In the Absence of Iles (27 page)

‘No,’ she replied, strongly. ‘No, Gerald.’ At the foot of the steps, a Volvo appeared, Iles driving. Two blue lights flashed above the dashboard. He opened the pavement side rear door and the front passenger door.

‘I’m coming to you, Gerald,’ Esther yelled into the phone. ‘Please wait.’

‘Give my bassoon to a charity of your choice after cleaning,’ he replied.

Esther and Mr Martlew ran down the steps. ‘You here, Esther,’ Iles said, pointing to the seat alongside him. ‘It’s bad form for me to emergency flash on someone else’s ground, but they’ll all recognize you and I’ll look like the chauffeur.’ Mr Martlew got into the back. The car pulled away.

‘Can he swim?’ Martlew said.

‘It will be all right,’ Iles said.

‘There’s a kind of . . . well, nobility . . . yes, nobility to it,’ Martlew said.

‘Bollocks,’ Iles replied.

‘He seeks status, even in death,’ Martlew said.

‘The arch jerk wanted to voicemail, so that when the terrible, end-it-all message was heard it would seem too late,’ Iles said. ‘Then, after a while, he’d turn up, all safe and grieved over, and the relief and reconciliation would be extra sweet, extra sexy. He’s an artist. He stages things.’

When they reached the beach, they saw Gerald sitting there in his suit facing away, towards the breakers. He had scooped out a good little dent among the pebbles for comfort. His body was hunched forward, his arms folded. Even from the back, he looked like detritus. His bassoon, cased, lay near him. ‘You are loved, Mr Davidson,’ Iles shouted with big volume as they approached. ‘Oh, so much loved.’

‘These are the two, Esther,’ Gerald said, turning his head. ‘I saw them with you.’

‘But you had to get off to something urgent in the Central Market, always a magnet,’ Iles said.

‘Mr Iles and Mr Martlew,’ Esther said. ‘This is my husband, Gerald Davidson, the musician. You’ve probably heard of him. Woodwind.’

‘Martlew?’ Gerald said. ‘Related to the dead officer?’

‘His father,’ Martlew said.

Gerald bent his head forward further and, unfolding his arms, put up a hand to each side of his face. He seemed to cough-sob again. ‘Oh, God, God, I’m so sorry. Forgive my fucking flippant carry-on, can you?’ He kept his head bent.

‘It’s all right,’ Mr Martlew said.

‘Me, trivializing this beach,’ Gerald said.

‘This beach is a focus for all of us,’ Martlew said.

‘Yes,’ Esther replied.

‘Your wife – so devastated, so committed to you, Mr Davidson,’ Iles said. ‘An example to many. She
would
come to you at once, regardless.’

‘Regardless of what?’ Gerald replied.

Mr Martlew helped him to his feet and picked up the bassoon. He handed it to him. ‘That unfeeling, philistine Millicent hotel,’ Gerald said.

‘I only got one side of the conversation but I imagine they have failed to value you properly,’ Iles said. ‘However, does that matter a fish’s tit when your wife regards you with such lasting, unlimited esteem?’

‘I don’t hold it against you,’ Gerald replied.

‘What?’ Iles said.

‘On the steps. And the pub meal,’ Gerald said. ‘It’s in the nature of things. I see that now.’

‘Your wife hurried out of the pub to press you to join us, but you’d gone, unfortunately,’ Iles said. ‘We were all disappointed.’

‘Considerably,’ Mr Martlew said.

Iles drove them back to near the courthouse so they could pick up their own parked cars. On the way, Esther asked: ‘Cornelius Max Turton at the hotel with a team, you said, did you, Gerald?’

‘Family, minders,’ Gerald said. ‘All that bodyguard stuff really excited this pathetic assistant manager – continually checking the building and the car park. “Power.” “Dark glamour”, he called it, essential for the Millicent’s “changing profile”. That’s why they’ll most likely kill the tea dances.’

Esther tried to remember if she’d noticed people moving about the Millicent car park that evening – not just walking to or from their vehicle, but checking who might be lurking there, or who might be holding a three-way meeting. Maybe she should have had a full squint to make sure nobody was lying low and watching in the Bentley. Or the Aston Martin. Or . . . you name it.

‘I think a really quiet evening now, Gerald,’ Iles said. ‘Rest. You’ve had a bellyful of stress, though you come out of it looking wholly unruffled, bow-tie brilliantly stable, your complexion almost normalized by sea air. Yes, I do recommend a period of quietness and rest. It would trouble me badly if I ever heard you’d been bully-boying, you dismal fucking freak.’

But, of course, when the rescue group had finally gone into Cormax Turton for Dean Martlew, Esther did not – could not – accompany them at once, though she’d longed to: high rank disqualified again. Assistant Chiefs had to stand back. Assistant Chiefs did not do raids, only organized the people, method and apparatus for raids. Overview. On screen Esther monitored things from a proper, executive distance in her suite: the Control Room relayed running, search-team reports to her, and she followed the operation’s progress via data-bank pictures and detailed architectural drawings, inside and out, of Cormax Turton’s main sites. Progress? Non-progress.

The reports were graphic, thorough, regular, and hopelessly, sickeningly, devoid of Dean Martlew, or traces of Dean Martlew, so far. Although the stand-by teams had known him only as Wally until the call to move came, this unit would have by now opened the sealed orders and found pictures of him, his true name, and cover identity, Terence Marshall-Perkins. But, naturally, they would not disclose at Cormax Turton who it was they wanted – not under any of his tags: or not disclose it until desperation point, and probably then accompanied by the thousand pounds.

If the failure to find him, or pointers to him, continued till the end despite the bribe, Esther recognized that a lot of damned harsh publicity might follow. Would Cormax Turton turn awkward? The Guild could reasonably complain they had been subjected to wrongful, unexplained rough treatment by thug police of both sexes. God, it might look nearly as absurd as that massive, futile, anti-terrorist invasion by the Met of a house in North London; though, at least, nobody at CT had been shot, as
did
happen in London. Or nobody at CT had been shot
yet.
Esther decided it would be OK for her to go to one of the main sites under search after, say, an hour, and wait somewhere near, observe events, but not actually enter any CT building or ground. Overview.

Perhaps she’d order the mobile Incident Room there and use it as a base. She’d go uniformed. Top brass had to show it backed the onslaught, even if she couldn’t take part, and even if it went nowhere and produced nothing. Maybe especially if it went nowhere and produced nothing. Somebody must carry the can. No, not somebody –
she
must. ACC: Arsehole, Carry the Can. The media would swarm. You couldn’t run a blitz programme like this without word getting about. It was unreasonable to expect the unit inspector to, first, lead the pry, then, as a no-win extra, take hostile Press questions and talk safe platitudes to television and radio news. Anyway, the inspector could have only a limited idea of why he/she was scouring Cormax Turton with a thousand pounds in reserve. Naturally, reporters would spot the likely resemblance to that fabulous Met shambles. They loved recording gargantuan police flops. It showed journalists weren’t muzzled, cowed, or slaves to official spin. They’d squeeze the laptop thesaurus for equals to ‘bungled’, ‘heavy-handed’, ‘unprovoked’, so they could rave on without repeats. ‘Hard-hitting’ – how their training manuals categorized this style.

And, unless Dean Martlew were successfully salvaged, Esther might agree that ‘bungled’ and ‘heavy-handed’ could be about right, and some hard-hitting justified, hardhitting of her: ACC. But ‘unprovoked’? The Out-location itself had definitely been provoked – brought on by Cormax Turton’s disgustingly long-time, brilliant, nauseating, masterful, insolent skill at appearing through-and-through innocent. And the attempted rescue of Martlew had also been provoked. Esther, in that way she liked, could tabulate how:

1. her certainty that Cormax Turton was profoundly and utterly crooked;

2. her fear Cormax Turton would slaughter an undercover cop, because

3. the undercover cop might have collected evidence to prove – and prove solidly enough for a court – prove that Cormax Turton was, yes, in fact, profoundly and utterly crooked and not through-and-through innocent at all.

The Chief came in. Esther pointed on the screen to the picture of a Cormax Turton warehouse used in the sea cargo business, where the latest search report came from. ‘Dud?’ he said.

‘It’s going well so far. They’ve got quite a bit to look at yet, sir,’ she said.

‘Dud?’ he replied.

The Control Room spoke on the intercom. Esther changed the screen image and pointed again. ‘Where do they come from?’ the Chief said.

‘What?’

‘All these photographs and drawings.’

‘We’ve amassed them over a period,’ Esther said.

‘Secretly amassed them?’

‘It’s important to keep an eye on how the Guild spreads.’

‘Are we all right with the data protection legalities?’

‘Façades are in the public domain for photographing, sir. Think of Buckingham Palace.’

‘These aren’t just façades.’

‘The internal visuals help give a fuller idea of the buildings,’ Esther replied. ‘Necessary for a search.’

‘But obtained how?’

‘Yes, it took a while,’ Esther said.

‘What do
they
say about him?’ the Chief asked.

‘Cormax Turton? What do Cormax Turton say about where Martlew is? Oh, we can’t tell them the search object. He might be still around on any of a dozen bits of CT property, his cover intact, and this would blow him, finish him. For the same reason we can’t yet try the thousand bribe.’

‘You still hope he’s all right?’

‘We’ve found nothing to say he’s not.’

‘Right. But
if
for dark reasons he’s not they’ll know who the search object is, won’t they?’

‘Probably, yes.’

‘And they’ll have got rid.’

‘That’s on the cards. We can’t risk telling them at this point, though, why we’re there.’

‘Which point?’

‘While he might still be on CT premises, in his role, OK, and accepted as Terence Marshall-Perkins, marksman.’

‘Wouldn’t he have been in touch, if that were so? He failed to meet his timetable, didn’t he? Why we went in.’

‘There might be some snag – something not dangerous but a nuisance, stopping him.’

‘Did your alarm system allow for that?’

‘For some delay, yes. But limited.’

‘It’s all so vague, so chancy.’

‘As far as is possible I try to make it neither of those, sir.’

‘Yes, I’m sure, but how far is that?’

‘How far is what, sir?’

‘How far is it possible?’

‘We have the timetable, plus rehearsed procedures for all potential developments.’

‘So what do you do if you find him, and he’s all right, and still accepted as Marshall-Perkins?’

‘That’s for the search leader’s operational judgement.’

‘How?’

‘If everything looks fine, and if Martlew gives no signs of special anxiety, the search unit pretend they’re looking for something else and move on.’

‘Cormax Turton will believe that?’ he asked.

‘They might.’

‘What something else?’ the Chief said.

‘We don’t have to disclose what. But there’ve been inter-firm fights with injuries and deaths – at the end of 2004. We still have active files on them. So, possibly something to do with those.’

‘And you’d leave him there?’

‘If that looks safe to the search leader. Martlew wouldn’t want to be pulled unless he saw real trouble. He’s by nature determined and calm. It’s taken a long time to implant him. And he’s done excellently at establishing himself there. A shame to put it all at hazard if there’s no need.’ She knew the Chief liked ‘at hazard’ as a phrase. She’d heard him several times warn against putting achievements at hazard.

‘So, what’s your feeling, Esther?’

‘In which respect?’

‘Could he be already finished?’

Yes, of course he could be already fucking finished, but the bluntness of the question knocked her hard. She gestured towards the screen: ‘The search is very careful, very skilled, very systematic. I have to wait on that, sir.’

‘The search confidently aims to find him alive?’

‘Aims to find him alive, yes,’ Esther replied. ‘That’s its
raison d’être.’

‘And bring him out?’

‘If appropriate.’

‘What would make it appropriate?’

‘If he appears to be in danger. This would mean that, in any case, the undercover operation’s no longer viable.’

‘He’s always in danger, isn’t he? It’s the nature of undercover. You’ll know. You’ve done it.’

‘If the danger seems exceptional and immediate,’ Esther said. ‘Actually meeting our search people he’d be able to signal somehow whether that’s so.’

‘And CT cooperate with us on this wholly unprovoked rummage?’ The Chief went in for all kinds of phrases, some given continual use, some seemingly spontaneous and requiring odd vocabulary.

‘I don’t think I’d say “unprovoked”, sir.’

‘No, I suppose you wouldn’t.’

‘I’d say unavoidable.’

‘Yes, I suppose you would. Anyway, they cooperate?’

‘Yes,’ Esther said.

‘Entirely?’

‘Apparently, sir.’

‘God. Does it mean they were expecting us, and made sure we find nothing shady? They come out of it cleaner than clean, and therefore stronger? The cost of error?’

‘We don’t know what it means, sir.’

‘No, we don’t, do we?’

‘Sir?’

‘Perhaps matters are genuinely as they appear,’ the Chief said. ‘All right, Cornelius has done time, yes, was unquestionably a serious villain. But it’s conceivable he’s turned legit, isn’t it? Isn’t it, Esther? Crooks do. The firms might now be what they’ve always successfully pretended – lawful.’

‘I wouldn’t say so.’

‘No,
you
wouldn’t.’

‘The firms are rotten – clever rotten, but rotten, and their cleverness makes them more rotten.’