‘Don’t tell me he made a complaint,’ I said, wondering how Lane could have clocked me so quickly.
‘He didn’t. I’m making the complaint.’ He drew me further back and pointed out Lane who was just then stepping off the escalator. Only a few seconds later the ubiquitous bloke in the raincoat appeared from behind one of the large fake columns and followed him out of the building. ‘DC Howell. A bright new detective constable, good practice for him.’
‘So you’re having him followed as well. Care to tell me why?’
‘None of your business. Who’s paying you to sniff about?’ he asked.
‘Sorry, client confidentiality.’
‘Bollocks.’
‘Tough titty.’
‘Stop fucking me about, Mr Honeysett, or I’ll be forced to arrest you,’ he said in an unpleasant singsong.
‘I’m not breaking any damn laws by following Lane until he takes out a restraining order against me,’ I said, serious now.
‘You’re interfering with a police investigation.’
‘You’ll never make it stick. Especially since I demanded clarification on the matter and was refused. Your sergeant here’s my witness.’
‘You what?’ grunted Sorbie.
‘Look, we’re bound to follow him for the same bloody reasons, aren’t we?’ I said reasonably. ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.’
Deeks considered for a second. ‘All right, let’s go and find a bike shed somewhere.’
Five minutes later in the Green Tree, just around the corner from where Lane was still waiting for the bus with his personal DC in attendance, Deeks lifted a pint of Janglepaws or some other odd-sounding stuff to his pale, floppy lips and slurped. I stuck my nose into my Guinness to help me through this. I couldn’t believe I was sitting at the same table as Deeks without a tape recorder running. DS Sorbie was staring glumly into his glass of reconstituted orange juice.
‘Okay, you first,’ Deeks said.
‘N-nn. You first,’ I countered skilfully. Kid’s stuff.
Sorbie groaned.
‘Does he have a hangover?’ I asked.
‘Doctor told him not to drink with his medication. But DS Sorbie likes to try everything once.’
‘Laudable.’ I didn’t ask what DS Sorbie needed medication for. Lots of things by the look of it. ‘Okay, no big secret, Griffin’s, the insurers, want to know if he’s faking his disability which they are forking out for.’
‘Same here. I believe Lane’s always been a part-time fraudster. He’s got two convictions for fraud, one insurance, one benefit, though neither are very recent. Which doesn’t mean he’s not been at it in the meantime.’
‘So why are you interested at all, surely you must have better things to do than to keep small fry under surveillance?’
‘I certainly do. Only the landlady who got sued for damages by the little toerag is the Assistant Chief Constable’s ex-wife. She’s only a recent ex and he wants to impress.’
‘I took the job because my roof got blown away. I believe I have the purer motive: money.’
‘You’ll do as you’re told. Don’t underestimate my career plans, Honeysett.’
‘What about you, DS Sorbie? Do you have career plans?’ I asked pleasantly.
He gave a pained and joyless grin and nodded. ‘When I’m not too busy trying not to puke in your Guinness, yeah.’
‘Well, it’s a job and I have to make a living, guys, just like everyone else. .’
‘Too right, you’ll never survive on your art, mate, I’ve seen the crap you paint.’
Everyone’s a critic. ‘Okay, howsabout we’ll take it in turns to watch Lane?’ I suggested. ‘Saves on the man-hours and we’ll let each other know if he suddenly starts jogging round the park.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ Deeks said and took a long slurp of his pint, then set it down precisely on its beer mat. ‘I’ve thought about it. You have to be shitting me. I’m telling you to piss off out of it. But I’ll make you an offer, and you’d better take it ’cause you won’t get a better one: if we catch him line dancing we’ll give you a shout. And another piece of advice: you really should take the goggles off inside.’
Next morning I was watching Lane’s house as usual, only even more carefully. Two things had made me suspicious: the chummy offer to let me know if they found anything on Lane and the frankly unlikely fact that Deeks had paid for the drinks. Not at all normal behaviour for the fuzz, as I liked to think of them. Sounds cuddly, doesn’t it? They were to get less cuddly before the day was out. In the meantime I was getting soaked under the inefficient shelter of a near-bald tree in the now familiar car park, waiting for Lane to make an appearance. It had started to rain again when I’d set off for Larkhall and not stopped since. It was that annoying kind of dancing rain, so fine it wafted about on the breeze and there seemed an endless supply of it upstairs where the sky was a featureless slab of wet cement.
It wasn’t until after ten that Lane left the house. Again I made sure he got on the bus, then started up the Norton and followed the by now familiar bus route into town, just to make sure he didn’t get off before then. He had his blue bag with him and went to the library once more. He returned some books and walked on into the history section where he browsed, picking up books, reading the blurb or the index, then returning them to the shelf. Another batch of school kids was there and Britain at War was still on the shelf so I opened it again. If his surveillance went on like this I might get to finish the book in tiny increments. This time I made sure I didn’t miss him leaving. He exited the Podium at the back, where a couple of wooden picnic tables stood deserted, crossed the road and disappeared into the Victoria Gallery. The large sign over the entrance read A Half-Century of Sculpture. An exhibition of American and European sculpture from 1905 to 1955, sponsored by this, that and the other.
I waited a minute, then followed inside with a stony heart. Did it have to be sculpture? Being a painter I wasn’t really wild about it. Especially this piddly stuff. If you must do sculpture (and I really don’t see why) make it big, make it heavy, do it properly. And preferably outside somewhere.
Lane was taking a clockwise turn through the exhibition space. On the walls were some drawings and photographs of stuff they couldn’t get in here, an awful lot of blurb about the history of sculpture and how Duchamp’s urinal had changed everything. (Surely if one pissoir can revolutionize your entire discipline you’re in trouble, non?) I skipped most of it, keeping one eye on Lane. There were things plonked about everywhere: some guy’s reinterpretation of a pietà, better luck next time, mate; a couple of de Kooning things that looked like he left them on top of the stove too long, should’ve stuck to painting; two rather witty wire things by Picasso, should’ve stuck to sculpture; some motorized Alex Calder stuff that was ever so slightly bent which gave it an art-schoolish feel. The unavoidable Mr Moore was represented by some reclining, sorry, recumbent lump with holes in all the right places, and the centrepiece was a small contorted bronze by Rodin on a plinth. The whole exhibition looked like the stuff had just been dragged out of storage and no one had taken the time to give it a dusting. The names were all there but the examples, apart from the Rodin, were rubbish.