Come Clean (1989)

by Bill James

  ‘Sure, Benny. Look, sometimes I wonder is there a tap on my line – clicks and crazy noises.’

  ‘We all get them, Phil. Maybe yes, maybe no. So, we going to complain to the MP or them Civil Liberties? I wouldn’t think so. Just talk very guarded, as ever.’

  ‘Yes, talk guarded. No names, Benny.’

  ‘Am I senile?’ Loxton replied. ‘Names, for fuck’s sake. Names is for postmen. Who’s going to be looking after me and Alma at the ball?’

  ‘Me,’ Norman said.

  ‘Good. You won’t be able to come right in, obvious, but stay as close as you can. Things are getting, well, pretty warm, I’d say. Very warm.’

  ‘Of course, Benny.’

  ‘Don’t be edgy about Ian Aston,’ Macey told Loxton. ‘He’ll show, and when he does –’ He stopped as Mrs Loxton entered the room, smiling modestly. She had on a low-necked turquoise silk evening gown, a double string of small pearls in a loose necklace gleaming against her tanned skin. Loxton stood, Macey picked up the model stage and the farm staff and passed them quickly to Bobby Lentle, to put back in the case.

  ‘Well, I must say you’re a real team,’ Macey declared to Alma Loxton. ‘This is going to bowl them over, the two of you together. Theodore was telling us about the gown, Alma, but not even Theodore could do it and you justice in mere words.’

  ‘I give you thanks, Philip Macey,’ Alma Loxton replied, in a fine, rounded voice. ‘Theodore, we should go,’ she said. ‘It’s only politeness to arrive on time, especially at a charity function. So much effort and work has gone unstintingly and unpaid into the organization.’

  Loxton smoothed down his grand suit. ‘I hope there’s going to be some top of the charts dancing, not that whiskery ballroom muck again.’

  ‘Oh, so much more elegant,’ his wife replied, ‘a link with the best of the past, don’t you think, Bobby, Phil?’

  ‘It was another era,’ Macey replied. ‘A time of manners and charm.’

  ‘Lost,’ she sighed.

  ‘Now, don’t be soulful, Alma,’ Loxton said. ‘It’s going to be a great night.’

  He meant it. Despite the kind of rough, snobby moments that he had spoken about to Macey, Loxton loved these big, dress-up social functions. Wasn’t he there by right? He had the clothes and the funds to fork out into the begging bowls, and nobody could tell him different.

  Oh, yes, a few big-mouths and stirrers might turn up, but generally people were very nice, very friendly. They did not want to dig into your life or your past, and they calculated that if you rated for an invitation you must be wholesome, or as near as anybody successful in business could be. That made Alma happy, and he liked to see her talking and laughing with decent, general company, people who thought protection was what you got from an insurance policy. His wife craved respectability, the way some women craved love or éclairs, and she needed a change now and then from Phil and Norman and the rest, though they were all good boys, as good in their style as anyone here tonight. Sometimes he found it a bit of a laugh, and a bit touching, too, the way Alma longed for acceptance and worked so desperately at it. But he had finally decided, more than a couple of years ago now, that he was stuck with her, so he tried hard to treat her right. She could have been worse.

  For the night, even the high-rank police who attended these charity affairs kept quiet about what they knew, or what they half knew, or what they thought they knew, and made no trouble. They came dressed up and hearty, smiling as bright as anyone, and more. In any case, there was a very soothing and very legal gap between what police knew and what they could prove. There was information and there was evidence and, if you had a tidy lawyer, the two never met.

  At these affairs, Loxton let it ride if anyone tried provocation, let it ride for now. These social gatherings were to raise money for good works, so who was going to start a rough-house, for God’s sake? The greatest of these is charity was what the Bible said, and you had to act according. He did not even do what Phil had suggested, and wipe them out with words. Instead, he just turned away, gave them the full freeze. That was his answer, also like in the Bible – pass by on the other side.

  Quite early on at the ball this evening, when he and Alma went for a drink at the bar, Loxton found they were standing close to Jack Lamb and the grinning punk kid, Helen, he lived with these days in that sweet old manor house out near Chase Woods, like a big, crooked, know-all squire. Loxton hated and feared contact with Lamb, always sensing he knew too much about everybody and everything, and still wanted to know more. A talk with him was like an interrogation, except he was cleverer at it than most of the professionals. You had to be on the watch continuous. You never knew what you was giving him. Loxton wanted to leave the bar as soon as he spotted Lamb, but Alma was enjoying herself talking lifeboat collections to a doddery old couple, so he was forced to stay.

  There had to be somebody looking after Lamb, maybe Harpur himself. That was the rumour. So, the thing about Jack was you didn’t know who you were really talking to when you talked to him. Who was standing behind? And now the bugger might have been getting whispers from Justin Paynter. This was what could definitely be called a sensitive subject. Lamb might be wanting to do some digging on the topic tonight, and drag the whole evening down with business and hinting. That Loxton could do without.

  Jack’s protector was bound to be a lawman with real power, or he would have gone away for years a long time ago. Instead of that, he put on the style out in this great piece of property and traded paintings worth millions. The manor house had a tall, grey stone wall right around the place and gates with a red and gold coat of arms on them belonging to someone there centuries ago, and over the top of it a Latin motto meaning, In God I trust and we do fucking great together. Or close.

  Sod it; Lamb and the girl left some people they had been talking to and came eagerly to greet Loxton and his wife. ‘Alma, such a treat,’ he said, bending to kiss her on the cheek. ‘Theodore, you’re looking grand. Do you both know Helen? An art buff and all-round gifted collaborator of mine.’

  Loxton had heard that good pictures came and went on the walls of Lamb’s place faster than storm clouds across the moon, proper masterpieces, not painting-by-numbers jobs. Where it came from and where it went nobody except Jack could say, and he didn’t. It might be a Picasso with your breakfast, and Kevin Rembrandt by supper time. Jack Lamb said he liked change. Loxton reckoned he liked notes much better, especially fifties in bulk and, if possible, new and hard to trace.

  ‘We always try to get to this occasion, Jack,’ Alma gurgled. ‘Invariably, such a happy turn-out, and so deeply worthwhile. The best of all worlds, one might say.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘One feels one’s self to be among friends,’ Alma said, ‘all linked year after year by the Christian impulse to help others.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Lamb said.

  Loxton would say one thing for him – as Alma dished out this horseshit he kept his face dead straight. But perhaps Lamb was not listening much, just watching her, because she could get real excited when talking good works, and her face would light up, making her look lovely again, and so full of life. Although most of what she said at these times embarrassed and bored Loxton inside out, a part of him was forced to admire her. His wife had a real go at things, held nothing back, even if it was almost total balls. He knew then what he used to see in her years ago – the enthusiasm and guts, and the beauty. All right, it was hard to keep going on memories, but didn’t all marriages that lasted?

  ‘Are you in art, that sort of line?’ Helen asked Loxton.

  ‘Not altogether,’ he replied.

  ‘Theodore has various business interests,’ Lamb said.

  ‘Fascinating,’ the girl cried. ‘Such as, Theodore?’

  ‘One thing and the other,’ Loxton said, moving a hand about gently in the air to signify.

  ‘Long-established concern and a devoted staff, I know that,’ Lamb said. ‘Very gifted people, many of them. Philip Macey, N
orman, Tommy Vit, sometimes. These people are experts in their fields.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Loxton replied. He began to feel uneasy.

  ‘Which fields?’ the girl asked.

  ‘Absolute experts,’ Lamb replied.

  ‘We’re so lucky in that respect,’ Alma said. ‘Contented personnel.’

  ‘No business can thrive without,’ Lamb went on.

  ‘Certainly not,’ Alma said.

  ‘And are they all in good shape, your people, I wonder?’ Lamb asked.

  Loxton was not keen on the question, or where it might be leading. ‘In good shape? Great. Why not?’

  ‘Oh, Theodore, so brusque. It’s very nice of you to inquire, Mr Lamb, Jack,’ Alma said. ‘Yes, fine. People stay with Theodore. Very little change-over.’

  ‘That’s crucial,’ Lamb remarked.

  ‘Occasionally a youngster leaves, but the old hands are so wonderfully loyal,’ Alma said.

  ‘Yes?’ Lamb replied.

  Loxton watched him grow alert.

  ‘Restless youth,’ Alma said. ‘You’ll understand.’

  ‘Of course,’ Lamb replied. ‘Helen, here, was a real nomad. Who’s gone from you lately, then, Alma?’

  The bugger was no-naming but meant Justin Paynter, for sure, so obvious it became pathetic. And yet Lamb most likely thought he was winning every prize for subtlety. Did he realize how much he might be giving away about himself? The link between them two, Jack Lamb and Justin, really did exist, then? ‘Gone?’ Loxton said. ‘How do you mean, Jack?’

  ‘Left, as Alma mentioned.’

  ‘Oh, Alma was just talking general, you know. Nobody particular.’

  Alma Loxton said: ‘But Theodore, I –’

  ‘Yes, she was just talking general,’ Loxton declared. ‘Ah.’ He held up a hand as the band began ‘Stardust’. ‘Alma knows this is one of my favourites.’ He smiled his apologies to Helen and Lamb for breaking up the conversation and immediately walked Alma to the dance floor.

  ‘Are you crazy?’ she said.

  ‘It’s a waltz.’

  ‘You hate them.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  ‘Why did you leave like that? So rude,’ she asked angrily.

  ‘He was fishing, love. I dislike it.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said.

  ‘About the staff.’

  ‘Jack Lamb, interested in your boys? Why, Theodore? It’s not reasonable.’

  ‘Some people trade in information.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, I was only going to tell him –’

  ‘Look, let’s leave it, all right?’ He found he did not want Justin Paynter’s name used, and, simply because it had come into his head, he was conscious of his hand tightening in a fierce spasm on Alma’s shoulder. He had not intended that, but it happened. Justin was in the past and he had to stay there, safely forgotten, almost.

  She winced and frowned. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing, love. I’m sorry. Just I don’t want any talk about people of mine to someone like Jack Lamb, and that crazy, money-grubbing kid. That’s all.’

  ‘Oh, but you’re hard on the girl, I think. One should take as one finds, Theodore, surely.’

  It really was a charity do tonight. ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he said. ‘Lamb does.’

  Desmond Iles and a woman Loxton assumed was his wife danced near them and the Assistant Chief gave him and Alma a lavish smile and mouthed a greeting: ‘Wonderful to see you both again.’ The woman was slim, blonde, very unhappy-looking, and wearing what looked to Loxton like an exclusive powder blue dress, almost as fine as Alma’s. She held Iles as if she wished like hell he was someone different. That figured. Following Iles’s gaze, her eyes rested for a second on Loxton and Alma and she gave a tiny smile and a formal nod, though Loxton did not remember ever seeing her before. Then she turned her head away and gazed about at the other dancers.

  Loxton and his wife waltzed for a while without talking. Christ, this cruddy music, these ponce steps. He felt like he had aged twenty years since coming on to the floor.

  Alma watched him. ‘Theodore, there certainly is something wrong. Darling please. You ought to say. I should know about matters that trouble you. It will make you feel better.’

  Not exactly. It would make him feel worse, and very exposed. ‘I’m fine.’ Usually, he liked the way she stuck at things, but now she began to weary him, and to anger him. Why the hell did he bring her to places where she might gab in her friendly, goofy, careless style to the wrong people? She did not know much, of course, as far as he could tell: he always tried to make sure of that, but you could never be certain what might get through to her. Alma was not stupid.

  Later in the evening, she went off into a side room to see the raffle drawn with some neighbours they had met at the buffet. Loxton had a saunter alone around the city hall’s wide landing and staircases, looking at the coats of arms and the heavy-framed paintings of people who had achieved big things for the area in history. He liked feeling a contact with these old figures in their robes or military uniforms. God knew what some of them might have done to get to the top and stay there long enough to earn a painting. Several with red and blue wino faces and sharp chins looked like they would have strangled their favourite labrador or mother to make it.

  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 f
ace 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.’