Vacuum (21 page)

‘I'm guessing.'

‘What kind of incident?'

‘It would obviously be something that the onlooker thought unusual enough to call about, if I'm guessing right.'

‘A struggle?'

‘It could be.'

‘And there might be several others involved?'

‘Could be.'

‘You mean taken into one of these houses not of his own accord? Forced? Like an abduction? And this was witnessed and described on a mobile to someone – the someone who gave you the vague signal?'

‘That kind of thing.'

‘Why wouldn't the witness do something to help?'

‘We're in the Valencia,' Harpur said.

‘Who's about at this time of night?'

‘You. Me.'

‘Was it one of the girls? You knew where the black girl was tonight.'

‘People here observe and steer clear.'

‘Which someone, or more than one, would force him into a ruined house?' Edison said.

‘As you mentioned, he's head of a firm. He's a target for some.'

‘Which?'

‘All sorts.'

‘You think you know, don't you?'

Harpur went to get the flashlight from his car. When he returned, Whitehead left the Chrysler and joined him in a search of the deserted houses. Harpur might have preferred to work alone, but he sympathized with Edison's obvious need to show full commitment to Arlington, despite the deranged spells. Edison would wish to prove – prove especially to himself – that, if there'd been a fuck-up at the rendezvous spot, it didn't mean his commitment had slackened. The opposite: he'd been urgently trying to find Arlington safe elsewhere, say in a good interlude with Honorée.

They discovered nothing in the first two abandoned dwellings except fragments of window glass, mortar and brick debris, empty bottles and cans, some shrivelled, used condoms, squares of ancient matting, occasional shattered pieces of furniture, unrepairable and therefore not taken. Then they reached the third and final wreck on their schedule. Nothing on the ground floor. They climbed the stairs and opened the first door on to the landing.

‘Oh, my caudillo, this is no place for you, alive or dead.' Edison Whitehead spoke in a weak whisper. He was by Harpur's side, and gazed along the torch beam.

‘At least two bullets in the head,' Harpur said, moving closer to Arlington's body.

Access to all the properties had been easy. They were boarded up, but time and kids and others had caused some of this protection to fall away. They had entered the first house through what would have been a kitchen window when intact. The last two had outer doors front or back that could be pushed open, the locks broken a long while ago. The boarding did have some use: although imperfect, it would help contain the sound of gunshots, and most probably smother it altogether if the gun had a silencer. Mike Arlington was lying on his back in a big, faded-pink, multi-chipped bath, his head and face a mess. There must be gaps in the slates just above. The bathroom's old-style plaster ceiling bulged downwards at two places, stained yellowy-brown, and dripped even now, a dry day and evening. Some plaster had fallen. The ceiling would tumble altogether soon. The floor was damp, and the bath under the smaller of the bulges had several inches of dark water in it, enough to half cover Arlington's legs and shoes and the back of his coat. Bits of plaster might be blocking the plughole. All taps, the towel rail and the lavatory seat had been pillaged, of course. If they ever decided to patch up these houses they'd have to get hold of someone in Neville's game to supply complete re-roofing stuff.

Edison said: ‘Will the media need to be told how he was found – the bath and the filthy water? It's not dignified. This was a bathroom but is now a mockery of a bathroom. There's running water, but not from the plumbing. There's a bath with somebody in it, but it's not somebody it's some body, and some body fully dressed.'

Harpur made a pulse check on Arlington and found nothing. He called the Control Room. The Scene of Crime people would be here soon. He did a quick touchy-feely search without disturbing the body. ‘His wallet, mobile phone, keys and comb are here, but he wasn't carrying a weapon,' he said.

‘He's a businessman making business visits,' Edison said.

‘Are
you
tooled up?'

‘I was accompanying a businessman on business visits.'

Harpur called Iles. ‘I'm driving,' Iles said, ‘and not far away from Gladstone Square, as it happens, Col. I like to keep an eye on the Valencia.'

‘Honorée is with a slate, tile and chimney brick old lad called Neville,' Harpur replied.

‘Hers is a very democratic profession, Col,' Iles said.

He arrived at the house in five minutes, well before the Scene of Crime contingent. He brought a second torch. ‘This is going to educate that fucker, Upton,' he said.

‘In which respect, sir?' Harpur asked.

‘You making the find, Col. Me here within minutes,' Iles said. ‘On the ballness. Exemplary.'

‘But you were only handy because you were looking for a shag,' Edison remarked.

One of the things about Iles was that he would take insulting talk from almost anyone, crook or colleague, and not go nuts, but give them a cogent answer. ‘We don't have to tell Upton that, do we, Whitehead?' Iles said. ‘You won't want the circumstances of this find spread all over the media, will you, your boss and gallant hero dumped and dunked in a tapless bath?'

‘I've mentioned that to Mr Harpur,' Edison said.

‘There you are, then,' Iles said. ‘Some reciprocal silence would be in order, I think.'

‘The Chief was down here this afternoon talking to Honorée,' Harpur said. ‘Arlington did pix.'

‘That poor kid. She needs someone to manage her diary,' Iles said. ‘But we'll see changes now. Sir Matthew will realize he's wandering in the dark when he tries to understand the commodity trade here. He'll see he needs our help, Col. I'm ready to give him that help, despite his contrariness, and I'm sure you are, Harpur.'

Edison pointed to Arlington. Iles's torch threw a huge shadow of the gesture on one of the filthy bathroom walls. Edison said: ‘But who did this?'

‘That's one of those questions, isn't it?' Iles said. ‘Arlington was with you, wasn't he – just the two of you at times? Are you carrying anything?'

‘Mr Harpur has already asked me,' Edison said.

‘He would. It's the obvious question,' Iles said. ‘You wouldn't be the first bodyguard to see off his master.' He reached out with one hand and frisked Whitehead. ‘Zilch.' Then he searched Arlington and brought out the wallet and mobile. He flipped through the wallet and replaced it. He put the phone in his pocket. ‘Luckily, the water hasn't reached the front of his jacket. Quite dry. You won't mention this, either, will you, Edison? I don't want that poor sweet girl involved. It's bad enough for her having to go with a nonentity named Neville. Like you, I'll find this patch meaner and drabber without General Franco. Sir Matthew didn't take either to him or me. Well, Franco's gone now. I'll probably hang on a while, though.'

TWELVE

M
argaret Ember hadn't been able to wait much longer at eleven Carteret Drive in the hope of seeing Karen Lister. Margaret had allowed herself half an hour, the half hour she'd snipped off the end of the fitness class. The visit was something she didn't want Ralph to know about, at least not yet. So, she'd set herself that maximum: pity it had to be taken up by Frank and Beryl only. If Karen had been there, Margaret would have asked her some delicate questions, such as whether she'd heard that inside the Shale firm Ralph was still considered responsible for the Jaguar deaths, and therefore also considered a target, plus, perhaps, his family. She continued to think of it as the Shale firm, even though Manse held only the formal post of chairman now. Ralph wouldn't be pleased if he knew she were seeking that kind of information from the other outfit, whatever its name today.

When she got back to Low Pastures, she found Ralph preparing to go to The Monty in Shield Terrace for his customary night stint. The children were watching television in what Ralph called ‘the screening room'. All right, the room had a screen in it, but Margaret thought the name slightly big-time, slightly Ralph. Perhaps Charlton Heston had a screening room, where he could view films of himself as a hero. Margaret allowed Fay and Venetia another hour and then ordered them to bed.

After they'd gone, she and Ralph talked for a while about the class and its exertions.

Ralph liked to be at The Monty for the latter part of the evening to check takings, make sure the place was properly locked up, and put the money in his safe or take it to the out-of-hours bank depository. Tonight, as he was about to leave, he had a phone call on the landline. He listened for a minute and then said, ‘There's
always
a crisis at the bloody Valencia. A pain. Any more detail, let me know. I'll be at the club, thank God, on the other side of the city.'

‘What is it?' Margaret said.

‘Big police activity down there. Part of Gladstone Square cordoned off. Cars – marked and unmarked. An ambulance. And somebody must have rung TV. Cameras and lights, plus reporter.'

‘What is it?'

‘Not known at present. Or not known to the lad who phoned.'

‘Which lad phoned?'

‘One of our people working there.'

‘Are you – we – involved?'

‘How would we be?' he said.

‘Why did he ring you, then?'

‘He probably thinks I need to be briefed about what's happening on the territory.'

‘And
do
you need it?' She thought he'd like the notion that any important incident in the city should be reported to him.
Shall we tell the President?
Yes. He saw himself as a fulcrum and a synthesizer. Sometimes she loved him for this egomania and his divine ability to keep it stoked up. Dear, wonderful, all-conquering Ralph. Sometimes she despised him for it: pathetic, posturing, screening-room Ralph. ‘What kind of incident might it be?' she said.

‘It's the Valencia. It could be anything – anything rough.'

‘An ambulance, you said.'

‘Probably routine turnout for an emergency call to one of those places.'

‘Which places?'

‘The big, old houses in Gladstone, some abandoned and decaying fast.'

‘Why would anybody go into one of those?'

‘It's the Valencia.'

‘What does that mean, Ralph?'

‘It has its own ways.'

‘We all do.'

‘The Valencia especially.'

She realized she was being told, without being told, not to ask too much. She'd been given her approved quota of what had been said on the phone, and that, in her husband's opinion, should be enough: police cars, an ambulance, police cordoning-tape. She needn't know any more than these symptoms, though
he
might. Ralph left for the club and she went to bed.

In the morning, before the school run, she switched on the local TV news in the screening room and watched the night scene at Gladstone Square. It was just as Ralph had described. The presenter spoke excitedly of ‘considerable police activity' and said Assistant Chief Constable Desmond Iles and Detective Chief Superintendent Colin Harpur had been present, ‘as well as scene of crime specialists and other officers, uniformed and plain clothed'. It was believed a body had been found on the first floor of one of the abandoned properties, but police had not yet completed an identification, nor disclosed who had discovered the body and reported it. ‘Gladstone Square is in an area of the city known as the Valencia, after its main thoroughfare. It has a busy nightlife,' the commentator said. The media had to be tactful, but not opaque. ‘Busy nightlife' was an acceptable, jolly sort of phrase, and the audience would hear ‘drugs and tarts'.

Despite the Shale murders, Margaret almost always drove the children to school; a different private school from Laurent and Matilda Shale's, but involving about the same amount of travel. Ralph couldn't do it because he usually slept on a while in the mornings after his club duties. Someone from the firm always rode with Margaret and her daughters both ways and brought a variety of company vehicles for the trips, to make clue by car difficult. Margaret conscientiously changed routes to and from Bracken Collegiate every day. She supposed the escort had a gun, but didn't ask Ralph: it was one of those questions best kiboshed.

When she returned today, Ralph's Bentley had gone from the Low Pastures forecourt. Now and then he would cut short his sleep to attend to something special in one of the businesses. Today, the something special might have to do with those Gladstone Square events, though she knew he'd deny it. The bodyguard left, and he or another heavy from the firm would come back in the afternoon to pick up Fay and Venetia at Bracken with either herself or Ralph. It might have been simpler to allow one of Ralph's people to take and bring the children on his own, but neither of them fancied this idea. It would be to dodge out of a responsibility. It would be casual, and being casual could lead to casualties.

A little before midday she was in the kitchen when she heard the sound of an unfamiliar car engine approaching up the long drive, definitely not the Bentley. This troubled her, and she was surprised at how much it troubled her. Vehicles strange to her quite often came to Low Pastures on normal domestic calls – the postman or woman, shop delivery vans. Why should she get so tense today? She went quickly to the front of the house and stood hidden by the folds of a drawn-back curtain. She saw a grey Ford Focus almost at the forecourt. As far as she could make out there were two people in it, a woman driving, a man in the passenger seat, both elderly. They drew nearer and stopped near her Lexus. Now, she recognized Beryl and Frank, Karen Lister's neighbours from Carteret Drive.