Vacuum (18 page)

‘I don't know when I'll see him. It could be urgent, couldn't it? I'm not allowed to make contact myself. Unprofessional.'

‘Who's Des?' Neville said. ‘Tell him what?'

‘The Chief wanted details,' she said.

‘Did you give them?' Harpur said.

‘Would I?' she replied. ‘He asked about times, locations and whether official vehicles had been used at all, or a spot near the rugby scrum machine in the police sports field.'

‘Used for what, or can I deduce? Times and locations as to what, or can I deduce?' Neville said.

‘Deduce away, Nev,' she said. ‘It can do no harm.'

‘Did he make notes?' Harpur said.

‘I didn't tell him anything,' she said. ‘There were no notes to make.'

‘He might have made a note of that,' Harpur said.

‘What?' she said.

‘That you didn't answer certain questions,' Harpur said.

‘I didn't answer
any
of them,' she said.

‘This might have told him something,' Harpur said.

‘You mean, I told him something by not telling him something?' she said. ‘I claimed courtesan-client privilege and said I could only give interviews if my lawyer was present. Lawyers.'

Neville said: ‘Might we move on now, Honorée?' He seemed aroused by the word ‘courtesan'. Maybe he thought it made him kingly, despite the roofing materials.

‘Where did you see General Franco and his mate, Col?' she replied.

‘Why?' Harpur said. ‘They were on their usual walk from Templar Street.'

‘Another tale around. One of the girls had a little whisper from somewhere that they might not be all right,' she said. ‘Not ongoing all right.'

‘A little whisper from where?' Harpur said.

‘You know how it is, Col,' she replied.

‘How would he know how it is?' Neville asked.

‘Col will know how it is,' she replied.

‘“Not be all right” in which way?' Harpur said.

‘Yes, in which way, Honorée?' Neville said.

Sometimes Harpur wondered what people from outside made of this domain as they got occasional cloudy glimpses of how it ran, or half-glimpses. Neville was struggling.

‘Not all right at all,' she said. ‘All right for now, and when they were talking to you and spying on me with the Chief, yes, but not all right soon, unless they're careful.'

‘Chief of what?' Neville said. ‘A police Chief? Are
you
the police?' he asked Harpur. ‘Honorée mentioned the police sports field. Is that a clue?'

‘“Unless they're careful” how?' Harpur replied.

‘Everyone should be careful,' Neville said.

‘You'll be all right with me,' she said. ‘Won't he, Col?'

‘More than all right,' Harpur said.

‘It's quite an area, this,' Neville said.

‘We're doing our best with it,' Harpur said.

‘Which “we” is that?' Neville said.

‘One day, when the country has more money, the district will be changed, I expect,' Honorée said. ‘Developers are sure to come and knock down these old houses and put up new ones. Perhaps this is not so very good. Something is going to be lost, and there'll be no work of my sort or some other sorts. Bad. But, yes, some parts of the Valencia are bad already – one or two big houses not fit for people to live in any longer. Empty. They decay. They are unsightly and very dangerous.'

‘Dangerous how?' Neville said.

‘Yes, dangerous. They're dangerous, aren't they, Col?' She stood and finished her drink. ‘You're very patient, Neville.'

The Control Room came through again and said the Volvo estate had been found abandoned in a non-CCTV'd side street a mile and a half from Carteret Drive.

‘Your wife calling?' Neville said.

‘See you next time you're down from Preston, Nev, with the rafters,' Harpur said. ‘We like to make strangers feel they're very welcome.'

‘Which “we” is that?' Neville replied.

‘Honorée, did you see Jason around at all?' Harpur said. ‘Probably with a couple of chums.'

‘God, you
do
know everything,' she said.

‘But, excuse me, isn't he asking you something because he
doesn't
know it?' Neville said.

‘He knows what to ask, though – that's the thing,' she said.

‘Is it?' Neville replied.

‘But I don't answer,' she said.

‘Why not?' Neville said.

‘I don't point the finger,' she said.

‘
Omertà
,' Harpur said. ‘Silence.'

‘I've heard of that,' Neville said.

‘There's quite a bit of it around here,' Harpur said. ‘One lad has it on his gravestone: “Plenty of
omertà
now.”'

The two men in the Volvo might have had another vehicle parked somewhere close, and they'd probably transfer to that. Perhaps door-knocking sessions would be necessary: a search for witnesses in the side street who might have noticed an unfamiliar car left there; an unfamiliar car waiting for a switch-over, though the witnesses couldn't have known this.

Honorée and Neville left. Harpur got another lovely scent waft as she passed. He went outside and stood at the ship's rail. He watched them descend the gangplank to one of the waiting taxis. She turned to wave as though he and the
Eton
were just about to sail to China again for a tea refill. There was an odd feature to the wave, though. She kept most of her hand folded down but used her forefinger to indicate something to her right. She continued this gesture for what must have been a good thirty seconds. A signal of some sort? And had there been other disguised signals? Was she seeking to tell him something, without seeming to tell him – because of
omertà
and its iron demands? Her town planner's survey of housing prospects for the Valencia had trundled on for a while, hadn't it? Was a hint contained there? ‘
Yes, dangerous. They're dangerous, aren't they, Col?
' Had she wrapped up something solely for Harpur in this lecturette, not for her client? Neville could make do with the property chat.

Harpur followed the line her message might suggest. She'd said she didn't point the finger, but maybe she did offer that kind of singling out after all. She seemed to mean Gladstone Square, off the Esplanade, and Arlington-Franco's final calling station – supposing she meant anything at all. Harpur had an idea that there were at least a couple of those decaying, disintegrating villas in the Square, too bad even for squatters.

He left the
Eton
and returned to his car, then drove to the Square. Progress. Progress? Arlington's big silver Chrysler stood there, lights out, unoccupied and near one of the abandoned houses. Police pool vehicles carried a torch as standard. He took it and walked to the Chrysler. It was locked. He shone the beam in and did a slow, careful survey. He saw nothing to trouble him. He went back to his own car and sat there, waiting to see whether Franco and Edison would return. Morgan's café was on the other side of the Square, with The Porter pub next door but one. They might be in either of those, or possibly calling on a sales-staffer at home in one of the still-occupied flatted properties.

Of course, they'd be surprised to see him here. After all, it was less than two hours since they talked up near Templar Street. He must avoid implicating Honorée. The Valencia's magnificent buzz network would report that Harpur had chinwagged with her on the
Eton
for a fair while this evening. Arlington and Whitehead were sure to guess the tip came from Honorée if Harpur spoke a warning about some unidentified peril on its way to them. They'd call on her for more facts, which perhaps she wouldn't want to give. They might then turn forceful, despite Honorée's link to Iles and his cultivated capacity for vengeance and simple, unwavering hate.

Harpur needed a less dangerous subject. He decided that when he re-met them he'd ask about relations with Ralph Ember, as a kind of postscript to their earlier discussion. For instance, did Arlington know Ralph? Did he like him? Did he think he could get on peacefully with him and his people, as Manse Shale had? Did he intend recognizing all the holy frontier lines between Ember's trading ground and Shale's? These were questions Harpur would genuinely like answers to. Mainly, though, they were meant to hide his real reason for waiting in Gladstone Square – the warning from Honorée that Arlington, and therefore Whitehead, might be in for trouble. But maybe trouble had already hit them.

He knew he'd probably have to look inside the three totally derelict grey stone houses; or at least one or two of the totally derelict grey stone houses, depending on what he found in the first or second, if anything. And he knew, too, that he was putting this off. He'd do his robotic, probably useless, evasive bit as starters: check the caff and the pub.

He went on foot to scout for them in Morgan's and The Porter. He was beginning to feel like a licensing inspector tonight. Morgan's, nothing. The Porter was a roomy, oak panelled pub. It had once been a ship owner's mansion, with good views out to sea. It still had the views, but the building had begun to show its age. Locals used it, and some people from up town who liked a touch of history and anti-smartness. It was fairly crowded tonight. A group of four men he recognized as mid-list pushers from the Shale companies stood at the bar and quickly made a space for him among them. It must be their evening off. They knew Harpur's usual drink – a double gin topped up with cider in a half pint glass – and Galileo Smith ordered one for him now.

Galileo was about thirty, wearing an army desert camouflage outfit, wide-shouldered, broad-necked. He spoke with solemn delight: ‘Mr Harpur! Just the man we need. There's something of a debate going on here. Your opinion would be valuable. You can give a totally different perspective.'

‘Different from what?' Harpur said.

‘It's bracing to have your kind of mind applied in a setting such as this commonplace pub where the bulk of folk tend to share the same, insular way of regarding things,' Galileo said, with a big, grateful smile.

‘Which things?' Harpur said.

‘Who do you think was here earlier?' Galileo replied. ‘Well, you observe – are trained to it. You're a detective! You'll have spotted the Chrysler. Yes, General Franco with his unbribable sidekick, Edison L. Whitehead. Well now, look, Mr Harpur, Franco is in the firm's topmost job – or the topmost
field
job. Manse is, of course, still the topmost of topmosts, even though he has removed himself from the workaday arena. I would never blame Manse for that, in the awful circumstances. Who could?'

‘Where's General Franco now?' Harpur said.

‘Routinely, he calls here to see what trade down this end of the ground is doing. That's understandable enough, we don't usually object to an inspection,' Galileo said. ‘Around the
Eton
and the Nexus is the only territory where both firms operate together – sort of intermingle – so it's natural Franco wants to make sure matters stay comradely and sweet.'

‘Where is he now?' Harpur said.

‘I'd go further than stating we don't object,' an elderly, grey-haired, pony-tailed member of the group said. ‘We
approve
of his visits. We gain from his visits. He brings a sense of community and of team solidarity.' He wore a very formal, excellently cut, dark-grey double-breasted suit over a high-necked crimson string vest, no shirt, plus a faux-pearl necklace. Harpur could place him as Oswald Venning Garnet.

‘Well, yes, yes, we approve if the visits are conducted properly, sensitively,' Galileo said. ‘This is not always the case. Tonight it was not the case.'

‘In which way?' Harpur said.

‘And so the arguments here,' Galileo replied, ‘and the welcome prospect of an opinion on the topic from someone such as yourself, Mr Harpur, unbiased and free from fixed ideas.'

‘I need to talk to him,' Harpur said.

‘We heard you'd already been observed talking to him up near Templar Street,' Alec Charles Geen said. ‘Was that dud info, then?'

‘Where did it come from?' Harpur said.

‘Franco actually in your car, an unmarked Mazda,' Alec replied. ‘The two of you in the front; Edison L. Whitehead outside at the open, driver's side window. An impromptu conference.'

‘Another matter has emerged since that meeting,' Harpur said.

‘Franco and Edison, drinking matily with us, chewing over sales figures, optimum mixture proportions, and future deliveries, is fine,' Galileo said. ‘A model of how to run a company and exercise a business plan, given current conditions.'

‘And then what do we fucking get?' Alec asked. He was the smallest and frailest looking of the four. He'd be about forty-five, gaunt-faced, sharp-chinned, parchment-pale, perhaps into H.

‘Exactly,' Galileo said.

‘What?' Harpur said.

‘Alec and I are totally put off by it,' Galileo said. ‘Vernon here is not sure. Ossie thinks it of little concern, if any at all. And so the debate, Mr Harpur, in some senses healthy – folk demonstrating their freedom of thought – but also, perhaps, harmfully divisive, even destabilizing.'

‘These very small, very occasional, very brief moves away from the normal don't really affect the main situation,' Oswald said. ‘Ultimately, Michael Arlington is Michael Arlington. That's my point, Mr Harpur. I don't want to go on about it, but that's my point. The firm is healthy, as healthy as it has ever been, including when Manse was in totally effective control. I hope I would never speak of Manse with disrespect, but Arlington has shown there are various kinds of effective leadership. It's why I say he is ultimately what he is, i.e., himself.'

‘How ultimately is ultimately?' Galileo said.

‘I'll tell you what we fucking get,' Alec said. It was as though he hadn't heard any of the intervening talk, and now moved in on his own juicy question. His voice boomed hugely; astonishing from that skinny frame. H habit or not, no wonder he'd become emaciated: he put so much of his substance into getting heard. But he'd be easy to pick up and chuck out if the landlord thought him too noisy. He'd hit the pavement with a rattle of bones like a bunch of chopsticks. ‘What we suddenly get, tacked on to a wholesome, wise trade causerie, is the big, triumphalist declaration from Franco that he and his chum, General Emilio Mola, are stoutly holding Seville and Granada in the south, and Galicia, Navarre and most of old Castile in the north. “Viva!” he yells. Naturally, it's not General Mola who's with him but Edison L. Whitehead, attendant in chief. Edison is completely unembarrassed by all the ancient Spanish shit. He just gazes around the bar, no expression on his brute mug. I believe he doesn't even try to look like Mola. OK, I've never seen pictures of Mola but I'd bet he didn't resemble Edison. Yet Edison is indifferent to this lack of verisimilitude. He pretends Arlington-morphed-into-Franco is not happening and that everything's just as it should be. And Oswald here is impressed and agrees, and maybe Vernon does, too.'