Loxton said: ‘And then this piece of consolation Mrs Iles was with at the Monty, Ian Aston? He saw as much as she did, maybe heard something and went out digging around in the
builder’s skip, yes? So he could have some angle. Suppose he hears from Justin it’s a silver wedding, say just those words, he can sniff around and find out it’s Leo and
Daphne’s do and he got something very tidy to sell, yes? He’s into that sort of trading, as I hear. Then Leo and the boys put up a bigger security job than the Queen in
Armagh.’
‘Yes, we’d like to talk to Aston,’ Macey replied. ‘Well, didn’t he see us as well at the Monty? So we been looking, real looking, but he’s gone out of sight.
Not at his place since that night.’
‘That’s serious,’ Loxton said. ‘Gone where? Who the hell’s he talking to? Why was they both so damn nosy and interested?’ He stopped himself shouting.
‘We have Ralph asking around, and off and on we’re watching Sarah Iles, in case she leads to him,’ Norman told Loxton. ‘Our feeling is, he’s not going to spill
anything because it might bring bother for Sarah Iles. They both need secrecy. We can count on it, Benny.’
‘Well, I might pick up a whisper or two at this thing tonight, who knows?’ Loxton said. ‘Mrs Iles will be there, probably. Others. Maybe Lamb, that bastard, I’ll keep an
eye and an ear. You going to be at your place, Phil, in case I need to get in touch?’
‘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, Norman, 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.