Hotbed (22 page)

‘I don't feel as if I'm discovering anything about Joachim's life, nor about his death,' Brown said.

‘His death is a mystery,' Ralph said. Nobody was ever going to tell Brown he looked like the young Charlton Heston, nor like any other Hollywood leading man. In Ralph's opinion, Brown had a face entirely unsuitable for a star – theatre or cinema – but which might look all right behind a grille selling tickets for a theatre or cinema. Although Brown's face was not exactly unpleasant, it lacked zing and authority. Maybe they gave him parts that actually needed a very ordinary face. Ralph wished he

knew something about that character, Bosola, Iles had mentioned. ‘I went to Joachim's flat to sort out his things,' Brown said.

‘Singer Road.'

‘You've been there?'

‘I felt I should. I called one night when he'd been out of touch for a while.'

‘“Out of touch”? Were you, then, in touch with him individually through work? Did he have some special project for you?'

‘When he'd been missing for a while,' Ember replied. ‘Many noticed it.'

‘But you took the trouble to call at his flat personally.'

‘He was a valuable member of the company.'

‘The people in 15B heard me and came down.'

‘Yes, I met them, too.'

‘They seemed nervous – said there'd been callers just before Joachim's body was reported found. “On edge”, they described themselves as. They wondered if I knew what kind of work Joachim did. They seemed to think that might be relevant. I had to say no. Well, it's true: I don't really know, do I? It was as if they feared being dragged into an area of life they knew nothing about and felt scared by. They'd chosen a flat in respectable suburbia and then these links with an entirely different kind of milieu began to show themselves.'

‘I would have been one of those callers,' Ember replied. He wanted Brown to see him not just as owner of a potentially brilliant club and chief of a fine business, but a leader who felt solid responsibility to each of his workforce, no matter how insignificant. Ralph would certainly not like to be thought of merely as a distinguished figurehead famed for his unforgettable features. Incidentally, he had seen that the woman from 15B was slightly mesmerized by his looks, despite the shadowiness around the door of 15A. Ralph had grown used to such reactions from women, of course.

Occasionally, he might respond, but Sally from 15B hadn't

excited him, though not at all untidy.

‘And a young girl also called,' Brown said.

‘Yes, they mentioned that to me.' Ralph decided to admit this, so he could show doubt about its importance. He had to keep Venetia out of an increasingly grim mess. She was a girl he'd paid big euros to nuns in Poitiers and Bordeaux for, hoping they'd implant restraint and refinement. Besides, Ralph saw a danger that, if Venetia were identified as the visitor who shouted through the letter box at 15A and left a note, the suspicion might grow that he, Ralph, had done Turret Brown. People knew how much he fretted about Venetia and her strong, dodgy, romantic urges. By ‘people' Ember meant Harpur and Iles. They, in their intrusive, disrespectful way, would understand why her father had sent Venetia off to France. And they would understand in their intrusive, disrespectful way – or
think
they understood – how Ralph might decide to deal with one of his crook underlings, twice her age or thereabouts, if it looked as though he meant to move in on Venetia, and vice versa. Very much vice versa: he could visualize his child yelling her plaintive calls into an unresponsive hallway of an empty flat through an indifferent letter box. Poor, avid Venetia. He longed for her happiness. How Ralph wished she could be content with Low Pastures and her ponies and the paddocks and gymkhana wins, and her good school. Of course he would occasionally talk over these anxieties about her with Margaret, his wife. Responsibility for keeping the child safe must be entirely his, though. He could not dodge that, would not try to dodge that. Ralph believed in fatherhood.

Perhaps, in fact, he would really have considered doing something serious about Turret if he'd lived, and if Venetia continued to stalk him. But he hadn't lived. Ralph thought he'd spotted Venetia with her bike in the funeral crowd having an immense, soul-sick, mouth-gape, oh-gone-fromme-love-of-my-life weep. He'd felt irritated by this stupid, toothy display, but her performance could lead to no catastrophes. She'd recover, as she always recovered, and Ralph would be on guard for the next one.

But, at the moment, he had to deal with C.P. Brown. ‘I don't know much about Joachim's private life,' Ember said.

‘A young girl – thirteen or fourteen.'

‘Yes.'

‘The 15B couple said they'd noticed her before in Singer Road, apparently watching the flat.'

‘Yes,' Ember said.

‘And did they tell you she seemed a quaint, grown-up sort of kid – spoke of having been sent by “an associate” with a message that “brooked no delay”. They remembered the strangely weighty words.'

‘Not always easy to get the age of some girls right. Fashions. She might have been several years older.'

‘They've told the police about her.'

This Ember knew. ‘They'd have to,' he said. Of course, as Turret's employer, he'd been interviewed by detectives about his death. They wanted information on his life apart from the firm. Ember replied he knew nothing about Joachim's life apart from the firm. More or less true. Did Turret like young girls, for instance, they asked. So, yes, they'd heard about the unidentified child caller. Or Ember
assumed
unidentified. Perhaps they knew more than they showed – a customary cop trick. Ralph had to play ignorance and hope it worked. He gave them an absolute blank and turned snooty: would he, for God's sake, go poking into an employee's sex life? he said. The main interviewing officer was Chief Inspector Francis Garland, who, apparently, had charge of the inquiry: another one, besides Harpur, reported to have been close, and very close, to Iles's wife, though perhaps not quite simultaneously with Harpur. No wonder many of Garland's questions focused on sex – his special study. ‘Ralph, neighbours gave us a description of someone who could be you – in fact, could
only
be you – calling at 15A,' he'd said.

‘Certainly I went there. A colleague missing. I felt concerned. A visit to his home seemed the least I could do. There'd been no phone response.'

‘It struck us as unusual for the head of a firm to take that kind of trouble over someone minor,' Garland had said.

‘On the contrary,
any
head of a firm meriting such a title would surely feel anxiety about a disappeared member of staff.'

‘Did he have any special duties for you – special duties that made for an exceptionally powerful bond?'

‘He was a colleague.'

‘The woman from 15B said the male caller had a remarkable resemblance to the young Charlton Heston.
Ben Hur
vintage. She was impressed. We guessed it must be you, Ralph.'

‘Me, like Charlton Heston? Never heard that before,' Ember had answered.

‘No? The woman's husband/partner seemed a bit put out by her swoon at your looks, Ralph. But you're probably used to that kind of thing.' Yes, Ralph had noticed this. And, yes, he
was
used to that kind of jealousy in women's husbands/partners. It could be a bore.

Now, in the club, Brown went on: ‘And the 15B people told me the girl claimed to have seen a man watching 15A from a car and speaking into a mobile phone. Did you hear that?'

‘They did mention it.' Ralph hoped this might take some of the interest away from the mysterious girl who had to stay mysterious.

‘Who are these people, Ralph? How are they connected to Joachim?'

‘No information so far.'

‘The 15B couple said the girl wrote a note to Joachim. They actually provided the paper and saw her post it. Yet when they looked later through the glass front door it couldn't be seen.'

‘I was there when they tried to spot it. But a piece of paper, not in an envelope – it could drift, couldn't it?'

‘I imagine the police have this now. The neighbours said detectives and uniformed officers came round to 15A in numbers once Joachim's body was found.'

‘They'd need to search for anything in the flat that might explain his death.'

‘Someone in a car watching and talking into a mobile – it could actually
be
the police, couldn't it?'

‘It could be anybody, anything, suppose the girl had it right in the first place.'

Brown hesitated, sipped some armagnac. Then he said: ‘Look, Ralph, one story I hear is of a full-out rivalry between you and Shale. That's why I spoke of a war. Is my brother's death part of this? Forgive me for the frankness, but I must ask. You'll understand, I'm sure.' Suddenly, he had become intense, confidential, demanding. Perhaps the Bosola character was like that.

‘As you say, rumour, gossip, hints. These are poor indicators.'

‘I know, I know. And I see you and him apparently so friendly here tonight and dealing jointly with that lout in the morning suit.'

‘We've known each other a long time, Manse and I. I'm to be his best man.'

‘Just the same –
is
there a sort of movement towards war? Joachim the first casualty?'

‘They say the first casualty of war is truth,' Ember replied.

‘Have you thought you might be at risk yourself, Ralph?'

‘Life is risk.' Ember felt proud of this answer. It could have come from a play – terse, correct, thrumming. But he sensed reproach in what Brown had said. Wasn't he virtually asking whether his brother – one of Ember's staff – had been killed by Mansel Shale, or on Shale's orders, yet Ralph did nothing: continued the friendship with Shale and, in fact, extended it to bestmandom? Was he calling Ralph a poltroon, someone capable of felling a nut case in a bar with a bottle, but not much beyond that? ‘Yes, life is risk,' Ember repeated. He wanted to sound like someone who knew danger, and knew it well, but would never retreat from it, cringe to it. Had this sod, Brown, heard among the rumours, gossip and hints, that some enemies referred to Ember as Panicking Ralph, or even Panicking Ralphy?

He left Brown then and did a short tour of the premises. He believed the party could run itself safely now. Some people had left and the club no longer looked overcrowded. Ralph thought Unhinged would not cause any further upheavals. He went home to Low Pastures, for a meal, a talk about the day with his wife, Margaret, then a nap, and, as was routine, returned to the club at just after midnight – not via Singer Road this time – to supervise close-down for the night at two o'clock. Almost everyone had gone. A couple of men played pool, and Ralph would wait for them to finish the game before locking up. He sat at his shelf-desk behind the bar with another glass of Kressmann's from a fresh bottle, admiring the mystical William Blake pictures on the metal screen sheltering him. Ralph thought Blake must have been a fascinating thinker. How the hell could that bitch, Edna, refer to the drawings as ‘freakish'?

Articulate Alec, alone now, entered the club and took a high stool opposite him on the other side of the bar. He still wore the fine, made-to-measure pinstripe suit and wide silver and yellow tie he'd had on for the funeral and drink-up. Ralph poured him another armagnac. ‘They won't abandon the idea, Ralph.'

‘Who?'

‘Great aunt Edna and my mother. I suppose you're counting on that. You'll play reluctant, negative, so, when you finally relent, you can ask more, and tie them to tougher terms. All that stuff about not rushing and having competing proposals to consider is to get the pair bidding. They're bidding against no bugger, of course, but they can't be sure of that. I don't blame you for the tactics, Ralph. It's how business works.'

‘They're real Monty fans, I'll say that for them,' Ember replied with a fine warm chuckle.

‘Such out-and-out bollocks,' Articulate replied.

‘What?'

‘That notion – to put good money into the club.'

‘“Good” in what sense – because it came from a legacy left by somebody good who had built up the wealth in a good, lawful way?'

‘Good because it can be used to make our lives better.'

‘Oh, so it's not the money that's good, but what might be done with it?'

‘Yes, what's done with it. My mother and great aunt Edna – they're confused.'

‘I appreciated their affection for the Monty,' Ember said. ‘Constructive. You're lucky to have such family.'

‘Idiotic.'

‘Oh?'

‘Like throwing money down an old coal pit.'

‘Oh?'

‘Everyone else with a bit of brain – except you and my mother and Edna – everyone knows the Monty is never going to change, Ralph. Perhaps even you know it, but have to hope – this crazy ambition, like somewhere over the rainbow in the ancient song. That might be what keeps you going. When I say it'll never change, I mean not change as they and you would like, anyway. Your idiotic dream. I suppose the police might shut it down one day because of your drugs game etcetera. But you'll stick to your hopes, and you'll come round in your own time and grab the boodle from them, for the sake of this loony plan – maybe grab more boodle than they intended offering now. You'd feel stupid if you didn't work the price up.'

Ember thought about hitting the brassy prat. Ralph could have stood, leant forward quickly and reached him across the bar. Although Ralph had never heard Articulate put so many words together before, when he did grow verbal now, it was to insult Ralph and the Monty. Ember could have failures of courage and decisiveness sometimes, at dangerous moments during business operations outside, but not in the Monty, and certainly not when some jumped-up jerk questioned the club's sanctity. Should he physically squash this sod? Sometimes one had to get rough, as with Unhinged. ‘I wouldn't say your great aunt Edna or your mother lacked brain, Articulate,' he replied. ‘The opposite.'