Play Dead (25 page)

She could see part of the hall and the foot of a wide, curving staircase. Once complete the house would have some style and spaciousness, for this category of dwelling. Yes, some. She considered it very suburban and ordinary, though, when compared with where she lived and its grounds. You needed Leo's kind of money to buy and develop a place like Midhurst: converted and extended farmhouse, gardens, outbuildings, driveway, paddock. This moment of snobbishness meant she was hit by the big question again: how did Leo get his kind of money - the ample, splash-around kind? Where did the loot come from that entitled her to sneer at this house and the rest of the Elms' future billets for the
nouveaux
? Leo was ‘old money' - five or six years at least - and slump-proof. Not investigation-proof, though. Should she ask herself whether Leo had actually come to this address to judge its suitability for an assassin? Oh, hell, no! He wouldn't be hands-on to that degree, would he?
Would he?
Was something like that what these two ferreting pry-guys from another force hoped to prove? Mrs Mallen, too, would no doubt like this possibility looked into by impartial, invasive eyes.

Emily took a couple of steps towards the hall and the scraps underfoot crackled and popped. She paused. Had those little explosions almost drowned out another sound, perhaps coming down the stairwell from one of the upper storey rooms? It was a much slighter, softer noise than the crunching caused by her shoes, but she thought she'd heard something - perhaps a small, infinitely careful slither movement and very brief. Had an occupant been alerted by the torch gleam and the mild but definite racket? She wanted to switch off the torch, because it gave away her location, but she feared the darkness: feared she might stumble and fall, but also just feared the darkness as darkness.

She decided she'd done enough, had enough. A range of funks gripped her, one - the most minor - a dread that something could happen here to make public she'd broken into an Elms house -
the
Elms house. How could she explain it to Leo and others? This was no proper setting for the joint owner of Midhurst, and no situation for the chair of the city museum committee. ‘Something might happen.' What something? This was where the real terror lay. Who was slithering about upstairs? Who might come downstairs to find her? She swung the light back around to the loose boards, located them absolutely OK, shoved one hurriedly aside, exited and made for her car. She'd get her breathing and heartbeat back to reasonable on the drive to the museum.

Just before the meeting started, Noreen said: ‘Gosh, Emily, don't mind my mentioning it, but your shoes! Well, they've obviously taken a hammering. Have you been gardening in them, or what?'

Yes, ‘or what' would cover it. Emily said, ‘Geraldine's going to give us an evaluation on that Nantgarw china collection first, isn't she? We must make sure we get it.'

A
s was normal for these police-on-police inquiries, Maud had fixed for a special, dedicated, secure, private phone line with an extension to be installed in 3V, the room allocated to Iles and Harpur by Rhys Dathan at his headquarters. Iles said: ‘Maud's Oxbridge-brill, Col, and could tell you instantly the difference between the Peloponnesian War and a G-string, yet she really believes a special, dedicated, secure, private phone line in a place like this is going to turn out to be secure and private. In its quaint way, such innocence is charming, particularly, you'll say, when combined with a fine arse and effulgent tits. But there are those in a place like this who have worked out how to eavesdrop on calls to and from a special, dedicated, secure, private phone line in a place like this.'

Maud rang now on the line. Iles answered. Using the extension, Harpur listened in, and occasionally spoke. ‘Desmond,' she said, ‘Dathan has been in touch with the Department here about some incident - has been in touch at a level above mine and not much below the Minister himself.'

‘Incident?' Iles said in a voice that hinted incidents were right up his street, but she would have to specify.

‘He felt he had to - yes,
had
to - take it up with us. I've been told to put it to you.'

‘You're going to put something to me?'

‘Since I'm your point of contact with the Department,' she said.

‘Might I caution you?' Iles replied. ‘This line, although, ostensibly special, dedicated, secure and—'

‘It's to do with a theatre play,' Maud said.

‘A theatre play?'

‘
The Revenger's Tragedy
,
by Cyril Tourneur.'

‘Do you remember that Barbara Streisand mot in
What's Up Doc? w
hen she hears of someone named Eunice? “There are
people
called Eunice?” she queries. I'd adapt that to “There are
people
called Cyril, even in the seventeenth century?”' Iles replied.

‘Or Thomas Middleton,' Harpur said.

‘Something of a display,' Maud said.

‘Oh, really? In which respect, Maud?' Iles said.

‘Two displays,' Maud answered.

‘I believe I know what you're getting at,' Iles said.

‘Featuring in the first incident, a lead actor telling you, as I understand it, to “Shut the fuck up.”'

‘Vendici,' Iles replied. ‘Aka Vindici.'

‘Not a play I know,' Maud said.

‘You'd have been preoccupied with the Peloponnesian War,' Iles said.

‘Totally unlike a G-string,' Harpur said.

‘I took that coarse language from the actor in very good part,' Iles said. ‘This is their livelihood, after all, performing these works. They're bound to feel protective of the whole shemozzle, so the expletive is pardonable, possibly inevitable.'

‘The theatre manager recounted things to Chief Dathan, and we have no cause to doubt their veracity. Dathan is presenting a serious issue - or so it is viewed here. To do with your fitness for the task in hand. To do with your fitness, or lack of fitness. Jointly.'

‘Jointly? No, no, Col wasn't a part of this. Admittedly he'll shag other people's wives, but theatre
qua
theatre is rather beyond him, except for, say, pantomime -
Mother Goose
, although he thought that meant incestuously fondling a parent and left, disappointed, before the interval. That's right, isn't it, Col?'

‘I can't make up my mind between Tourneur and Middleton,' Harpur replied.

‘Jointly in the sense that Rhys Dathan doesn't believe the two of you can work effectively together,' Maud said. ‘He sees these troubles at
The Revenger's Tragedy
as springing from an abiding enmity between Col Harpur and you, which makes wholehearted cooperation unachievable. Certain parts of that play touched off in you this intense hostility towards Colin.'

‘There are some quite acceptable aspects to Harpur,' Iles replied. ‘I'd be the last to deny that. Well, among the last.'

‘And I've often heard Mr Iles praised by quite sensible people, on the face of it,' Harpur said.

‘Which people?' Iles asked.

‘What we're getting from Chief Dathan is pressure to shut down this inquiry owing to the clear unsuitability of the investigating team,' Maud replied. ‘There are colleagues here, some higher placed, who regard the operation as unnecessary and even malicious. They argue that the killer of Tom Mallen was convicted and jailed, and consider further interference redundant, even
ultra vires -
exceeding legitimate powers. They see in your
Revenger's Tragedy
behaviour a sign that the difficulties - impossibilities - of the assignment are such that they have destroyed mental balance.'

‘Meaning that, if we were pulled off, it would be unthinkable to send different investigators to look at this
impossible
conundrum,' Iles replied.

‘The Chief maintains that the antipathy between the two of you is perhaps at its most blatant in a facial injury suffered by you, Desmond, probably done with the writing end of a Biro, judging by the injury's dimensions, which he puts at five millimetres square, and almost certainly inflicted by Col.'

‘“Probably”, “almost certainly” - is this the language of the factual?' Iles said.

‘Hardly,' Harpur replied.

‘Several here agree overall with Dathan's attitude and conclusions,' Maud said.

‘We'll stand by you, won't we, Col?' Iles said.

‘This is our mission and we'll stay committed to it,' Harpur said.

‘The Chief argues that you, Col, are unforgiven for having it away in low-quality settings with Mrs Iles, and this will always undermine any attempt by you and her husband to function as a successful unit.'

‘What do you say to that then, Col?' Iles asked.

‘This is certainly one of the most complex cases I've ever met,' Harpur replied. ‘We did get Jaminel.'

‘There you are, Maud,' Iles said.

‘Yes, obviously, but what about Dathan's comment that—'

‘Many, many angles,' Harpur said.

‘There you are, Maud,' Iles said.

‘Yes, yes, but how do I convince my superiors here that—'

‘These many angles require patient, systematic attention,' Harpur said.

‘There you are, Maud,' Iles summed up, unwaveringly.

H
arpur continued to worry over Ivan Hill-Brandon. His whereabouts remained unknown, supposing he still had whereabouts. Harpur went and did the obvious - checked the Newspapers Only skips at Tesco, and the house on Elms. Negative. He felt a sort of impoliteness in just throwing back the bin lids at Tesco without warning, like breaking down someone's front door in a Nazi-style raid. But to knock on the metal and wait for a response as if on a doorstep would have prolonged things, and he might get spotted by the store's security people going from bin to bin and mistaken for a scavenger. He could flourish his warrant card, of course, and explain his purpose, but he'd rather keep this side of the investigation confidential. He didn't want Tesco alerted to the lodgings role of the bins in case Hill-Brandon needed to come here on the quiet some time in the future.

He didn't have an address for Veronica Pastor, who sometimes gave Ivan shelter, but recalled she'd said something about living in Kitchener Street with her sister. Harpur got the electoral register and found an entry for Veronica and Jeanette Pastor at 26B, probably a flat. His local map gave Kitchener Street in the Arabella district of the city and he drove there now. It looked a quiet, keep-one's-self-to-one's-self area, with what appeared to be a couple of Housing Association apartment blocks among semis.

Number 26B was on the second floor of a building with its name board outside: Ashley Court. When he rang the bell at 26B he was conscious of being examined via a one-way judas hole in the door. Then he heard a man on the other side laugh aloud and cry out, ‘It's Mr Harpur, would you believe? In person.' The door was flung open and Ivan Hill-Brandon in shirt sleeves and wide red braces stood there grinning. Always fresh faced, he radiated extreme good cheer now. Harpur thought Ivan could have advertised a brand of pick-me-up tonic wine, or a bracing seaside holiday resort in the Hastings area. Behind him were Veronica and another woman, older, plainer, bulkier, tighter-lipped, who must be Veronica's sister, Jeanette.

Hill-Brandon said: ‘Well, some surprise, Colin! I was going to get in touch, but now, here you are.' His voice suited his hearty appearance - warm and booming; the voice of somebody who had beaten bad times and would beat any more that arrived. Harpur remembered from school the title of a poem, ‘The Song of a Man Who has Come Through'
.
It could have been about Hill-Brandon today. One line from the poem had stuck: ‘Oh for the wonder that bubbles into my soul.' As a child, Harpur had liked that notion of a soul with bubbles in. He had understood bubbles and they'd made the soul a less mysterious and difficult item. Hill-Brandon might have bubbles in his soul now.

‘Come in, do,' Veronica said. ‘But how did you find us?'

‘He's police, isn't he?' Jeanette said. ‘They know the lot, but don't always tell it, or half of it. They have their methods, some legal.'

They went into a large, very tidy, square sitting room. ‘I'll make tea, shall I?' Ivan said. He seemed to bubble with confidence - yes, bubble, at ease with his new status as man of the house/apartment. Perhaps this ability to adapt fast to new surroundings came to people who spent a lot of time in unfinished houses or bins of old newspapers. They'd learned how to take command of the accommodation, like victorious troops settling into a captured town. There wouldn't be much to challenge their authority, at least as far as the bins were concerned; and the same for houses on Elms, as long as you got there early.

Veronica looked delighted that Ivan felt so comfortable in 26B. Harpur saw something sweet and exhilarating in their partnership. The braces and shirt sleeves proclaimed happy domesticity, especially the harsh redness and crude width of the braces: at 26B Ivan could forget about appearance and Barbour jacket smartness. He belonged. He could relax, have a laugh, make the tea. OK, so Jeanette might not like it. So, fuck Jeanette. Or not, even when Veronica was away running the cross-Channel ferry karaoke, or whatever, and Jeanette and he had the flat to themselves. Harpur found it hard to see any family similarity between Veronica and Jeanette, either in features or attitudes. He hated the cliché notion that plainness caused crabbiness. But Jeanette
was
crabby.

‘Where have you been, Ivan?' Harpur replied. ‘We were worried.'

‘I met someone,' Hill-Brandon said.

‘Yes?' Harpur said.

‘That can happen when I'm making one of my walks across the city,' Hill-Brandon said. ‘I'm something of a well-known sight.'

‘Certainly,' Harpur said.