Guilt Edged (12 page)

‘Capitalists' charter, internships,' he declared, surprising me. Then he snorted. ‘At least he won't be having a Lewinsky moment with Brian.'

Griff, in his dressing-gown and those heelless slippers, was pottering round the kitchen when I slipped downstairs ready to leave. I was taken aback. Much as I applauded his brilliant progress, I did think someone his age was entitled to have his first cup of tea of the day while he was still in bed. As I took the tea he'd made with a smile and a kiss, I asked, ‘So what's with the night nurse? Isn't this her job?'

He looked round furtively. ‘There don't seem to be many things that are her job,' he said. He dropped his voice conspiratorially. ‘What I really want to do is come home, but I don't want to be a burden to you.' He put a finger to my lips. ‘Our business depends on you doing your repair work, not running around all day checking I'm all right, which Aidan is supposed to do, for a few more days at least. And I rather think Aidan needs a bit of a project after his sister's death. Which means I may have to go away with him. Fortunately, I'm UK-bound for a bit, so no long haul flights, thank goodness. We're talking about a boutique hotel somewhere. Now, what I want you to do for me is check the schedule of fairs we're booked to exhibit at – no, I'm not suggesting I help out, you silly child – and find accommodation that you can come back to at the end of your working day. I know you like lurking in our caravan, but imagine ending a tedious day with a hot bath, a luxurious bed and gourmet food!' He did the tiniest of little dances, which made me feel like doing handsprings, even though he did have to steady himself against the worktop.

‘You're on! Yes, I'll miss the caravan, which makes me feel like Mrs Tiggy-Winkle, but a spot of pampering would be lovely. Oh, yes please. Can I email the list of fairs to Aidan? He won't mind? I'll just send it without comment,' I added.

‘Excellent. Now, have a lovely evening with that young man. I know you're not smitten yet, but you never know.'

‘T
hank God for Internet, say I.' Brian stirred his coffee. ‘We do so much trade that way these days – you've no idea how keen the China market is these days.'

‘China with a big C? Not a little C? Because I wouldn't describe the market in mid-range china, the sort of stuff we specialize in, as keen. Not even buoyant.' I used Griff's word of choice.

‘So your skills come in useful?' His voice had an edge to it.

I wasn't sure which skills he was referring to, so I nodded as I took a sip of the coffee. When he didn't follow up, I grasped the nettle. ‘Do you mean restoring? In which case, yes, that side of the business is ticking over nicely.'

‘Of course it is; I've heard very good things of you. I meant the twitching nose skills.'

‘It doesn't work to order, as I was telling Tristam. I couldn't rely on it to win the Lottery. Heavens, it didn't even tell me how ill Griff was.'

‘But you've got a good eye, anyway. Picking out the only decent miniature from the lot Tris was checking over,' he reminded me. ‘He's off with flu today. Or so he says. And worrying about those horses,' he added, when I didn't bite.

I felt as if I might be on surer ground. ‘Have any others turned up?'

‘Not round here. And nothing suspicious about the quality. It's just the quantity. We auctioneers have reputations to maintain, same as you have. We thought of an informal little conference. Can we count you in?'

When I got back home, I was glad I'd said yes. Paul was looking distinctly sober.

‘You know that little white horse? I had someone round at my house this morning asking for it back.'

‘How did they get your address?' I flashed.

‘A bit of logical deduction, I suppose. We'd talked about how far I'd come and where I lived and so on. So I must have given too much away. Mary's furious with me. She's made me up the security to match that on her cottage.'

Which had been installed by the clever people who'd fixed ours. ‘Good. Anyway, what did you say about your horse?'

‘I didn't. I just said I'd given it away, and that was that. I don't think they believed me, somehow.'

I bet they wouldn't. ‘Do they know anything about your connection with Mary? Or me and Griff?'

‘Mary, probably – because someone in the village would have told them if they asked about me. In any case, they'd only have to sit and watch the house and see her coming and going. And they'd easily follow us.' He added, with a faint grin, ‘You've no idea what a circuitous route I took to get here.'

I nodded. He was a sensible man. How on earth had he come to be so confiding, a man whose profession demanded a padlock on the mouth? Because someone wanted the information, that's why. Maybe not for any particular purpose, just to keep handy should it ever be needed. And obviously they needed it to retrieve this horse. Because of the fingerprint? As good a reason as any.

‘If I go to the police, what's left of them, that is,' Paul said, ‘what can I say? They didn't threaten me, not exactly, just asked me to try to get it back because it shouldn't have been sold in the first place. At which point, I repeated that I didn't think I could.'

I managed a rueful grin. ‘I'm sorry I've embroiled you in something I don't want to be involved in myself. And – I never thought I'd say this – I wish Morris and I were still together. He'd know what to do. Not because he's a man, but because he's a policeman,' I added quickly as Mary joined us.

She grinned, but asked, ‘What about that police
woman
you were friends with? The one with the funny name? The one the parson married?'

‘Ah. Long story.' It was, very long. Freya and I more rubbed along together than loved each other as friends. And one day, when she'd been angry with me, she'd let rip in front of a fellow officer who'd turned out to be corrupt, with potentially disastrous consequences. But I'd lived to tell the tale, though I admit I would have been happy never to see her again. As a priest, rather than simply as her husband, Robin had suggested I forgive her. To his amusement – possibly – I'd agreed, so long as God made sure Griff came through his operation. Although Robin insisted that God didn't do bargains, I rather felt I'd got to keep my half. I'd conveniently forgotten the whole deal till now, of course – though no doubt God would forgive me since I'd had a lot on my plate. But would this be pure forgiveness or – since I wanted her advice, if not her help – applied forgiveness? Maybe Robin wasn't the person to ask that particular question, not least because he was worried sick about her and their unborn baby, who'd wanted to pop out early. Freya had been stuck in hospital trying to keep the baby in place for at least two weeks. She was bored out of her skull, according to Robin, who'd assured me she'd welcome a visit. I wasn't so sure myself, and I'd have preferred the forgiveness to be more in the abstract.

But now it was clear it'd have to be face to face, which meant another hospital visit, this time to Pembury.

I might still have flunked it if Freya's other visitor, an older woman, hadn't caught sight of me as she got up to leave.

‘She's very low,' she mouthed, as if Freya was blind as well as pregnant. ‘Mind you cheer her up.' She tiptoed out and gave an exaggerated wave. If I'd been Freya, I wouldn't have been low so much as furious.

‘I didn't know if you were allowed flowers,' I said, now properly in the bright but institutional little room, ‘so I brought these.' I produced a pretty basket the local deli had filled with nuts, olives and other small and exotic nibbles. I had a moment of panic: what if there were things in here pregnant women shouldn't eat?

She stared at me and then the basket, dull-eyed. So this was what low meant. I don't think I'd ever been low. I'd been angry and I'd been in despair, but a general state of lowness, where my face and shoulders drooped like Freya's, was foreign territory. I plonked the basket on top of a pile of fresh new magazines, mostly to do with babies, as far as I could see, and searched every last recess of my brain for something to say. Anything.

‘Look, I didn't have time for any lunch,' I said, producing a sandwich from my bag. One of the deli's best – so full that the sides of the baguette had given up trying to meet. ‘Would you mind?' Since all she did was turn her head away, I unwrapped it and took a bite. Garlic and herbs and gherkins and home-made mayo and Italian sausage and sun-dried tomatoes – they couldn't have crammed in any more. The inescapable hospital smell was overpowered, though not without a struggle.

She only started to cry, didn't she? So, abandoning the sarnie but still chewing, I found myself gathering into my arms a woman whose anger had nearly got me killed. Oddly enough I soon found myself crying too, good and hard, though I wasn't sure what for. Griff? Aidan? Morris? Nor to be honest was I sure what she was howling about: she'd got everything she wanted, hadn't she? A lovely husband and a baby and maternity leave with a good job to go back to and … But that was what being low was about, maybe. And maybe it was another name for depression, which I had read about. And maybe they couldn't give her any drugs to perk her up because of the baby.

‘What the hell did they put in that sarnie?' she demanded suddenly. Not as if she was blaming it for her tears. More as if she was about to snaffle it herself. Which was so like the Freya of old that I handed it over, just breaking off the part I'd bitten.

‘I need to pick your brain,' I said as she tore into it. ‘Fraud. Low level. I've got a fingerprint I need photographing before I return the thing it's on to its owner.' Since, cramming the baguette into her mouth as if she'd been starved, she wasn't in a position to ask any questions, I told her the whole story.

‘And what does Morris say?' How she managed to sound sarcastic when she'd got a mouth full of salami meant for me I didn't know.

‘Morris says nothing because I haven't told him. I haven't told him anything except goodbye.'

‘About bloody time too. What made you see the light?'

‘Leda sicking all over my bed.' I'd keep Tim out of it. ‘After she'd weed in Griff's.'

She threw back her head and laughed, eventually adding sourly, ‘Well, if you will play childminder to someone else's brat – it's not even his, I gather.'

‘He couldn't love her more if she was his,' I countered. Praise where praise was due.

‘And more than he'll ever love any other female,' she agreed. ‘Lucky you, then – on the loose. Anything promising on the horizon?'

‘Only a row of pots and other things waiting to be restored. Which brings me back to the fingerprint.' I dug in my bag and produced Paul's purchase. ‘Look at this.'

Frowning, she ran a finger over it, finally producing a grim smile. ‘Oh ho!' She rolled herself and her bump off the bed. ‘You couldn't pass me my phone, could you? Ta.' She tapped in digits as if the thing had offended her. ‘DCI Webb here,' she barked. I'll swear her spine straightened and her shoulders went back. ‘Yes, I know I'm on maternity leave. But I'm still ma'am to you.'

The upshot was that I was to take the small white horse to one of her colleagues, a forensic photographer, whatever one of them was. She also detailed a detective constable to what wasn't quite a case yet, as she told him, but might be. ‘There. So tomorrow little white gee gee can go back to the shop it came from, complete with its print, and with luck that Paul of yours will be left alone. Any ideas who's behind this? Not that old villain Oates?'

‘Would I be telling you about it if for a minute I thought so? By the way, do you and your mates know anything about gold picture frames? He wanted me to warn you about someone faking them.' I crossed my fingers behind my back. But Titus needed a few brownie points, didn't he?

‘I doubt it. And do I want to? Just run one hare at a time, Lina, that's my advice.'

‘Actually, there's another hare, too. A high-fired Ruskin one.'

‘OK. Tell. Hey, are those stuffed olives I see there?'

 

Mary was more relieved than Paul to see the much-photographed white horse. She pushed him out into the corner of the garden where reception was best to phone the original owner. ‘Now, tell me,' she asked, ‘did you meet any nice handsome policemen?'

I nodded, just to wind her up. Actually, DC Carwyn Morgan had been drop-dead gorgeous, but more, I suspected, the sort of guy Griff's eyes would follow around a room. On the other hand, he'd got the makings of an ally, and just at the moment I rated a mate above a lover.

‘Tell me,' she said.

‘Only about five nine. But a lovely body – obviously uses the gym. Thirties – early. Blond hair already thinning on top. Nice hands. Really nice hands.' I mimed the way he'd handled the horse, as if it was a body he loved.

As if against her better judgement, and certainly doubting mine, she asked, ‘And will you be seeing him again?'

I couldn't hold back a bark of laughter. ‘Oh, if this white horse business takes off, I should think so.' He'd promised to update me immediately if the print showed up on their system, but I wouldn't hold my breath. ‘But not otherwise. And just as a police officer. No more.'

The mixture of relief and disappointment on her face made me laugh again.

‘I can't inspect every guy as if he's boyfriend material, can I? Not as if I was one of Lizzie Bennet's sisters, always on the catch for an officer.'

‘There's something about a uniform, though.'

I shook my head. ‘He's plain clothes.'

Her face dropped. ‘Like Morris?'

‘Heavens, I hope not!' How on earth had she startled that out of me? It was time to change the subject. ‘You know, I suspect Griff's getting a bit bored in Tenterden, and I know he'd love to see you. If I take over the shop tomorrow, would you and Paul have time to nip over?' I'd pay her as if she'd worked every last minute, but there was no need to say that now. ‘You wouldn't have to stay for very long: I should imagine Aidan will have the stopwatch on you. He insists on treating Griff as an invalid,' I added, wondering if I was being disloyal. ‘And the trouble is, it's so nice for Griff to be pampered, I'm afraid he won't want to be independent again.' Maybe that sounded better.