I Am Gold (20 page)

Harpur thrilled watching him, and when, now, he thought back to that long affair he had enjoyed with Iles's wife, Sarah, it seemed a terrible treachery against such a lustrous, fluctuating colleague. Harpur knew he hadn't felt anything in the least like that at the time, though. Most probably, an itchy conscience couldn't be a natural feature of affairs while they were actually under way or there wouldn't be any affairs. Occasionally, of course, or more than occasionally, Iles would still scream accusations and mad, agonized, brilliantly consonantal abuse at Harpur about it, but this evening the ACC displayed a kind of massive, unwavering nobility. Harpur felt policing was privileged to have him. Farce sometimes touched Iles, but so did a kind of special Ilesian grandeur. He made the job theatrical in very, very nearly the best sense. ‘First aiders here,' he called. ‘Doddy's into a total doze.' Then Iles ran unarmed towards the shop. Harpur, unarmed, followed.

Chapter Twenty-Four

2008

And then, of course, so obvious, Egremont Lake's cousin, Lionel-Garth Field, arrived on Shale's ground for a conversation, a turn-and-turn-about visitor procession. Them two, Egremont and Lionel-Garth, didn't do much conversation together, that was clear. Or no conversation about nothing serious, such as getting into Manse's firm here at a majestic level, owing to family connections through Denz. This would not be the haulage and scrap firm they had in mind. No, the main one. Well, really, as far as takings and undisclosed profits went, Manse had to admit, the
only
one.

When Egremont came he thought Lionel-Garth might of already had talks with Manse here. Wrong. Now, when Lionel-Garth came he thought Egremont might of already had talks with Manse. Right. If the first one was wrong, or right, the second one had to be right, didn't it, because the first one meant Egremont must of come here and had talks with Manse? But the fact that Lionel-Garth came anyway meant he felt unsure there'd been talks with Egremont and, if there had been, guessed they must of gone nowhere. Right, again. If he thought for definite there'd been talks and they'd got
some
where, Lionel-Garth would not be here now, because he'd know he was too late. Egremont would be, like, in – ‘in' meaning into an executive post in Manse's firm.

But the question that then had to be dealt with was, why had Lionel-Garth left it so late? Although he would get no further than Egremont did, Shale considered it damn casual, almost an insult, to of waited so long. Months. Didn't he consider Manse's operation worth some urgency? People in London could be like that, the arrogant twerps. They thought everything worthwhile had to be there, in London, except, maybe, that rave at Glastonbury or Cowes for boating. They regarded other areas as what they called ‘the sticks', full of what they called ‘swede-bashers', signifying, village idiots. Maybe Lionel-Garth took his time because he rated Manse a swede-basher, and could not believe any firm in the sticks could really produce – not in the style and amount London could produce.

Shale considered that Lionel-Garth's slowness in following up the chat in Hackney after the funeral showed he decided in a cool way he could take it or leave it, as far as Manse's firm went. He wasn't certain he wanted a spot in the business or not. It was like, when he'd attended to all the
important
stuff he had in Hackney and around, he might,
might,
spare a small part of his red-hot brain to think about that commodities operation down in … where was it? Run by … what was his name? … the one Lionel-Garth's other cousin used to be in trade with at the time of death. This Lionel-Garth had some fucking neck. Well, necks could get wrung.

At least he didn't come hunting Manse at the rectory, in that disgusting style of Egremont. This might mean Lionel-Garth had some idea how to behave proper, even if it
was
out here, not London but the deepest bush! Instead, he hung about near Bracken Collegiate school where Laurent and Matilda went, usually driven there and back by Shale in the Jaguar. Lionel-Garth knew of the school and had mentioned after the funeral that he wouldn't mind his children going there if he moved the family when he joined Manse's outfit. So bleeding gracious. Lionel-Garth must of done some research about what time they would arrive and who would be driving. Manse didn't like that. Lionel-Garth knew about digging, did he, as well as a bit of accountancy?

In one way, Shale thought it might be just as bad using the school for a meeting spot like this, as calling on him at home. Lionel-Garth had arrived in a big green Vauxhall now parked near the gates and flashed his lights like a bloody secret agent job when he saw the Jaguar. Laurent and Matilda was still in the car and noticed the signal. ‘Some mate or admirer, dad?' Laurent said.

‘The school doesn't like cars or men hanging about outside,' Matilda said. ‘People waiting near schools could be sort of dubious and of a tendency. Sometimes, the school calls the police to check.'

Well, yes, Lionel-Garth was dubious and of a tendency, and double dubious and of a tendency, but not in the way she meant.

‘He's waving. He seems really friendly,' Laurent said. ‘Why doesn't he come to the house if he wants to see you?'

Because he knows better than to come to the fucking house. He got no entitlement. Shale didn't say it, though. He never swore in front of the children. You didn't send them to a refined, big-fee-grab school like Bracken Collegiate and then undo everything by cursing like some fucking uneducated yob where they could fucking hear. ‘I hardly know this guy,' Shale said. ‘Don't ever take a lift from him.'

‘You sound like the school, dad,' Matilda said. She and Laurent left the car and walked in through the gates. They joined quite a little crowd of pupils also moving towards the school, but Lionel-Garth would of had a clear sight of which was Mansel's children. He didn't like this, either. Yes, research might be another of Lionel-Garth's specialities. Shale began to think that, because of the artfulness Lionel-Garth showed, he might be more difficult to deal with than Egremont, meaning more difficult to squash and get rid of. His slowness coming here could be a ploy, not a sign he didn't care. Maybe he wanted to get Manse off-balance through wondering about Lionel-Garth's absence, then, wham, he's suddenly here, flashing his lights like ‘So glad you could make it, Mansel.' Also, he'd had time to survey Manse's ground and business.

The thing with Egremont was, he had seemed to consider an arrangement with Manse would all be very easy and natural, like fixed by Fate and the blasting of Denz. So, it really knocked him when he realized Manse would not be letting him into the house because letting him into the house might mean Shale fancied some sort of partnership with this grand Hackney marquis, which Manse absolutely did not and wouldn't never. Clearly, Manse had not deliberately arranged things so the porch smelled of cocked-tail toms, but in his opinion that had been a very useful extra in destroying Egremont with his bling Bentley a bit more. It gave the message – ‘Kindly, piss off, Egremont.'

And Egremont was really a mess after that. He went to the jabber level, the retreat level. But there would be no chance of getting Lionel-Garth into that handy, downgrading, cat's pee environment because he did not come to the rectory. Obviously, he didn't not come to the rectory on account of the porch stink, but owing to working in a subtler style than Egremont's. It seemed plain to Shale that Egremont had not told Lionel-Garth he'd been to see Manse, and, therefore, Lionel-Garth probably would not know about the unhelpful porch, even though he did research.

What Manse Shale still couldn't tell about Egremont and Lionel-Garth was how they regarded the snuffing of Denz. He hadn't known, either, what the whole lot of family and friends believed on that quite ticklish issue when he went to the funeral. So, he had taken Hubert and armament with him. Sometimes Shale thought Denzil's family wondered whether he really did do himself in, and wondered, also, if Denz truly held the kind of boardroom billet with Mansel that they thought he did, or pretended they thought he did. It was like they was saying to Manse, ‘Right, I know Denz was seen off by someone else, or maybe more than one, naming no fucking names, chum, but, anyway, not by his-self, and I know you stuck him in a dogsbody job, but I' –that ‘I' could be Egremont or it could be Lionel-Garth – ‘I can swallow all that, as long as there's something nice and continuing for me and definitely not dogsbody status in your present personal set-up out there in Dumpsville, UK,' ‘me' also meaning Egremont or Lionel-Garth.

It seemed a sickening way for members of a family to think, but that's how some of them might be, through living in London. No, Shale realized it was mad to say that – too simple, childish. People didn't lose all their good feelings because they lived in London. Or not all people. He knew there were London districts with trees in the streets and well-looked-after properties, where the residents might be fairly OK and not really bombastic at all. He wondered where Joan Fenton lived, the lawyer. She could probably become like quite a normal person when not in her office. He wondered if there were times when she might be in her house alone.

Anyway, perhaps this family – the Lakes – regarded vengeance as daft and anti-business. London might be bad but it wasn't Sicily. They didn't do vendettas. If there'd been a death, and there had been, get something from it. That could be their philosophy. In the high cause of trade they would also scheme against each other, such as Egremont and Lionel-Garth. That might be the truly important thing for them, not the removal through internal small-arms gunfire of a brother or cousin who had been in a baggage guy's berth, truly a failure. They might even believe Denz to be such a disaster he was bound to want to do the big quit, or bound to get given the big quit by others, just one of the inflexible laws of the game.

They thought selfish, this Hackney gang. They thought win, win, win. They did not think, Denz, Denz, Denz, because Denzil had been a glaring flop. These Denz relatives planned to hatch a bargain, but a bargain nobody spoke about, just a bargain understood by both sides: lots of silence regarding the terms. The bargain said, without any bugger saying it, ‘We play nice and ignorant about our dear brother/cousin, Denzil, famed for his commercial flair, though now dead,
if
you carve out a good slice of your operation for us.' No, not ‘us'. For
me,
being Egremont or Lionel-Garth. Each of these sods wanted to win, win, win, even against the other. Each of them could say, but wouldn't, ‘Sorry, Denzil, but I got to think about what comes next, not what come lately so rough to you in your pitiful flunkey career, RIP.'

Although Lionel-Garth didn't have the kind of brassiness Egremont used when he came to Shale's individual, unmortaged property like that, and then complained of cats, Lionel-Garth had plenty of cheek hisself. For a start, he believed Manse would recognize him through two windscreens in an unusual spot although they had only met once a while ago. And then he obviously decided he was the one who better organize things now, outside the school, although a stranger here. Once the children had disappeared into the forecourt, Lionel-Garth drove to alongside the Jaguar, stopped for a moment, and pointed a finger down the road. It meant, ‘Follow me,' a dumb-show order. Anyone could of seen Lionel-Garth expected Shale to obey. Well, Shale did.

The thing was, of course, he didn't want this blubber-face, Lionel-Garth, making a pest of hisself around the town, maybe turning up again at the school, or even coming to Mansel's home. Crush him now. The Vauxhall led to Glaythorn Fields, a big park, with plenty of places for cars at one end under the trees. Yes, Lionel-Garth had done some earlier reconnaissance. He liked knowledge, this character. He'd have to be watched. He wasn't so casual or indifferent after all.

Manse would admit Lionel-Garth had the decency to get out of his own car and come on foot to the Jaguar, not expecting it to happen the other way around. Manse remembered Egremont's statement about people wishing to make a pilgrimage to him, Manse. Some aspects Egremont had right. Lionel-Garth opened the passenger door then leaned in and shook hands in a strong, thoughtful way, like someone signalling, ‘I'm the lad you can trust.' This was how Manse's father had told him a handshake should be, hearty, strong, unhurried, sincere, even if it wasn't, or especially if it wasn't. Lionel-Garth got into the Jaguar and closed the door. But how to get the bugger out and soon? When he bent to come into the car Manse could see how far that mousy hair had gone back. He wore a denim jacket, jeans and what could be the same crimson and cream training shoes he had on at the funeral. Maybe he had bad feet and this was the only comfortable pair he'd found.

Shale considered balding people should not pick denim. It looked like a brave, comical, never-give-up, pathetic fight against fact. Time could not be stopped by garments. Lionel-Garth said: ‘I thought I could achieve two objectives at once – see the school and make contact with you again, Mansel.'

‘It's a good old building, Bracken Collegiate,' Shale said with terrific neutrality, in his opinion. ‘They've looked after it well during the century plus. And they added extensions that fit in, although more modern, such as the language laboratory.' Parents had been asked to give a special donation on top of fees for that, instalments by direct debit for any who couldn't cough a lump. But, naturally, Manse put the whole lot down at once. He would hate gossip to get around that he had to do it bit by bit. Did he want Laurent and Matilda to look like pauper kids? He didn't object to the cost of the extension. He thought Britain was becoming a shit-hole and would be more of a shit-hole by the time Matilda and Laurent grew up, so they ought to have languages in case they wanted to shove off to somewhere else foreign and be able to ask where the bank with all their transferred funds was. Of course, they wouldn't need another language if they went to America, but that was becoming as big a shit-hole as Britain, according to what Shale heard, the jails full of con-men, mostly white. These days he sang ‘Land of Hope and Glory' to hisself less and less. Was everything going into decline – the Church, this country, other countries, quality of the substances even when unmixed?