In the Absence of Iles (28 page)

‘I remember Cornelius’s rage when Brent Holywell Crabtree got his quarter-page obit in
The Times
– told his people to buy up and destroy all the copies locally. What do you make of that, Esther?’

‘Mad envy. He was afraid he might not rate for the same treatment himself. So, by suppressing that issue here he pretends Brent Holywell Crabtree didn’t get the treatment, either. But all the rest of the country would see the paper and so would early birds to shops in this area. Why I say mad. Ineffectual.’

‘Yes, exactly, envy. He sees that kind of coverage in a major paper as giving social repute, Esther. Perhaps Cornelius had begun to crave that, and craves it even more now – he’s ancient, isn’t he? An indicator of what drives him these days? He’s changed? Deathbed conversion?’

‘The obituary referred to Crabtree as a tireless, cold villain. It was the scale and glow of his evil that interested the paper, sir. Yes, social repute, but not the sort anyone sane would want.’

‘Just the same, to Cornelius
Times
coverage might show Brent Crabtree had moved, half moved, into respectability, and this had been recognized.’

‘Cornelius is –’

‘I’m saying only that we have to treat him respectfully. We have nothing criminal against him.’

The Control Room interrupted. She and the Chief listened. Then, Esther brought plans of an office block on to the screen. ‘This could be a likely spot.’

The Chief didn’t give it much attention, though. He said: ‘Do you know, not long ago I went to a meeting at the Millicent on ways to avoid Inheritance Tax, entirely legal ways, of course. One has to consider these things in good time. Perhaps you and Gerald have already done so. There’s the value of one’s house, one’s retirement lump sum, and, in your case, Gerald possibly into star earnings as a performer. I gather he’s wonderfully gifted. Well, that’s by the way. But who was there, do you think?’

‘Not Cornelius Max Turton?’

‘Cornelius Max Turton, plus family members, and heavies patrolling inside and out,’ the Chief said. ‘As a matter of fact, I saw him arrive – two cars, one a new, green Bentley, the other a people carrier with his muscle. He looks very dodgy on his legs, but still in charge, and, admittedly, still with mobster protection around him. It doesn’t cancel the fact, though, that this is the head of Cormax Turton behaving like any right and proper member of the bourgeoisie might behave – myself, for instance. Possibly
yourself
and Gerald. The implication of the Millicent trip is that Cornelius acknowledges the right and – maybe more important – admits the
ability
of the State to tax him and his, but will seek above-board means to reduce that levy after his death. This is a notable development. It’s beyond what we might call acceptance of his duty as a citizen; rather the wish to establish on a legal basis those coming after him.

‘The thinking possibly touches not just Cornelius but Ambrose, Palliative, the whole crew. In response, I feel we have to show Cornelius decent and due regard. Perhaps his firms
were
bent previously. But has he somehow achieved a makeover? Almost always in villains we see a yearning for the good. I don’t think I’d wish to be a police officer if I didn’t believe in this worthwhile impulse, an impulse admittedly often concealed, even suppressed, Our work would be dismally negative.’

‘He might have had one of our people tortured, slaughtered and dumped in the sea.’

‘Might. We’re without anything like proof.’

‘To date.’

‘To date is where we’re at, Esther. You say yourself that Martlew is possibly still all right, his role in CT as good as ever.’

‘Cornelius runs immensely valuable freight theft, and county networks hard and soft drugs, a turnover up with ICI’s,’ she replied. ‘The Guild kills people when necessary – when considered necessary by them.’

‘Again, unproven.’

‘To date. We work at it.’

‘Work tactfully, then. All right, we’re in there now and searching so my concerns are too late, but I trust it’s done . . . done . . . well . . . decorously.’

‘Decorous above all was what I told them to be, sir. Decorousness figured as theme of many briefings. Any who didn’t know the word, I offered to tutor.’

The Chief said: ‘Do you know that on its functions board the Millicent advertised tea dances, with live music? A pleasant, rather comforting, reminder of more
decorous
old ways?’

‘The Millicent is very go-ahead. I think I’d heard about the Inheritance Tax pow-wow. But tea dances? Wow!’ Esther replied.

The Control Room gave another search location. It was the Cormax Turton firearms range. Esther brought up the picture. ‘Shooting’s one of the leisure activities CT offer personnel,’ Esther said. ‘To be expected.’

It was an indoor range, at the rear of the main office block, wide enough for three target lanes. The Control Room said: ‘Nobody about there except for Felix Glass who coaches people on the use of handguns. Likes Glocks, apparently. Conversational. Inspector i/c the search group wonders if this might be the one to try the bribe on, if it comes to that.’

‘A reasonable idea,’ Esther said to the Chief. ‘I know Dean Martlew has talked to the armourer, developed a kind of friendship, even.’

‘And trustworthy?’

‘That’s something else, of course.’

‘Do we have any notion of what might have given our man away, assuming he has been?’ the Chief said.

‘Dean’s very cautious in all his work with CT.’

‘Cautious how?’

‘Yes, exceptionally cautious.’

‘I don’t get how someone undercover
can
be cautious,’ the Chief said. ‘Obviously, he/she has to act the part, but cautious?’

‘He saw the need, without Channing or myself having to preach.’

‘Might
over
-caution be noticeable?’

‘Sometimes you get impulsive people volunteering for Out-location,’ Esther replied.

‘But you’d say Martlew was the best choice for the role?’ the Chief asked. ‘You and Channing agreed?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Why Channing, not Simon Telser?’

‘A feeling.’

‘What feeling?’

‘Yes, a feeling. Channing was hostile to the project, considered it too dangerous. I knew he’d expect problems, and be ready for them.’

‘I think you were right.’

‘Possibly I was, but perhaps the problems are beyond him, and beyond me.’

The Chief left. Esther sat for another half-hour following the search through Control Room’s reports and the visuals. Then she drove down to the last-mentioned site. It was yet another of those grey-stone, spacious Victorian buildings which, say, a hundred and thirty years ago had been someone’s private mansion, possibly, like Fieldfare, with its own park, but then built around and adapted to offices. CT had added the range in excellently matching stone at the rear. Esther abandoned her plan of asking for the mobile Incident Room to be sent. It would have a driver and staff. She decided she wanted to watch alone. Watch what? Not much. Probably less. She’d prefer to be without Incident Room people while she witnessed this – the nothingness.

In fact, though, it was not totally nothing. After she’d been sitting there for three-quarters of an hour, Cornelius Max Turton came out from the main entrance and walked slowly towards her, not asking too much from his knees, yet using no stick. He wore a dark double-breasted, pinstriped suit, a red and white baseball cap and red and white training shoes. He put on a very authentic smile. She thought it signalled welcome and confidence in their equal status, hers and his. His eyes were blue, lively but cheerless, the kind that might see through Out-loc cover, especially if someone like that sod Moonscape had given him a hint. She knew Cornelius had had trouble with his eyes lately, but they looked healthy enough now, just intimidating and unjumpy. He actually spoke about them. Ambrose and Palliative were with him, though a little way behind and to his left. Dossier pictures of all three needed updating. Ambrose had put on a few kilos.

Cornelius said: ‘I told them it was you, Mrs Davidson, but these colleagues wouldn’t have it, despite their younger peepers. However, however . . . I suppose that in a way I was cheating – using a special advantage. Yes, I knew from deducing over many months, even, possibly, years, the kind of person you must be. True, I’ve seen pictures of you, in the Press and on television, but it’s not that. After all, Ambrose and Palliative might also have seen them. No, I’ve had the time and, I might say, the wish to guess from your actions as ACC what you must be like as a person. Some might say it’s easy to deduce this because you are an Assistant Chief and therefore fit the eternal Assistant Chief pattern. I don’t go along with that. Of course, these boys are too busy with work and their social lives to give much effort to wondering about you. It’s a fault in them, disrespectful to you, perhaps, but understandable. Maturity of outlook can’t be rushed.

‘Myself, I know you are of a type, Mrs Davidson, who will see things through – I mean
personally
see them through to the end. Under the bludgeonings of fate your head is bloody but unbowed. For instance, this visit by your people today: you are not one to leave subordinates to get on with it and give no presence yourself. It is creditable that you wish to be on the as it were spot. Do you know, a celebrated picture comes into my mind. It is of Mr Winston Churchill in 1911, and then Home Secretary, actually standing with armed police taking part in the London, Sidney Street siege. Now, I don’t suggest that the visit to our establishments is anything like as exciting or, indeed, dangerous as that episode involving Peter the Painter and his criminal gunmen all those years ago. And, of course, our companies are entirely lawful and in no way resemble that wild gang. No, it is the need you feel, the obligation you feel, to get to what would be called, I suppose, the nitty-gritty of the situation – this is what puts me in mind of Churchill. And, because I would be
expecting
someone of your “hands-on” character to appear, it’s perhaps natural that I should spot you, though Ambrose and Palliative failed – not merely failed, but laughed at me, told me I was mistaken.

‘They’ll be rather ashamed of themselves now, believe me. I tell them it’s Assistant Chief Constable Davidson and they say something like, “Why would she come here in person to witness in person a fiasco she in person produced?” – meaning the barren search for whatever, whomever, it might be: nobody has informed us. And I tell them it is
because
it is such a fiasco that you will insist on coming here. “It is
her
fiasco,” I point out, “enirely hers, and the ACC is not one to let others take the mockery and condemnation for this absurd mess-up,” as it will surely turn out to be. We cooperate – willingly, even enthusiastically cooperate – though given no indication of what we are cooperating
with.
Naturally we note that, as in the Churchill picture, many of your people are armed – a real Glock festival – so we can hardly regard the visit as casual or friendly. If only we had some clue as to the purpose we might be able to assist even better.’

‘They’re very programmed, seem to know all the buildings and surrounds well,’ Ambrose said.

‘This I would have forecast,’ Cornelius replied. ‘It would be in line with those deductions about Mrs Davidson’s psychology that I mentioned earlier. Excellent preparation will be a feature of any project she has charge of.’

‘There must be a lot of info about the CT properties, internal and ex, stored somewhere,’ Ambrose said.

Esther had opened the passenger window of her car and Ambrose and Cornelius were crouched there, talking to her. Nathan Garnet Ivan Crabtree – Palliative – stood behind them on the pavement, apparently listening to what passed, but not bending to talk. He was thin, a bit hatchet-faced and very nimble-looking. Ambrose did carry the spare weight, and had rounded, softer features and a rosy, smooth complexion, though he’d be into his forties, a few years older than Palliative.

‘We wondered if you’d like to come in and wait for them to finish, Mrs Davidson,’ Cornelius said. ‘A cup of tea. That wouldn’t rate as accepting favours, would it? This isn’t an ideal way of talking. I don’t suppose you’re used to car-based discussions.’

‘Well, thanks,’ Esther said, ‘but I’m due back at the office now. This was only a routine trip, you know.’

‘For their morale,’ Cornelius replied. ‘You’d be very concerned about that, I’m sure. I mean, when they find nothing – and I say again, not that we know what they’re trying to find anyway.’

No? No?
I don’t suppose you’re used to car-based discussions.
Where did that come from? A Millicent echo? ‘Cheers, then,’ Esther said. She wound up the window and joined the traffic. When she looked in the mirror, she saw the three of them waving, Palliative the most ardently, as if afraid he might be thought churlish for not talking, or because Cornelius had told him he might be. One of the things about Cornelius was he obviously went in for manners. She wished she’d had a camera with her to do a current photograph of Cornelius and Ambrose framed like that by the open car window. The baseball cap gave Cornelius quite a touch of trendiness.

Esther, sitting at the breakfast table, worked through the main section of
The Times
to the right page. Gerald came in, glanced at it for a few minutes over her shoulder before taking his place opposite and pouring himself some tomato juice. He reached across for the newspaper’s separate Travel Supplement.

Esther read:

CORNELIUS MAX TURTON

Cornelius Turton, who has died aged eighty-four, was once the uncontrollably powerful and autocratic head of a group of companies eventually proved to be the biggest British criminal organization outside London. ‘The Guild’, as the group was sometimes known, ran drug trafficking on an enormous scale and dockyard freight theft. From 1986 until 2007, the Guild was able successfully to masquerade as a reputable commercial enterprise based, apparently, on legitimate trading as shipping and cargo agents, and as couriers, and on property development. It was said that, at the height of its crooked success, Mafia chiefs came deferentially to visit Cornelius Turton in his stately Victorian office headquarters for tips on how to create credible lawful ‘fronts’ on out-and-out criminal firms. Turton was a learned devotee of Georgian and Victorian architecture and an active conservationist except, as one associate said, of enemies.