Come Clean (1989) (12 page)

‘You what? Why, for heaven’s sake? I saw nothing.’

He concentrated on his breakfast for a while. ‘Sarah, I shouldn’t talk about police matters, you know, not beyond the general and routine, such as standard contempt for juries,
Queen’s Counsel, newspapers and the Home Secretary.’

‘Do I gossip?’

For a few moments, she watched him calculate how much he might safely tell her. There had been a time, not all that long ago, when he would never reveal anything. In those days he had quite
obviously taken pleasure in secrecy, and drew feelings of superiority from keeping her at a distance. Perhaps this had been one factor that started the gap between them, and then made it wide and
permanent. She knew he regretted it now and yearned for the power to interest her, to draw her to him that way and hold her, even if he could not draw her to him and hold her in bed.

This morning she waited for him to cave in and decide to talk, and then when he did his words almost stunned her. ‘I don’t know if you noticed, but there’s a public phone box
in the city hall foyer,’ he said.

‘Is there?’ she muttered, her voice suddenly gone to milk and water.

‘Benny made a very dark call to one of his people from there.’

‘Oh, Desmond, speak plainly. What the hell does dark mean?’

‘Alarming.’ He hesitated again. ‘What sounded like hit instructions.’

She was dazed by what he said. Jesus, had they been monitoring all calls from that box? What for? ‘How can you tell?’

‘Tell what? That they were hit instructions?’

‘That he made such a call.’

Iles did not answer.

‘Someone saw him in the box? But how do you know what he said and who he was talking to?’

Iles gazed at her.

In a little while, her mind started working properly again, and she saw with relief – relief for the moment – that it must be from the other end of the line that Loxton’s call
had been overheard.

‘You’ve got a phone tap going on some crook’s house – one of his people?’

‘We’re keeping an eye and ear open in all sorts of ways, Sarah.’

‘But when did you hear about all this – the phone call?’

‘I had a report.’

‘When?’

‘Does it matter?’

She thought for a moment. ‘The motor-cycle man who turned up after the ball last night brought you a transcript, did he? It’s so urgent?’

‘Someone’s life, possibly. Yes, it’s urgent, we’re here to stop hits.’

‘But tapping’s illegal.’

‘Except in specially ordered cases.’

‘These are specially ordered?’

‘Permission is very rare. It’s got to be endorsed by twelve authenticated virgins, three members of the Magicians’ Circle, the Privy Council, a director of a marmalade factory
and the religious correspondents of the
Guardian
and
Comic Cuts
– that’s two separate papers, though I’ve heard convincing arguments the other way.’

‘So, you haven’t got –?’

‘He’s extremely careful what he says, possibly suspecting a tap himself.’

‘What do you mean, hit instructions?’

‘A target to be knocked off because he or she’s seen something awkward for Benny, or knows something awkward for Benny, possibly heard something awkward for Benny. That was suggested
in the call.’

‘But who?’

‘Now, Sarah, come on. Could I tell you that, even if I knew, darling? I don’t. No names. I understand we can identify Benny’s voice, but that’s as far as we go. And we
didn’t have surveillance on the man receiving the call, or we could have followed him.’

‘You’re saying, these were orders to go out and kill somebody right then?’

‘That’s how it sounds. At about 10.50 – between the tangos and teddy bear raffle – he gave unmistakable instructions for a death.’

‘Instructions to whom?’

‘Now, now. Naturally, I do know the answer to that, but I’m telling you too much already.’

‘To one of his people?’

Iles ate his breakfast.

‘Well, obviously,’ she said. ‘Otherwise, why the tap on his line? But making the call there, in the middle of a dance, as if he’s just thought of it – what brought
that on, for heaven’s sake? He was provoked? What happened? He met someone, heard something?’

‘You really mustn’t ask about these things, Sarah. You’ll get me hanged.’ Preparing to go, he stood and put his jacket on, but again she saw that he could not resist
having her attention, for once. ‘Now, this is the last: it looks as if he’d seen someone else make a call in the same box – probably a woman – and from that he deduced that
his target must be at home. They’d been looking for him.’

‘My God.’ Once more she felt as if she were losing control of her mind and strength. Loxton’s call had been about her and Ian?

‘Deduced how?’

‘Perhaps she looked so pleased. They could be lovers. Benny might have known that.’

‘But you’ve no names?’ She guarded against sounding over-anxious.

‘No. Not yet.’

‘Will you talk to Benny?’

‘About what?’

‘About the call, of course.’

‘We don’t know about the call, do we, love? How on earth could we? Permission for taps is hardly ever given, as I told you. Anyway, if we approach Benny he’ll realize
we’re watching him and his.’

Desperately, she tried to dig out from her subconscious those memories from last night in the city hall foyer. Yes, surely there had been someone hanging around, a man in full evening clobber
gazing reverentially at the seated stone scholar, almost communing with it? And, yes, hadn’t he glanced her way when she gave that shriek? She struggled to recall what he looked like, but
could bring no face from her memory. Her mind had been too much taken up elsewhere. But why had her brain jumped to Benny Loxton just now when Desmond spoke of a university man as part of the
crossword answer? Had she noted him near the monument without being properly aware of it? Perhaps she had scarcely recognized him. There had been only the briefest identification of Loxton for her
by Desmond when they were dancing.

She suspected that after the first surprised stare towards her the man in the foyer had deliberately turned his back. His clothes? From when they were all talking together later, she recalled
that Loxton had been in a penguin suit and wearing a preposterous blue cummerbund, plus a flower of some sort in his buttonhole. Did the man near the telephone box sport such extras? She could not
recall this, either. He was tall, though, no doubt of that, as tall as Loxton.

‘But it’s terrible.’

‘What’s terrible is that we can’t discover the target’s name. We have to wait until we find a – Well, until we hear of some unexplained violence, and then see if it
links to Benny.’

‘You think it will?’

‘Oh, yes. His people do what they’re told, and they’re good at it, particularly one of them, the one he called. And, before you ask, yes, we’ve failed so far to nail him,
too.’

As soon as Desmond left for work, she telephoned Ian’s flat again, but could get no reply. She feared that even if she hung on for one of their special times he would not answer today. Oh,
God, it was still hours before they were due to meet, and she could not bear to wait so long before trying to find if he was safe. She stayed in the house until 9.25, one of their chosen moments
for calls, but nothing came, and five minutes later drove out to his flat, in a big, handsome Edwardian house, about a quarter of a mile from the Monty. Once, very early on in their relationship,
he had offered her a key and she had refused, feeling it would bind her more than she wanted then. He never asked her again.

She ran up the stairs to the second floor and tried his door before ringing the bell. Ian was paranoid about security and had two locks and a top and bottom bolt, yet, to her amazement, the door
opened when she turned the knob. Taking one small step into the flat, she softly called his name and listened. There was no answer, nor when she called again, a little more loudly. Then, before she
could move any further inside, she heard two or three sets of footsteps on the landing behind her. They seemed to slow down as they came near the door, as if people were looking in, or might enter
after her, and for a second she felt too terrified to turn around to find who was there.

When she did, she saw an elderly couple in the doorway glaring suspiciously at her. I’m looking for Ian,’ she said. ‘Do you live here? Have you seen Ian – Mr
Aston?’

Long-nosed, gruff and heavy with acrylic cardigans, the woman replied: ‘We got keys. We come in to feed the hamster occasional.’

‘Oh, yes: Redvers.’

‘Name for a hamster, I ask you,’ the man said.

‘But, please, what about Mr Aston?’ Sarah asked.

‘We never seen nothing, did we, Trev?’

‘Nothing. How could we, that’s the point?’

‘What happened?’ Sarah asked. ‘Please.’

‘No keys needed now.’ The woman glanced down at the Yale lock and, following her eyes, Sarah saw it had been burst open. The mortice had been forced, as well.

‘When?’ Sarah said.

‘Should you be in there? I mean, whoever you are,’ the woman replied. ‘All right, knowing about Redvers is all right, but is it all right for you to be in the flat? What, well,
is your connection? Don’t mind me asking, but he’s so particular.’

‘He’s not here,’ Sarah said.

‘We don’t have no responsibility for the flat, that’s admitted, only looking at the hamster now and then, but whether you should be walking around in here – We
don’t know who’s here and who’s not, do we Trev?’

‘How could we?’ He was red-faced, cheerful-looking, short of a few teeth at the edges, dressed in an anorak made up of brightly coloured rectangles, so he resembled the display panel
on a switched-off fruit machine. ‘People have their private lives. That has to be respected.’

‘Did you hear anything?’ Sarah asked.

The woman looked down at the locks again. ‘Them wasn’t opened with a pin.’

‘Last night?’

‘Just above,’ the man said, glancing upwards.

‘You live there?’ Sarah asked. ‘You did hear something?’

‘We stayed very put, very put indeed,’ he said. ‘Noise like that, you don’t rush out to look and utter heartfelt reproaches, not in this building, not in this area.
It’s like I said, privacy. Silence is a living language.’ Suddenly, he seemed much less cheerful.

‘Yes, of course.’

‘We act discreet, always,’ he said. ‘It’s necessary – simple as that. Something go wrong, there’s nobody going to look after you. Not these days. Do you know
anything about police at all, lady? I don’t suppose so, not somebody with top-drawer clothes and shoes like that. But you see, love, police, what do they care? All they want is their free
pints round the back and lurking on the motorway, unsafe loads, smoky exhausts and such, clipboards and the blue light flashing. They worry theirselves about folk in a dump like this? Do me a
favour. Elms Enclave, somewhere like that, they might send a crew if there’s trouble, because the money’s up there and people who can make bother if they don’t get no service,
power, that sort. You see any influence here and what’s known as clout? Qualities like that never took up residence, regrettable.’

‘Others heard, likewise, when the door was smashed,’ the woman said. ‘Did they come to see what was happening? Did they, Trev?’

‘This is 1989,’ he replied.

‘But what about Ian – Mr Aston?’ Sarah said. ‘Did you hear anything from him?’

‘We know him, and yet we don’t know him, if you understand me,’ the woman said.

Yes, Sarah did, very well. ‘I must discover where he is.’ She took a couple more steps into the flat.

‘Careful,’ the man cried.

‘I must, that’s all.’

‘She must, Trev. I can see that.’

He grunted and then said, hesitantly: ‘Well, yes, we all must. Can we live with our eyes shut for ever? Even kittens do better.’

The two of them had a small discussion in the doorway. ‘We ought to come with you, dear,’ the woman told Sarah. ‘You’re from a nice, executive-style home, evident, with
lawns and patio. You don’t appreciate. Not your territory.’

‘Would you? Thanks, oh, thanks.’

The woman came forward and took hold of Sarah’s hand in a fierce, brave, terrified grip. ‘Sound the advance,’ she said, her voice high and tense and weak. ‘We don’t
know him but we like him.’

‘Yes, that’s Ian,’ Sarah replied.

‘We heard the noises, but didn’t help,’ the man said from behind them. ‘Do you know a certain word, namely, “recreant”? That’s the word that came to me
last night. Means yellow. This was late. Now, I’m sick of myself when I think of what went on.’

‘We know the way, owing to Redvers,’ the woman said. ‘But you know the way, too? A friend?’

‘Yes,’ Sarah replied.

‘Why not?’ she said. The three of them edged forward slowly, like people in newsreel footage of a wartime food queue. The woman still clasped her hand. Sarah called his name again,
as they approached the closed door to the sitting room. She remembered that other closed door, in the Monty, and felt just as fearful.

‘Maybe I should go first,’ the man said, but made no attempt to come to the front. ‘When we open that door, well –’

‘Too true,’ the woman agreed. But she was the one who reached forward and opened it. Sarah stared past her at the room. For a moment, she thought it looked only untidy, as was usual,
with no sign of violence. The three of them advanced a few more cautious steps and stood inside the room, gazing around. ‘This doesn’t seem right,’ the woman said.
‘Somehow.’

‘What?’ Sarah asked, urgently. ‘You must tell me. Please. What do you see?’

‘Not right at all,’ the man said.

‘No?’ Sarah asked, her voice high.

‘No, indeed.’ He nodded towards the hamster’s cage. It was a barred circular lower area, plus a separate, solid-walled, smaller sleeping compartment on top, like two spacecraft
joined. ‘Redvers always comes down when he hears us, wanting to be fed.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ Sarah shouted, ‘is that all? The sodding hamster?’

‘Language,
if
you please,’ the man replied. ‘Leave that sort of talk at home.’