Vacuum (7 page)

‘What are you looking for?' Ember said.

‘Well, I'm glad you were here to open up for us,' Iles replied. ‘This is a true, stout front door, as one would expect in a property of such character.' He fingered it respectfully. ‘Wood at its most genuine and formidable, fashioned to keep out rabble and rioters, not some three-ply, curling-at-the-edges job. I don't think our bold battering-ram would get anywhere, trying to knock this door flat, but we did bring it, just in case.'

‘If I knew what you're looking for I might be able to help you,' Ember said.

‘You've always tried to make things easier for us, Ralph,' Iles said. ‘Don't think that's unrecognized, though some – some with power – misunderstand you.' He sighed at the absurdity of this attitude, plus its cruelty at not recognizing Ralph's virtues. ‘There are a few who regard R.W. Ember as a sliver of criminal shit. Nothing that I say can move them from this view, and, as you would expect of me, I speak plenty in your favour, with many references to your accomplishments – verifiable references.'

‘Oh God,' Ember replied.

¹
See
Girls
and previous titles

FIVE

M
argaret Ember would normally half wake up when Ralph returned from his club at around three thirty a.m. and joined her in bed. Now, though, she came to with 4.16 on the illuminated night clock. Ralph was not beside her. At once she made herself fully alert and listened. She could hear no movement in the house. Perhaps he'd been delayed. Occasionally, that would happen. Special celebration parties for, say, a christening, or bail, might carry on past the usual two a.m. shutdown. Ralph could be flexible. He believed in social duty, and social obligations, even to the kind of society that used The Monty. Although he wanted to make the club different – classier, and, yes, distinguished – until it
was
classier, even distinguished, he would dutifully act as the host of how it was at present.

But his absence now fretted her, merged into that general uneasiness about the trade scene since Sandicott Terrace. On top of this, she'd always worried because Ralph loaded himself with the day's takings and carried these alone to the club safe upstairs, or motored them to the out-of-hours bank strongbox. It was only a short trip, though long enough and well-known enough for trouble. She could still worry about Ralph as Ralph, not merely as someone who commanded a gang, and who might bring distress on the children and herself. He was her husband, had been her lover. From certain angles he did look gloriously like the young Charlton Heston, and she still felt tenderness for him, despite the sections of his life and thinking deliberately walled off from her. She believed that whatever he did or thought in those unreachable areas they would be intended for the benefit of her, Venetia and Fay.

But, of course, he might get that wrong, get it absolutely upside down: he could be delivering them into obvious major risk. She was aware of a customary, harsh dilemma swiftly taking her over again as she lay there seeking sleep: should she stick with Ralph because he loved them, wanted to protect them, brilliantly provide for them? Or should she and the girls put distance between themselves and him because he couldn't help exposing them to big peril? He was Ralph Ember, business associate and possible competitor of Mansel Shale in the snort, smoke and needle vocation. Shale had apparently been selected for wipeout. It looked as though things went wrong and his wife and child took the bullets instead. This disaster could produce a lot of resentment and call for at least matching revenge; possibly, enhanced revenge. Honour might be involved: Sicily didn't have a monopoly on vendettas. She knew some would regard the calamitously messed-up execution as typical of almost any operation Ralph tried to run. That would not cause enemies to go any easier with him and his, though. She wanted her daughters unhurt, alive.

Because segments of Ralph's history, and of his present, remained hidden from her, she couldn't tell whether the contempt for him held by some was fair – held by some males only: women warmed and swarmed to him. But Margaret didn't want to be linked to an incompetent, a fool. Of course, everyone knew he had his absurd dreams for The Monty. She could put up with those. He believed, or pretended to, that given time he could turn the Shield Terrace haunt into something like one of those super-respectable London clubs, say the Athenaeum or Boodle's.

He seemed greatly to like the Boodle's idea because of the craziness of the name, and the fact that Churchill once belonged: this was the calibre of membership he would insist on for The Monty in its new form. Ralph had told her he wouldn't take the Boodle's title for his relaunched club – would probably be prevented by law from doing that – but he would aim for a pleasant, Boodle's type atmosphere, except he'd let women in, which Boodle's didn't. His hopes were mad. But almost everybody cherished some impossible yearnings. They could help keep one hopeful and active. Kid boxers aimed to be Ali; male golfers would like to be Woods, especially on account of the girls. Recently, Margaret came across a saying by the famous American writer Mark Twain: ‘Don't part with your illusions. When they are gone you may still exist, but you have ceased to live.' Probably, Ralph knew how ridiculous his fancies for The Monty were, but he needed a grail to keep him positive. Nobody despised him for this kind of bonkers reverie. He'd look deeply and truly idiotic, though, if associated with a disastrous fault in the targeting of Manse Shale, and possibly other workaday faults, concealed from her.
God, Ralph, how and when did you get to be such a mess?

Someone rang the front doorbell. It was a strong, urgent kind of ring. She thought: ‘Hell, something's happened to dear Ralph. They've come to tell me face-to-face. Oh, Christ, how, but how, could I have planned to ditch Ben Hur?' She swung out of bed, grabbed her dressing gown, and opened the door on her way to answer. But then she heard what she recognized as Ralph's footsteps, shoed, moving swiftly in response across the flagstoned hall. He glanced up to where she stood on the landing and with his hand spread gave a little wave. She took it to mean she shouldn't panic: things were OK, and he'd see to any caller. She was terrified.

He seemed to have expected the visit; it must be why he wasn't in bed. She tried a big whisper that she hoped would carry: ‘Ralph, don't open the door. Who's out there at this hour? Is this part of it?' No time to define the ‘it'. She wasn't supposed to know much about the ‘it', anyway – it being the Sandicott murder spree. Was he armed?

He waved again, signalling:
Relax, dear! El Cid can cope
, though he didn't actually say anything. His walk became almost a swagger. He opened up, no hesitation, no squint through the judas hole.

And no gunfire, thank God. She heard someone exclaim faux-fondly: ‘Ralph, here's a treat!' No, not just someone: she thought she recognized the voice of that insolent, egomaniac, eternally mystifying cop Assistant Chief Iles.

Ralph said: ‘I heard you'd be showing here at around this time today.' And then there was another voice, apparently coming from behind Iles. She couldn't make out these words. Iles began to speak in a foul, smarmy tone about the quality of the front-door wood and about searching Low Pastures.

She went back into her bedroom. If there was going to be a houseful of police, she'd better smarten up: important for her image as well as Ralph's. Iles would notice any scruffiness, probably have a full-out giggle at it and expect his crawly troops to do the same.

She applied some swift improvements then went downstairs to stand with Ralph. Iles, in uniform, was still on the doorstep. Behind him she saw that other nuisance officer, Harpur, wearing plain clothes. And behind him the search people waited: a lot of search people.

‘It's just routine, Margaret,' Ralph said, his voice steady.

‘Certainly,' Iles said.

‘Routine at four thirty in the morning?' she said.

‘Routine in the sense that most of the search people here do many visits of this kind,' Iles said.

‘How does that make it routine?' Margaret said.

‘It's routine for
them
,' Iles said. ‘These are what you might call 24/7 experts. They come into work of an evening and wonder to themselves, “What's on tonight?” And so they look at the briefing papers and murmur to one another, “A shakedown of Ralphy Ember's Low Pastures? Right.” It's just another assignment to them. They don't feel any malice or antipathy. It could be anywhere, you see, Margaret.'

‘But it isn't, is it?' Margaret said. ‘It's here.'

‘Ralph's name and address simply came up on the worksheet,' Iles said.

‘Who put it there? Why?' she said.

‘It's done without vindictiveness, please believe me,' Iles replied.

‘No,' Margaret said.

‘No what?' Iles asked.

‘No, I
don't
believe you,' she said.

‘Work at it,' Iles said.

‘What are you looking for?' Margaret said.

‘Ah, what are we looking for? I hope we approach a search of this type with an open mind,' Iles said. ‘It would surely pre-empt the very purpose of the search if we decided before the search took place what the search was trying to find. Our prime aim in an operation of this kind is fairness.'

‘What
are
you trying to find?' Margaret said.

‘This is why Harpur and I are here,' Iles replied.

‘Why?' Margaret said.

‘He won't answer queries, not sensibly,' Ember said.

‘Are you set on fitting Ralph up for the Shale deaths?' Margaret said. ‘Are you going to
find
something here, find something you brought? What is it? The gunman's business card – “Established 2010, Multiple Kills Catered For”? Who's got it to plant? Is there a trained expert at that kind of thing among your gang here?'

‘He won't answer queries, not sensibly,' Ember said.

‘Heterosexual women officers will, of course, do the girls' rooms,' Iles said. ‘Officers familiar with, and uninflamed by, female garments.'

‘How can you tell which rooms they are?' Margaret said.

‘We felt it important when dealing with a property of this distinction to know our way around it before we arrived,' Iles said. ‘That seemed only respectful and due.'

‘I hear you're quite keen on young flesh yourself,' Margaret said.

‘A remarkably fine residence, but not ideal as to security,' Iles replied. ‘The fields, copses, hedges – a lot of approach cover. It would be quite a place to take care of – to defend – if Ralph were not around for a time.'

‘But he
is
around,' she said.

‘Well, yes,' Iles said.

‘Suppose – suppose Ralph did have a lawless side. If he knew you were coming, you're not likely to find anything, are you, unless you've brought it yourselves?' Margaret said. ‘He would have made sure the place is OK.'

‘That's certainly a point,' Iles said.

Harpur said: ‘How did you know about the call, Ralph?'

‘Harpur sticks to a query,' Iles said. ‘It's what got him to where he is. Many would admire the tenacity. I esteem him, even though, as you'll probably have heard, he deceitfully, lecherously—'

‘You've got a stipended voice that talks to you from inside our building, have you, Ralph?' Harpur said.

SIX

T
he search split into three units: one downstairs, one up, one in the outbuildings. None found anything linked to the murders of Naomi Shale and the boy Laurent. Garland closed the operation at just before seven thirty a.m.

Standing in the doorway of Low Pastures, Margaret Ember yelled at the departing police vehicles: ‘This was victimization. This was oppression. This was and is persecution!'

Iles nodded. At Margaret Ember's side, Ralph patted her gently on the shoulder, as if attempting to bring some calm. He looked vindicated, Hestonized, solid, grandly imperturbable. For the moment Harpur could not have connected him with that dismissive, earned nickname, Panicking Ralphy.

Margaret Ember had patrolled vigorously while the pry was under way, fixing herself for a while to each of the ferreting groups, then switching abruptly to another, then to the other, trying to catch one or more of them at some trickery. Garland had wanted her to be restricted to the Low Pastures hall, but the ACC overruled this. Although Iles might not be Gold tonight, he
was
Iles. Guidance came as diktat from him. ‘It's her and Ralph's property, Francis. They must be able to move about in it, if they wish. They have affinities with and love these exposed beams, bare stone walls and showy, farcical fat-tomed library. Besides, I'm sure we've nothing to conceal, have we? An examination of our activities will prove them wholesome and well intentioned.'

Despite Margaret Ember's obvious hostility and rage, Harpur sensed she might wish to talk to him privately. Once, she had seemed about to approach, but Iles was near Harpur, exhaustively describing a Home Office administrator he considered shit; Iles considered most Home Office administrators shit, but this one exceptionally so, and therefore needing his character and appearance very thoroughly drawn. Margaret probably feared the ACC's involvement. Some people preferred life without Iles's involvement. He would not have been able to get his head around this, but it was true.

A while ago, Margaret Ember had come to see Harpur and discuss her intention to walk out on Ralph with the children. Harpur hadn't felt able to help her much, but he'd listened, sympathized. Although she did her flit, she returned after only several days. Was she thinking again about a dash, perhaps staying away permanently this time? Would something like the humiliating, irreverent, swarming, first-blush search of her home shove her towards a new escape plan? Such resentment might be coupled with alarm that Ralph, and therefore his family, could be vengeance targets following the Shale deaths. Did she need to talk about it again to somebody, somebody like Harpur? She didn't come to speak with him, though, so it was impossible to know as a certainty.