Come Clean (1989) (11 page)

One day, when all the opposition was out of the way, such as Leo and Lay-waste and the other son, Loxton might be able to take a rest from the terrible, constant battling in business and become
a real part of the decent local leadership, like these boys in the portraits, and like some of the boys with the letters after their names or the titles in front, dancing with their women here
tonight. It would be more than just shelling out for charity dances, and bidding in twenties for rubbish at Save the Children auctions. He wanted to create something – say help finance an
important public building such as a library or a gallery or a youth centre, a place designed by a good architect, solid and handsome and full of education, if possible. He was less frantic for
acceptance than Alma, because he knew there had to be a lot more very rough fighting and earning yet, and Leo had to be pushed right under and held there till the bubbles stopped. But he did want
acceptance to come one day.

On the ground floor, wearing a stone mortar board and with a very fat stone open book on his lap, was the seated, stone figure of the man who had been the first chief of the university up the
road, and Loxton went down to look at him once more. The figure always fascinated him. Perhaps he was supposed to be reading the book aloud, and his mouth had been done half-open, so you could even
see his stone teeth and stone tongue. That must really be something, to be carved to last by a sculptor who knew his trade. In them days it probably meant you had truly made it if you said you was
going to get stoned.

As he gazed at this heavyweight old scholar, Loxton heard what he thought for a moment was the muffled scream of a girl, but then decided at once that it was more like a shout of great happiness
and relief. He looked around and saw that on the other side of the hall stood a glass-walled telephone box. Inside was the woman he had assumed to be Mrs Iles, with the receiver in her hand. Though
he had heard that one noisy yell, he could make out nothing of what she was saying now, but he saw she looked very different from when on the dance floor. Suddenly, Sarah Iles seemed absolutely
full of life and joy as she chatted and laughed and listened, and her husband would probably have given a couple of years’ pay to make her open up to him like that once in a while. Some hope.
Sad, really. As the conversation went on she viewed herself in the telephone box’s mirror, and quickly smoothed down some strands of hair with one hand, like she was worried the person at the
other end might see her untidy. Part of the skirt of her lovely blue gown was jammed in the door and sticking out, as if she had been in a great hurry to make the call and could not be bothered to
free the material. You did not need to be brilliant to guess this was a woman talking to a lover, and a lover who, maybe, she had not been able to see for a time.

Loxton turned his face away in case she glanced towards him and walked up the stairs on the other side, where there were more portraits to look at. Then, after a while, he descended to the hall
again and found the telephone free. Quickly, he went in and rang Macey. The air of the box was still heavy and exciting with her scent. ‘A bit of a long-shot,’ Loxton told him.
‘Get up to that lad’s place right away, will you?’

‘That lad?

‘The one we had under discussion recent. The one it been difficult to locate?’

‘Oh,
that
lad.’

‘I think he might have just had a call from someone pretty fond of him.’

‘Ah.’

‘Yes. It looks like this person was rushing to make the call at a special time, something arranged, like, so he might be home for an hour or two. Worth a try.’

‘Of course. How do you want me to handle it, suppose he’s there? What I mean, how serious?’

As he gazed out of the booth at the heavyweight university man and his important book that obviously stood for all learning and so on Loxton considered this: ‘Serious. It got to be
serious, no question. This lad might have heard some dangerous words the other night, that’s the point. He’s a liability.’

‘Yes, such a liability.’

‘That’s it. Regrettable he was there, really, but he’s in the way, or could be in the way. What I mean, why did he disappear, why’s he hiding, if he’s not
problematical? That’s what you got to ask.’

‘It’s a point.’

‘So it’s a grave matter, definite. Yes, a grave matter.’

‘I understand.’

Iles and his wife were standing with Colin Harpur on the main landing when Loxton returned. ‘Benny,’ Iles called, ‘you look so deserted, forlorn. Don’t I know that
feeling, though? You need comforting.’

‘Alma will be here soon.’ Loxton did his best to read from Iles’s tone whether he knew anything, but this one was the most two-faced and slippery copper ever, and that title
took some winning. ‘Have you met Sarah?’ Iles asked. ‘Sarah, this is Benny Loxton, a real pillar of all our charities. So generous I believe people take advantage of
him.’

‘You got to do what you can,’ he said.

Sarah Iles smiled, briefly again, and shook his hand. Loxton saw that her thoughts were miles away. He wished he knew for certain how many miles, and where exactly.

‘Benny, I’ve been trying to persuade Sarah to put herself forward for the organizing committee of this function and similar worthwhile events,’ Iles said. ‘She needs
something to occupy her.’

Yes, he’d heard that, but thought it had been arranged. ‘They’d be lucky to get you, Mrs Iles,’ Loxton told her.

‘Kind,’ she replied. ‘I’m certainly going to think about it.’

He reckoned that what this meant was that she certainly was
not
going to. Lamb and his girl walked past, on their way to the dance floor, but neither of the police appeared to know him,
so maybe that was wrong about him and Harpur. Maybe.

Now, Harpur said: ‘Here’s Alma, Benny. Looks as if you’ve cleaned up.’

She was carrying a scarlet teddy bear, half as big as herself, that clashed like hell with the turquoise gown, and a bottle of gin. Alma loved to win and despite her big feelings for charity
never gave prizes back to be re-raffled. Yes, she worried about the needy and whales, but there came a limit, so the house was full of crap like this dud bear. Gazing at them and smiling in a way
that he probably thought looked so kindly, Iles asked: ‘Do you think these two are going off on a private party?’

Loxton and his wife stayed until the end. When they went out to their car, Norman was waiting near. ‘All quiet?’ Loxton asked.

‘No sign of anything at all, Theodore,’ he said. ‘The police brass just left. A motor-bike cop brought a package for the grey-haired one.’

‘Iles. Probably his month’s back-handers.’

Awaking early, despite their late night at the charity ball, Sarah Iles felt an immediate rush of joy. Today, she would see Ian. Generally, it took a while for her mind to get
into its stride as she emerged from sleep, but, this morning, excitement rushed the change, and she was instantly alert and gloriously happy. Ian had come back. Thank God she had decided to call
him from the city hall last night. She decided that her life contained no greater moment of delight than when he answered, and assured her he was all right. He had been waiting near the telephone
and picked it up at once.

That was not simply luck. Long ago they had hatched an arrangement for telephoning each other at agreed times if either had something urgent to say. Mainly, it benefited her, because Desmond was
home at unpredictable hours: she could be ready to grab the receiver before him, and on an extension. But occasionally, it might be useful for reaching Ian, too: there were people he badly needed
to avoid, and did not always answer his telephone. The timing told him when it was Sarah.

For days since the Monty incident she had been trying him, without reply. Somehow, last night at the city hall, she felt especially desolate without Ian, and the presence of Desmond and their
friends only made it worse: she had company but the wrong company. At 10.40 p.m., one of their chosen times, she could not stop herself detouring on her way back from the Ladies to ring him again.
After all those earlier failures, she did not expect an answer, yet there he was sounding fine. So great and lovely was the shock that she let out a single, crazy, soaring whoop of gladness in the
telephone box, and when she returned to Desmond and the others she feared they must see the transformation in her. The happiness had been so overwhelming that there was one absurd moment when she
felt as if Ian were actually present, and she fussed with her hair in the little mirror, trying to make herself more presentable.

She lay now in bed savouring all the pleasurable surprise of that call, and the sense of huge relief that he was safe and could see her today. Not at the Monty, though, thank you! They had
laughed at that notion, joking about what new horrors and complications they might land themselves in if they went back. And, surely, the fact that they could laugh now about it all must be a good
sign. Didn’t it show that the stress of what had happened there was dropping into the background, was on the way to being forgotten? Thank God for that, too. She had performed her noble,
little, pushy bit – her cop-wife duty as she saw it – without result. Let matters rest there. She and Ian had done nobody any damage, discovered nothing that counted, so they could
surely be left alone. She dreaded to think she might have put Ian’s life in peril, and, for herself, she wanted no more visits from Ralph, or people worse than Ralph. What she did want was
the good and contented days and nights with Ian again. At least this crisis had forced her to recognize priorities; nothing much rated against her wish to be with him. When she called last night,
Ian said it might not be clever to meet at his place today, so they had settled on a dismal transport café where they ate occasionally, pretty sure it was so drab that they would see nobody
they knew there. Maybe it let rooms, too.

Alongside her, Desmond stirred, as if sensing she was awake. Still three-quarters asleep, he turned slowly towards Sarah and put an arm around her waist, drawing himself closer to her. They
slept without night clothes and she felt him begin to grow aroused. Muttering irritably, as if he had woken her, she moved away. He grunted in disappointment, but did not pursue her and in a moment
turned to face the other direction again. It always made her sad to refuse him, even now, after so many months and so many refusals, but she could not have made love with him this morning. Today
belonged to Ian Aston. Not long afterwards she left the bed and quickly dressed.

When Desmond came down to breakfast later he seemed untroubled, so perhaps he had been genuinely asleep and did not recall what had happened. Or he might be ignoring it. At times she thought he
deliberately avoided a confrontation, because he feared where it might lead. As ever, he looked pretty good, ready to take the day and bend it any way he wanted: alert, fit, brazen, irrepressible,
despite the refusal in bed, youthful, despite the grey hair. Yes, Des was a despite sort of person, she reckoned. He tended to do what he wanted and get what he wanted despite what people might do
in efforts to stop him. It was something she used to admire, and still did. Now, though, she admired it less. There was a toughness in him that could sometimes go very close to coldness,
harshness.

All the same, she had watched other women in his company and felt sure that many would think themselves lucky to get anywhere near being wanted by him. Occasionally she wished she could still
find it a joy, herself. So, why not? Something had died, that was all: no five-act tragedy. It happened in so many marriages, marriages which kept going, regardless. Maybe the absence of children
did have something to do with it, but simply as an institution, marriage packed a very big punch. ‘A beautiful fellow exists,’ she said, working on
The Times
crossword alongside
her coffee.

‘Yes. Thank you.’

‘A clue, berk.’

‘Adonis,’ he told her. ‘The word breaks up into “a don” – slang for a fellow of a university – and “is”, meaning exists.’

For some reason, as Desmond explained the answer to her, a recollection of that revered university man in the city hall foyer leapt into her head – existing, but only in stone. Well, no,
not just for some reason: she could hardly think of anything today but the delight of making that telephone call and finding Ian at home. She half smiled as she relived the moment now, could almost
feel the receiver in her hand again, and the tautness of her dress, caught in the door because of her hurry. When she made that whoop of joy in the booth, had she been half-aware of a man glancing
around, comically startled, from near the monument? The vague memory of his shocked face made her smile almost grow into an outright laugh and to conceal it, she bent her head and wrote in Adonis,
‘Aren’t you the bright one, though, Desmond?’

‘Oh, well, yes, but –’

‘So why aren’t you clever enough to nail people like Benny Loxton, lording it at the do last night? He’s a crook, yes?’

‘Of course. On the Nobel prize short-list for extortion and drug dealing,
inter alia
.’

‘I suppose in a way it’s a giggle to see him decked out like a master of ceremonies, putting on the
gravitas.
In another way it’s bloody frightening. Can they do what
they like, Des?’

‘The world’s full of crooks we can’t nail, living at the top of the heap, wearing handmade shirts and drinking malt. Just as it’s fucking full of blind and intimidated
juries and loot-laden, conniving defence lawyers.’

‘Are you afraid of him because he’s so successful, so well set up socially?’

‘Afraid? Well, he
is
formidable. Yes, we go carefully. He’s always got the first five digits dialled to his solicitor. I suppose we don’t jump on him quite so fast as on
a piggy bank burglar.’

‘Isn’t that disgraceful?’

‘Harpur’s wife gives him this sort of bad time, you know. Ethics and the whole civil liberties lump.’

‘Well –’

‘Benny’s done time in the past as a matter of fact,’ he said, and she saw she had stung him. ‘And we might have him again soon. Something epic’s brewing up between
him and another heavyweight – though what, we don’t know. That’s what Colin Harpur and I have been trying to discover. Discover? Well, guess at. There’s no information yet,
just atmospherics and undefined tension. But we both feel it. As it happens, I think things might have started moving at the ball last night.’