For half a minute he stood in the shadow of the house, trying to check that he had not been followed. Then, feeling reasonably safe, he tried the kitchen window and a rear door but neither shifted. Every bugger was security-conscious these days, even villains. It could be a right pain. Luckily, someone had been doing a bit of updating, and a modern lightweight ply door and nonsense lock had replaced the solid timber and iron bolt which must originally have been in place here. Harpur applied some concentrated leaning, repeatedly ramming his weight against the lock. Soon, he heard the fragile wood of the frame rip and he gently pushed the door wide.
He felt much better now. For him, it had always been one of the brightest pleasures in police work to enter someone’s property on the quiet and look at gear and possessions, trying to sort out a story from them. It fiercely excited Harpur to break down privacy, gave him a sense of intimacy with the target, and occasionally a sense of power over him, sometimes even her. A long time ago he used to consider the pleasure that came from these invasions as like the thinking of cannibals: they wanted to absorb the strengths and virtues of the people they ate, and he wanted to take over for a while the personalities of the suspects who lived in these entered places, so he could know them thoroughly. That was rubbish, really – just a high-flown, fanciful excuse for poking his police nose into someone else’s property, often illicitly. A similar sort of eyewash had surfaced recently in a Sidney Lumet film on television, The Anderson Tapes, where Sean Connery, as a big-time burglar, compared the joys of opening a safe with those in seducing a woman. These were evasions, sloppy efforts to romanticize or intellectualize what you would do, anyway. And what Harpur meant to do, and continue doing, was to pick thoroughly, secretly and skilfully through a possible villain’s private things, hunting a revelation, spinning his drum.
There had been little pleasure just now in the garden, encircled by muck and debris, badgered by train noise. No matter how close to a property, outside was no fun: more laughs on a rubbish tip. But actually to penetrate a house, to break through a portal and get within somebody else’s four walls and rooms, reading signs, imagining the life lived there – that thrilled him. At these times he knew he had picked the right job. He loved the finds, the intrusiveness, the risk. If he had not been a cop, he might, indeed, have fancied burglary, like Connery’s Duke Anderson; same techniques, same addictive tension. Or maybe psychoanalysis was another possibility, a game where you broke into people’s minds not their homes, and shattered cherished, undue privacy that way.
He put on no lights yet but could see more clearly now that he had been right and the kitchen was a wreck. As well as the utensils and smashed crockery, a lot of loose tea, cornflakes and the contents of a cutlery drawer littered the floor. The sink was full of broken crockery, too, as if the cupboard above it had been simply cleared with a few sweeps of the hand. Another cupboard had obviously been sharply tilted forward for a moment so that everything in it fell out and lay on the tiles; an old pair of scales, baking tins, earthenware casserole dishes and jars. It was probably crazy to try to read the message of this shambles but he still felt it looked more like a search than simple vandalism. No aerosol trog-speak defaced the walls, and he could not smell or see urine, or worse. He thought these cupboards had been cleared not just for the sake of destruction but to reveal what might have been hidden in them behind the routine items. The tea had been tipped out of a tin in case it covered something, and the cereal box emptied for the same reason.
He went along the little corridor to the living room. This, too, had been thoroughly knocked about, or so he thought at first. Then he suddenly realized that, in fact, the damage was confined almost exactly to about one half of the room, the half nearer him. The far side seemed to have escaped. Had the searcher suddenly despaired of finding whatever it was? Or had he been interrupted?
The furniture was all cheap and modern and must have been bought bit by bit, maybe from a junk shop doing reclaimed hire-purchase stuff, with no attempt at matching. All Harpur had learned so far about the occupant of this house was that he did not have much taste, and that he liked tea and could cook a bit. Perhaps his clothes took all the real money. Drawers from a foul, high-gloss sideboard had been turned out on the worn, would-be scarlet carpet. There were cassettes, holiday brochures, bills, a miniature rum, out-of-date raffle tickets. What struck Harpur as especially strange was that on the other side of the room stood a bureau, as shoddy and unhandsome as the sideboard, but clearly left alone during the search. Perhaps it was empty. He crossed the room and opened a drawer. No, it seemed stuffed with newspapers and telephone directories. He opened another drawer. That had clothes in – shirts, ties, a silk white scarf. He stood near the bureau, looking back across the room, trying to work out why there had been no interest in the bureau. There was a sort of frontier roughly in the middle of the faded carpet; one side, chaos, this side, neatness, like hell and heaven, and the great gulf fixed between, which he used to hear about from preachers as a terrified child. A small table with the telephone on it seemed to mark the divide and, after a moment gazing at the room, Harpur stepped to this table and examined the instrument. It was one of those white, plastic, console jobs with a memory device for your half-dozen most used numbers; press one of the six buttons and it automatically dialled pre-set digits. Five of the buttons had small stickers against them, with names on. He saw ‘Benny’ and ‘Ma’ and ‘Mandy’ for the top three and two sets of initials lower down the panel that meant nothing to him. It was the fourth button that had no sticker at all.
He listened carefully again for any sound in the house or outside and then pressed the unlabelled button. In a moment he heard the number ring out and, after another moment, a deep, cautious male voice answered, ‘Yes?’
‘Ah, Jack,’ Harpur said.
‘Who is it?’ Lamb replied.
‘Last time you had a call from this phone it was heavy breathing.’
After a long pause, Lamb said: ‘Colin?’
‘I’m afraid they’ve got your number, Jack.’
‘You’re at Justin Paynter’s place?’
‘It’ll never get into Ideal Home, Jack, you made an error.’
‘What error?’
‘Well, to start with basics, using young Justin. That boy’s got no idea of security. Your number’s only a push button away from anyone who walks in here. He did have the sense not to write your name down, but that’s his limit.’
There was another pause.
‘Jack, you understand? They don’t have to beat anything out of him, supposing he’s alive. It’s on an electronic plate.’
‘Tell me slowly.’
‘The other error; ringing him, probably. Looks as if they were searching here when that happened. Your call must have taken them to the phone, brought it to their attention, so when you’d rung off, one of them decided to try its memory bank of numbers. Yours was the only promising one, Jack. That’s what I mean about this lad’s mad carelessness. They wouldn’t be interested in the other five because they’d probably recognize the names and initials – Benny Loxton, Justin’s mother, his bird, that sort of thing. So, you get an immediate return call, and the same witty silence.’
‘Jesus.’
‘They didn’t bother searching any more. This room’s in two sections, like an ad for “before and after our cleaning service”. Obviously they were looking for anything that might tell them who exactly Justin leaked to. Could mean they’d failed to batter it out of him up till then, or perhaps he died too soon. Anyway, there it was, all nicely automated for them. Did you say your name at any stage during these calls?’
‘You’re joking.’
‘But there’ll be a simple way of finding which number is dialled by the button. Then, a few tenners to some telephone operator and they can work from a number to a name and address.’
‘Yes, I wouldn’t be surprised.’
Harpur became silent again for a moment, listening. ‘Jack, I don’t want to be hangin
g about here too long. They might have someone watching. Tell me, have you got an emergency exit drill? Somewhere nice and distant, preferably abroad, where you can hole up for a little while, say three or four years?’
Lamb had sounded very edgy earlier. Now, though, his traditional cockiness suddenly rolled back, as it always did when Harpur showed worry about him, a full quota of foolhardy, charmed-life defiance. ‘You know, Col, this isn’t the first time you’ve asked me that.’
‘Might be the last, Jack, if you don’t use it now. These folk are obsessed about secrecy, aren’t they? It’s clear something enormous is hatching. Anyone endangering it is liable to –’
‘We’ve had these scares so often. And abroad? How do I run my little show from abroad? It might not seem much to you, but it’s all I have and it’s all mine and it’s taken a lot of devoted building over the years.’
‘Jack –’
‘Don’t fret. Think about that pill box, Col. Think about Britishness. How would it have been if this dear old country had panicked in 1940?’
‘Jack – I wasn’t going to say this, you’ll turn sour, but we’ve had other whispers that something pretty massive is on the cards.’
‘Whispers from where?’
To suggest to Lamb that he was not the only one supplying useful information always confused and enraged him. ‘Where the hell from, these whispers?’ he insisted.
‘I can’t say now. Iles had some intimations. We’ve been sweating over them at his house, as a matter of fact. Trying to make some sense out of very little – hints and rumours.’
‘Intimations? What sort of ponce word is that, for God’s sake? Does it mean anything?’
‘Not much at present, as I say. We’re trying to puzzle our way through. Iles is worried, and he’s not a worrier. Possibly some kind of gang battle building up?’
‘You’re inventing this lot, aren’t you. Col? All the mystery language, “intimations”, “on the cards”, “hints” – you want to scare me, yes?’ Jack must be troubled, or he would never have allowed a telephone conversation to continue this long.
‘It’s vague, but something’s going on, Jack. We’re certain. You could be in the middle.’
‘But of what?’
‘Who knows? This is only an antennae reaction, so far. Christ, you understand that sort of thing – a feel that trouble’s around, before you have the facts.’
Lamb did not answer for a while. Then he muttered; ‘Okay, Col. Yes, I know what you mean and I’m going to believe you’re not just teasing. You could be right about taking cover, and I’ll think it over.’
‘Not for too long.’
‘Helen might not want to go.’ Again he began to sound assertive and sure. ‘She’s very fond of this property, you know. Says it cossets her personality. Cossets is the word she uses. Nice? The rooms are large and with helpful, springy board floors, so she can practise her entrechats and so on.’
‘Persuasion, Jack. Tell her it’s your skin, and there’s so much of it to be disarranged.’
‘And how do you function as the golden boy detective if I’m not here to feed you?
Now it was Harpur who did not answer.
‘Floored you, Col?’
Chapter Four
‘Everything we’re getting now, Benny – information. I mean about wiping out Leo Tacette and both his bloody sons – everything confirms what we had at the beginning. It’s beautiful,’ Macey said. ‘What we’re seeing is just a grand testament to your careful planning. We all believe, unanimous, that what you deserve, Benny, is congratulations.’
‘Congratulations, Benny,’ the rest said.
‘We’re not there yet,’ Loxton replied. ‘Nowhere near. But it could be shaping, yes.’
‘Hear that?’ Macey said, chortling. ‘Only shaping! What I say again is this shooting party will be beautiful. The only word.’
Loxton, seated in his favourite old bulging and listing armchair, had on full, white-tie evening dress, with a royal blue cummerbund and a yellow carnation in his buttonhole. ‘Show me, then, Phil, on the model. We still got that?’
Macey went to his briefcase and brought out a crudely made three-ply representation of what looked like a theatre stage. He stood it on the table. They were in the long, comfortable lounge of Loxton’s house on the Loam private estate, almost out into the country.
‘Make it quick,’ Loxton said. ‘Alma’s going to be down in a minute, ready for this bloody ball. I don’t want her seeing that.’
‘Understood, Benny.’
‘And don’t call me Benny when she’s here. I told you, she don’t care for it. Just a nickname I picked up in the Navy, being tall. Big Ben, like the clock?’
‘And always right,’ Macey added.
‘Possibly. Anyway, I was christened Theodore.’
‘Okay, Benny.’ Macey now brought from the briefcase three miniature plastic human figures and carefully arranged them on the wooden stage, in a close group, making sure each was placed correctly. ‘That’s how we was told original Leo and his sons would be standing, and that’s how it still is, Benny, so it’s great the planning’s right on the nail. That’s important, in view of the fire-point arrangements we had to make. I mean, these three are from a kid’s farmyard set, so when I say Leo and Gerald and Lay-waste will be like this, they’re not going to be carrying this big whip, or wearing purple riding boots, that’s obvious, but these was the best I could get quick.’
‘Which is which?’ Loxton asked.
‘Well, like I said original, the whole thing is going to be run by Gerald, and he’ll be here, in the middle, with the microphone.’ Macey took a pin from his lapel and stuck it into the model platform between the three figures. ‘That microphone is the key to it all. They’ve got to gather around it in a nice, tight group. So, all of them smack in the rifle sights, extremely neat, extremely open. Gerald will make the main speech from the platform, say what great folks his mother and Leo are, and how it’s their silver anniversary, and many of them, the usual heartfelt, family stuff. Gerald can talk. He had education and used to go to the library, it’s true, I seen him once myself going in there. But he’s only making the speech. The other boy, Anthony – well, Tony, Lay-waste Tony – he’s going to do the presentations, one the family’s and another from all the friends, what they call friends, the people who run with them, that means. Tony’s going to be standing here, behind Gerald while he’s making the speech, and the parcels by him on a little table. The present from the family is what’s called a censer, made of jade? Very religious. Antique. Oriental, or down that way. It’s for burning incense in. Leo and Daphne do much of that? Not that I heard of.’
‘The presents don’t matter, Phil,’ Loxton said.
‘No. Well, Gerald says these great things about Leo and Daphne, and all the guests are sitting at the tables clapping and saying ‘Hear, hear”, and “Give us a song”, a seven-course dinner, pheasant, none of your bubble-stuffed frozen turkey, Leo’s paying. But, all right, Benny, that don’t matter, either.’
‘Alma will be here any time, Phil, that’s all.’
‘Right. So, Gerald turns for the big moment of the night, and he calls his dad and mum to come on to the stage for the gifts. Then they climb a couple of steps here, look, and they’re on the stage, and they walk a few paces till they’re near Lay-waste to take the gifts and say something very elevating and reminiscent into the mike about being married twenty-five years.’ Macey put a finger on the head of the pin. ‘That’s why they’ll be so close together, like offering theirselves deliberate as targets. It’s handsome, inspired. I don’t know if Lay-waste ever give anything away in his life before, so maybe he been having training special. He’s great on hold-ups and grabbing, and going wild with a handgun, but this got to be geniality. So the four of them, the whole poison family, in such a very neat cluster around Lay-waste, that’s Leo, Gerald, Anthony.’ Now, he touched each of the farmyard personnel. ‘No bodyguards on the stage, just the four of them. Bod
yguards would look total bad form, an unforgivable reflection, this being a family affair, family and staff, all trusted. Would Leo show he can’t even rely on his own people? No. He’ve got to be relaxed, you understand, none of the usual muscleshield or he’s giving foul offence. They’re on a plate.’
‘One missing?’ Loxton pointed at the toy people.
Macey went over the identifications again; ‘Leo with the whip; then, the purple riding boots, Lay-waste; and the one nursing the piglets, Gerald. I haven’t got Daphne because we’re not interested in her, are we, Benny? The men are the firm. She’s spare. Pity she has to be there at all, really, we don’t have no quarrel with Daphne, but in silver weddings, you see, Benny, the wife always turns up. It’s marriage, isn’t it – they’re part of it, too? Of course, she could get hit, I can’t say different. This is what upset Justin, the idea to kill a woman, and made him act so stupid, trying to leak. There’s going to be a lot of bullets, that’s bound to be, if we’re trying to knock down decisive three people at once, and shooting from a distance.’
Macey pushed over the three farm workers slowly and one at a time and left them lying on the stage. ‘We have to take them right out, obvious. Injuries could be all right, if we knew for sure it meant wheelchairs for the rest of their time, or cabbaging their brains, so they’re never going to be able to do more evil against us for their firm, but you can’t tell with wounds. Doctors have come on such a lot since they let Lord Nelson slip away like that. Our boys won’t have time to worry about Daphne, no denying it. They’ve got to put a real, Quality Street fusillade in there, something irresistible. But that don’t give Justin excuse for wanting to grass. It’s a pity, but we had to sort him out, no choice.’
‘Too right,’ Loxton said. ‘I’m sad about it, though.’ He gazed at the deep green William Morris wallpaper and shook his head slowly in regret.