Hotbed (14 page)

‘And will there be tools inside the van overnight?' Harpur replied.

‘In which case?'

‘Either – in the “No tools” van or the “Plenty” van. And if you do get a van yourself will you leave tools in it overnight, no matter what you've had written on the back?'

Iles stood, and with both hands smoothed down his white protective suit. Against all procedural rules, he had not worn gloves and Harpur saw tan dirt under the nails of his right hand from when he worked it beneath the body to investigate the rear pocket. ‘I reckon I should be looking through
your
clobber to find what he had on him, Harpur, not his.'

‘John Staley ran the Scenes of Crime group. He's exceptionally thorough,' Harpur said.

‘When I refer to Karl Marx, I'm most probably thinking of
Das Kapital
, but it could be some other work, Col,' Iles answered.

‘You'll unquestionably have read many. The moment you mentioned his name, I told myself, “Clearly, Mr Iles will have in mind
Das Kapital
, or possibly a different Marx source, as applied to this deceased.” In a way it's funny that you should adore books although you're not happy with words – or, at least, words on the back of vans.'

‘Now, of course, you see the relevance to our decaying, butchered friend here, don't you?' Iles said.

‘Not easy to recognize in the present state but I think he's from Ralphy Ember's outfit,' Harpur replied.

‘Because, deceitful, intrusive, rapid bastard, you've been through his cards and papers.'

‘Some type of courier who'd take replacement crack or E to designated street and disco dealers,' Harpur explained. ‘Also an enforcer-minder-chauffeur. Not much more elevated than that. I believe I've seen him about. We'll get identification from The Squad. His curls are distinctive and one side of the face still all rightish for identification.'

‘Monopoly, Col,' Iles remarked.

‘Ah.'

‘Oh, yes, monopoly, Harpur.'

‘In what sense, sir?'

‘Marx.'

‘He covered many a theme. As I gather. One thing he was never short of – a theme.'

‘His reputation's shaky now, but he gave us several abiding truths. I don't dismiss him. No, no, no.'

‘In London, there's a graveyard statue of Karl looking damn thoughtful and constructive posthumously,' Harpur said.

‘Col, I keep returning to the one central idea.'

‘Which?'

‘Monopoly.'

‘That
is
a prime area.'

‘Bringing us back to this bonny item.' Iles gave the corpse a couple of kicks in the pelvis, but with no genuine, Iles-type commitment – token kicks, only, not enough to mark the skin, almost leather caresses or tributes, as if to thank him for so plainly and definitely establishing the link with Karl Marx, whatever it might eventually turn out to be, or never. Even these minor impacts of Iles's magnificent black slip-on, though, released a notable mortality waft that reminded Harpur of something. Something? Oaf: plainly it matched the first time he'd caught it when doing his original quick frisk of Brown alone.

They were at the edge of hillside woodland to the north of the city, not far from that old anti-aircraft gun site where Harpur and Lamb sometimes met. A rabbit hunter's terrier had found the body well hidden in undergrowth. Harpur naturally heard of it before Iles, a due and convenient spell before Iles. The system routinely and properly worked like that. Harpur, as Detective Chief Superintendent, ran the Criminal Investigation Department. He would be told at once if a phone caller reported this sort of discovery. And, also in line with the system, Harpur would then correctly inform Iles, Assistant Chief (Operations). A dead male with what could be bullet wounds and carving of the features clearly called for a full police operation and therefore came into the Operations ambit of an Assistant Chief (Operations), if he got to know of it. Harpur made sure the ACC did get to know of it, of course, at the proper stage.

So, this trip to the hill. Iles loved to attend personally at the scene of major cases: what he called ‘an indomitable demand within me, Col, for the concrete, for the flintiness of the nitty-gritty.' Always there was a fine flintiness and indomitable nitty-grittyness to the way he said ‘nittygritty'. The wish to get himself to the actual location could be a tic taken from a previous Chief Constable here, Mark Lane, whom Iles had despised, pitied, loyally half-propped, cheerfully lampooned into mental breakdown, and frequently copied. Lane used to visit such sites fearing they signalled final collapse of order, beginning on his patch, spreading nationally, then globally, then throughout the cosmos, all of it his clear, catastrophic fault. Lane had repeatedly read Revelation, the Bible's prophetic book about the end of the world, in case he was coded in there as a dragon or serpent responsible for the overall muck-up.

Iles said: ‘We have to grant that, post Berlin Wall, most of Marx's stuff looks risibly weak. “Risibly” in the sense of laughably, Col.' The ACC fingered hard both the shoulder pads of Brown's jacket. Occasionally, people did try to hide items there. Iles seemed to detect nothing exceptional. Well, of course he detected nothing exceptional. Staley would have had a previous feel, and Harpur a feel previous to Staley's. Negative.

‘But did you spot this early on – ahead of the others, sir?' Harpur said.

‘Spot what?'

‘That Marx's ideas are risibly weak in the sense of laughably.'

‘How early on?'

‘While the Wall was still there – during your reading stints as an infant: e.g., when your mother said, “Forever your head stuck in a book, Desmond,” did you answer, “Maybe so, as in the village stocks or a permanent waver, ma, but this
Das Kapital
is risibly weak in the sense of laughably”? That would
certainly
be precocious, if I may say – to rumble him so young. Some thought his teaching very cuspish then. Only time rubbished him. This happens to many. Think of Bishop Ussher, who thought the world only 4004 years old.'

‘One of Ralph Ember's people, you say, Harpur?'

‘I think so. An impression only at this stage.'

‘You
know
it. You've got his damn name and blood-type.'

‘Such impressions are strange and mysterious, aren't they, sir? Who . . . yes, indeed . . . who can say where this one comes from?' Harpur replied.

‘
I
fucking can,' Iles said. ‘His pockets. Or you recognized him right off.'

‘But it's real and strong, this impression. Yes, I'd speculate a hanger-on with Ralphy.'

‘All right, let's
speculate
, shall we? Suppose this mysterious
impression
of yours is correct. Where does it take us?'

‘Well, sir, I imagine –'

‘I'll tell you where it takes us, Col. This body takes us instantly to
Das Kapital.
'

‘Ah.'

‘Direct.'

‘This is remarkable.'

‘You see the connection, of course.'

‘It's amazing how things tie up.'

‘It is, it is, Col.'

‘But many of us need somebody to point out these links, somebody with your insights, sir.'

‘And am I widely revered and loved for this flair, Harpur, among people of your in many ways estimable type?'

‘Then we wonder why we couldn't locate these affinities for ourselves, they are so apparent and unarguable,' Harpur said.

‘What is the connection, then, of this body with
Das Kapital
, Harpur? Tell me the links? List them.'

‘They'll be able to remove the remains now you've seen him
in situ
, sir,' he answered. ‘We can stand down the guard officers.'

A small square tent about five feet high had been erected over the corpse for fear of media intrusion and motorized sightseeing troops from the town. Inside, both of them bent over slightly, near the body. Harpur didn't like having to stand so close to Iles. And Harpur knew the ACC would dislike more having to stand so close to
him
. It was a matter of one's personal space, the territorial imperative, not necessarily hygiene. ‘He's Joachim Bale Frederick Brown, isn't he, Col?' Iles said. ‘The one they call “Turret”. As you mentioned, he couriers and brutalizes for Ralphy Ember. Did.'

‘It
could
be Turret.'

‘It's Turret, you shifty git.'

‘It's Turret,' Harpur said. ‘Should we go outside now, sir?'

‘Yes, you don't look too good with a yellowy tent-canvas background, Col.'

‘Not too good in which ways?'

‘People with your sort of complexion should be careful about backgrounds,' Iles said. ‘You can't afford more handicaps.'

‘Which background would suit me best?'

‘You'll ask how I know it's Turret,' Iles replied.

‘No, I won't, sir. You know most things.'

‘Oh, come now, come now, Col, I can't claim that! But it's a fact my mother used to cry out when I was, say, eleven or twelve, “Desmond, you're an encyclopedia!” She meant the
Britannica
, not that old Arthur Mee thing for kids.'

‘Mothers worry about the brain overheating.'

‘Not yours.'

‘You heard about the meeting with Ember, did you? Or saw it?'

‘Which meeting, Col?'

‘So you've been expecting the hit.'

‘Which meeting with Ember?'

‘You know someone called Evox, sir?'

They came out and talked near a police ribbon strung around the trees to keep people at a distance. Chief Inspector Francis Garland, who would run the investigation, went into the tent. ‘Dossier pix. You recognized Brown at once, the way I did, yes, Col?' Iles said. ‘Even without whatever you found on him and illegally lifted in your fashion. But what do you care about legality? After all, you're only a police officer.'

‘Almost certainly carved and killed elsewhere. Dumped. The road's not far. He could be carried from a car.'

‘As well as Marx, I think of Hobbes, Col.'

‘Hobbes. I wondered if you had them in mind.'

‘Thomas Hobbes, another thinker.'

‘One of the best.'

‘He believed human beings were all pretty much of a muchness in ability, and that they'd always be fighting to get on top, because the gap between the top and the next looked small and easy. In other words, a hotbed struggle for monopoly, Col. So, Hobbes an iffy royalist at times, considered there had to be someone strong and tough to

rule and stop these squabbles.' He paused.

‘You wouldn't need a screen test for that part, sir.'

‘My role, indeed.' Iles worked at it and dredged a little humility from somewhere. ‘And you and the rest of the Service come into the picture as well, to some degree. Certainly. To some degree. Brown, straight, I believe. But no steady woman or kids. He liked to ramble. You'll sympathize with that kind of prick twitch, won't you, Harpur?' The ACC began to wail and stamp one of his grand shoes on the soft ground. ‘I have a wife, as you know. Oh, yes, you know all right and –'

‘Turret lived alone.'

‘Number 15A Singer Road,' Iles said. ‘Calling a British child Joachim might suggest cosmopolitan, in-yourfucking-face, professional-class parents.'

‘We don't have much on family.'

‘I aim to keep on top of things, Harpur,' Iles replied. ‘My mind? Active. My memory? Active. My work rate? Beyond anything you can visualize, however much you would wish to visualize it.'

‘Considerably wish.'

‘Not within your reach, I'm afraid, Col.'

‘I've heard one or two people speak of your work rate, sir. Speak amazedly of it.'

‘Which?'

‘Which what?'

‘Is it one or two?' Iles said.

‘
Very
amazedly,' Harpur said.

‘Reverentially?'

‘Unprompted.'

‘Now, you'll see plainly why I mentioned
Das Kapital
and monopoly,' Iles said.

‘Ah.'

‘Turret dead hints at it all, doesn't he, Col? A symbol.'

‘Right, sir.'

‘Turret – his death and mutilation – tells us clearly, emphatically of a fight for total dominance.'

‘Ah.'

‘Now, having spent more time with the dead Brown, just remind yourself briefly how
Das Kapital
treats monopoly.'

‘Yes! That's unquestionably a work covering a multitude of aspects, sir,' Harpur replied instantly.

‘What does Marx see as the central, driving life-force in all capitalist ventures, Col? Plainly, this provides such a window on to our situation here now with dead, chivved chummy.'

‘Marx is someone who gets right to the basics, although he might see them all wrong. If you stop a stranger in the street and ask him, “What about Karl Marx, then?” this is what he's almost sure to answer – “He gets right to the basics, gets right to them and gets them wrong.”'

‘Marx believes that every private business –
every
private business – he believes every private business strives to eliminate all competition from every other private business. So, Joachim Bale Frederick Brown, dead. The message shrieks at us, doesn't it, Harpur?'

‘Ah. This would be like Shell trying to –?'

‘And so, having won a domineering, unchallenged, monopoly position, the victorious business can mercilessly screw and milk the customers, or – his words – “exploit the proletariat”. By then, you see, the customers have nowhere else to go. Hence the need for public ownership, as he saw things. He wanted the annihilation of capitalistic competition because, in his view, competition was inefficient – from the proles' standpoint. It's a simple and simple-minded theory.'