Pix (Volume Book 24) (Harpur & Iles Mysteries) (5 page)

‘Don't play more fucking philistine than you actually are, Harpur. Pre-Raphaelites, as you know.'

‘Someone called Hughes? And Prentis. We've got notes on them. Quite possibly genuine canvases, I'm told.'

‘ “Beauty, vividness, warmth” is the order he spoke of. Yes, naturally, he's talking about art,' Iles replied. He paused, then said: ‘I can visualize it myself – the blankness and possible cobwebs and dust lines where previously hung immensely distinguished works. You're a Bible man, aren't you, Harpur? Ex-Sunday school. You'll know that Old Testament cry of –'

‘ “Ichabod.” '

‘ “The glory has departed.” Yes, I see it, I see it now at the rectory. Mere dust on the walls where fine works had been
displayed. I have that kind of ability, Col – the visualizing kind. At Staff College I was known as Mind's-eye Iles. Most likely he used one painting to cover a wall safe, its blunt unwelcoming features made suddenly evident.'

Harpur considered and tried some face-reading on Iles, always ineffective. The ACC's face was not expressionless, but the expression never accurately told what malice or absurdity or kindness he had lined up. Harpur said: ‘Christ, you've been into Manse's place for a look, have you?'

‘Those empty, emptied, walls. So bereft, so void, Col.'

‘You broke in, did you, you crazy fucker, sir,' Harpur said.

‘Manse has built up a little personal gallery and sees it suddenly pillaged. Heartbreaking.'

‘You'd know they were all still at Severalponds and nicely settled for a while,' Harpur said. ‘Why you left them? So you actually
saw
the stripped walls and body on the stairs?'

‘Look at the transcript, Col – quite early on. I wondered what he was getting at when he said, “I need to wash – well, you can believe it following that kind of contact.” See those words? “I need to wash – well, you can believe it following that kind of contact” – as if his listener would entirely understand why Mansel needed to sluice himself, because, of course, his listener was party to something that had gone on at the rectory.'

‘What answer did you get when you wondered?' Harpur said.

‘Blood.'

‘Blood how?'

‘Manse has been searching a body,' Iles said. ‘Perhaps a savaged body. Throat-cut, for instance. Shale is bloody from contact.'

‘You've been in there and observed this, without being observed – the throat-cut body?'

‘Manse would require identification of someone discarded like that, wouldn't he? A trawl through the made-to-measure Paul Mixtor-Hythe suit pockets.'

‘You did a window catch, did you, sir? No alarms, of course. Alarms bring outsiders and Manse wouldn't want them poking about, especially police outsiders. As far as I remember, though, your breaking and entering skills are damn low. True, a writer my wife liked did say the mind and instincts of a burglar were similar to the mind and instincts of a police officer, but . . .'

‘Conrad.
The Secret Agent
. We've spoken of this before. It's the only book you've ever read, isn't it – except for the Bible?'

‘. . . but you're a useless burglar and will have left traces, not like the first lot who entered.' Harpur went back to the transcript. ‘What is it he says? Here: “This got your mark on it. No sign of a break-in anywhere. This got your mark on it.” An amusing contradiction, really, wouldn't you say, sir? It's got the mark on it because there isn't one!'

‘It makes me hellish nervous when you turn paradoxical, Col. Shall I tell you how I imagine events went?'

‘You don't have to imagine. You've damn well seen it, haven't you? Did you try the safe?'

Harpur realized Iles might admit to organizing an illegal tap, not to illegal breaking and entering. An intercept was electronic, devilish and clever-clever – worthy of him. Breaking and entering was artisan. Occasionally Harpur did a break-in for purposes of an unofficial search of some suspect's place. Iles would not wish to be bracketed with Harpur. And, of course, by claiming only to have ‘visualized' events at the rectory, Iles could hang on to the identifying details of the body on the stairs and use the knowledge as he wanted – and as he wanted would mean fucking up Harpur.

The ACC said: ‘A raid to snatch Shale's pictures – presumably stuff of worth. Someone's pressurizing him, maybe. They want his cooperation. We can understand that, Col, can't we? They're saying to him, “This is what we can do if we feel like it, so get friendly, get commercially amenable, Mansel, dear.” The body's extra, I'd suggest. Some sort of inter-crook fight there. Manse immediately knows who's responsible, of course, and gets
on the phone. The intercept shows it's Hilaire Wilfrid Chandor. A coming name? Here from London fairly recently, as mentioned by Manse. We've been taking notice of Chandor? No convictions up there in Metroland but lots of rumour? Nordic-looking?'

Iles fancied himself as being Nordic-looking and would not like competition from Hilaire Wilfrid Chandor. Harpur said: ‘Yes, we've had a bit of quiet surveillance on him and done some crafty photographs and informal inquiries. The stuff has probably crossed your desk.'

‘Well, I'm glad some stuff you instigate does, Col. And, of course, Chandor was aware Manse would know who'd done or ordered the rectory incursion. He acts the chief enraged by mistakes of his men and promises to put things back to normal while Manse is away at Severalponds. Suddenly, you see, Chandor ceases as Vandal and becomes the white knight. He's going to look after Manse, naturally having first flattened and trampled him. It's choreographed. Chandor will expect gratitude in the trade scene. When I say “visualize”, Col – what I visualize above all, figmentalize above all, is the return of Chandor's people with the pix, a step-ladder, cleaning fluid, several bottles of tomato sauce, and a body bag. Perhaps Chandor himself. That's my scenario. That's how I visualize. How I posit. At my rank you have to think creatively, make, as it were, one's own pictures about pictures. Don't fret that you'd never be able to manage it yourself, Col, because you're not going to get to my rank.'

‘You saw all this? Where were you – in a bedroom or bathroom watching through a part open door? A kid's bedroom? She or he will know it. They can sense such things. They're like animals. I don't know whether it's residual odour or something more mystical. I can't say I've noticed residual odour off you, not lately, sir, but children are sharp. Subliminal.'

‘It would be a hellish worry for poor Mansel when he came back from Severalponds.'

‘What?'

‘In case the body is still there and the pictures still
missing. Can he rely on Chandor's promise to replace and clean up? If no change, how does Manse account for something like that to the children? This is a tender father, with a throat-cut corpse on the stairs and all that cold, unoccupied wall.'

‘But everything was as promised in the transcript, was it? Back to status quo?'

‘Certainly it would be interesting to know if that's so, Col.'

‘You
do
know it, don't you, because you were bloody well there, peeping, sir – at least when Chandor's return party arrived? You'd have been expecting them, though, because of the tap – could get out of sight in good time.'

‘All we have is this transcript, Harpur, with its baffling, ambiguous hints. “Items” that are “items”. A revelation!'

‘No, that's not all we have. Or not all
you
have.'

Iles sat down at his desk, unstapled the transcript and fed it to the shredder. His eyes grew mild and reminiscent. Harpur tried to gauge whether venom or idiocy or venomous idiocy would emerge next. But Iles's voice took the mildness route: ‘Sometimes, you know, Col, my mother used to say I had an imagination that ran away with me. Yes, this was her phrase – “Desmond, your imagination runs away with you.” Not harshly spoken – bemusedly.'

‘Mothers often make remarks to their children, now and then bemusedly. It's a motherly sort of thing. They think they have a right. I don't know how it comes about. As a matter of fact,
my
mother would sometimes say –'

‘But what's happening, Harpur?'

‘We know what's happening, don't we? Aspiring firms fight for a way in and will try to squeeze or squash anyone obstructing them. It's constant – this unrest, this ruthlessness. The drugs game here is Wall Street in miniature. Private enterprise imperatives. And it's everywhere, not just our domain. The head of Nottingham CID is compelled to move with his family into a safe house because a drugs gang have decided he's a threat and should be taken out.'

‘I read about that. I thought this over and concluded it
would almost certainly be a loss to the Force here if some gang got
you
, Harpur.'

‘Thank you, sir.'

‘Mind, anything that compelled flight from the déclassé, dogshit street where you live now to some spruce, safe house in a wholesome district must be a plus, and beneficial for your daughters.'

In the evening, Harpur had one of their routine, scheduled meetings with Jack Lamb up at the old anti-aircraft gun site on a hillside overlooking the city. For a while they had abandoned this spot because Jack considered it no longer secret and secure. Now, though, he seemed to have decided it would do again. He liked places with military connections and often dressed to harmonize, or in what he
thought
harmonized. Harpur accepted without question whichever location Lamb chose because, obviously, he had all the risk, and risks to informants were big. In fact, Harpur would accept rendezvous conditions laid down by any informant. There was another, special, condition when dealing with Lamb. Jack liked it to be known that he only informed when he considered the cause good. He did not grass for money or as a natural stooly. That kind of finking he thought base and contemptible. He liked to explain this conscience matter to Harpur each time they met. And Harpur always listened. Patience paid. He knew no informant to match Jack.

‘I'm talking because there might be children in danger, Col,' Lamb said at once.

‘That's bad.'

‘I get this from a contact,' Lamb said.

‘Yes, I thought so. Which contact is that, Jack?'

This kind of question, Harpur always asked, though not expecting a reply. No informant named
his
informants, or there wouldn't be any. But today Jack said: ‘There are scores of locksmiths in this city.'

‘Certainly.'

‘So, if I say my contact is a locksmith, this is not to put the finger on him/her. But it's necessary you should know his/her work.'

‘Right.'

Lamb had on what might be a 1930s-style Norwegian army despatch rider's hard-winter, black leather greatcoat with a heavy fur collar, also black. With it he wore a British, plum-coloured, Parachute Regiment beret and desert boots. Jack stood 6 feet 5 inches and weighed over 250 pounds. He and Harpur both liked this spot on the hillside. They could look down over the city and feel they might offer it guardianship, not with the anti-aircraft shells and searchlights of the Second World War now, but through smart use of what they already knew, and what extra they might find out. It was a warm, hazy night and the street lights far below seemed feeble, shrouded. The enormous greatcoat and its fur collar must be oppressive but Jack did not wilt. Probably it wasn't in the character of Norwegian army despatch riders to wilt, because 1930s despatches had to get through. ‘I would never identify someone who talks to me, you know that, don't you, Col?' Jack said.

‘Certainly.'

‘In a sense a locksmith is like a priest or solicitor and has a duty of confidentiality to clients. Matters of property.'

‘Right.'

‘But in this case he/she spoke to me,' Lamb said.

‘Because of the children?'

‘Because of the children,' Lamb replied.

‘Where?'

‘There are two involved.' Lamb and most other informants liked to give their material slowly, in dribs and drabs. They believed this echoed the difficulty and rewardable skill in obtaining it, and made the material appear more. ‘A boy and a girl.'

Harpur wondered then if they were Manse Shale's.

‘The father is a dubious figure, but his children deserve protection the same as anyone else's.'

‘Clearly.'

‘Some would dispute it.'

‘Do I know him?'

‘The mother is to quite a degree out of the reckoning,' Lamb replied.

Harpur began to feel sure the children were Manse Shale's. ‘Out of the reckoning in what sense, Jack?'

‘Happy for him to have custody most of the time.'

‘That's unusual.'

‘How it is,' Lamb said. ‘I expect from this you can work out the man we're talking about.'

‘I'd need to think a while,' Harpur said. Lamb would be upset if Harpur found a short-cut to the answer.

‘Shale,' Jack said.

‘Mansel?'

‘Laurent and Matilda. Most of the time they live with him at the rectory now he and his wife have split.'

‘It'll be in the dossier, I expect. You think the children are in danger? Or your informant thinks the children are in danger? ‘

‘New locks throughout, internal and ex. Improved catches on the windows, though I don't know what that can do. The contact thinks a break-in at a utility room window giving complete access. That's why Manse wants effective, lockable internals as well as on main outside doors. You'll see why I have to declare him/her a locksmith.'

‘A break-in, but nobody hurt?'

‘The contact says he/she got the notion the house was empty at the time.'

‘And what purpose? Robbery?' Harpur said.

‘Not clear. Shale didn't say anything was missing. But then he might not want to tell a locksmith.'