ Did she quote her own Out-loc chapter too loud and often? Maybe it signalled fear at committing Dean Martlew. Perhaps she had to keep reassuring him and herself that she knew undercover all through from both sides, wasn’t shit-scared of it, and would get things right. Or as near right as undercover could be: not always
very
right at all. She
was
shit-scared of it. That’s of late. Not as a practitioner back then, but as an impresario, now.

‘You followed all the counter-tail drills on your way here, did you?’ Esther said. She realized she might have changed the topic, but not the nervy tone. ‘But of course you did. It will come automatically after Hilston.’

‘Every second roundabout I did a double-back on,’ Dean said. ‘Nothing behind me. And I almost cracked the mirrors, staring so hard.’

‘They’ll know the roundabout trick, I expect,’ Esther said.

‘I expect they know
all
our tricks,’ Dean said. ‘I suppose the tricks themselves could be a giveaway. They’re police tricks.’

‘If you can think of some better ones use them,’ Channing said. Dean had left his Renault on the other side of the hotel car park and then come on foot to the Rover.

‘They do regular visits to the wharves,’ he said. ‘Ambrose and sidekicks.’

‘Oh, yes. We monitor these trips,’ Channing said at once. ‘That was part of the running investigation. On the face of it, they check arrival state of cargo for clients. Authentic business. Cormax Turton are genuine factors, import-export agents.
Inter alia.
It’s smart. An impeccable frontage.’

‘Down twice or three times a week to Great Stanton, the Dunkley, Laker’s Quay,’ Dean said. ‘It’s always Ambrose – he’s the constant – plus one or two mid-rank people, in his Lexus. I’ve got some names or nicknames: usually from Maurice Cadenne, Glen somebody, an Ivor Brain, and one known as Tertiary. Ivor Brain – spoken as “I’ve a brain,” so maybe a joke alias. These assistants to Ambrose change about. I might get an opening. Something special’s happening.’

‘Glen Coupland,’ Channing said. ‘“Tertiary” is Roderick Nile Layton, conceived on a package tour to Egypt. Cadenne used to be in shipping – knows a lot about cargo and the container game. Brain I’ve not heard of. New?’

‘What special is happening?’ Esther said.

‘Yes, special,’ Dean replied.

‘To do with the docks?’ Esther said.

‘I’m trying to sort it out,’ Dean said.

‘What
kind
of special, then?’ Esther said.

‘It being to do with ships, you could call it a sea-change!’ Dean said and had a big, comfortable laugh. He seemed cocky, in command, obviously a natural for three-way confidential briefings in car parks. Next stop, chair of a board meeting. She thought she might have been right to pick him, after all. He liked stringing out whatever it was he brought. Understandable, in Esther’s view: he’d enjoy a spell of relaxed talk. Dean wouldn’t have had much of that lately. She could recall the same kind of wind-down relief when she did undercover and occasionally reported back.

‘Oh, yes, a sea-change!’ he said. Esther’s father, also, used to like repetitive gags. He thought a joke should do a full day’s work, like waitresses or trawlermen.

‘Get fucking on with it, would you, Sergeant?’ Channing replied.

‘Minor symptoms so far,’ Dean said.

‘Being?’ Channing said.

‘They’re expecting trouble,’ Dean said.

‘In what sense?’ Esther said.

‘Arming in defence,’ Dean said. ‘But I suppose they’re always expecting trouble, to some degree. The trips to the wharves – they’re not just sightseeing.’

‘And not just legit business,’ Channing said.

‘A touch of sharp crisis now, though. Apparently.’

‘In what sense, Dean?’ Esther said.

‘These minor symptoms. Pointers. Nothing clear.’

‘That’s how undercover works,’ Esther said. Hell, there it was again – the drab, Oracle voice, Old Mother Knowall:
Been there, done that, got the commendation.

‘They’re carrying handguns,’ Dean said.

‘To the wharves? Is that unusual?’ Esther said.

‘For the last couple of weeks,’ Dean said. ‘It’s new.’

‘How do you know?’ Channing asked.

‘Which?’ Dean replied.

‘Which what?’ Channing said.

‘Are you asking how do I know they’re armed, sir, or, if they are, how do I know it’s new?’

‘Both,’ Channing said.

‘They’ve all got Glock 17, nine millimetre self-loaders,’ Dean replied. ‘Same as our armed response people.’

‘You’ve seen these?’ Channing said.

‘It’s been made standard,’ Dean said. ‘Anyone on this wharf duty with Ambrose draws a weapon and shoulder holster for as long as the job lasts. And Ambrose himself, naturally. A departure: policy at Cormax Turton is nobody carries a piece unless a specific job absolutely requires it. People have to get authorization.’

‘Yes,’ Channing said.

‘Definitely no casual or routine packing. It’s always a management decision.’

‘Yes. But Ambrose
is
management,’ Channing said. ‘He OKs himself?’

‘Ambrose would have to refer up to Cornelius Max in person, most likely,’ Dean said. ‘If he approves – and he obviously does or there’d have been no change . . . if he approves, it shows how worried they are. As far as it’s convenient and safe, Cornelius wants to take the firm out of gunplay. He reckons it’s counter-productive. And maybe he’s trying to move CT towards respectability.’

‘But not very fast,’ Channing said.

‘What I mean is, Ambrose wouldn’t want to go to Cornelius Max on guns unless it’s serious,’ Dean replied. ‘Cornelius grows old, has his eyes and bad knees and knuckles to humour, and most probably can do without routine admin decisions, thank you – though, actually, this one isn’t. Not routine, I mean. The opposite. And then Ambrose probably dislikes touting for permission to gun up.
I
would if I were Ambrose.’

‘You’re not,’ Channing said.

‘Humiliating – like a kid asking parents can he sleep over. “Please,
please,
Uncle Corn, may I stash a Glock?” Creepy. And, look, all main people at Cormax Turton are deep into self-image protection and projection now. They have to be ready for the leadership fray once Cornelius quits. Begging for a gun pass wouldn’t do much for Ambrose’s claims as next Guild emperor, if the word got around. Words do get around.’ Dean nodded a couple of times, wowed by his own logic. Esther loved the confidence, as long as it didn’t kill him.

‘So, anyway,’ he said, ‘as I see things, what it adds up to, this fact – Ambrose wearing a weapon at the wharves, and having to clear this with Cornelius Max . . . what it adds up to is the dockside has suddenly turned perilous,
more
perilous.’

‘This “fact” – is it in fact fact?’ Channing said.

Esther was leaning forward from her seat in the back. The other two had slewed a bit to face her and each other. This obviously intense conversation might look strange from outside, but Esther still thought they were all right here. Plenty of vehicles cloistered them. They had a multicoat, dark green Bentley worth about £200,000 on their immediate left and an Aston Martin next but one to the right. Most likely, their elderly owners had been arse-kicked by loving family into the seminar, ‘Inheritance Tax – how to see your heirs all right while there’s still time, you loaded bastard.’ But, no, Cornelius wouldn’t be here, though he might have a £200,000 Bentley. He probably didn’t empathize with tax, any sort of tax. Esther tried to recall who said, ‘Behind every great fortune is a great crime.’ Conrad? Machiavelli? Hosea? The Lord Chief Justice? It would be a plural – crimes – for Cornelius. And he’d definitely decline to have them and/or the great fortune poked into by whippersnapper moolah gurus at the Millicent.

‘I talk a bit off and on with the Cormax Turton armourer,’ Dean said. ‘He’s pally. I think he accepts me as a colleague.’

‘Felix?’ Channing said. ‘Felix Mortimer Bernard Glass.’

‘“Moonscape”, they call him, on account of his face skin.
We
call him.’

‘You’ve got an understanding with the armourer?’ Esther said.

‘He’s some sort of remote relation to one of the top people,’ Dean replied.

‘I don’t have any note of that,’ Channing said.

‘On the Turton side,’ Dean said.

‘And he’s willing to talk to you about Ambrose and a Glock?’ Channing said.

‘It’s dicey for Ambrose and the others,’ Dean replied. ‘Bad if they’re stopped and searched when carrying. It could happen. Three armed men together, like some violent job ahead. These are Glock 17s, i.e. seventeen rounds apiece. A threesome is big firepower. We – that’s the police “we” – wouldn’t care for it, would we? It could look like a conspiracy. Grave. And these days, and nights, at the wharves, they’ve got plentiful anti-terrorist precautions: patrols, round-ups, searches, random detaining. All wharves, everywhere, since 9/11. Yes, especially New York: on the waterfront is tough, but not as tough as a smuggled-in dirty bomb would be – what they call a “low-probability, high-consequence event”. Very high-consequence, so do everything to make it low-probability.

‘And here, too. Docks police are around Dunkley and the others, no let-up. Possibly MI5. There was a
Newsnight
feature about how easy it is to get into Britain by small boat from the Continent, and the precautions have been stepped up even more since. And who knows what’s arriving in those interesting, sealed boxes brought by the bigger vessels? So, yes, security, security, around the wharves. Moonscape reckons Ambrose would never risk taking a gun there, unless the firm had some really bothersome intelligence that makes it unavoidable. I don’t mean there’s any terrorist link with Ambrose or Cormax Turton, but he and the other two might get caught by, like, accident in a protective sweep. Not intended but just as bad.’

‘Tell us how you built this connection with the armourer,’ Esther said. ‘Sounds great, doesn’t it, Richard?’

‘Great,’ Channing said.

‘An armourer would see a lot,’ Esther said.

‘Very core,’ Channing said.

‘You think I’m being set up?’ Dean replied.

He still sounded cocky, aggressive, not scared, and he moved slightly so he could give Esther face-to-face square on. He was plump-cheeked, blue-eyed, almost cherubic. Did he really look like a villainy career already spread over Liverpool, France, Ruislip, Preston, and dodging Milan’s
polizia?
But, then, wasn’t some big-wheel US crook called ‘Baby Face Nelson’? That’s what she’d told herself when picking Martlew ahead of Dill. ‘Set up?’ she said. ‘Not necessarily, or even probably. But tell us how it happened, step by step.’

‘Yes, step by step. Nothing pressured or forced,’ Dean said. ‘No rushing.’

‘Good,’ Esther said.

‘Well, would I, would I? Am I dim? Suicidal?’ He was shouting. Channing glanced about the car park. ‘You’re not going to pull me out because of this, are you? Are you? I think of it as true progress. Look, it’s happened very . . . like very normally . . . like an ordinary bit of workplace comradeship: he admires my shooting, that’s the start,’ Dean said. ‘“Life-threatening”, he describes it as. This is praise – equivalent to calling good surgery “life-saving”.’ He brought his voice down. Perhaps he realized the yelling made him sound touchy, uncertain, as though he suddenly had some doubts about Moonscape’s friendship himself. He needed to underline the easy, credible closeness of the buddydom.

Dean said: ‘Moonscape will relax and reminisce. He used to be a soldier – recalls how a corporal instructor asked him and other recruits at the start of their firearms course, “What is the object of all weapon training?” They scratched about, muttering, trying for a sensible response, but the corporal cut across them. He recited the only answer allowed: “The object of all weapon training is to kill the enemy and not get killed.” Moonscape’s inherited philosophy. We go to the range together now and then. Actually, I fuck up a bit occasionally or he might think I’m police gun-trained. Not too many perfect scores.’

‘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.’