Chapter 25 #2
These men are all in their mid- to late fifties.
I suppose the story of the Balham Brats is the story of a whole cohort of people in this country in the last few decades.
They found a bubble, almost without knowing it, and rode it all the way to the top.
I’d have done the same in their loafers, given half a chance.
We have a nice view from the window of our booth of the four surviving Brats as they turn up.
Officer Hawthorne arrives first. He’s round and ruddy, with a wily look about him, as if Fantastic Mr Fox has let himself go a bit.
He emerges from the back seat of a Range Rover with tinted black windows, so it’s safe to say his career in the Met is going all right.
He greets the barman like a local, loud and coarse, before hauling his way up the stairs.
Rob Wallace walks in next. He’s still in a suit, even at the weekend, although this one is more ‘sophisticated urbane countryman’ than ‘killer estate agent’.
He’s much lower-profile than Hawthorne, murmuring his arrival to a waitress and waiting for her to lead him to the private room.
He doesn’t spot me. There’s a lot of anger in his movements – Elle notes with some concern that he’s ‘really carrying the week he’s been through in his lower back’.
I don’t care, as long as he keeps the tension in his lumbar region and doesn’t take it out on me.
The third man to arrive is Vane, the MP.
He’s in a shirt and jeans with a preppy jumper draped round his shoulders, and he looks highly moisturised.
He glances around as he crosses the threshold with the confident smirk of a man who knows he’s been recognised by at least a few people in the room.
Nobody comes over to say as much, though, and eventually he decides the court of public opinion has failed in its duty and sidles upstairs unacknowledged.
Vane’s got two security men with him, I note, the sort of shaven-headed Statham-alikes who doubtless spent some time in the SAS, SBS or another Acronymic Agency for Hardmen (AAH).
Much to my relief, after conducting a walkaround of the room, dismissing us entirely in the process, the two goons settle themselves at the bar, where they start leafing appreciatively through the Sun and spending taxpayers’ money on pork scratchings.
Finally, Ben Westcott shambles in, hardly recognisable from last year’s photo.
Shabby cords, grubby boots, ancient Barbour.
A scruffy beard is scaling his cheekbones, and the only things missing that would complete the impoverished-gamekeeper look are a shotgun under his arm and a brace of pheasants on his back.
He walks straight through to the stairs, apparently neither expecting nor desiring a greeting from anyone.
‘Right,’ says Jonny. ‘I suppose now they’re all assembled it might be worth our while actually doing something, eh?’
‘Good idea, Jonny,’ says Em.
I should explain, there’s a bit of tension between the four of us at the moment.
When we got here, Em decided she would place the flowers herself, but that she wouldn’t do it yet.
She’s had plenty of time – especially once Elle had checked out the room – but she still hasn’t got it done.
She says she wants to do it right, and for that to happen all the Brats have to be here first. The rest of us – particularly Jonny, who is as calm and relaxed about his expensive equipment as a mother with her newborn baby – politely asked her to get on with it, but she dug her heels in and said she was the one taking the risk so she’d be the one to decide when to move.
Also, the four men were hardly going to start saying the juicy stuff as they were still taking their coats off.
Hence Jonny now saying: ‘Can we get on with it then?’
Em gives him a look. ‘Yes, we can. Thanks for being so nice about it.’
Jonny murmurs something that sounds like newspeak under his breath. But Em disregards it, and extracts the flowers from her bag.
We got them at the flower stall at Embankment station.
Florists take cash, thank goodness, because three of us are now operating cash-only for security reasons.
(Jonny works exclusively in crypto, and in the week I’ve known him has twice told me that any currency that hasn’t been blockchained is a barbarous relic and I may as well be buying things with silver florins or cowrie shells.)
‘Got the vase?’
She digs out the vase.
Most of the waiting staff here aren’t anything to worry about, because they’re about fourteen.
There are a few who look more experienced, though, and one obvious manager – he’s wearing a tucked-in shirt and jeans, and moving around directing staff, greeting guests, occasionally pouring a pint for a favoured customer if there’s nobody else available.
He’s got an air of efficiency and a trimmed beard, neither of which I like the look of.
We’ll have to make sure he’s out of the way before Em goes in.
The most innocuous tasks seem horribly conspicuous when you’re doing them in the wrong place: in this case, filling a jar with flowers at a pub table.
Jonny takes over, once Elle has finished fussing over the placement, and fits what he needs to.
Once he’s done what she calls the ‘technical bit’, Elle requests a slight adjustment for aesthetics’ sake – two adjacent tulips should be balanced and separated by some old man’s beard – only to be told ‘absolutely not’.
Nobody interrupts us during this transaction. None of the staff have noticed the flowers; the manager is busy elsewhere. Em whips off her jumper, revealing her Bombardier-ish shirt and apron, slides out of the booth, and takes the vase upstairs. Jonny opens his computer and hands round AirPods.
Here – as we have it – is a perfect transcript of what went on in the upstairs room, until the point where it all went wrong.
[Thirty seconds of swishy walking. A knock. A door swinging open.]
HAWTHORNE: … just horseshit. If we had someone, we’d have to announce it. It’s not like there’s not been any … [He tails off.]
VANE: Can we help you, miss?
EM: I’m so sorry to interrupt you. Just wanted to bring you this. It’s a gift from the management.
HAWTHORNE: What for?
EM: I think everyone just wanted to say how sorry they were about Mr Harcourt.
[Vane makes some comment here, but it’s too indistinct for the microphone to pick up. The person next to him – Rob Wallace, according to Em’s later memory – snorts.]
WESTCOTT: Thank you. That’s kind.
EM: Can I leave them here?
WALLACE: Don’t put them in the middle, love, they’re massive. Our friend over here is so short he won’t be able to see over them.
EM: Oh, sorry, I—
VANE: Fuck off, Rob. They’re fine on the table, love.
[A moment’s pause.]
At this point, those of us listening downstairs are registering: if you’re going to use a floral display as a surveillance device, make the flowers big enough to hide the microphone, rather than ‘so huge they make the vase an encumbrance’.
In the room, Em takes cover behind Vane’s ego, which is much larger than the man himself.
She steps forward, and – as Vane suggests – plants the vase in the middle of the table.
WESTCOTT: Would it be all right to order some wine?
EM: Yes, of course.
I don’t know exactly what Em’s playing at here, but I’m sure she’s on top of it. I’m starting to understand that she’s usually got a plan.
WESTCOTT: All right, we’ll have two bottles of the Picpoul to start, then the—
HAWTHORNE: Not Picpoul, Ben. You know I can’t have gaseous drinks.
VANE: Gaseous bullshit. It’s hardly even sparkling. It’s not like it’s Tizer. You’re not stopping us getting some fizz anyway.
WESTCOTT: Can you give us a minute, please?
EM: Of course. I’ll be back.
[Footsteps. Slam.]
HAWTHORNE: Jesus, Ben, what’s wrong with Sauvignon Blanc?
WESTCOTT: We can get Sauvignon Blanc if you like.
VANE: She was a bit of something, wasn’t she?
WALLACE: Grow up, Con. She looked younger than your Becky.
VANE: Don’t be a prude. I’ll tell you something about Becky’s friends …
[There are a few further comments here that I’ve edited out for reasons of taste.
Then there’s some inconsequential chat for a few minutes, while the actual wine waitress turns up and takes their order, then a bit more desultory stuff about Hawthorne’s recent bout of gout, Vane’s ‘absolutely rank’ constituents and their boring problems, and so on.
The drinks arrive; the waitress leaves.]
WESTCOTT: Shall we have a toast?
[A moment’s silence falls upon the room.]
VANE: Good idea.
WALLACE: Yeah.
WESTCOTT: Shall I say something?
[A chorus of ‘no’.]
VANE: Too sentimental.
HAWTHORNE: Yeah. Wanker.
WESTCOTT: I did know him longest.
WALLACE: And he picked you as his best man. We know, Ben. You were closest. God.
HAWTHORNE: I’ll say something. [The others grunt; Westcott apparently gives up.] All right. Dave, we’re going to miss you. You were a pain in the arse most of the time, but you were a good mate, and we’re going to find the scumbags who did it.
[Glasses clink.]
WESTCOTT: Short and sweet.
VANE: Short, anyway.
HAWTHORNE: You’re welcome to have a go at improving on that. But there’s nothing else to say. And we will catch the little rats responsible.
WESTCOTT: How’s the investigation going?
HAWTHORNE: Well, it’s not my patch. But I’m keeping an eye on it. There’s a group of people they’re trying to track down who broke into the house on the night …
VANE: Are we getting on with today’s business or what?
WESTCOTT: Shut up, Con. Jay’s telling us how the investigation’s going.
HAWTHORNE: Like I say, there’s a group. Four people. Two men, two women. All in their twenties.
WALLACE: What’s the motive?
VANE: Wouldn’t have thought you’d need a motive to kill Dave. Just talk to him for five minutes. Wait for him to start banging on about Japanese food or the Napoleonic Wars.
HAWTHORNE: We’re still working on motive. But we have a lot of evidence piling up. They were definitely there on the night. Prints, belongings, DNA … One of them even left his camera, the silly twat. Who has a camera these days?
Not me any more. I wonder briefly how the police’s journey through my memory card went, then remember the messages from Jasmine at my agency, and feel sick.
WESTCOTT: Why, though? Why kill him?
HAWTHORNE: Oh, who knows. It’s all so depressing. Maybe they were anarchists. Maybe they were climate protesters angry at his Jeep. No good reasons for anything these days.
VANE: It’s true. The kids are all mental. I read the other day that there’s a group of student lawyers who are prosecuting all men over the age of forty-five for crimes against the rainforest.
WESTCOTT: Con, you have got to stop reading the Express .
HAWTHORNE: No, I saw that too. And some students are saying they identify as soups. Soups!
WESTCOTT: It’s not like Dave would have even been armed. Just such a waste.
They all pause for a moment. It sounds to me like they’re grappling with the brute fact of mortality; the idea that their friend, so long in their lives that he’s really a small part of themselves, has been taken from them, and that all four survivors are diminished as a result, in different and unpredictable ways.
And now they know the fragility of life a little better than before, and any one of them might be next, for as we pass through this vale of tears, we cannot tell—
There’s a grunt, and a pop as a champagne cork ricochets off a wall. Two of the four say ‘weyyyy’, and glugging noises follow. Oh well.
WESTCOTT: Well, what are you going to do next?
HAWTHORNE: As I say, it’s not directly my case. But I’m overseeing, and we’re offering all the help we can. We know these kids are in London somewhere.
WALLACE: Where, exactly?
HAWTHORNE: It’ll be within Zone 2. Spoiled lot of trusties like them can’t imagine going somewhere honest like Rayners Lane. Or … or … Epping.
I’m so annoyed about this. I get to live in Zone 2 due to a lot of highly criminal behaviour, not because I’m spoiled.
WESTCOTT: Have you got protection for Charli and Lulu?
HAWTHORNE: I hardly think they’ll need that, Ben. Aren’t you the girl’s godfather?
WESTCOTT: Yeah. But she hasn’t been returning my calls.
HAWTHORNE: What you ringing for?
WESTCOTT: Her father’s been murdered. I’m her godfather.
HAWTHORNE: So?
WESTCOTT: She might just want a bit of support. Davy was very keen that we have a good relationship, although she’s been a bit—
At this point, the door opens.
VOICE 5: Good afternoon, gents. I just wanted to say how sorry I was to hear about your friend.
WALLACE: Yeah, we got the flowers. Thanks for those, Terry. He’d have hated them.
TERRY: Who gave you those?
VANE: Brunette girl, looked a bit Mediterranean. Nice young lady. I was just saying to these guys, you want to compliment a girl like that, but these days that’s apparently not—
HAWTHORNE: Anyway, thanks, Terry, most thoughtful. How’s business?
VOICE 5: Tremendous. We’re having themed pub quizzes now, you’d like them. Sorry, just quickly, what did the girl who brought the flowers look like again?
WESTCOTT: Dark brown hair in a ponytail. Pretty. Looked like Conor described. [Downstairs, Em claws at her scrunchie.] Why?
TERRY: No reason. Although … Oh, look at that. She hasn’t put any water in them. I’ll go and deal with that now. Back in a minute.
WALLACE: Cheers, Tel.
And then, through the microphone, we hear a lovely range of Foley sound effects: about thirty seconds of pacy footsteps across parquet floor, the swinging of a kitchen door, the squeak of a tap, and finally the brief distressed sound made as Jonny’s highly expensive, espionage-quality, omnidirectional stealth microphone bites the dust beneath the stream.