Vacuum by Bill James

been called by colleagues to anything that might seem significant in and around Low Pastures, but all were dead ends.
    The Chief had made some notes. ‘Have I got this right, Mr Garland? You arrived at the front door of Low Pastures at four thirty a.m.’
    â€˜Yes, sir,’ Garland said.
    â€˜Ember had been given no official forewarning?’ Upton said.
    â€˜Not to my knowledge,’ Garland said. ‘Forewarning would be completely inappropriate. Surprise was crucial.’
    â€˜And if there had been an official forewarning it would have come from you, or someone deputed by you, wouldn’t it?’ Upton said.
    â€˜I would have assumed so, yes, sir,’ Garland said.
    â€˜I would have assumed so, also,’ Upton said. ‘Is that how you see things, too, Desmond?’
    â€˜No alternative,’ Iles said unhesitatingly.
    â€˜I needed your view,’ Upton said. He had a mild, insistent voice which Harpur had decided a while back linked to a very systematic mind. His hair was present in full, no thinning or grey in the fairish mass. His square, fleshy face matched his body structure. He had a broad, short nose, dark-blue eyes, heavy lips and a four-square chin. He was in shirt sleeves, his arms surprisingly slender. He had just reached forty-eight. ‘So, you turned up, on the face of it quite unannounced as far as Ember and his family were concerned, and Mr Iles rang the front doorbell?’ He sounded cheery and encouraging, as though leading someone into a description of an amusing incident in his or her life.
    â€˜That’s so,’ Garland said.
    â€˜Theoretically, Mr Iles was not part of the operation, I believe, and attended as a spectator only,’ Upton said. ‘He was, naturally, entitled to come along, as was Mr Harpur. But you had command. You were Gold for this operation?’
    â€˜I was Gold, yes, sir.’
    â€˜Oh, yes, no question, sir,’ Iles said. ‘Francis had charge. As I think I may have mentioned, his morals are not of the most charming – dick-driven – but he is a capable officer and in some aspects quite trustworthy, if you catch him on the right day.’
    Upton consulted his notes. ‘He led the operation, but you, Desmond, rang the doorbell, I gather.’
    â€˜I suppose one could say I did that as a kind of gesture,’ Iles said. He was seated at a conference table but stood briefly now, leaned forward and with the index finger of his right acted out the decisive pressing of a bell. Then he took his chair again.
    â€˜What kind of gesture?’ Upton said.
    â€˜Or perhaps term it an impulse,’ Iles replied.
    â€˜How did you ring?’ Upton said.
    â€˜There was a button marked “Press”, black lettering on white. Several of our people had torch beams on the door. Locating the button and realizing its purpose were not difficult. You’ll remember in Alice that she comes to a bottle marked “Drink Me”, so she drinks it. It was the same for me with the button marked “Press”. I pressed it.’
    â€˜No, when I ask how did you ring, I mean what, as it were, shape of ringing did you employ? What pattern ? Was it simply one period of pressure on the button, as your miming just now seemed to indicate, or did you have a pattern of peals – say, for instance, two short rings or even three, or perhaps one long and two shorts, or six or seven short jabs like in the childish chant: “Dat-di-da-da-da-da. Hi-diddledy batch cakes, brown bread.”’
    Iles said: ‘I remember it rather as the first line of the song: “How’s your father? All right: slept in the dustbin all night.” Such cheerful, inconsequential days, boyhood. Do you feel nostalgic about those times, sir? I certainly do.’
    â€˜And Ralph Ember, fully dressed, more or less instantly responded to the bell?’ Upton replied.
    â€˜He did,’ Garland said.
    â€˜It can be