Picture of Innocence

by Jill McGown

  Lloyd smiled. He called her his gun dog sometimes, because she positively pointed when she got on to anything in an investigation. And surely gun dogs were supposed to he wet and muddy on occasion? He listened as she gave coolly professional answers to Curtis Law’s questions, as he had known she would, and sneaked a look at her as she watched herself on television, saw the slight flush in her cheeks.

  They were in her flat, which was highly unusual, but it had been the only way he was going to get to see her watch herself on television for the first time. He resisted coming to her flat very often; it seemed to him to be sanctioning their separate lives. But she had refused point-blank to come home with him this evening, so he had turned up here just before her debut, relieving her of the remote control as she had threatened to turn off the TV.

  He and Judy had been involved, one way or another, for twenty years, and for the last seven or so he had been trying to get her to move in with him without success. She had agreed, after a long campaign, to marry him when he retired from the job, but he still wasn’t convinced she would move out of her flat even then.

  He got his first look at Bailey, a saturnine man with a face like granite, who did indeed communicate one word at a time. And then he got his first look at Mrs Bailey, and discovered that it wasn’t just the chance of TV stardom that he had missed. ‘You didn’t tell me about her, did you?’ he said, his voice accusing.

  Judy glanced at him sideways. ‘I wanted you to see her for yourself,’ she said. ‘So you’d understand.’

  ‘Understand what?’

  ‘Why the next death threat’s going to come from me,’ she said, turning to face him. ‘You ever do that to me again and I’ll kill you.’

  Lloyd really didn’t know what he’d done this time. ‘What? What did I do to you?’

  ‘When I met her I felt – and looked – a complete idiot.’

  Lloyd frowned, then his brow cleared, as he realized. ‘You weren’t wearing the wellies!’ he said, delightedly.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘ I’m standing there looking like a refugee from a Marx Brothers film, and she—’ She pointed to the television. ‘She gets out of a BMW sports car!’

  ‘You can’t blame me for that,’ Lloyd protested, and looked again at Mrs Bailey, trying to analyse what it was about her. Item by item, Olivia-style, her face was like anyone else’s. ‘Item, two lips, indifferent red; item, two grey eyes, with lids to them; item, one neck, one chin …’ Rachel Bailey’s eyes were blue, if Judy’s television was to be believed, and she was beautiful, certainly. She had a wonderful smile. But there was something much more than that there.

  They’d given it names over the years. It. Sex appeal. Je ne sais quoi. It was something that both men and women saw, and recognized, and found very attractive. Something the camera loved. It couldn’t be acquired. And whatever it was, Mrs Bailey had it. He stared at the screen, mesmerized by this goddess who chose to live in the back of beyond with someone like Bailey.

  ‘What on earth does she see in him?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll give you three guesses.’

  Lloyd smiled. ‘What a cynical person you are. She’s probably deeply in love with him.’

  ‘It’s a weird set-up,’ Judy said. ‘She hasn’t got a key to her own front gate. He talks to her the same way he talks to his dog. She looks like that, and she behaves like a nineteenth-century serving-girl. She fetches his shoes. Takes off his muddy boots for him. Washes them.’

  ‘See? That’s a labour of love,’ said Lloyd, with a grin. ‘ If I’d been there, I’d have cleaned the mud off yours with a gladsome heart.’

  Judy left the room. When she came back, a pair of shoes caked with a thin layer of dried mud dropped in his lap.

  ‘Then you can clean them,’ she said.

  Not bad, thought Jack Melville, when he appeared on the screen. Not bad.

  Terri smiled at him. ‘You look good on TV,’ she said.

  Yes, he’d thought that himself, immodestly. Maybe he could interest Aquarius 1830 in giving him a regular spot on stocks and shares, to explain them to the masses – give them tips on buying and selling. After all, lots of them owned shares in this and that now that everything had been privatized. He’d give that some thought. It would do no harm to think about the odd income supplement.

  ‘And I liked the bit about roads being a necessary evil,’ she said. ‘Shows we’re not all fanatics.’

  The acceptable face of anti-road campaigning. But for how long? If the road did go through the woodland they would get the mob here, chaining themselves to trees, lying down in front of the earth movers, looking for a fight with the security men.

  It occurred to him later, as they sat down to dinner, and he was entertained to the iniquities of civilization, that Terri would undoubtedly support them, might even join them. But they wouldn’t win. They never did; he’d explained that to her when she and her conservationist friends had made a fuss about McQueen’s development in the first place. He told her again, now. All fanatics did was alienate people, he said.

  And she said that if it wasn’t for fanatics, women still wouldn’t have the vote. Come to that, most men wouldn’t. Just people like him. If it wasn’t for fanatics, wrongs would never be righted. Fanatics brought publicity to a cause, and non-fanatics gradually realized that something had to be done.

  He hoped he wasn’t going to discover at this late stage that he was married to a fanatic, however worthy they were. She had remained on the fringes of fanaticism thus far, and during her history of campaign and opposition and demonstration she had had the odd brush with the law, a concept for which she had no little contempt. She admired even less its administrators and enforcers, but basically it had been nice, middle-class, hobbyist rebellion, and he wanted it to stay that way. He didn’t want her to go off and live up a tree in Bluebell Wood.

  But she might.

  At half past eight, Curtis, currently short-bearded, long-haired, brown-eyed, bulkier, and rigid with fear, met his contacts, and told them that he was not going with them to the rendezvous, that he expected the supplier to come to him.

  He was wired for sound underneath the padding; if the heavies smelled a rat, the idea was that his colleagues would prevent any damage being done to him. Curtis didn’t have a great deal of faith in that, conversing, as he was, in an alley behind a pub, a long way from the van.

  The two men were not happy. Their time, they said, had better not be being wasted.

  Curtis – Roger Wheeler – said that he wasn’t getting into a car with a couple of minders and that sort of cash. He hadn’t brought the money with him; the supplier would come to his flat, alone, and hand over the stuff there. Then he would be paid. And that was where and how he would deliver it every month.

  He was thankful that they couldn’t see the perspiration; that was the plus side of finding himself in an inadequately lit alley in the swiftly gathering dusk with a pair of people-punchers. One of them took a drag of his cigarette and dropped it on the damp cobbles, stepping on it as he moved towards Curtis, standing right in front of him. ‘You trying to be funny?’ he asked, smoke streaming into Curtis’s face with the words.

  ‘You’ll know when I’m trying to be funny,’ Curtis said steadily, looking into the other man’s eyes. ‘I laugh.’ Knowing that his colleagues were parked in a van listening to his gangster impersonation didn’t help, and for a dreadful, heart-stopping moment, Curtis thought he was going to laugh. But he didn’t.

  And it didn’t matter that it was obviously an act; theirs was too, in the menacing way they stood close to him, their studied use of props, like the cigarette. It was all body language and striking attitudes, and he was better at it than they were. He had started out as an actor, before TV presenting had beckoned and had seemed a safer way to earn a living. It didn’t seem very safe now.

  ‘The deal was we took you to him.’

  ‘Then it’s off,’ said Curtis, and turned away, walking back down the alley to where the Jag was
parked, forcing himself to walk slowly, deliberately, not to look behind him to see where they were.

  ‘Hang on.’

  The voice was right behind him; he stopped, his eyes closed, then turned, half expecting to see a baseball bat coming down on his head.

  ‘We’ll ask him. Where is this flat?’

  ‘Not far.’ He told them where it was, and walked to the Jag, getting in. They were still watching; he drove away, unable to see his colleagues’ van, just hoping that it was still in contact with him. A five-minute journey later, he let himself into the flat, lit a desperately needed cigarette, and waited, not looking out of the window, as he longed to do, not daring to expect anything, not knowing what to expect. He sat at the table, taking quick, nervous puffs, turning the lighter over and over between his fingers.

  Fifteen minutes after he had arrived back, the doorbell rang. Curtis stood up, went to the cupboard, opened it, pressed the record button on the equipment, closed it, and went to the door.

  Mr Big’s representative had arrived. He came in without speaking, and the package, encased in plain brown paper, was laid on the table. His hand hovered over it. ‘ Let’s see the cash,’ he said, and pulled just enough of a pistol out of his jacket pocket for Curtis to see what it was.

  Curtis, the man who policed the police, was already putting together a programme on the accessibility of guns on the street. Curtis, the man being thus warned, swallowed hard, and pulled a roll of notes from his pocket. It joined the package on the table. ‘OK?’ he said. ‘ Can we talk now?’

  The man sat down, and they discussed Roger Wheeler’s future requirements, the conversation relaxed now that the money was there and Mr Big’s representative knew he wasn’t having his time wasted. The talk was easy, but Curtis wasn’t. He was uneasy, and, though the lighting was purposely dim, horribly aware of his wig and fake beard, and of the pistol his visitor was packing. He hadn’t thought of that, and no one could get him out of this if it went wrong.

  The other man never lost his watchfulness, his wariness; any minute, Curtis kept thinking, any minute, he’s going to twig, and he’s got a gun, for God’s sake. He surreptitiously moistened dry lips as his supplier picked the money up and counted it. He wondered if he ought to have opened the package to make sure that it contained what he’d paid for. But there was no reason why he should be a seasoned drug dealer; he had been posing as someone with a bit of spare cash wanting to get in on a lucrative market. He had a feeling that he should have done, though, to be convincing. Too late now.

  The other man nodded, and stood up. ‘It’s a deal, Mr Wheeler,’ he said, pleasantly enough. ‘See you next month.’

  Curtis shook the hand that was held out to him, glad that his palm wasn’t sweaty. It ought to be. He closed the door as his visitor left, locked it, and put the chain on, leaning against it as his whole body suddenly went limp. He’d done it. He hadn’t been found out, he hadn’t been beaten up, he hadn’t been shot. He had done it.

  Then the limpness was replaced with a surge of triumph, and he threw his head back, fists clenched. ‘ Yes!’ he shouted, and he didn’t want to stay here, however luxuriously it had been kitted out for the moneyed Roger Wheeler. He wanted to celebrate; he wanted to get things moving. But he couldn’t. He had to stay. He had to stay the night, just in case they were watching, in case they had smelled a rat, and wanted to see what he did next. And nothing, but nothing would have taken him back out into Barton’s dark streets, so he was stuck here.

  He went back into the living room. It wasn’t half past nine yet; he could hardly believe that. It had been the longest hour of his life. Oh, well, he hoped it was a good night on the telly. He grinned at one of the cameras, and picked up the package, kissing it like a sporting trophy. ‘Gotcha,’ he said, putting it back on the table, and went to the cupboard, stopping the tape.

  Then he removed, his jacket to enable him to unhook himself from the recording gear, which he also put in the cupboard, locking it. His shirt was soaked with sweat in the odd places where it actually touched his skin; he peeled it off, and undid the padded waistcoat that had altered his build, going into the bathroom, where he removed the wig and beard and the contact lenses, and had a shower. He towelled himself dry, and stood for a moment, puzzled. He had thought that the make-up department had supplied him with a robe. He shrugged, pulling on his jeans, and came out of the bathroom, stopping dead when he saw the open bedroom door.

  ‘You got them, then,’ said a slow, lazy voice from the darkness.

  He almost passed out. When he had recovered his wits, he went to the bedroom, and switched on the light. She was sitting on the bed, wearing his bathrobe crossed over high at the neck, feet curled under her. He stared at her. ‘Have you been here all the time?’ he asked.

  ‘Came in after you went out. Just as well you told me what you looked like in your disguise, or I’d still be out there waitin’ for you.’ She smiled. ‘I like you better the way you come.’

  ‘What if he’d heard you, or something? Realized there was someone in here?’

  ‘Don’t drug dealers have girlfriends, then?’

  He supposed they did. But he still didn’t understand how she had got away from Cold Comfort Farm. ‘What have you told Bernard?’ he asked.

  ‘He thinks I’m at Nicola’s. He’s gone out. Some sort of do his lodge is havin’. They laid on a minibus – it isn’t bringin’ him back till two in the morning. Told him I didn’t want to be there on my own.’

  ‘Nicola knows you’re here?’

  ‘She knows I’m not there,’ said Rachel. ‘Don’t worry ’bout it. She won’t say nothin’.’

  ‘She will if he asks her!’

  ‘But he’s not goin’ to ask her, is he?’ She lifted herself up from her cat-like position, and knelt on the bed. ‘We got all night,’ she said, drawing out the vowels slowly, deliciously.

  All night. He’d never had more than an hour with her, and now he had all night. He was going to celebrate his success, and he would bet that no drug dealer had ever had a girlfriend like Rachel. He went to her, and lifted her hand to his lips. The wide sleeve of the bathrobe slipped up her arm, and he caught a glimpse of the beginnings of a bruise just below her elbow, and sighed. She always had bruises.

  ‘Forget it,’ she said, pulling the sleeve down again, and they kissed.

  ‘Can I see them?’ she asked, when they drew apart.

  Curtis frowned. ‘See what?’

  ‘Them drugs you got.’

  He smiled. ‘Sure,’ he said, going back out into the hallway, into the sitting room, and picking up the package. He brought it to her, and sat beside her on the bed as she unwrapped it, feeling a little like he had on Christmas morning as a child, when he and his sister had opened their presents, a highly inappropriate thought as polythene bags containing pills and powders, crystals and capsules, spilled on to the duvet. ‘If the police raid this place tonight, Roger Wheeler could get life,’ he said.

  She smiled. ‘They dangerous?’

  ‘Not unless you take them.’

  ‘Never tried takin’ drugs.’

  Curtis felt a stab of alarm. ‘Well,’ he said, getting off the bed and gathering them up, heaping them back on to the table, ‘you’re not going to start now.’

  ‘Don’t want to,’ she said. ‘ I’m just interested.’ She slid off the bed and stood beside him, riffling through the packets. ‘What all you got?’

  ‘Everything. He’s got people breaking into laboratories, hospitals – everywhere. They steal to order, just like I said.’

  ‘So what did you order?’

  ‘Methadone, phenobarbitone, Nembutal, Tuinal. Amphetamines, all the usual stuff. But I also ordered chloral hydrate – that’s the stuff they used to put in people’s drinks to knock them out. It’s a sedative – acts like a barbiturate. And it’s going to prove they steal to order, because it’s not the usual sort of merchandise.’

  ‘Which one of them is it?’

  ‘That’s
it.’ He pointed. ‘And there’s cocaine, morphine, codeine—’

  She turned and kissed him, her parted lips just brushing his. ‘Does anyone else know what drugs you got?’

  ‘Only Mr Big and his representatives, and I doubt if any single one of them knows exactly. That’s how they’ve been getting away with it. There’s no big haul. Just dribs and drabs, here and there.’

  ‘So you don’t have to give all of them to the police, do you?’ she said, her tongue fleetingly touching his eyelids, his nose, his mouth, as she spoke. ‘ No one’d know if you kept some back.’

  ‘You said you didn’t want to try drugs,’ he said. He wasn’t sure how good he’d be at refusing her some speed or whatever it was she wanted, as the tiny licking kisses moved to his neck, his shoulders. He wasn’t sure that he could refuse her anything.

  ‘I could use some of them knockout drops,’ she said, her voice as lazy as her tongue was busy. ‘Put some in his whisky. Then he’d fall asleep and not come upstairs to me.’

  Curtis closed his eyes, his arms round her. He hated to think of Bailey with Rachel.

  ‘Will you give me some?’ she asked.

  He opened his eyes wide. ‘I can’t, Rachel,’ he said. ‘You can’t go putting stuff in—’ He broke off. She knew that; she hadn’t been serious, he realized, as she smiled her slow smile and her eyes twinkled with mischief. But even as a joke, her request bothered him. ‘Is it that bad?’ he asked.

  ‘No – don’t look so worried,’ she said, leaning back, letting his arms support her. ‘ It’s not bad. He don’t do nothing weird to me. He just does it all the time, that’s all.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  She shrugged a little. ‘He sits there all evenin’, watchin’ TV. He don’t talk to me or nothin’. Just sits and watches TV till the news is done. Then I got to get him a whisky, and go up and wait for him.’ She was drawing circles on his chest with her finger as she spoke. After he’s done all the lockin’ up, he comes upstairs, gets into bed. He still don’t say nothin’. Then after a bit he gets on top of me, gets off when he’s done. Don’t want me sayin’ nothin’, don’t want me doin’ nothin’. I just got to lie there.’