I Am Gold (25 page)

‘Don't fucking well abuse me with your logic,' Iles replied. ‘I came to effect a rescue.'

‘No need,' the woman said.

Harpur said: ‘What Mr Iles – i.e. Gold – means to indicate, I think, is that our firearms party should with-draw at this point. The siege is effectively over. I believe that was your drift, wasn't it, sir?'

‘Thank you, Col,' Iles replied. ‘Yes, put up your weapons. The man dying or dead near the trash stall there would obviously have been our boy to blast, but no longer. He does not, repeat not, require further clinching, coup-de-fucking-grâce rounds in the head or anywhere adjacent, thank you.'

Rockmain, fingering one of the tweed display coats, said: ‘Do you think, Gold, that someone –'

‘The garment's not at all your style, Rockmain,' Iles replied. ‘You should go for the subfusc. The subfusc is right up your street, wouldn't you agree, Col?'

‘Do you think, Gold, that someone with your type of acute mental variability should be in charge of anything, let alone a life-and-death siege?' Rockmain said.

‘I don't imagine you're the first one to ask that kind of question,' Iles said. ‘Not by a long chalk.'

‘No, most likely not, but what is the answer?' Rockmain said. He unhooked the coat and held it against himself.

‘I told you, you'd look rubbish in that,' Iles said. ‘But you put things very well. “Variability”. That's quite a word, taking into account the context, wouldn't you say, Harpur?'

‘But we have to ask whether it amounts to a disabling quality,' Rockmain said. He replaced the coat. ‘Ask whom?' Iles replied.

Harpur went over to the man lying face down on the floor and crouched to get a better look at his face. He avoided the blood. This was the kind of absolute ground-level closeness that Iles would usually bag for himself when examining a corpse, or about to be, especially when the ACC was in uniform. He liked to demonstrate that rank didn't get in the way of nitty-gritty policing, particularly when there was blood. Harpur knew he'd better act immediately to beat him to ‘John'. Harpur resented having only been second in the gallop and entry to the shop, and with having no part at all in the nulling of Dodd. Also, Harpur felt ashamed for allowing Iles to step first into the place, when the risk of being shot was max. Harpur needed to rebuild himself. Iles was Gold and magnificent in many ways, but Harpur knew he must not let the sod get imperial. Iles adored domination – his – and so there had to be a snaffle bridle on him somehow. Harpur, getting his own nose down to alongside John's bent nose before Iles did, amounted to a decent pick-me-up and triumph. About twenty-nine, yes, slightly aquiline, thin-lipped, blue-grey eyes, both open.

‘Do we know him?' Iles said.

‘I don't,' Harpur said. He went through his pockets. ‘Nothing on him except this other pistol – a Walther. Full chamber.'

‘So, a pro,' Iles said.

‘Not a very good one if he was after Manse Shale,' Harpur said.

‘Not a very good one if he gets scragged by hostages,' Iles said.

‘You see, he had defects. He would obviously have capitulated if given a little more time and pressure,' Rockmain said.

‘The people here gave him pressure,' Iles said.

‘With respect, not the right kind,' Rockmain said.

‘Oh, I don't know,' Iles said.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

2008

When Naomi and Manse went to look at Percy Ardoyne's stock of engagement rings in the afternoon, Manse felt pretty happy – yes, obviously he did – this was a fine occasion – but he had to think, also, about Naomi going to London tomorrow, for something to do with the celebrity paper she said, and it certainly might be right. He definitely didn't have nothing to show it wasn't. As he told himself recently, a consultant had to be on the spot sometimes to be consulted. That's what consultants did. Anyone would see this. You couldn't be a consultant if nobody could consult you now and then face-to-face, or via some other body part.

For instance, if you thought of a hospital consultant, well, he needed to be
at
the hospital to do operations and check on piles or brain tumours. Being a celebrity paper's consultant was not exactly like being a hospital consultant and some of Naomi's work could most probably be done by telephone or email. Now and then, though, she would have to get there to explain which pictures ought to go on this or that page, and make sure the crossword puzzle was OK, if they had one, and maybe interview some important star in that grand restaurant. Having quite a feed with vintages could be an important part of a consultant's job.

Just the same, this new trip was bound to give Manse some worry. He'd
always
worried when she went back to London for a day or two, and maybe he should of worried more. The thing was, what Lionel-Garth had said re facilitating truly troubled Manse. Yes, it might be all rotten guess and flimflam. But if someone or more than one had been watching him and Naomi up there at the gallery and so on, maybe they'd be watching her now when she went on her own to the paper and anywhere else.

All right, it had been easy to get behind Manse and dog him, because they knew where he'd be starting from – the Hackney drink-up and eats after the highly tragic Denz funeral. It might not be as simple as that with Naomi, but they could have a watch on the paper's London offices in case she showed. Or they might even be spying on the house here so as to get with her when she set out. That idea really angered and upset Shale – to have snoopers doing a lurk and sly peep at such a once-religious building as a fucking rectory. This would be terrible disrespect and a sort of insulting sin, in Manse's opinion. He'd kept an eye lately, of course, but he didn't observe nothing troublesome of a surveillance kind.

Anyway, he considered Naomi ought to have someone with her. Joan Fenton, the lawyer, had told him off for not taking a bodyguard when he went to London. Now, because of Naomi's link to him, maybe
she
ought to have a bodyguard herself in London. He could see problems with this which nagged him hard even while they talked to Perce and tried to choose the ring in his shop. Shale had told Naomi that Percy would never offer imitations or heist-hot stones to such a noted customer as hisself, or to anyone connected to him, for example, Naomi, and Manse more or less believed this. Perce would be careful never to offend Manse – never to get up his nose, you could say, because noses did come into this, oh, yes! Perce had to think he might want to get back to nostrilizing coke lines some day, and he would know from not very long ago that Manse could always supply at an honest price, with home delivery if required, due to illness, a collapse or just lying low after some bother.

And Percy would also know that, for customers Manse liked, the stuff was certain to be of through-and-through quality. That had always been one of the things Shale and Ralph Ember agreed on in full. The customers you knew well, and even had a sort of friendship with, you looked after, making sure the commodity you sold them had deep but jaunty character and no over-mix. Regulars who very plainly had good, steady money to spend deserved this, if everything was OK between them and Manse or Ralphy. So, Perce would have to go careful, and no messing now with the ring.

Well, of course, Perce was very interested in Naomi and the engagement, not just because he'd most likely make a very nice sale, but also relating to Manse's changed situation as far as a partner was concerned. Curiosity gave Perce's eyes a real bubbly glint. It was like he'd climbed a mountain and could see from the top a landscape he'd never viewed before on the other side. He knew Syb, naturally, although he hadn't supplied the engagement and weddings rings for her and Manse way back, because his shop wasn't there then. But Shale had often taken her there for Christmas and birthday jewellery, and on anniversaries of the first Liston–Clay fight, 25th February 1964, which Sybil regarded as a very important date, and not just because she got jewellery out of it every year, such as an unbase metal bracelet or necklace.

Manse was in favour of jewellery as how to beat inflation, always a peril regardless of which gang of cruds ran the government. Also, he liked jewellery if he had a lot of cash income to get rid of. To put a whack of it in the bank could make people there wonder where it came from. Or, of course, they'd
know
where it came from, but if it was massive they'd start talking about it.
Heard how much Manse Shale put across the counter today? Go on, have a guess, and then stick a couple of noughts on the end
. This kind of gossip could be harmful, and Manse regarded it as extremely unnecessary. Also, if you had a lot of accounts to spread the funds, someone in the fucking Revenue might wonder about that, too. W.P. Spilsby, known as Cummerbund Spilsby, used to advise him on investments, but Cummerbund went through a big religious experience with visions one afternoon when very close to sober and, they said, later became a friar or something like that in the Persian Gulf or Tasmania, or around there. It might be wrong to call him Cummerbund now, because there wouldn't be no dressing up for him in this new post.

As everyone would expect, Manse had called on his own at Percy's shop a while ago to tell him he and Naomi might be along and wanted to see only true stones, and true stones without no ram-raid or hold-up tasty tales to them, whatever the danger discount. Clearly, this was not the kind of statement you could give over the phone, on account of that sod Iles and the taps he might arrange on Percy's line or Manse's – illegal, but this didn't bother dear fucking Desmond Iles. That's how you got to be an Assistant Chief with gold leaf on your cap, knowing what was legal and what wasn't, and then being able to pick the illegal aspects you could get away with. Of course, Perce went all hurt and said he would never have such articles on his premises, not for any customer, but especially not for Mansel. ‘I just thought a word at this juncture might be useful, Perce.'

‘Be at ease, Mansel,' Percy had replied.

‘Thank you, Perce.'

‘Totally at ease, Mansel. It goes without saying.'

‘Thank you, Perce. And I don't want no diamond made in a factory – one of them synthetics, as they're called. This diamond got to come out of a mine somewhere, such as South Africa.'

‘Undoubtedly, Manse.'

Because of the various factors, Manse would go to 85 percent in trusting Perce, or even 87. Just the same, Manse wished he could concentrate more on the rings now in the shop, but them anxieties about Naomi's return to London did grab some of his brain. He thought he'd be able to spot a phoney diamond, or other jewel, straight off, even if a truly brilliant fake. This was not the chief trouble, though, was it? Where the jewels came from – that question bothered Manse most. And because some of his mind was switched to thoughts about Naomi's next day plans, he found it hard to remember the full list of gems lifted in recent, successful British hits, and their descriptions in the press.

It would be bad if the police or insurance nigglers came down on Percy for dealing stolen items, and took back stuff he'd sold lately, including Naomi's ring, a splendid token from Manse, her extremely devoted fiancé. He could soon get her a replacement from a different shop, yes, but to have something as serious and joyful as an engagement kicked about and dirtied like that would be inappropriate. He'd noticed the way some very top people used this word, ‘inappropriate', to mean bleeding horrible, but they couldn't say that owing to their environment.

Most probably, Naomi would think protection by bodyguards a nuisance and not necessary at all, so it would have to be secret, if possible. And the point was he'd
prefer
it to be secret because he'd like to know if the hop to London had another side to it, not just the paper. In the early days when Naomi returned to London on a visit, he used to be afraid she might have someone else up there, a man. He would get nervy and jealous until she returned. London was full of sex. You could feel it hanging about everywhere, whether you went by taxi or bus or tube train, even in Hackney. Why did they need all them taxis except to get people from here to there for sex? They used to have smog. Sex took over. Think of that Fenton piece or her arse-proud secretary, Angelica, with the horny pink pen. And, naturally, there'd be men around who considered they had a right to all the available meat. He'd always worried she might be in this sort of scene, such as – ‘Naomi! Splendid! Great to see you again! Feel like another fuck?'

His fear now, though, was not about that kind of carry-on – not to do with leg-over, casual or long-term. No, he wanted to find out if she ran a sort of business sideline, fixing for celebrities to get fixes. He would not be angry with her, if so. In the world of commerce all sorts happened. Trade had to be kept moving at a sweet and strong rate, or things in many areas might seize up. Life was complicated, nobody could deny this, surely, with all sorts of things affecting other sorts of things in them many areas, and so on, and then so on some more. It was known that the Great War, with all the mud and casualties and bayonet charges, started just because some foreign sod got shot on the way to his car in a next-to-nowhere place abroad.

Mansel did reckon he ought to have the full picture of Naomi's career, though, so he could know how to take care of her. No question, it could be a fucking dangerous bit of facilitating she was into if she was. Manse wouldn't be able to tail her hisself. He'd be too easy to recognize. If she noticed him from a side glance or a reflection in a shop window, she'd be disgusted to find her lover could try such smelly tricks. Kibosh for him, most likely. And it wouldn't be no use saying to her in an open, jolly way, ‘I'll come with you to London, just for an outing, Naomi,' because, suppose he did go along, she might change her programme, if she regarded some of this as confidential and didn't want him inspecting it.