Pix (Volume Book 24) (Harpur & Iles Mysteries) (12 page)

‘As always,' Jill said.

‘And the girl reporter?' Harpur said.

‘Kate?' Jill said.

‘The
Evening Register
,' Harpur said.

‘Yes, she came,' Jill said.

‘I thought she would,' Harpur said. ‘She's building a yarn.'

‘But Meryl doesn't want her to write anything,' Hazel said. ‘Not yet.'

‘There isn't anything to write, is there?' Harpur said. ‘Only the bus station buzz.'

‘
So far
there's nothing to write,' Hazel said.

Next morning, Harpur took an old, unmarked car from the pool and drove to what had been dockland and was now the marina. He'd done a local check and found Chandor had his home and offices here. It was a useless kind of visit, he knew that. He hoped he might see Meryl Goss on her way to ask Chandor if, as a property dealer, developer, he had any knowledge of Graham Trove, who'd arrived in this area to join up with a property dealer, developer, but who'd disappeared. Possibly she suspected now, thanks to the buzz, that someone dubious in property might be the sort to know about Graham Trove. Perhaps she'd be with the journalist. They tended to stick, journalists. It didn't look as though Meryl knew of any London connection between Trove and Chandor or she'd have concentrated her search on him before this.

And if Harpur
did
see her or them, what came next? For the sake of Meryl Goss's continuing safety, should he try to stop her or them and explain that Graham Trove probably had his throat cut on an ex-rectory stairs, that his body had been subsequently carted away by a restoration party, and the spot tarted up with cleaning liquid and sauce while Iles watched? Harpur shelved this problem. Most likely he would not see her, them. Coming here and hanging about was a kind of conscience twitch, little more than that. The nagging by the children and their worries over someone like Meryl Goss could often get to him.

He parked and stayed in the car, watching the converted
bonded warehouse where Chandor rented a floor of office space. This would be less obvious than patrolling on foot. After a few minutes, though, he noticed the stubby shape of Mansel Shale who
was
patrolling on foot, taking the ozone, gazing about under that heap of dark hair with his gleaming, ferrety eyes, engaged on some serious sightseeing. When he reached the car, Harpur lowered the window and said: ‘Bracing here, I always feel, especially a.m., isn't it, Manse?'

Shale bent down to talk: ‘Such an improvement, such an inspiration, Mr Harpur.'

‘What?'

‘The marina – when compared with the derelict old spot this used to be. Rebirth, very much so, enlightened, bold.'

‘True indeed.'

‘As you say, Mr Harpur, “bracing”. A walk sets me up for the day.'

‘Mr Iles is crestfallen,' Harpur replied.

‘This saddens me, despite the bracing effect here.'

‘For interrupting something so meaningful and confluent with Syb in your gallery. He asked me to look you up and apologize. I knew you liked to greet the day at the marina. So, here I am.'

‘One of my kids thinks that strutting fucker, Iles, was in her bedroom, Harpur, while we were away,' Shale replied. ‘She had this feeling immediately she met him in the rectory after school. I could see it. Well, you've got children yourself, Mr Harpur. You know how they can be with instincts and that.'

‘Mr Iles has promised he'll ring up in advance from now on if we're going to call, in case you're busy stoking a relationship at the time. Just say “Free” or “Not free”, Manse – that's, obviously, if you can reach the phone, in the circumstances. No need to use a lot of breath.'

One of the main points about Ralph Ember was his belief in duty. Although Ralph hated jargon and cliché, he thought his belief in duty probably deep enough to be called a mantra. All right, pretty soon he wanted to kick out most of the present ugly membership of his club in Shield Terrace, the Monty, so he could begin the admittedly quite tough process of raising it to the social level of, say, the Athenaeum, or at least the Garrick, in London. But, as to now, while the Monty's clientele remained its rubbishy self, he still recognized the obligation – yes, the duty – to behave as a host should behave and treat people who belonged to the club as if they definitely counted for something regardless. Often, he would get out from his spot behind the bar and do some true mingling with this prole crew, giving and receiving conversation, smiling appropriately, discussing undangerous topics. During one of these fraternizing sessions he heard about the staining at the top of Shale's stairs in the rectory, and the changing of locks throughout.

Almost at once, then, Ralph Ember decided he would invite Shale for dinner at Low Pastures, his own home. Of course, he recognized this as an immense shift in view. Normally, he would never have let Manse, or anybody even fractionally like Manse, into his manor house, entailing possible contact with the fabric and Ralph's family. Ember's older daughter, Venetia, still at school, could be very unchoosy about men and might not even notice the ferretiness of Shale's eyes. Ralph had sent her to a convent-type place in France for a while to see if nuns would damp
her down, but she was back here now. Just the same, Ralph felt determined to ask Shale over. And, if he wanted to, Manse could bring one of those women he kept around his place from time to time, and
only
one, so there'd be a nicely balanced four at table, Ember and Margaret, Shale and the specially chosen squeeze. This should help keep Venetia off Manse. In any case, she and Ralph's other daughter would not be dining, having eaten earlier.

Ember intended to treat Shale's woman, never mind which, with total politeness. In fact, he'd go beyond that and show warmth, as long as she managed the civilities and maintained them, even after rich dishes, aperitifs, wine and liqueurs. He wanted no puke, no come-on drooling about Ralph's resemblance to the young Charlton Heston, no political, religious or underprivileged-state-of-women rants. Just as he would give any current member of the Monty full courtesy regardless of their absolute lack of class, so any guest at Low Pastures deserved proper treatment until his or her behaviour grew unforgivable. After all, invitations were rare and only those who on the face of it did deserve proper treatment got one, or came with someone who got one, such as Manse – for an evening. In fact, Ember felt nearly certain Manse wouldn't ever contemplate turning up with two or several women, if he still had several on his books. He could be fuddy-duddy. Apparently, Shale always restricted it to a solitary partner in the rectory at a time. This would be partly from dread of catfights on the premises causing shrillness and potential damage to the fucking art he gabbled about so much. Also he'd have consideration for his children, Matilda and Laurent – God, who hatched these names? Despite his indisputably authentic backwardness and crudity, Manse did follow some rules. Plus, he would experience vast awe from being asked to Low Pastures at last, and when meeting Margaret he'd want to seem something as close to polished as he could get, and sexually ungross. Ralph would have caterers in, people who knew the kind of excellence he required as a norm.

Staining and the locks – Ralph picked up this tale from
Felix Tullane, or Empathic Felix, as he was known. Ralph detested the nicknames of some club members. He realized certain people in the Athenaeum probably had nicknames, but these would be standard and rather British, to do with appearance or careers, such as Rusty if ginger-haired, or Sparks for someone who ran power stations – not mocking, and possibly the total opposite of someone's character. Ralph wondered whether Empathic actually had empathy for anyone bar himself. But Empathic did know a house-painter and decorator who gave him tips now and then on promising places to burglarize, and passed information about the rectory, where he'd been working. Empathic was not major enough or mad enough to consider doing a house owned by Mansel Shale, for God's sake, but he'd listened. Then one night in the club, when Ralph took on a kindly socializing stint with the Tullane family party and friends, Empathic mentioned that mess at the head of the stairs which looked like blood to his pal, although it had been attacked by scouring liquid, then disguised with sauce. And, apparently, while the redecoration was under way, a locksmith did a total refit. Ralph had seen the decorators at the rectory when he called on Manse but naturally lacked the vital background as to cause.

‘My mate says it was like someone got it on the stairs,' Empathic said. ‘I mean, got finality. Everyone knows stairs are a peril. You can be done from up top, you can be done from behind. Right, Ralph? Basic. Ever see off someone on stairs yourself?'

Obviously, the first thing Ralph thought about the staining was some roam-the-home boisterous sex game, such as ‘Hail Veronica!' or ‘The Brahms Mosaic', had gone badly excessive with one of those birds. The line between ecstatic pain and heart failure could blur. Manse looked the kind who'd like pervy stuff and give it some effort, perhaps too much effort – that snub, greedy face and his fat lips. Had he pushed the risks beyond? If so, Manse would do a temporary clear-up, dump the weighted body in the sea, with or without help, and afterwards order full renewal of
paper and carpet for safety, and as high-minded tribute to the departed one.

But almost immediately Ralph realized his idea did not take account of the locksmith. If Manse accidentally killed the girl himself while sporting out of control with her he would not be worried about intruders. So, perhaps the blood around the stairs came from an outsider, not, say, an inadvertently haemorrhaging Manse mistress at all. To clarify this, he'd need to find out whether all the girls given interludes of hospitality by Manse were still alive. People in the club would be certain to know their names. Ralph could recall Shale once speaking admiringly of someone called Carmel and her terrific knowledge of porcelain and
Mein Kampf
. She might be a type willing to seek new frontiers during love frolics, but could come unstuck.

‘Manse told them a stumble while running upstairs with sauce,' Empathic said. ‘My mate agrees there
was
sauce, no question, but not
only
sauce – this is the point – and sauce put on as a final layer, over the original. In the house are two kids, and they keep on talking about the sauce so my mate thinks it definitely was not just sauce – the way those kids repeat and repeat it, as if needing to back up Manse, like hiding something, the same as how the sauce itself seemed to be smeared there to hide something. Kids in a blue and black school uniform when they get home. Private. Manse Shale has the money for that. Well, obviously, or he would not be doing redecorating just because of sauce or what's
under
the sauce.'

Empathic's mother, early seventies, in a beige suit, was among the big Tullane family group. She said: ‘I can't understand how anyone would have a bottle of sauce, and an open bottle of sauce, going upstairs or coming down.'

Although Beatrice, her older sister, wearing denim skirt and jacket, might not know the games Ralph had thought of, she could add her own insights: ‘There are some famous sex routines involving sauce or gravy, aren't there, Jane? But they get everywhere. It takes two or three goes
in the washing machine to remove, and you can't send sheets streaked like that to the laundry, because of talk. Wasn't it the state of the bedding that helped them nobble Oscar Wilde?'

‘I hate all these kinks,' Empathic's mother said. ‘Nature should be nature, and no additives.' Many of the young male Monty members seemed to have very assertive older female relatives – mothers, aunts, even great aunts. Ralph thought of Dependable Jasper, bank robber – dead now – whose aunt and grandmother inherited all the loot.

‘Why the locks, Empathic?' Ralph said.

‘Some kind of break-in?' he said. ‘Manse asked my mate to repaint one of the window frames where there'd been forcing. Who'd have the neck to break in at Manse's? Yes, odd. But maybe people from away who didn't realize the rectory was his.' Ralph knew club members felt mightily flattered when he spent time with them and they would talk all their secrets, trying to interest and hold him. Oh, yes, they'd launch a bit of cheek, also – such as asking if Ralph had ever annihilated anyone on stairs, but this happened only so they wouldn't seem too creepily grateful for Ralph's presence, which they were. Ember felt more or less sure he never
had
killed anyone on stairs, and certainly not on ex-rectory stairs, though stairs did offer grand chances, agreed.

‘As long as it's OK for both I think anything's all right,' Beatrice said. ‘Sometimes love can do with pepping up. Kinks and creativity – they'll overlap.'

‘And then Manse is giving his actual wife one in the drawing room, door locked with a new lock, sort of testing it out on the job, you could say,' Empathic replied. ‘She lives away but came back.'

‘Was sauce or gravy involved in this?' his aunt said.

‘My mate thinks on a rug from abroad and very special-looking. There's a lot of art in that room.'

‘A rug might be ruined,' Beatrice said.

‘Setting
can
be important,' Jane Tullane said.

‘And in the middle of it all, who turns up?' Empathic replied. ‘Guess who turns up?'

‘Is this one of the in-fill girls, unexpectedly?' the aunt asked. ‘Out of phase? There's screamed abuse and clawing between her and the wife? More blood, not sauce?'

‘Iles and Harpur,' Empathic said, ‘really working the door bell, then barging in. This is a famed building with a holy past, but they barge in just the same. My mate thinks Manse had to do
coitus interruptus
, not on account of birth control as in the old days, but because of Iles and Harpur with questions and conversation. They're not going to care about what point on his trajectory Manse had reached, are they? This is senior police. They think they have the right. So they're rapping on the gallery door, like a raid.'