Men from Boys

Like an Arrangement Bill James

Not everyone realised that the thing about Assistant Chief Constable Desmond Iles was he longed to be loved. Among those who did realise it, of course, a good number refused to respond and instead muttered privately, ‘Go fuck yourself, Iles.’ A very good number. On the other hand, there was certainly a young ethnic whore in the docks who worshipped the A.C.C. unstintingly, and he would have been truly hurt if anyone said it was because he paid well.

What Iles totally abominated was people who came to esteem him only because he had contributed or helped in some way: say a piece of grand, devastating violence carried out by the A.C.C. for them against one of their enemies. He despised such calculating, quid pro quoism, as he called it. Once, he had told Harpur he utterly disregarded love that could be accounted for and reckoned up. Harpur felt happy the A.C.C. received from his docks friend, Honorée, and from Fanny, his infant daughter, the differing but infinite affection he craved. Also, Iles’s wife, Sarah, definitely possessed some quaint fondness for him, quite often at least. She had mentioned this to Harpur unprompted in one of their quiet moments.

To Harpur, it seemed that much of Iles’s behaviour could be explained by this need for completely spontaneous, instinctive, wholehearted devotion. Think of that unpleasant incident at the Taldamon School prize-giving, for instance. Although Iles would regard the kind of physical savagery he was forced into there as merely routine for him, it had made one eighteen-year-old girl pupil switch abruptly from fending off the A.C.C. sexually to offering an urgent come-on. This enraged Iles. He had been doing all he could to attract the girl, probably as potential stand-by in case Honorée were working away some time at a World Cup or Church of England Synod. Totally no go. And then, within minutes, the Taldamon girl suddenly changed and clearly grew interested in Iles, simply because he had felled and disarmed some bastard in the stately school assembly hall, and kicked him a few times absolutely unfatally about the head and neck where he lay on the floor between chair rows. Colin Harpur instantly knew the A.C.C. would regard this turnaround by the girl as contemptible: as grossly undiscerning about Iles, as Iles. That is, the essence of Ilesness, not simply his rabbit punching and kicking flairs, which could be viewed as superficial: as attractive, perhaps, but mere accessories to his core self. Harpur saw at the end of this episode that the A.C.C. wished to get away immediately from the girl and return to Honorée for pure, unconditional adoration even, if necessary, on waste ground.

It was some school: private, of course, and residential, and right up there with Eton and Harrow for fees. In fact, it cost somewhere near the national average wage to keep a child at Taldamon for a year, and this without the geology trip to Iceland, the horse riding and extra coaching in lacrosse and timpani. Harpur and Iles — Iles particularly — were interested in Taldamon because the police funded one of its pupils during her entire school career. This was an idea picked up from France. Over there, it had long been police practice to meet the education expenses for the child or children of a valuable and regular informant, as one way of paying for tipoffs. The scheme convinced Iles and others. It was considered less obvious — less dangerous — than to give an informant big cash rewards, which he/she might spend in a stupid, ostentatious way, drawing attention to his/her special income. That could mean the informant was no longer able to get close to villains’ secrets because the villains would have him/her identified as a leak. It could also mean that his/her life was endangered. A child out of sight at a pricey school in North Wales would be less noticeable. Or this was the thinking.

They had put Wayne Ridout’s daughter, Fay-Alice, into Taldamon, from the age of thirteen, and now here she was at eighteen, head prefect, multi-prizewinner, captain of lacrosse, captain of swimming and water polo, central to the school orchestra, destined for Oxford, slim, straight-nosed, sweet-skinned, and able to hold Iles off with cold, foul-mouthed ease until... until she decided she did not want to hold him off, following a gross rush of disgusting gratitude: disgusting, that is, as Harpur guessed the A.C.C. would regard it.

Harpur and Iles would not normally attend this kind of function. The presence of police might be a give-away. But Wayne had pleaded with Iles to come, and pleaded a little less fervently with Harpur, also. It was not just that Wayne wanted them to see the glorious results of their grass-related investment in Fay-Alice. Harpur knew from a few recent conversations with Wayne that he had felt down lately. Because of her education and the social status of Taldamon, Ridout sensed his daughter might be growing away from him and her mother, Nora. This grieved both, but especially Wayne. His wife seemed to regard the change in Fay-Alice as normal. Harpur imagined she probably saw it on behalf of the girl like this: when your father’s main career had been fink and general crook rather than archbishop or TV game show host, there was only one way for the next generation to go socially — up and away. Regrettable but inevitable.

Wayne could not accept such sad distancing. He must reason that if he were seen at this important school function accompanied by an Assistant Chief Constable, who had on the kind of magnificent suit and shoes Iles favoured, and who behaved in his well-known Shah of Persia style, it was bound to restore Fay-Alice’s respect for her parents. And it would impress the girl’s friends and teachers. For these possible gains, Wayne had evidently decided to put up with the security risk in this one-off event. Harpur doubted Fay-Alice would see things as her father did and thought he and the A.C.C. should not attend. But Iles agreed the visit and addressed Harpur for a while about ‘overriding obligations to those who sporadically assist law and order, even a fat, villainous, ugly, dim sod like Wayne’. The A.C.C. was always shudderingly eager to get among teenage schoolgirls if they looked clean and wore light summery clothes.

It was only out of politeness that Wayne had asked Harpur. As Detective Chief Superintendent, Harpur lacked the glow of staff rank and could not tog himself out with the same distinction as Iles. In fact, the A.C.C. had seemed not wholly sure Harpur should accompany him. ‘This will be a school with gold-lettered award boards on the wall, naming pupils who’ve gone on not just to Oxbridge or management courses with the Little Chef restaurant chain, but Harvard, Vatican seminaries, even Time Share selling in Alicante. There’ll be ambience. Does ambience get into your vocab at all, Harpur? I know this kind of academy right through, from my own school background, of course. I’d hate you to feel in any way disadvantaged by your education, but I ask you, Col — do you think you can you fit into such a place as Taldamon with that fucking haircut and your garments?’

‘This kind of occasion does make me think back to end of term at my own school, sir,’ Harpur reminisced gently.

‘And what did they give leaving prizes to eighteen-year-olds for there — knowing the two-times table, speed at dewristing tourists’ Rolexes?’

‘Should we go armed?’ Harpur replied.

‘This is a wholesome occasion at a prime girls’ school, for God’s sake, Col.’

‘Should we go armed?’ Harpur said.

Iles said, ‘I’d hate it if some delightful pupil, inadvertently brushing against me, should feel only the brutal outline of a holstered pistol, Harpur.’

‘This sort of school, they’re probably taught never to brush inadvertently against people like you, sir. It would be stressed in deportment classes, plus during the domestic science module for classifying moisture marks on trousers.’

Iles’s voice grew throaty and his breathing loud and needful: ‘I gather she’s become a star now as scholar, swimmer, musician and so on, but I can remember Fay-Alice when she was only a kid, though developing, certainly... developing, yes, certainly, developing, but really only just a kid... although... well, yes, developing, and we went to the Ridout house to advise them that she should—’

‘There are people who’d like to do Wayne. He’s helped put all sorts inside. They have brothers, colleagues, sons, fathers, mothers. Perhaps the word’s around he’ll be on a plate at Taldamon, ambience-hooked, relaxed, unvigilant.’

‘A striking-looking child, even then,’ Iles replied, ‘despite Wayne and his complexion. A wonderful long, slender back, as I recall. Do you recall that, Harpur — the long slender back? Do you think of backs ever? Or was it the era when you were so damn busy giving it to my wife you didn’t have time to notice much else at all?’ Iles began to screech in the frenzied seagull tone that would take him over sometimes when speaking of Harpur and Sarah.

Harpur said, ‘If we’re there we ought at least to—’

‘I mean her back in addition to the way she was, well—?’

‘Developing.’

This long back Fay-Alice unquestionably still had, and the development elsewhere seemed to have continued as it generally would for a girl between thirteen and eighteen. A little tea party had been arranged on the pleasant lawns at Taldamon before the prize-giving, out of consideration for parents who travelled a long way and needed refreshment. It was June, a good, hot, blue-skied day. ‘Here’s a dear, dear acquaintance of mine, Fay-Alice,’ Wayne said. ‘Assistant Chief Constable Desmond Iles. And Chief Superintendent Harpur.’

Iles gave her a true conquistador smile, yet a smile which also sought to hint at his sensitivity, honour, beguiling polish and famed restraint. Fay-Alice returned this smile with one that was hostile, nauseated and extremely brief but which still managed to signal over her teacup, Police? So how come you’re friends of my father, and who let you in here, anyway? Was it just normal schoolgirl prejudice against cops or did she have some idea that daddy’s career might be lifelong dubious — even some idea that her schooling and Wayne’s career could be unwholesomely related? This must be a bright kid, able to win prizes and an Oxford place. She’d have antennae as well as the long back.

‘Fay-Alice’s prizes are in French literature, history of art and classics,’ Wayne said.

‘Won’t mean a thing to Col,’ Iles replied.

‘I wondered if there’d been strangers around the school lately,’ Harpur said, ‘possibly asking questions about the programme today, looking at the layout.’

‘Which strangers?’ Fay-Alice replied.

‘Strangers,’ Harpur said. ‘A man, or men, probably.’

‘Why would they?’ the girl asked.

‘You know, French lit. is something I can’t get enough of,’ the A.C.C. said.

‘Mr Iles, personally, did a lot with education, right up to the very heaviest levels, Fay-Alice,’ Wayne said. ‘Don’t be fooled just because he’s police.’

‘Yes, why are you concerned about strangers, Mr Harpur?’ Nora Ridout asked.

‘Are you two trying to put the frighteners on us, the way pigs always do?’ Fay-Alice said.

‘I recall Alphonse de Lamartine and his poem “The Lake”,’ Iles replied.

‘Alphonse is a French name for sure,’ Wayne said. ‘There you are, Fay-Alice — didn’t I tell you, Mr Iles can go straight to it, no messing? Books are meat and drink to him.’

Iles leaned towards her and recited: ‘ “Oh, Time, will you not stop a while so we may savour the swiftly passing pleasures of our loveliest days?” ’

‘Meat and drink,’ Wayne said.

‘Don’t you find Lamartine’s plea an inspiration, Fay-Alice?’ Iles asked. ‘Savour. A word I thrill to. The sensuousness of it, together with the tragic hint of enjoying something wonderful, yet elusive.’ He began to tremble slightly and reached out a hand, as if to touch Fay-Alice’s long back or some conjoint region. But moving quickly towards the plate of sandwiches on a garden table, Harpur put himself between the A.C.C. and her. He took Iles’s pleaful, savour-seeking fingers on the lapel of his jacket. In any case, Fay-Alice had stepped back immediately she saw the A.C.C.’s hand approach and for a moment looked as if she was about to grab his arm and possibly break it in some kind of anti-rape drill.

‘Or the history of art,’ Wayne said. ‘That’s another terrific realm. This could overlap with French literature because while the poets were writing their verses in France there would be neighbours, in the same street most probably, painting and making sculptures in their attics. The French are known for it — easels, smocks, everything. It’s the light in those parts — great for art but also useful when people wanted to write a poem outside. In a way it all ties up. That’s the thing about culture, especially French. A lot of strands.’

‘And you’ll be coming home to live with Mother and Father until Oxford now, and in the nice long vacations, will you, Fay-Alice?’ Iles asked.

‘Why?’ she replied.

Iles said, ‘It’s just that—’

‘I don’t understand how you know my father,’ she replied.

‘Oh, Mr Iles and I — this is a real far-back association,’ Wayne said.

‘But how exactly?’ she asked. ‘He’s never been to our house, has he? I’ve never heard you speak of him, Dad.’

‘This is like an arrangement, Fay-Alice,’ Nora Ridout replied.

‘What kind of arrangement?’ Fay-Alice asked.

‘Yes, like an arrangement,’ Nora Ridout replied.

‘A business arrangement?’ Fay-Alice asked.

‘You can see how such a go-ahead school makes them put all the damn sharp queries, Mr Iles,’ Wayne said. ‘I love it. This is what I believe they call intellectual curiosity, used by many of the country’s topmost on their way to discoveries such as medical and DVDs. What they will not do, girls at this school — and especially girls who do really well, such as Fay-Alice — what they will not do is take something as right just because they’re told it. Oh, no. Rigour’s another word for this attitude, I believe. Not like rigor mortis but rigour in their thoughts and decisions. It’s a school that teaches them how to sort out the men from the boys re brain power.’

‘So, does the school come into it somehow?’ Fay-Alice asked. ‘Does it? Does it? How are these two linked with the school, Dad, Mum?’ She hammered at the question, yet Harpur thought she feared an answer.

‘Linked?’ Iles said. ‘Linked? Oh, just a pleasant excursion for Mr Harpur and myself, thanks to the thoughtfulness of your father, Fay-Alice.’

‘A business or social arrangement?’ Fay-Alice asked.

‘No, no, not a business arrangement. How could it be a business arrangement?’ Wayne replied, laughing.

‘Social?’ Fay-Alice asked.

‘It’s sort of social,’ Wayne said.

‘So, if it’s friendship why do you call him Mr Iles, not Desmond, his first name?’ Fay-Alice asked.

‘See what I mean about the queries, Mr Iles? I heard the motto of this school is “Seek ever the truth”, but in a classical tongue which provides many a motto around the country on account of tradition. You can’t beat the classics if you want to hit the right note.’

The A.C.C. said, ‘And I understand swimming has become a pursuit of yours, Fay-Alice. Excellent for the body. You must get along to the municipal pool at home. I should go there more often myself. Certainly I shall. This will be an experience — to see you active in the water, your arms and legs really working, wake a-glisten.’ Beautifully symmetric circles of sweat appeared on each of his temples, each the size of a two-penny piece, although the group were still outside on the lawn and under the shade of a eucalyptus. ‘The butterfly stroke — strenuous upper torso exercise, but useful for toning everything, don’t you agree, Fay-Alice? Toning everything. Oh, I look forward to that. Wayne, it will be a treat to have Fay-Alice around in the breaks from Oxford.’

‘Aren’t you a bit old for the butterfly?’ she said. ‘I hate watching a heart attack in the fast lane, all those desperate bubbles and the sudden incontinence.’

Iles chuckled, obviously in tribute to her aggression and jauntiness. ‘Oh, look, Fay-Alice—’

‘We don’t really need flics here, thank you,’ she replied. ‘So why don’t you just piss off back to your interrogation suite alone and play with yourself, Iles?’ Harpur decided that, even without pre-knowledge from its brochure, anyone could have recognised this as an outstandingly select school where articulateness was prized and deftly inculcated.

In the fine wide assembly hall, he appreciatively watched Fay-Alice on the platform stride out with her long back et cetera to receive prizes from the Lord Lieutenant. He seemed to do quite an amount of congratulatory talking to and hand shaking with Fay-Alice before conferring her trophies. All at once, then, Harpur realised that Iles had gone from the seat alongside him. For a moment, Harpur wondered whether the A.C.C. intended attacking the Lord Lieutenant for infringing on Fay-Alice and half stood in case he had to move forward and try to throw Iles to the ground and suppress him.

They had been placed at the end of a row, Iles to Harpur’s right next to the gangway, Wayne and Nora on his left. To help keep the hall cool, all doors were open. Glancing away from the platform now, Harpur saw Iles run out through the nearest door, as if chasing someone, fine black lace-ups flashing richly in the sunshine. He disappeared. On stage, the presentations continued. Harpur sat down properly again. The A.C.C.’s objective was not the Lord Lieutenant.

After about a minute, Harpur heard noises from the back of the hall and, turning, saw a man wearing a yellow and magenta crash helmet and face-guard enter via another open door and dash between some empty rows of seats. At an elegant sprint Iles appeared through the same door shortly afterwards. The man in the helmet stopped, spun and, pulling an automatic pistol from his waistband, pointed it at Iles, perhaps a Browning 140 DA. The A.C.C. swung himself hard to one side and crouched as the gun fired. Then he leaned far forward and used a fierce sweep of his left fist to knock the automatic from the man’s hand. With his clenched right, Iles struck him two short, rapid blows in the neck, just below the helmet. At once, he fell. Iles had been in the row behind, but now clambered over the chair backs to reach him. Harpur could not make out the man on the floor but saw Iles provide a brilliant kicking, though without thuggish shouts, so as not to disturb the prize-giving. Often Iles was damn fussy about decorum. He had mentioned his own quality schooling and this intermittent respect for protocol might date from then.

But because of the gunfire and activity at the rear of the hall, the ceremony had already faltered. Iles bent down and came up with the automatic. ‘Please, do continue,’ he called out to the Lord Lieutenant and other folk on the stage, waving the weapon in a slow, soothing arc, to demonstrate its harmlessness now. ‘Things are all right here, oh, yes.’ Iles was not big yet looked unusually tall among the chairs and might be standing on the gunman’s face. A beam of sunlight reached in through a window and gave his neat features a good yet unmanic gleam.

Afterwards, when the local police and ambulance people had taken the intruder away, Harpur and Iles waited at the end of the hall while the guests, school staff and platform dignitaries dispersed. Wayne, Nora and Fay-Alice approached, Wayne carrying Fay-Alice’s award volumes. ‘Had that man come for me?’ he asked. ‘For me? Why?’ He looked terrified.

‘My God,’ Nora said.

‘Someone hired for a hit?’ Wayne asked.

‘I’d think so,’ Iles said.

‘All sorts would want to commission him, Wayne,’ Harpur said. ‘You’re a target.’

‘My God,’ Nora said.

‘Someone had you marked, Wayne,’ Harpur said.

‘He’d have gone for you in the mêlée as the crowd departed at the end of the do, I should think,’ Iles said.

‘But how did you spot him, Mr Iles?’ Nora asked.

‘I’m trained always to wonder about people at girls’ school prize-givings with their face obscured by a crash helmet and obviously tooled up,’ Iles said. ‘There was a whole lecture course on it at Staff College.’

‘Why on earth did he come back into the hall?’ Nora asked.

‘He would still have had a shot at Wayne, as long as he could knock me out of the way,’ Iles said. ‘He had orders. He’s taken a fee, I expect. He’d be scared to fail.’

‘Oh, you saved Daddy, Mr Iles,’ Fay-Alice replied, riotously clapping her slim hands. ‘An Assistant Chief Constable accepting such nitty-gritty, perilous work on our behalf, and when so brilliantly dressed, too! It was wonderful — so brave, so skilful, so selfless. I watched mesmerised, but mesmerised, absolutely. A privilege, I mean it. Thank you, Mr Iles. You so deserve our trust.’ She inclined herself towards him, the long back stretching longer, and would have touched the A.C.C.’s arm. He skipped out of reach. ‘We shall have so much to talk about at the swimming pool back home,’ she said. ‘I do look forward to it.’

‘Let’s get away now, Harpur,’ Iles snarled.

‘Yes, I must show you my butterfly, Mr Iles,’ Fay-Alice said. ‘Desmond.’

‘Let’s get away now, Harpur,’ Iles replied.