Full of Money (20 page)

Dean felt grateful. Adrian's signal made him struggle harder and with more conviction to get his breath back to normal and frame his words more or less coherently. Slowly, he recovered and managed a small smile to Pellotte. It thrilled Dean that they always helped each other in their different styles. He reached a neat conclusion and received good applause, including ‘bravo' shouts from two or three delegates.

After the talk and a question session that followed, there was a fifteen-minute break and he and Pellotte went over to the gallery wing of the building. On loan from the Wallace Collection in London, the original Poussin work that gave Powell his impulse for the novel hung there, the painting itself called
A Dance to the Music of Time
. Dean considered Poussin came quite close to making the grade, and he knew Adrian agreed more or less fully with this.

A woman behind them spoke, or rather, called out. Of course, Dean instantly recognized the voice. It started all kinds of memories, and thoughts about now and the future, too. ‘Dean – your talk –
so
fascinating, so understanding of womanhood – but wouldn't one expect that?' she said.

‘Karen!' Dean said. He and Pellotte had both turned.

Karen Tyne stood there smiling at them, in that way of hers.

‘You'd put real thought into it,' she said. ‘And
such
humanity! Do you know, for at least a couple of minutes I think I ran a temperature, it excited me so!'

‘You belong to the Society?' Dean said.

‘Joined this year,' Karen said. ‘I'm really into novels these days.'

‘They're worth the effort,' Dean said.

‘Well, what a treat!' Pellotte said. And he meant it. Karen – one of Dione's most long-term friends, perhaps from as far back as prep school. He liked her. During the run-up to Dean's divorce a few years ago, Pellotte thought there might have been something fervid between Karen and him, though Dean had never spoken of it, nor Karen, nor Dione. Dean could be very tactful/secretive. So could the women, probably. Pellotte considered they all had a right to silence, if that's what they wanted.

‘Things all OK?' Karen said.

‘Which?' Pellotte said.

‘Dione-Bale,' she said. ‘I hear bits, not all.'

‘Adrian, a father, so some anxiety. That's a big relationship, parent-daughter. Don't I know from my own family?' Dean said.

‘I think she has some guilt,' Karen said.

‘In which respect?' Dean said.

‘Oh, obviously, the estates – Temperate, Whitsun. The hates. She knows she's defying all that, and putting her father at risk,' Karen said. ‘Putting herself and Rupe at risk, too.'

‘No, no, I won't have that,' Pellotte said with anguish, ‘not Dione herself.'

‘She underplays that side of it, as you'd expect of Dione,' Karen replied. ‘It's all a bit tense. As a matter of fact I ran across someone lately who might be researching the estates, and the conflicts, for a novel.'

‘Who's that, then?' Dean said.

‘Well, of course, of course, you might know of him!' Karen said. ‘His latest book was on the Rupert Bale TV programme.'

‘Vagrain?' Dean said.

‘A brilliant item,' Karen said.

‘Researching?' Dean said. ‘I'm not sure we'll want some stranger poking about in the cause of literature or anything else.'

‘There was that journalist, wasn't there – the terrible death?' Karen said. ‘I told Abel Vagrain, but it didn't seem to dissuade him.'

‘We like our privacy on Whitsun, don't we, Aid?' Dean said. ‘And we feel we're entitled to it.'

‘That woman was on there with Bale discussing the novel, wasn't she?' Pellotte said.

‘Priscilla Sandine?' Karen said.

‘We're assured it's very much a business arrangement,' Dean said. ‘
Only
a business arrangement.'

‘I don't say impossible,' Karen replied.

‘I want Dione to be OK,' Pellotte said.

‘As do we all, I'm sure,' Karen said.

‘I worry a bit,' Pellotte said.

‘Often these kinds of things sort themselves out,' Karen said.

‘Which kind?' Pellotte said.

‘Uncertainties,' she said.

‘Next time you see them together, Karen, I'd like to hear what you think,' Pellotte said. ‘How they're getting on. I'm too involved. You'd be more clear and detached.'

‘This is not a request to snoop, not at all,' Dean said. ‘But there are unsettling aspects. That's what I meant, referring to fatherhood and its cares – noble cares, but cares. Just give it some very friendly, well-intentioned observation, Karen, and if the fucking Sandine woman seems to be hovering, a note of that, please. These would be acts by you of normal . . . normal comradeship.'

Karen said: ‘There are many wholly innocent pairings in television of man and woman, the only link being the programme, with absolutely nothing further to—'

‘When you say you ran across Vagrain, how would that be – running across him?' Dean asked. ‘In what circumstances?'

‘An uneven novel,
The Insignia of Postponement
,' Karen replied.

‘There's not an Abel Vagrain Society, is there? You don't belong to that as well as the Powell outfit, do you?' Dean said.

‘The symbolism in
Insignia
,' Karen said. ‘That old-style diving suit. And the boots. Crude. Laughable. Leaden – like the boots! But some other sections very OK.'

‘Tell us about Vagrain,' Dean said.

‘What put me on to him . . . or, that's to say, what caused me to run across him . . . I watch that programme because of a hate figure of mine who appears occasionally. I try to will him to touch a live cable and get shrivelled in front of the cameras, or at least have a haemorrhaging fit. I do a sort of voodoo. Actually, he wasn't on the show that night.'

‘Ince,' Dean said.

‘Right,' Karen said. ‘From Cambridge.'

‘I remember you told me. And he
is
hatable,' Dean said. ‘We wonder about him now and then.'

‘Following this, I managed to get to one of Vagrain's book-store signings,' Karen said.

‘Plus conversation?' Dean said.

‘One can see another side of the author,' she said.

‘Not just words on the page,' Pellotte said.

‘Right,' she said, ‘though these, of course, remain paramount. One gives the words, as it were, a living context.'

‘There's a very worthwhile flesh and bone aspect from actual contact at a signing and so on, I expect,' Pellotte said.

‘The theme of your paper, Dean – so perceptive and humane on . . . what did you call it? – yes, “the unhidden, unbidden, flagrant compulsions of promiscuity”,' she said. ‘Pamela Widmerpool's I mean.'

‘Thanks,' Dean said.

‘Flagrant because . . . well, because it
is
compulsive,' Karen said. ‘In her.'

‘That's the gist,' Dean said.

‘It's been a while, hasn't it, Dean?' she replied. Karen touched his arm for a second. ‘And how
are
you? Generally, that is. You're looking
so
damn well. Have you been in the gym bodybuilding? I think you've put on some pounds. It suits you. Greatly. Oh, yes, greatly. You look so upper body solid. Formidable.'

‘Sterling,' Pellotte said. ‘We should move.' People were beginning to return to the auditorium. She turned and went ahead.

Dean said to Pellotte: ‘Adrian, I might not come back to Whitsun with you tonight, other things being equal.'

‘No, I don't suppose you will. Which other things?'

‘You'd better have these.' He passed Pellotte the car keys. ‘See you here tomorrow. Make sure you put the Hodge boodle safe.'

‘Will you be all right when you take your jacket off and lose nearly all your upper-body physique?' Pellotte replied. ‘I suppose she must have a car here. There should be a nice country hotel not far off.'

Dean went swiftly after Karen, put a hand on her shoulder and spoke into one ear. She nodded. Dean rejoined Pellotte and they resumed their seats in the auditorium.

‘I'm really looking forward to it,' Dean said.

‘What?' Pellotte said.

Thirteen

‘He says he knows you, ma'am.'

‘Yes,' Esther replied.

‘He says he wants to talk to you on a “one-to-one basis”. His words. Only to you. We're not getting very far with him.'

‘Right.'

‘He says he's got something significant. That's another of his words, “significant”. To do with Gervaise Manciple Tasker. He uses all the names. Like official? And about Pellotte and Dean Feston. He could be just mouthing.'

‘I'd better come.' She replaced the internal phone and went down to custody. Detective Sergeant Sutton took her to Interview Room Four. ‘Hello, Ivor,' she said.

‘Mrs Davidson. Good. Thanks.'

‘What's been happening?' she said. ‘I've heard an outline. But—'

‘Alleged.'

‘Yes, alleged. Passing forged notes. Attempting to.'

‘There's more to it,' he said. ‘Much.'

‘I guessed that.'

‘Something significant.'

‘Fifties and twenties, yes?' Esther replied.

‘I'd like to talk to you alone,' he said. ‘On a one-to-one basis.'

‘Fine,' she said.

‘The recorder off,' he said.

‘Fine,' she said. The other people left. Esther sat opposite him.

He gave a big, loud, comradely sigh. ‘This is quite a bit different from usual, isn't it?'

‘Well, yes.'

‘Which is why I thought it best to ask for you.'

‘Right.'

‘I mean, we have . . . we have an arrangement. You'd agree?'

‘Absolutely.'

‘I help you good sometimes. You'd agree?'

‘Absolutely.'

‘I give you whispers.'

‘You're a registered informant, Ivor.'

‘That's what I was getting at when I said “different from usual”.'

‘The setting?'

He waved his hand at the bare, small room – a few straight chairs, the table, all of them anchored, the recording apparatus. ‘Not our normal sort of meeting spot. Supermarket car parks. Railway platforms. Malls.'

‘We switched them about. Best like that. Safer like that. Elementary precautions.'

‘But now in here,' he said. He gave another contemptuous, forlorn wave.

‘Where did the forged notes come from?'

‘Alleged.'

‘Where did the alleged forged notes come from?'

‘That's the point, isn't it?'

‘Are there more?' she asked.

‘It's a situation, isn't it?'

‘What kind?'

‘I don't know. I can't see the edges of it – how far it goes,' he said.

‘We might be able to work that out together.'

‘How am I supposed to know if they're forged? Do I hold every note up to the light?'

‘You've got a lot, have you?'

‘If there's cash in my pocket, I like to spend it, not put it under the microscope. My nature.'

She saw he wanted to sound unmiserly, loveably open-handed. Many informants realized they were regarded as sneaky and furtive. They
were
sneaky and furtive, had to be. So, when they saw a chance to act grand they grabbed it – to compensate. ‘It can be difficult with bogus notes,' she said. ‘Some places won't take fifties at all. They put up notices.'

‘Disgusting, really, isn't it?'

‘What?'

‘Abusing the nation's currency.'

‘Disgusting. Did a shop refuse the notes and call us?'

‘Presents – with Christmas coming up.'

‘How much involved?'

‘Two hundred and some.'

‘All forged? Alleged forged.'

‘Might only be one or some. I don't know. They didn't tell me.'

‘From one source?'

‘You'll remember where I live,' he replied.

‘Pine Street, on Whitsun. Is that important?'

‘My address – it's in your safe, with my code name, yes? Luke Totnes.' He smiled, as though comforted to know he had an approved, established place in the organization – the police organization – although, for now, he'd finished up in this room. That was also part of the organization – the police organization – but not a favourable part for him. He'd chosen the alias name himself. Totnes, in Devon, had some magic for him – a girl, perhaps, or childhood holiday. And he said he liked the flavour of ‘Luke' – maybe the mildness of the vowel sound. You kept a nark's name hidden, even from other police. Information could leak in more directions than one.

Of course, it would be wrong to call him Luke now. He had been pulled in under his proper name. Luke Totnes equalled Ivor Frank Caple, a capable, low category thief who did some confidential talking to Esther when it suited him. Now? She felt this shouldn't be held against Ivor Frank Caple/Luke Totnes: most informants only informed when it suited them, either as an earnings boost, or to get softer treatment in a prosecution. Esther was unusually high rank to run a registered, official, informant, but he'd talk to nobody else.

Caple: burly, large-faced, open-faced, strong-faced, grey-moustached, firm-jawed, fiftyish, cheery-looking even now, though with brief scowls at the room and what it meant for him. Some might be prepared to trust Caple on his appearance alone, and Esther would admit he probably brought her truth more often than make-believe. This would put him in the top seven per cent of informants. The moustache showed genius. It had bulk, density, packing the under-nose region and pushing out on to his cheeks but not farcically reaching the ears: these whiskers recalled earlier good eras – Victorian enterprise and sense, Edwardian solidity.