Undercover (19 page)

For a time, their only thought would be: what else is a van for except to make love in? He'd put his folded jacket under Iris for comfort against the steel. This wouldn't be a soft, sandy beach to cup her buttocks. He didn't want her bruised and recriminating. Very pale skinned women like Iris marked easily as they went into their later thirties. Iris was tall, but, obviously, not too tall to fit across the width of the van. She had on jeans and a roll-neck blue sweater. That was all right. They weren't fiddly to get off – only the one jeans-waist button. He could make a pillow from her clothes, so as to keep her hair out of any muck on the van floor. She wouldn't mind this kind of unusualness. Although Iris liked system, it meant the occasional break from the customary startled and delighted her. If her hair did get dirtied it wouldn't matter because she shampooed every day, sometimes twice. ‘Apple and Almond' or ‘Lupin and Lavender' – that sort of alliteration.

He'd junked the van-sex idea, though. To open it and climb into the back with Iris might be too blatant. Tom had realized from the beginning that Neighbourhood Watch was sure to eye the baffling vehicle. Tom did open the van's rear doors but only to unlash the Viking Valhalla from the commode, bring the bike in and place it for the big showpiece effect when Steve and the rest returned. Then he followed Iris upstairs. She'd be ready for him. Perhaps he was the one getting seduced: the lawns and gardens man invited in and made use of; a bit of horticultural rough. He didn't feel in a resisting mood. He fancied homecoming contact with well-cared-for breasts. But in bed at first he'd sensed she was guarded – not cold or hesitant, though perhaps wondering whether despite that fine enduring kiss from an enduring marriage everything was all right between them still. By ‘all right' she'd mean there'd been nobody else while he was away, and maybe subjected to all those famous sexual pressures which could get at undercover police: ‘credibility coitus', as it was known. But she'd know that to ask about this would kill all the possible sweetness of these grabbed, lucky minutes.

And, gradually, as the pleasures of their togetherness took over, Iris seemed to put all uncertainties aside. Her responses had grown as committed and urgent as his own, her arms locked across his back like hawsers: escape me never – another film title. They were not a couple of kids. They
had
a couple of kids, one of them a mountain-biking grown-up. She and Tom knew how to be tender with each other when it counted, and how to be violent with each other when it counted. OK, so her skin might get bruised. That wasn't life-threatening.

They got dressed quickly afterwards. Now they did act like kids, hurrying in case it became obvious what they'd been at. He wouldn't have worried if it
were
obvious. What should these boys and Laura expect, after Tom's absence? He sensed Iris would have been embarrassed, though. She might not like Steve's pals to know he had a hot-arsed, seize-the-day-or-night mother. And Steve might not care for it, either. Downstairs, Iris had gone to the front-room window again and looked at the van. ‘What you call reconnaissance is surveillance, is it, Tom? Do I see peep holes at the tops of the As? Who was it said, “Hell is other people's peep holes?” Surveillance of whom? Is it a disguised police vehicle?'

‘No, not police. I thought, tell the boys and Laura if any of them get curious that I needed it to bring the Viking Valhalla.'

‘This doesn't answer the sort of questions they'll ask, does it?'

‘I don't know. It should beat them off.'

‘They'll want to know why lawns and gardens.'

‘Because it's a lawns and gardens van.'

‘Is that an answer?' She turned from the window. ‘How long can you stay?'

‘A couple of hours.'

‘Oh.'

‘I'm supposed to be working.'

‘At what?'

‘Reconnaissance, I told you.'

‘Snooping? Surveillance. You get in the back and observe through the peep holes, is that it?'

Yes, that's entirely and absolutely it. I've got a vital commission from the head of the firm, Leo Percival Young. It's a very responsible assignment, a possible indication of full acceptance into the tribe, a declaration of: ‘In thee, Tom, I put my trust.' He wants to know if one of his people is swindling him by filtering off high-quality customers. Niche work if you can get it. He's someone Leo
doesn't
trust and the contrast is very favourable to me. I'm the one who has to supply the evidence, validate the death warrant. Leo likes all the formalities properly attended to, especially when it's a slaughter item.

This thought scampered through his head, as that recollection of Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr in the breakers had. They remained as thoughts only, though, and unexpressed. ‘I needed the van to bring the bike,' he replied.

‘OK, OK, you're not talking.'

‘There's a fixed feature in there that I could tie the Viking Valhalla to so it didn't get thrown about and damaged.'

‘OK, OK, you're not talking.'

The pizza delivery had arrived then, just before Laura, and the boys turned up not long afterwards, radiantly clean and sleek from the swimming, diving and jacuzzi, fascinated by the parked van.

Luke started his quizzing. Others joined in.

Paul Harker said: ‘It says lawns and gardens but could it of been about anything, anything at all, Mr Mallen, such as “Loft Conversions” or “Car Infirmary For All Your Dents And Scratches”, or “Patio And Driveway Solutions”? There's a lot of vans saying “Solutions”. The important thing is it don't say who you really are because it's for creeping up on villains without them knowing you're creeping up and then bursting out on them and shouting, “Armed Police!” not, “Lawns and Gardens!” or, “Loft Conversions!” There's observation holes in the As, aren't there, so they'd know when to burst out?'

Greg Mills said: ‘God, Paul's grammar, Mr Mallen! He can be understood, though, if you concentrate. Anyway, you could have plenty of support in the back of the van sitting on benches around the vehicle walls, like paratroopers in a plane waiting to jump. But this support would be other officers, maybe wearing navy blue baseball caps with “Police” on them in white as a surprise, and rounding up all sorts.'

Harry Nelmes said: ‘You in the front, driving, you'd have to be wearing dungarees, or something like that, so you'd look like you were used to working in gardens and getting the dandelions and other weeds out of lawns, so a lawn could
be
a lawn, not just grass with weeds. It would be a giveaway if you had on a suit and collar and tie. These would be plain clothes, yes, but the wrong plain clothes. You haven't got dungarees on now, Mr Mallen, but that's probably because you're off duty.'

Greg Mills said: ‘Or most of the time he could be watching from in the back of the van. He would not be seen, although he'd be seeing, so it wouldn't matter about his clothes.'

‘Grub up!' Tom replied.

Iris and he handed out the pizzas and ate their own. After that, there was a vampire DVD for the lads and Laura. Tom helped clear the room of plates, glasses and cutlery. In the kitchen, Iris said: ‘Do you know what I'd like, Tom?' She answered before he could. But he would have guessed right. ‘A ride in the van,' she said.

‘Yes?'

‘Possible?'

‘Of course.'

‘I'll tell the gang, then. Just a quick spin.'

‘Fine,' he said.

He drove, with Iris in the passenger seat. He took the road he'd arrived by earlier.

‘I want to get fucked in this vehicle,' she said.

‘Yes, I know.'

‘The back's not full of those support cops Greg mentioned, is it?'

‘Don't believe so.'

‘It will be like putting an imprint on this van, on this bit of your life.'

‘Yes. I did something the same with the Viking Valhalla.'

‘Despite all the shadiness, when it comes down to essentials . . . Well, when it comes down to essentials, I'm one of those essentials.'

‘The most essential essential, Iris.'

‘This van is not outside my sphere. I can commandeer it, utilize it.'

‘True.'

‘Do I sound desperate, as if I'm trying to convince myself, Tom?'

Yes, some of that. But he said: ‘All of it's spot on.'

‘Sad?'

Yes, like that. A flavour of finality. But he said: ‘Joyous. Positive.'

‘There's a lay-by a couple of miles away on this road, isn't there?' she said.

‘I think so.'

‘On the other side.'

‘Yes.'

‘Here,' she said, in a few minutes.

‘Yes.' He pulled over and stopped there again. They climbed into the back and closed the doors.

‘We can make a pillow with your clothes,' he said, ‘so you don't get your hair mucked up from the floor. And I'll put my coat under you.'

‘These admin details,' she said. ‘Unimportant. The fuck's what's important. It takes possession of this horrible vehicle, tames it, colonizes it, incorporates it into something sweet and deep, makes it just a handy love venue.'

Temporarily. But he said: ‘Oh, yes, yes. Lie across. The van's wide, luckily. It can cope with tallness.'

‘Yours, too. I'll be on top. I'm in that kind of mood – imperious, controlling. Here's the pillow, and, yes, fold your jacket for a fender under your arse.'

‘Ah,
that's
what you meant by wanting a ride in the van.' On the way back to the house he bought some petrol.

BEFORE

T
om put the van odometer back to what it should be, cutting the mileage record by the distance for the round trip home, plus the there-and-back jaunt to that all-purpose lay-by with Iris, this being only nine miles, but he wanted everything exact. Undercover, even a minor failure to tally could start suspicion. Meticulousness – that's what he aimed for, meaning care over detail. Meticulousness – that's what his masquerade and his life depended on, like the lives of all snoops. Meticulousness wasn't a word he'd normally come out with, but they'd recommended it very forcefully and very often at Hilston Manor. A tutor there said ‘meticulous' used to mean fearful of consequences, from the Latin, and that a degree of fear was right for undercover people: fear of getting rumbled. If the words of the national anthem had been composed at Hilston, they'd have made it ‘send her meticulous', not the bloodthirsty ‘send her victorious'.

But the drive back had been in the dark, so it wasn't possible to be meticulous about watching for tails: one set of headlights looked like another in the mirror. Anyway, he felt pretty certain his worries about the Astra had been unnecessary. It certainly hadn't stuck with him. He'd written notes of the van's mileage readings during his extra travels, so it was easy to do the sums and adjustments before returning the vehicle to Leo Young at Midhurst. In some ways it hurt Tom to wipe out any trace of that journey he'd made with Iris. It seemed to mean that all the brave things she'd said about taking over the van, turning it into part of their love life, were cancelled – or had never amounted to anything but a wish, a hope. The van had become the job again, and only the job, not a happy humping site, with some of her warm clothes as a pillow and his folded jacket saving his behind.

Of course, she'd hinted that behind the show of boldness and conquest, she knew what the reality was: and so she'd asked him whether her efforts at optimism sounded desperate, sad. Silently, he'd decided they did. For her the van signified separation, distance, secrecy, career-mongering, complicated dangers. Yes. And the van was intended chiefly for taking an A-hole interest in what happened outside itself from eight possible angles, not for mature aged, farewell, marital fucking inside.

Tom texted Young from a petrol station near home to give a summary report on the Norm Rice shopping visit. It was after midnight. The text would suggest he'd been outside Emblem Court continuously until now. ‘Deputy collected materials as per sched using luggage trolley, TP.'

There was a reply from Leo: ‘Nice work. Leave van in grounds. Your car is checked OK and ready with keys near the stables. Sleep. Meeting here eleven a.m.'

Tom added what he estimated to be the right amount of fuel to cover the journey back to Iris and the children and so on.

When he drew up at Midhurst next day just before eleven a.m. in the BMW, Leo came out from the house with Martin Abidan to greet him. Leo's wife, Emily, waved to Tom from an upstairs window, a genial, comradely wave. Leo and Abidan walked over to the stables and Leo opened the doors. Tom got out of the BMW, went to the van, drove it into the stables, and parked near the black Mercedes. At the petrol station twenty-four-hour shop in the night he had bought beakers of tea, coffee and soup and filled all the Thermos flasks. He wouldn't let on at once, though, now. He thought he'd keep this as a good surprise for some point deep into the meeting. He knew it would delight Leo. The Thermos lids acted as cups, but, because there might be more than three at the meeting, he had washed out the beakers and brought them in his pocket, plus some sweeteners, dried milk in an envelope, and a teaspoon.

Ivor Wolsey arrived and joined them. Leo unlocked the back of the van and they all climbed aboard. Abidan unfolded three picnic chairs. Leo himself sat on the hinged cover of the closed commode. The others formed a semicircle around him. Compared to the commode, their chairs looked flimsy and unserious. The commode's solid wood and its thick arm rests gave Leo a kind of unique dignity, like a guru with grouped disciples eager to feed on his dicta. Also, the commode put him slightly higher than Tom, Abidan and Wolsey. Anyone glancing into the van would realize Leo's position proclaimed leadership, despite his absurd pinheadedness. Although he was short-legged, his feet reached the floor all right, never mind the commode's extra bit of height. He wore excellent, unscuffed black lace-ups, size seven or possibly seven and a half.