Play Dead

  Table of Contents

  A Selection of Titles by Bill Jamesg

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Footnotes

  A Selection of Titles by Bill James

  DOUBLE JEOPARDY *

  FORGET IT *

  FULL OF MONEY *

  HEAR ME TALKING TO YOU *

  KING’S FRIENDS *

  THE LAST ENEMY *

  LETTERS FROM CARTHAGE *

  MAKING STUFF UP *

  OFF-STREET PARKING *

  TIP TOP *

  WORLD WAR TWO WILL NOT TAKE PLACE *

  THE SIXTH MAN and other stories *

  The Harpur and Iles Series

  YOU’D BETTER BELIEVE IT

  THE LOLITA MAN

  HALO PARADE

  PROTECTION

  COME CLEAN

  TAKE

  CLUB

  ASTRIDE A GRAVE

  GOSPEL

  ROSES, ROSES

  IN GOOD HANDS

  THE DETECTIVE IS DEAD

  TOP BANANA

  PANICKING RALPH

  LOVELY MOVER

  ETON CROP

  KILL ME

  PAY DAYS

  NAKED AT THE WINDOW

  THE GIRL WITH THE LONG BACK

  EASY STREETS

  WOLVES OF MEMORY

  GIRLS

  PIX

  IN THE ABSENCE OF ILES

  HOTBED

  I AM GOLD

  VACUUM *

  UNDERCOVER *

  PLAY DEAD *

  * available from Severn House

  PLAY DEAD

  Bill James

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2013 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9-15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  eBook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited.

  Copyright © 2013 by Bill James.

  The right of Bill James to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  James, Bill, 1929-

  Play dead. - (The Harpur & Iles series)

  1. Harpur, Colin (Fictitious character)-Fiction. 2. Iles,

  Desmond (Fictitious character)-Fiction. 3. Police-Great

  Britain-Fiction. 4. Police corruption-Fiction.

  5. Undercover operations-Fiction. 6. Detective and

  mystery stories.

  I. Title II. Series

  823.9’14-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-043-0 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-403-4 (epub)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  ONE

  Harpur had what he regarded as some pretty good, bright information for Assistant Chief Constable Desmond Iles. But one of the central things about Iles was that he hated dependence on any of his people for good, bright information. Iles considered he was the kind who should already have all the good, bright information himself as of right - and have all other brands of important information, too, not just good and bright. He didn’t want subordinates sneaking ahead of him in knowledge, and especially he didn’t want Harpur sneaking ahead of him, in knowledge, or whatever else.

  Over the years Harpur had come to realize it could be stupid to blurt straight out in a big-headed, smug way insights that Iles to date lacked. Instead, get deft. New facts should be offered one at a time and gradually, not all in a triumphalist lump. Eke them out. Harpur had learned how to eke, could have run a degree course in ekeing. And he would try to be deft and gradual today in this dodgy aftermath chat with the ACC.

  One of the other core factors about Iles was he frequently went in for big self-blame. ‘Big’ meant allowing no excuses; ‘big’ meant bordering on suicide. With ruthless accuracy he’d weigh some part of his life in the balance and find it hopelessly wanting. Many would have been surprised to hear this about him, because he generally seemed so stiff-necked, feudal and tirelessly insolent. But Harpur had occasionally seen that other, confidential, cripplingly repentant side of the ACC. He saw it this morning. He understood where it came from. He thought he might have something precious to turn the ACC around, restore to him all that familiar brazen, Hunnish, startlingly talented obnoxiousness. The good, bright information should do it, but only if administered to the Assistant Chief with quiet dexterity and finesse, like a nurse with a suppository.

  Not long ago he and Harpur had been sent by the Home Office to do deep checks on another police force where there was a possibility, and more than a possibility, of corruption at a middling, or upper-middling rank. For security reasons the force had been coded Larkspur. An undercover officer brought in from a different force so as not to be recognized - Carnation - had been shot dead there. As it eventually turned out, the killer gunman was another officer who’d apparently feared a crook-police racket might be exposed by the spy from Carnation. But, until Iles and Harpur arrived, there had seemed to be no intense, committed investigation of the killing. It went nowhere. Blockages? The Home Office became uneasy. Were some people at Larkspur protecting themselves by neutering inquiries - the way inquiries seemed to have been neutered or sidetracked after the racist murder of the black teenager Stephen Lawrence in London?

  Through good detective work Harpur and Iles discovered the marksman and arrested and charged him.1 It stopped there, though. Who ordered the execution of the undercover man? Why? How high did the conspiracy go? The crook-police racket presumably centred on drug dealing - crook-police rackets usually did - but in what way, what ways, at Larkspur: the system, the connections? Harpur and Iles didn’t find answers to these infinitely dark conundrums. The conundrums remained.

  Iles and Harpur were in the Assistant Chief’s double-room office suite at police headquarters in their own domain - encrypted Cowslip for that operation. They looked back and took stock. Colin Harpur had a red leather easy chair. The Assistant Chief paced, a habit of his, most probably meant to show off the straightness and slimness of his legs. He refereed rugby matches now and then, though he had gone off the ga
me since it went professional. When younger he’d played at outside-half for police teams. He had that kind of unburly, lithe physique. ‘I could jink off either foot,’ he’d told Harpur once, and Harpur believed it. Jinking would come easily to Iles. ‘Jink right!’ ‘Jink left!’ Whichever the coach wanted, Iles would deliver.

  ‘We failed, sir,’ Harpur said. The approach with this fine new stuff - new to Iles - had to be oblique, roundabout.

  ‘Absolutely, Col.’ The ACC nodded in sad congratulations. ‘Now and then you’ll get things totally right. Maybe even oftener than now and then, despite your clothes and all-over appearance.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Harpur did try, though, to fix a minor, preparatory lifting of the gloom. There had been pluses on their Larkspur visit. ‘But I know some folk would say we didn’t fail at all. The very reverse, in fact. That’s why we were pulled off.’

  ‘Who?’ the ACC said.

  ‘Who what, sir? Harpur said.

  ‘Which folk would say we didn’t fail?’

  ‘Yes, quite a number. They’d argue that we nicked the one who actually fired the shots. He’s doing life, minimum eighteen before parole possibility. Cop kills cop - that’s evil.’

  ‘We nicked a nobody. We fly-swatted, nothing more,’ the ACC said.

  ‘Many would dispute that, I feel, sir, with respect.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Many.’

  ‘“With respect,” tell me, Col,’ the ACC replied, his voice wonderfully mild, conversational and dangerous, ‘where do you come across them?’

  ‘Who, sir?’

  ‘The folk who say we did well.’ Tone switch: ‘Are they all fucking mad, Harpur?’

  ‘They believe this is how policing must operate.’

  ‘Who believe it?’

  ‘Many.’

  ‘How, then?’ Iles said.

  ‘How what, sir?’

  ‘How must policing operate, in their folksy view?’ the Assistant Chief replied.

  ‘They’d say policing can cope only with the feasible, only with the achievable. There are tight limits. These have to be recognized, or frustration and distress result. Policing nails the villain it’s possible to nail - nails the villain who can be nailed. In this case, it’s the one who pulled the trigger, pulled the trigger twice: blew half a face away at night on a building site, as planned.’

  ‘A cat’s paw,’ Iles said.

  ‘A police officer, yet a killer.’

  ‘But who instructed him to kill? Which superior, superiors, was he looking after - trying to shield from exposure?’

  Harpur said: ‘We’re probably not talking about the Larkspur Chief himself, Rhys Dathan, are we, sir? After all, he asked for this undercover specialist from another force to come in. He needed a spy to penetrate a powerful, seemingly invulnerable, drugs firm on Larkspur’s ground, perhaps a corruptly favoured drugs firm by a clique of his officers. The Chief used standard tactics. He wanted someone unlikely to be recognized by any of the gang, so gets an officer from Carnation. The Chief acted properly. He wouldn’t have done that if he personally was involved in a dirty game, would he? He’d be inviting exposure.’

  ‘Smart, Col. Always I’ve loved the confident way you summarize the obvious.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Of course, it could have been a ruse by Dathan, couldn’t it? He must have realized his outfit looked dubious and had turned smelly. So, he invites undercover. Pre-emptive? Afraid undercover might be sent, anyway. By calling for it, he knows who the undercover is and can monitor and manage him, or her. Clever? Subtle? Anyway, Col, somewhere in Larkspur there was a secret, tainted syndicate,’ Iles replied.

  Harpur nodded. ‘Still is? Regrettably, we never identified it.’

  ‘Yes, regrettably, regrettably. We didn’t even get near. Yet it’s what we were sent to discover, Col - I, an ACC, and you a detective chief superintendent: a considerable, experienced team looking for evidence of a cover-up, evidence of a perversion of justice, but stymied, brick-walled.’

  ‘Yes, this is where we missed out . . .’ Harpur almost started his comforting news, then decided there should be a little more strategic delay.

  ‘Obviously, matters can’t be left like that, Harpur,’ Iles said.

  ‘Can’t they? The operation is closed, sir.’ Not exactly a lie, but in that area, though Iles wouldn’t know this.

  ‘Is it possible, Col - abandoned, given up on? Oh, God, no. No! OK, Harpur, policing deals with the - what did you say? With the feasible, the achievable. Is that worth saying, it’s so trite? “Art of the possible” and similar jargon. But I’m one who believes the feasible and the achievable should be constantly extended, should be forcibly stretched by an officer of flair and grit.’

  Iles paused. He did some very genuine work on getting modesty into his face and wordage. ‘Please don’t think, Col, these are terms I’ve suddenly and egotistically claimed to describe myself. No, hardly! But it’s my mother. I’m indebted to my mother. She would joyously, wonderingly employ them about me as a child. “Desmond,” she’d exclaim, “flair and grit - they are so brilliantly and resoundingly yours!” I wouldn’t claim to like my mother, but she had perception and a kind of vocabulary.’

  ‘Mothers can come out with all sorts,’ Harpur said.

  ‘In what sense, Col?’

  ‘Remarks.’

  ‘Which?’

  ‘Remarks. They’re what make mothers what they are.’

  ‘In which respect, Col?’

  ‘Often they mean well,’ Harpur replied.

  ‘Did your mother make remarks about you? Oh, dear, I’m sorry, Col. But at least it helped you develop a splendidly thick skin,’ Iles said. ‘Elastic and thick. You bounce back, regardless.’

  ‘Regardless of what, sir?’

  ‘Regardless, yes.’

  The ACC continued to pace. Harpur could certainly spot agitation in this movement, but also observed resolve and a kind of cheetah-like, latent, on-tap energy. The two, big adjoining rooms had a connecting pair of doors. Iles needed these open to provide honest distance for his lopes. He passed through the gap now and went out of Harpur’s sight for a while. Iles stayed audible, though. Both shouted a little when the ACC was at his farthest in there, trekking around a long conference table. Harpur kept to routine comments at this stage. It would have been off-key and unfair to bellow his special material while the ACC was yet a great way off, like the Prodigal, and absurd to phone him on his mobile. After a few minutes Iles returned, clearly still troubled.

  He wore his pale blue dress uniform of magnificent material for some Lord Mayoral function he had to attend later. Iles didn’t altogether despise these events and Harpur had heard he would even behave quite temperately at them, unless, of course, something or someone enraged him, which could happen. The office pacing slowed now, then ended. Iles lowered himself into another of the red, leather-covered easy chairs. The colours of his outfit and the upholstery contrasted, but more or less tolerably. ‘I feel terrible guilt, Col,’ he said. ‘I, Iles, fell short.’

  In an abrupt change from the slick grace of his recent in-house stroll, he seemed now to sit stricken, huddled forward around his shame, as if to conceal it; and yet, also, in a weird, masochistic, Des-Ilesian way, to cherish it - guard it, enfold it protectively, like a hen-bird with its eggs, because he, Des Iles, deserved it, had thoroughly earned it by what he would see as vast, unpardonable incompetence. I, Iles, fell short: that merciless pinpointing of his name, with the disturbing paired clangs of the ‘I’ sounds; I Iles - so poignant. ‘Do you realize, Harpur, someone at Larkspur is laughing at me, at my defeat? Or maybe more than one. A dire, filthy phalanx of them, chortling at my bungling, drinking toasts to Iles’s consummate ineptitude.’

  ‘Laughing at both of us, sir.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘If it’s to do with failure to net the organizer - organizers? - of that death,’ Harpur said. ‘I, too, was defeated.’ By volunteering at once to accept hi
s part in the shambles he longed to lessen the ACC’s pain, divert a share of it. But, immediately he’d spoken, Harpur realized this was an idiotic, impertinent, lese-majesty error. Arrogantly, it presumed a kind of equality between him and Iles, a parity of suffering and self-disgust, whereas the ACC’s suffering and self-disgust would be unmatchably awful.

  ‘They’ll laugh more viciously, more convulsively at me - a hierarchy aspect,’ Iles replied. ‘Just think of Hiroshima, Col.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘They needed a suitably significant target to drop the bomb on, not some outlying village, but a grand city. Targets have to be worthwhile, Col.’

  ‘Very few would say you were not worthwhile, sir, whether as a target or anything else.’

  ‘Which very fucking few, Harpur?’

  ‘Maud has been in touch, sir,’ he replied. Harpur knew, of course, this would agonizingly rile the ACC but it couldn’t be avoided. Ultimately, progress had to take over from timid tact. Ultimately was here.

  ‘Maud Logan Clatworthy? Home Office Maud? “In touch”? In touch with you?’ Iles whisper-gasped these dazed phrases. The announcement had scattered his calm for a moment. He raised his left hand and stroked his chest in an instinctive twitch, as though trying to free up his lungs.

  ‘I think you might have been difficult to reach at the time,’ Harpur said.

  ‘But she could reach you, all right, could she, Harpur? Naturally. In London, did you eventually get around to giving her something to remind her of you?’ Iles recovered to ordinary speech level: an authentic, pedigree snarl, perfect for sarcasm. ‘Home Office Maud,’ was a whizz kid who had sent them on their anti-corruption mission to Larkspur. They’d spent a lot of time in Whitehall getting briefed by her. Iles had thought she showed extra interest in Harpur - little to do with the job, much to do with sex.

  ‘She believes she can get the investigation “reactivated”,’ Harpur said. ‘Maud’s no more content than we are with the way it finished - finished without finishing.’

  ‘She told you this? You had some nice, intimate prattle?’ Iles sweetly feminized his larynx: ‘“Oh, it will be so grand and lovely, Colin, to team up again, don’t you think? I’m really thrilled,”’ he fluted. But then he reverted for a while to a normal, enraged male voice. ‘She knows, doesn’t she, because I told her at one of our previous meetings - you heard me tell her - I told her that not long ago you were banging my wife on the quiet in fourth-rate rooming joints, under evergreen hedgerows, in marly fields, on river banks, in cars - including police vehicles - and, most probably, my own bed? Yet this doesn’t put dear Maud off, does it? What is it with you and women? Do they look at your garments and haircut and general air of decay and pity you - want to help you in one of the few ways available to them, such as letting you bang them in fourth-rate rooming joints, under evergreen hedgerows, in marly fields, on river banks, in cars - including police vehicles - and, most probably, my own bed? They find your clothes frightful, so prefer them off?’