Come Clean (1989) (22 page)

‘Sir, one always has to consider other explanations – the job teaches us that, above all.’

‘It’s really nice to think all Rougement Place knows Sarah brings her bit of extra home with her, isn’t it? A giggle at their parties: “That wife of the fuzz, so
democratic and body-bold.”’ Somehow, he kept control of his tone. ‘What’s that Byron thing, in “When we two parted”, about the lady’s light fame? Oh,
Jesus, no use asking you, you have difficulty with the Beano. He’s probably been ploughing my furrow in my own bed.’

‘Sir, you can’t –’

‘Know that? No. I regard it as a very unpleasant likelihood, though, Col, which would be difficult to forgive.’

‘I don’t –’

‘Well, impossible to forgive, really, wouldn’t you say, even you, disgustingly temperate as you are?

‘Nothing like that ever happened, sir. Probably. You’re creating the situation.’

‘So, you’ll ask why I just don’t tell her to get lost – go to him, if he means that much to her.’

‘No, sir, I wouldn’t ask that. I can see you’d want to keep her.’

‘Yes, I’ll keep her.’

‘Sarah isn’t someone to –’

‘Vic’s coming up, sarge,’ said one of the men holding a signal rope.

They went and stood alongside him, staring at the water. Harpur had the impression that Iles was trembling, and not from the cold, although he wore no overcoat. More likely, it would be
excitement and irrational hope. He wanted this dock to put an end to all his personal troubles through what would be revealed soon. The case they were working on – what there was of it
– had ceased to count with Iles and private suffering had taken control. Occasionally, that could happen when police work overlapped a cop’s own life, and it meant a sticky
situation.

In a little while the diver’s head broke surface, and Iles gave a short, impatient gasp. The man finned to the steps, sat and took his mask and fins off, then came up. A little breathless,
he leaned against the Land Rover for a moment before speaking. He addressed Harpur: ‘A Metro, lying on the passenger side. Geoff’s got the registration. He won’t be long. Not much
more we can do, sir. A man strapped in the front passenger seat, naked. We put both beams on him but were still not seeing much. I thought maybe a wound of some kind in the stomach.
Knife?’

Iles said: ‘Yes, Vic, it’s good work, very good work. But when you lit him, all right, you’re not seeing much, but what
did
you see? I mean, colouring, say. How
old?’

‘It’s difficult, sir,’ the sergeant said. ‘Down there –’

‘I know it’s difficult,’ Iles snarled. ‘Let him answer, will you? If I’m talking to you I’ll turn your way, so you’ll be able to tell.’

‘Dark hair, plenty of it,’ the diver said. ‘Age? Mid-twenties? What I could make out, I didn’t recognize him. I don’t know about Geoff. Nothing else in the car, as
far as I could see. We didn’t do any breaking or try to get in.’

‘No, that’s fine,’ Harpur said.

The other diver came out soon afterwards and confirmed it all. He did not recognize the man either, but had memorized the registration.

Iles said: ‘Dark hair? You’re sure? There was enough light for that?’

Both divers confirmed the man was dark.

Iles turned to the sergeant: ‘I’m sorry I barked. No possible excuse, except disorientating envy of people wearing rubber, of course.’

He and Harpur and Iles talked briefly near the Granada. ‘Colin, do I recall that Aston’s fair? Do I recall! Christ, what verbiage. As if I didn’t have the bastard’s
description burned into my brain.’

‘Yes, he is, sir.’

‘Ah, well, there’ll be other corpses. Where there’s death there’s hope.’ He climbed into the car and was about to drive off. Then he rolled down the window:
‘That sounds so bloody smart and unhinged, I suppose. But I do want her, Col, and he’s taking her away. It’s just normal, unsophisticated hatred.’

‘I understand, sir.’

‘Oh, kind.’

‘I think he knows,’ Sarah said.

‘This is what, instinct on your part? Have there been hints?’ Margot was at the window of her flat, gazing out over the new marina, apparently fascinated by something happening far
off at Young’s Dock, on the other side of Valencia Esplanade.

‘And, if he does – Des is not one of your long-suffering types. This is in his own house, his own bed, Margot.’

‘I’m not sure –’

‘Oh, you’ll tell me the venue’s unimportant. I said to myself at the time. But it
was
important. I wanted it to happen there, because it would be another step. Margot,
it was a real compulsion. God, that sounds so crude, crude and hungry.’

‘But you are, or were, hungry.’

‘It seemed so right. I don’t know if that makes sense to you. Does it strike you as simply spiteful, juvenile, or maybe just anarchic?’

‘None of them. I understand.’ Margot seemed still enthralled by something at the dock.

Seated near the fireplace, Sarah felt herself grow suddenly loud and ratty, perhaps offended not to have Margot’s total attention. ‘What the hell are you looking at? You say you
understand! Christ, what else can you say, though, Margot? I’m paying you, aren’t I? I’m your client. I come here for a nice comforting warm bath of sympathy.’

Margot half turned and said, gently: ‘ You want me to tell you you’re just a treacherous, leg-spread cow? Sorry, I don’t believe it.’ Then she went on watching whatever
it was outside.

‘Yes, I felt it was so right, that it said something important. What did it say? I don’t know. But I do know that Des will think it couldn’t be more wrong. Obviously. A double
invasion, wife and nest. I do see that.’

‘Yes, I see that, too. If he was a client, I suppose I’d have to give him a warm bath of sympathy, as well. Were those the words?’

Now, looking a bit hurt, Margot left the window and came to sit opposite Sarah.

‘I’m sorry, Margot. Unforgivable – I mean, about paying you. Rotten of me.’

‘But you
are
paying. Maybe it does affect the response. I’m here to try to help you.’

Part of Margot’s job must be uncrackable patience, endless tolerance. ‘So, have you heard it before?’ Sarah asked.

‘Someone driven to take a lover into the matrimonial bed? Yes, it’s not so rare. Not much chance of hitting originality in sex. What you did, it’s like making the big change
without making it, like leaving without leaving. Things are reduced to metaphor. It’s more comfortable.’

Sarah had worked that out for herself. It helped, though, to know she was not the first.

‘A lot of people are at that, men and women. They want the penny and the bun, but not in the oven if they can help it,’ Margot said. She nodded towards the window. ‘Maybe a
tragedy out there. A crane trying to lift something from the bottom of the dock. Perhaps a car?’ She did not get up to look again, though. ‘What makes you believe he knows?’

‘I think Des could play very rough. Some moments, he’s not really too balanced. Anyway, who would be balanced about this?’

‘But why do you think he knows? He’s said something?’

‘He’s a cop, Margot. When they’re suspicious they don’t talk. They listen, they watch. He’s doing a lot of that. I changed the sheets, well, of course. But it was
the wrong day. Did he notice? He’s a cop, Margot. My chorus. I went through the house, really checking there was nothing left behind, and footprints from the garden. But neighbours? I
don’t know.’

‘Why?’

‘Why what? You mean, why so much effort to conceal things? Do I really want to hang on to Des?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Yes, I wondered myself.’

Margot grinned. ‘Half the time you’re ahead of me. I can see why you’re not sure what you’re paying for.’ The room was tidier today and Sarah had not seen or heard
the cats. Margot looked formal and neat again, too, in a grey skirt and elaborately patterned hand-knitted, multicoloured cardigan, and half-heel shoes, not the trainers. On the whole, Sarah
preferred it like this. A good turnout in a decent setting seemed to promise more careful consideration of her problems. Rougement Place values would out: she could have done without these
continual reminders that buried somewhere in her must be a powerful yearning for order and appearance, perhaps explaining why she had married the police. But then, what explained why she ran so
hard and frantically after Ian Aston, nobody’s idea of order?

Margot stood and went back to the window, shielding her eyes. ‘Talking of police, I think they seem to be running this show in Young’s Dock. I’m up early most mornings, and I
think there were divers down today. It’s a long way, but that’s how it looked. Now, I think more divers, the crane, and bobbies keeping people away.’

Sarah joined her. ‘Suicide? People drive in occasionally.’

As they watched, a diver surfaced and then two more. In a moment, one of them signalled with a wave to the quay-side. Sarah could hear nothing from that distance, but two cables from the crane
into the water seemed to tighten and the jib bent forward, as if taking weight.

‘Not how I would do it,’ Sarah said. ‘Not drowning. Slow. Agonizing.’

‘Do you think of suicide?’ Margot asked, moving away from the window.

Sarah stayed. ‘Who doesn’t?’

‘Yes, I suppose so. There’s a time when anyone can feel cornered.’

‘Cornered. Good, awful word. There seems to be no right decision.’ The crane still appeared to be labouring, though Sarah saw nothing yet to disturb the surface. It looked as if
there was a remarkable number of police there, including some in plain clothes.

‘You think it’s time for decisions, then, Sarah? I’d agree. You’re talking about Desmond as if he were an outsider, not your husband: someone you know only through his
job. “He’s a cop.” In a sense, you’ve already established a gap between the two of you.’

‘So, make it real?’

‘Doesn’t that sound like sense? Doesn’t it sound inevitable?’

For a while, Sarah said nothing, watching the crane. An ambulance stood parked not far from it, both its rear doors open. ‘Margot, I’m scared.’

‘You can’t face the thought of a break-up?’

‘I mean I’m scared about what’s going on at Young’s Dock. It’s too much fuss for a suicide.’

‘Scared? I don’t follow.’ Margot rejoined her at the window. ‘I’ll have to buy some binoculars if there’s going to be much of this sort of excitement.
Can’t really make out detail – faces and so on.’

‘Scared because Ian’s missing, and is being stalked,’ Sarah said.

Margot stared out at the water in the dock. ‘I still don’t get it, I’m afraid. You’re worried that Ian might be –? What do I understand by
“stalked”?’ Margot asked.

‘Like it says. Like in a jungle. People want him out of the way, formidable people. A dock’s as good as anywhere.’

‘Who on earth would do that, Sarah?’

‘They might want me out of the way; too, but Ian especially.’

Margot seemed deliberately to turn the talk away from Ian and the dock. ‘Obviously, you must take care of yourself, Sarah. What if they’re looking for you, too – are more
interested in you than you realize?’

‘I don’t think so. Anyway, all those creeps daren’t mess about with me. I’m Desmond Iles’s wife.’

Margot glanced at her and Sarah saw her give a small smile: ‘Yes, you are.’

‘What the hell does that mean?’

‘Nothing.’

‘That I’m going to stay his wife? Is that what you’re saying?’ Sarah had begun to shout and Margot’s long, plain face grew serious again and looked full of hopeless
concern. ‘You think I like it, really, don’t you, Margot, need to be Mrs Assistant Chief Coristable, maybe with something on the side? Oh, look.’ Suddenly, Sarah had become aware
of the sun glinting now and then on a smooth, silver rectangle just covered by the dark water.

‘Yes, a car,’ Margot muttered. The crane seemed to pause, holding the vehicle still virtually submerged. Then the lifting began again and, slowly, the full shape of it could be seen.
Streaming and rotating lazily once clear, the car hung over the water for several minutes, as if they were waiting for it to drain. Margot gazed at the vehicle. ‘A Metro, I’d say.
Sarah, do you recognise it?’

‘They’d use a stolen car, for heaven’s sake, if they were getting rid of somebody. No, Ian didn’t have a Metro.’

‘Sorry. I’m a bit of a child about these things. But I’m trying to see the connection.’

‘Ian’s missing and wanted. There’s a car in the dock and what could be a lot of really heavy police – not just bobbies. That’s the connection.’ She felt
herself grow more agitated. ‘Margot, I ought to go there. I ought to go there, in case.’ She was whispering.

Margot held her arm for a moment. ‘I do understand but they’re not going to let you near, are they? Not near enough to see the . . . well, to identify anyone. And you might run into
all sorts of people who would recognize you. Even Desmond.’

‘Yes. But I ought to go. I need to find out who it is. How can I stay here talking? I could say I was driving to bridge at one of these marina flats.’ She moved a few steps towards
the door, then returned, to continue looking from the window.

Margot said: ‘Is that credible – drive across the dock?’

‘So I chose to go that way. It’s more interesting.’

‘Sarah, who’s going to –?’

‘I don’t give a shit whether they believe it or not. I have to be there, that’s all. I must know what’s happening. What do you mean, you understand? You don’t at
all.’

But she knew it was all shout and show and that Margot was right: she could not go to the dock. It would be more than blatant – a beacon. Did this ultimate caution, after all the yelling,
come from the part of her which liked being Mrs Assistant Chief Constable? The thought depressed her. At any rate, instead of leaving, she remained transfixed at the window with Margot.

After several minutes, the Metro was swung carefully towards the quay, still trailing some black water. The car was on its side and when it had been lowered to a couple of feet above the ground
a dozen men in dungarees pushed it upright so that it came down on to the wheels. They unhooked the cables and stood back. Three men in civilian clothes hurried forward out of a waiting group and
peered in through the windows. It was too far to tell whether the car contained a body, or bodies, and too far for Sarah to decide whether she recognized any of the police, if they were police.
They had opened the front passenger door of the car and all three men were grouped there, gazing in, probably talking to one another occasionally. When they had finished their examination, they
stood back and one of them turned and beckoned. A photographer came from the waiting group and began taking shots through the open door and afterwards from all round the car. The ambulance backed
slowly towards the Metro, and when the photographer had finished four men came from it, two carrying a stretcher, one of the others with a dark sheet. They had on white coats and she thought she
could make out medical face masks. They went to the car’s open door and two of them leaned in. She could not see clearly what they were doing, because of distance, and because the car was
between them and her, but after a few minutes the two men with the stretcher carried it the couple of steps back to the ambulance. There was what had to be a body on it now, covered by the dark
sheet.