Come Clean (1989) Read Online Free Page B

what I mean, you change me, make me somebody different. Nobody else can do that.’
    ‘Why you want me?’
    ‘It’s part of it.’
    ‘I hope you realize, you’ll never make me somebody different or change me, Sarah.’
    ‘I don’t know so much. This is changing. It’s growing.’
    ‘Christ, but you’re so crude.’ In a little while he said: ‘You’re responsive absolutely everywhere on your body, you know that? I bet you get a thrill cleaning your
teeth, even.’
    ‘Only up and down. Listen, Ian, do we have to wait?’
    ‘No, of course not, love.’ He moved towards her.
    ‘Sometimes I like to wait, sometimes, no.’
    ‘Seems reasonable.’
    ‘Tonight, no.’
    ‘Good.’
    ‘Yes, you don’t want to wait either, do you?’
    ‘How can you tell?’
    When she reached home there was a light on in the front room downstairs and at the kerb an old Viva, the worse for wear. That would probably mean her husband was with Colin
Harpur, Detective Chief Superintendent Colin Harpur, head of criminal investigation. Harpur often drove battered-looking cars, hoping they would give some cover, though his big body and head, and
thick fair hair jammed up against the top, were almost comically conspicuous in a small vehicle. He was Francis Garland’s boss, and worked a good deal with Desmond, too, so presumably had
heard most of what there was to hear about her life and ways though he never gave any sign. None, except, possibly, that he seemed to treat her with special gentleness. Police knew how to sit on
secrets, and especially Harpur. The story went that his own marriage and love life had their complications. At any rate, there had been days when she was very grateful for his tender, understanding
style with her.
    ‘Sarah’s been at bridge, Col,’ Desmond Iles said. Both men had stood when she came in and folded down back into the leather chairs now. What could be the sound of a crushed
crisp packet came from deep under the cushion of Harpur’s. One day she was going to have a big clean-up in this room, and probably the whole house. Yes, definitely, one day: the same sort of
target date as for cutting back on her loving warmth in bed with Ian.
    ‘How was it?’ her husband asked.
    ‘Fine.’
    ‘Never got to grips with bridge,’ Harpur said. ‘Bridge, crosswords, chess and the veleta I can’t manage.’
    ‘Bridge needs a certain kind of mind,’ Desmond told him. ‘Subtle, bruising, painstaking. Col, you’d be lovely, unbeatable, on the last. But you’re far too
charitable. Sarah’s goodish all round. Yes.’ He turned to her. ‘We’re chatting policy, love. You know, whether we should advise kiosks to put the Mars bars at the back of
the displays, to beat shoplifters, with the Maltesers at the front, or might it be the other way about? Criminologists are silent on this and Nietzsche only tentative.’
    The two men were in shirt-sleeves, drinking tea from the best, real china cups. Desmond had a thing about decent crockery and glass when guests came, even subordinates. His upbringing had been
what he called ‘wholesome and chintzy’. In front of Harpur was a pad, with a few very brief pencil notes on it.
    ‘Pow-wow? Is there some big police activity ahead, then?’ she asked.
    ‘Always,’ Desmond said.
    ‘Yes, well, I think I’ll have a bath and go to bed now, if you don’t mind,’ she replied.
    ‘It would be so nice to talk to you for a while,’ Desmond said, ‘it really would, wouldn’t it, Col?’ The tone was as close to a plea as she had ever heard from
him.
    ‘Grand.’ Harpur smiled at her and she was conscious again of his wish to see her happy, or at least unhurt. They said he looked like Rocky Marciano, the boxer, but fair. She doubted
that. As she understood things, Marciano was ruthless in the ring. Harpur looked tough, but kindly with it, patient. And, despite what he and Desmond said, he must be bright, too, or he would not
have that job in his thirties.
    ‘I’m so