now and then would come a frenzied cry for help.
But there would be a lot of oblique, general talk before Jack reached this topic. He liked to remind Harpur how indissolubly the two of them were bound together. ‘You’ll have been
concerned, but I’m glad to say the October Stock Exchange dive did me little damage, Colin.’
‘Grand.’
‘Luckily, I’d unloaded a lot of pictures just before. Some were very cherished, not just by me, by Helen, too, at home. You remember Helen, a sunny, punkish child, familiar with
l’art fang
, and so gifted at ballet and cohabitation? We both felt it a wrench to see some of those works go, particularly the Pre-Raphs. But one gets a feel about the way stocks will
behave, and if they do a real plunge it’s not long before all sorts of valuables are touched, too. Oh, yes, the crash has reached the salesrooms, you know. Bad. Painful. Renoirs. Bonnards.
Picassos not getting to their reserves, and having to be bought in. Mind you, serves the buggers right for putting high, grab-all estimates on everything. Those days are gone. That’s what I
say, Col.’
‘If that’s what you say, Jack, that’s what you say.’ Harpur hated hearing about Jack’s commercial life, though he knew as a certainty that fragments of it were
above board.
‘But pardon me. Sometimes I forget and behave as if you are a part of the business with me. Stupid – and impertinent. You show a friendly, helpful interest, deeply helpful, but how
could it be more than that, you an ace lawman? Good God, I’m not here to talk art and profit and loss, am I?’
Harpur waited. He had been through similar introductory formalities many times before and knew his role was only to digest. These rough reminders were meant by Lamb to soften him up; to proclaim
unmistakably, proclaim once more, that the two of them depended on each other and were in each others pockets for ever, one of those unsanctified but brassbound marriages between a copper and his
tipster. Harpur did not need telling. He never forgot. It was an uncomfortable feeling, but one shared by most detectives who used informants or grasses or narks or touts or tipsters –
whatever ugly name one liked to bless them with. And detectives who lacked these informants, trading whispers for a degree of privileged handling, rarely did much useful in the big, enduring,
untidy battle against the darkness. These people inhabited that darkness themselves, either totally or in part, but now and then, for their own purposes and reasons, they might offer to shine a
little light into an important shadowy corner where, without their help, police would never see. Politicians and editors who screamed about the perils and unwholesomeness of police dependence on
informants might well have a point, one they could go screw themselves with.
‘Colin, do you understand how things work, I wonder – the gathering of facts and rumours and hints? Look, I talk to you, but before that can happen there have to be people who talk
to me. I don’t originate. Well, it’s obvious. Do I continue to bore you?’
Oh, God, Harpur thought, so I read things right; someone else wanted protection or a favour, or a bit of special affection and feather-bedding, one of Lamb’s mates. He said; ‘Jack, I
look after you. That’s as far as I can go. It’s dangerous enough already. What you do about your own informants is not my province.’
Lamb held up an enormous, red-mittened hand to stop him. ‘Of course that’s up to me. Would I expect you to involve yourself with dirty nobodies, you a public figure, loaded with
insignia and kudos? Col, I’m hurt, offended. Give me credit for some knowledge of protocol, will you, please? Please.’ A couple walking with a dog despite the rain approached along the
sea wall. Lamb watched them carefully, and was silent until they passed.
Then he said; ‘This source, the one I’d like to talk about, suddenly isn’t around any more. Overnight,
But there would be a lot of oblique, general talk before Jack reached this topic. He liked to remind Harpur how indissolubly the two of them were bound together. ‘You’ll have been
concerned, but I’m glad to say the October Stock Exchange dive did me little damage, Colin.’
‘Grand.’
‘Luckily, I’d unloaded a lot of pictures just before. Some were very cherished, not just by me, by Helen, too, at home. You remember Helen, a sunny, punkish child, familiar with
l’art fang
, and so gifted at ballet and cohabitation? We both felt it a wrench to see some of those works go, particularly the Pre-Raphs. But one gets a feel about the way stocks will
behave, and if they do a real plunge it’s not long before all sorts of valuables are touched, too. Oh, yes, the crash has reached the salesrooms, you know. Bad. Painful. Renoirs. Bonnards.
Picassos not getting to their reserves, and having to be bought in. Mind you, serves the buggers right for putting high, grab-all estimates on everything. Those days are gone. That’s what I
say, Col.’
‘If that’s what you say, Jack, that’s what you say.’ Harpur hated hearing about Jack’s commercial life, though he knew as a certainty that fragments of it were
above board.
‘But pardon me. Sometimes I forget and behave as if you are a part of the business with me. Stupid – and impertinent. You show a friendly, helpful interest, deeply helpful, but how
could it be more than that, you an ace lawman? Good God, I’m not here to talk art and profit and loss, am I?’
Harpur waited. He had been through similar introductory formalities many times before and knew his role was only to digest. These rough reminders were meant by Lamb to soften him up; to proclaim
unmistakably, proclaim once more, that the two of them depended on each other and were in each others pockets for ever, one of those unsanctified but brassbound marriages between a copper and his
tipster. Harpur did not need telling. He never forgot. It was an uncomfortable feeling, but one shared by most detectives who used informants or grasses or narks or touts or tipsters –
whatever ugly name one liked to bless them with. And detectives who lacked these informants, trading whispers for a degree of privileged handling, rarely did much useful in the big, enduring,
untidy battle against the darkness. These people inhabited that darkness themselves, either totally or in part, but now and then, for their own purposes and reasons, they might offer to shine a
little light into an important shadowy corner where, without their help, police would never see. Politicians and editors who screamed about the perils and unwholesomeness of police dependence on
informants might well have a point, one they could go screw themselves with.
‘Colin, do you understand how things work, I wonder – the gathering of facts and rumours and hints? Look, I talk to you, but before that can happen there have to be people who talk
to me. I don’t originate. Well, it’s obvious. Do I continue to bore you?’
Oh, God, Harpur thought, so I read things right; someone else wanted protection or a favour, or a bit of special affection and feather-bedding, one of Lamb’s mates. He said; ‘Jack, I
look after you. That’s as far as I can go. It’s dangerous enough already. What you do about your own informants is not my province.’
Lamb held up an enormous, red-mittened hand to stop him. ‘Of course that’s up to me. Would I expect you to involve yourself with dirty nobodies, you a public figure, loaded with
insignia and kudos? Col, I’m hurt, offended. Give me credit for some knowledge of protocol, will you, please? Please.’ A couple walking with a dog despite the rain approached along the
sea wall. Lamb watched them carefully, and was silent until they passed.
Then he said; ‘This source, the one I’d like to talk about, suddenly isn’t around any more. Overnight,
Similar Books
