Pix (Volume Book 24) (Harpur & Iles Mysteries) (23 page)

He thought sections of this music might help soothe Matilda and get rid of some of her tension. There were quiet parts, not that blah-blah rowdiness and beat of rap.
Comfort ye, comfort ye, my people
. Great. And, big cheerfulness came, also –
His name shall be called, Wonderful
, really given a true blast by the choir. Manse wondered whether Matilda and Laurent could join this choir soon, as another good link between the rectory and the church. It might help to keep Matilda bucked up. He liked to think of a vicar at the church telling friends that although they'd been forced to let the rectory go, they still had a very pleasant connection with it through the children of Mr and Mrs Mansel Shale, now living there, if Sybil stayed. The end of that line about being called Wonderful said another name was Prince of Peace. Manse loved that idea – a
prince
of peace. Always he looked for peace.

At the end Manse congratulated the vicar on a great show because he liked to encourage this kind of person. Vicars didn't really have any idea what life was like now and how to make enough to run a rectory, but they knew about the past and music, and these was important in their little way. He took the family home and later picked out one of the Heckler and Koch automatic pistols from the wall safe behind his Arthur Hughes and did a tour of the Valencia Esplanade district where he had a lot of people
trading. Peace. He wanted to make sure things around the Valencia enjoyed this peace. Also, he would harvest. He had dished out plenty of cash today, on the school fees and in church collection boxes, and needed a refill wad. All right, the notes might give a bulge to his coat, as he said to the headmistress, but you had to have something in your pocket for various purchases.

Obviously, he tried not to use banks much. Banks recorded all their ins and outs and people like Iles could arrange a gaze at these figures – maybe legit, maybe otherwise – if he got suddenly nosy and hard, which he did, often. Or, in fact, which he almost always fucking did. This kind of visit to the Valencia was routine for Manse. He always went in the Jaguar, and almost always alone, say six nights out of the seven. Folk in his firm would not resent the Jaguar or a BMW or Merc because if things developed all right for them they knew these was the sorts of motors they'd buy theirselves. But a Rolls or Bentley they'd regard as showy and royal, with God knows how many layers of paint to stop scratch marks. And they wouldn't like it, either, if he came to the Valencia chauffeured, especially chauffeured by someone under a cap. In leadership you had to think of these things, known as ‘employee relations'. Although Manse did fancy a Roller, some sacrifices seemed crucial for the sake of keeping the workforce unbolshy. It would be the same if he was offered a knighthood for his activities in the commercial scene. This would be the
open
commercial scene, of course – the haulage and scrap businesses – not his real money-making side of things relating to the commodities. He'd have to refuse a title, though with full politeness. He thought he would reply that the firm he led was a team and it would not be appropriate for him to accept a special award.

Of course, on the other fucking hand, suppose they asked Ralphy Ember to become a Sir or even a Corporal of the British Empire, that gent would have his ‘Yes please, your majestic Majestical' letter on its way back to Buckingham Palace by return or sooner. Already some people called him ‘Milord Monty'. If he ever made it to Sir Ralph it would be because he really did the magic on that
dregs of dregs club, the Monty, and zoomed it up the social league. But, on the whole, Manse considered that probably neither of them would get picked for accolades by the narrow sods who decided these things in smart state rooms up there. They only dished out gongs to friends they knew from Eton College or Alcoholics Anonymous. This was called The System. Well, Manse had worked out his own system and a lot of it operated here, around Valencia Esplanade.

He parked in Dring Place and then went on foot along the Esplanade itself. Nobody would touch a car belonging to Mansel Shale and the Jaguar was all-round recognized. The Esplanade had tall old houses facing the sea. Probably it got called Valencia Esplanade because in them times you could watch freighters on their way to and from Spain carrying bauxite or lintels or oranges or that kind of thing. Someone had told Manse that the word ‘esplanade' itself came from Spain, which could help explain half the name. It might of been Ralphy who mentioned this. Ralphy thought he knew every fucking thing because he went to college as a mature student for a while. Down there they probably had lectures on words such as ‘esplanade'.

These houses used to be truly select on account of their size and the outlook – owned by merchants, ships' masters, custom house biggies – but then, when the port trade started to go down, so did the class of the houses. Landlords divided them up into rooms and flats, referred to as ‘multi-occupied'. You'd see mattresses, armless teddy bears, old fridges and such in the front gardens, which was not gardens any more. This used to depress Manse, although the multiness meant there was more customers handy to buy stuff from his staff on the street. Now, though, people seemed to realize again these was great, solid houses in a great spot and they was getting done up and going back to one family living there, pretty shrubs or golden gravel out front. This had not knocked sales of the substances too bad here yet, but Manse and Ralph watched the accounts. They might have to get a discussion going on the topic soon, described as ‘regentrification', Ralph said. He had a word for everything.

Making his way along the Esplanade, Shale had short chats with several of his pushers. He gave true praise for their work, as any sensible chief of a firm would, and picked up good funds in tens and twenties to rebuild his readies. Obviously, all his reps was totally banned from taking fifties, due to many fakes in circulation. Tens and twenties did cause that bulk, but it had to be and, as Manse said sometimes, it was better to have bulk than bugger all. He went on alone towards the end of the Esplanade, enjoying the breeze off of the bay and the sound of waves curling on to the beach, then pulling back over the pebbles with a grating roar. The sea was not one of Manse's favourite space fillers. He had an idea that one day it would get up over the Esplanade and other Esplanades worldwide and just drown everything – cities, out-of-town shopping centres, TV masts, soccer players' mansions, churches, snooker halls. This dread had been with him since long before the tsunami chaos in Indonesia. That only showed Shale how damn right he might be. He'd always realized Nature could be a total, ungovernable sod. It just went its own way, like that clever maniac, Iles. Cliffs and sea walls was supposed to keep back the great waters, and good luck to them, but any time he walked a coast path he had his fucking fingers crossed and his eyes as sharp as sharp in case he noticed too much forward briny creep. Tonight, though, he considered the sea sounded all right and like what would be termed by estate agents a ‘feature' of the area, meaning a happy extra, such as a train station or bowling green. Esplanade houses given the treatment made more than half a million these days.

He saw Hilaire Wilfrid Chandor approaching, also alone and on foot, jeans, black open-necked shirt, black slip-ons of most probably decent quality. Shale would of passed him with maybe an RIP nod, nothing more. Obviously, Manse's main thought was Chandor ought to of been morgued after that Laguna outing, and this, plus the previous disgusting behaviour of his troupe, and maybe himself, at the rectory, might prevent ordinary conversation on an Esplanade stroll. It was not something you
could go up to an acquaintance and say,
You should be fucking dead, mate, as dead as that character you debased my rectory stairs with
. But Chandor stopped in front of him: ‘I knew you came here regularly, Mansel,' he said. ‘I planned a one-on-one intercept. So, here we are. I thought it time we talked privately.'

This one-to-one was another that did not have nothing to do with that poet, John Cleats. ‘Re what?'

‘And talked where we knew there couldn't be that other kind of intercept.'

‘If you're referring to phone taps, it's something I fortunately don't never have to worry about,' Mansel said. ‘I believe it's only them seriously suspected of something by the police get that kind of intrusion. Is this why you're bothered?'

Chandor gazed into the darkness towards the sea. ‘Do you know what this reminds me of?' he replied.

‘What what reminds you of?'

‘The breakers.'

‘They come and go.'

‘In the film,
Atlantic City USA
, a young crook and an aged crook, Burt Lancaster, make their way along the promenade, the old man full of tales – probably false – about his big-time past as a villain. The young crook says: “I'd never seen the Atlantic ocean until just now.” Lancaster replies: “Ah, you should have seen the Atlantic ocean in those days.” '

Manse guessed this might be meant as a kind of joke. But what Lancaster said seemed damned sensible to Manse, because in the old days the ocean had turned out to be more or less OK, and usually stayed on the proper side of the promenade, the ocean side. This was simple to prove. You couldn't tell it would do that for ever in the future, though, could you? Manse hated smartarse lines from films. ‘I don't watch crime movies,' he said.

‘When I say it's time we talked, what I have in mind among other matters is that episode with the Laguna recently.'

‘Laguna?' Manse replied.

‘Chauffeur up front, you in the back, and in a project
where you and he could have scatter-gunned and seen off not just myself and colleagues but that ugly cop, as well. I regard this as a magnificent act of mercy on your part and, yes, of statesmanship, Mansel. It's one to which I must respond. The chauffeur looked angered by the failure to clinch, which makes me certain this humane order came from you – probably as a second thought. Thank you. But a touch-and-go moment? I'm grateful yet also worried. That's why I'd like talks now, before any question of a repeat.'

‘Laguna?' Manse replied.

‘It's all right. I don't think Harpur noticed you.'

‘Noticed me where?'

‘This was a beautifully planned coup, I'll give you that.'

Some would regard that as a compliment but not Manse. What this jolly boy meant was Manse could handle all the scheming and backroom, blueprint stuff, like some clerk or field marshal, but failed when the moment came in the actual street, the way Panicking Ralphy so often did. Shale resented any sort of comparison with Ember.

‘And perhaps after that rectory incident we deserved it, I'll give you that, too,' Chandor said.

A wooing time?

‘But then, bent low in the Laguna, you get a sudden creative vision of what could be possible between you and me, Mansel – the positives. And you have the guts even so late to countermand execution of . . . countermand execution of the executions. A decisive word, up from the rear leg space to the driver. This was maturity. This was, indeed, statesmanship.'

A wooing time. ‘You refer now to the dead one on my rectory stairs – I've never heard of a filthier trick than that,' Shale said. ‘It might be all right for London, but this is a tidy town.'

‘Excessive, undoubtedly.'

‘In someone's extremely personal, cherished family home,' Shale replied.

‘Trove. You mention London, Mansel – Trove did a slice of work there for me and really skimmed. I mean, really. We're talking up to a hundred grand in dribs and drabs.
He thought I hadn't noticed – like that secretary woman who milked her bosses' bank accounts of millions in the City of London. Well, me, I
did
notice, I notice just before he finds I've moved down here and comes looking for more work – and more skimming. So he had to go.'

‘He didn't have to go on my fucking stairs. His partner's around, searching. There's sadness to this. And cruelty.'

‘Meryl? I'm not sure whether she knew what sort he was, although she must have realized he brought in exceptionally big earnings, not shop assistant's pay. She came to us at my marina offices, yes. Of course she did. He'd told her he had property contacts, so she visits all the firms here that do property and she soon reaches us. Plus she's absorbed some sort of buzz locally, I'd guess. She's with a reporter and a couple of kids. I understand her concern.'

‘What kids?'

‘These are Harpur's kids. They're sort of looking after her. She's been to the police. They're not going to do much, are they? Britain has 200,000 people go missing every year. Trove's just another one. We treat Meryl and her little group absolutely right – with kindness and sympathy and promises to keep an eye and ask around. But, obviously, we can't help.'

‘No, you can't tell them he was put dead on my stairs – the stairs of a fucking much-respected Church property dating right back.'

‘I hope she'll return to London and try to forget all this. I've said before – I do regret that now, the body and lifting the pix. It wasn't necessary, Manse. We just wanted you to know we were in the neighbourhood as a permanency and serious about commerce. I'd told my people this was our aim – to give you some kind of unmistakable and perhaps mildly forceful message, a cautionary shock, and left the detail to them. We see someone beautifully established like you and your firm, and we know that an ordinary approach and request in search of an entrée to the trade scene will get rejected. I wanted a little out-of-the-blue pressure – something to make you receptive, Mansel, amenable. A sign. Or known as semiotics. But my people overdid things. Luckily we were able to put matters more
or less to rights for you following your highly justified phone call.' He sighed: ‘Yes, Graham Trove. Ask anywhere around Eltham and they'll tell you, a skimmer. And then the cheek of wanting to go on further operations with us. I can see how this would inflame some of my people, but that doesn't excuse the brutishness of their behaviour. You're right – they've witnessed and taken part in a lot of very rough battling in London and, unfortunately, bring those standards here.'