Guilt Edged (14 page)

Would Aidan manage to crack his face when I told him about the next few minutes? A woman fell in the car park – maybe she slipped on some leaves. There were two sounds: her scream and the sound of china being smashed. Other people were quicker to pick her up than I was, but naturally as soon as I'd made sure the box was safe and locked the van, I joined the knot of onlookers.

By now she was on her feet. Someone offered her a cup of tea, even though the fair was officially over and the hall was being locked up. But she insisted she was all right, and, picking up her plastic carrier and its bubble-wrapped contents, which had tipped sideways on to the tarmac, said she'd be off. Didn't I know that voice from somewhere? But perhaps I'd just heard it this afternoon.

Something fell out of the loosely swathed bubble-wrap. A little white thing. Surely, surely, a tiny horse's leg. I was too far away to be sure, though I'd have loved to pounce on it – helpfully, of course, in order to return it to her. Now I was almost sure it was our Mrs Fielding, but with an elegant dark bob this time. As she scuttled away, presumably to a car parked in the village street, something got into me, and I leapt back into the van. I would give chase!

Actually, that was not a good idea – not with our names blazoned all over the sides of our lovely petunia vehicle. If only I'd come in the nice anonymous Fiesta. I brought the chase to an abrupt halt some hundred yards behind her – I stopped as if I had to take a call on my mobile. So when I saw her scramble into the passenger side of a Y reg Volvo outside the Three Tuns, at least I could try to get a few shots of her, and of the number plate. No, too far away to get a really good photo. Then I made a point of not following them, talking endlessly and with endless hand gestures as the Volvo did a U-turn and drove past me. In other words, I couldn't have been less interested. Just in case they'd clocked me and were waiting to see what I did next, I nipped diagonally across the road to the filling-station cum shop and bought a paper I didn't want and some milk I needed. There. Lina just being an ordinary girl.

Maybe.

Call me paranoid, but I wasn't about to lead them back to Aidan's, or anywhere else. Assuming they wanted to follow me at all. Assuming there was anything significant about the little white fragment I'd seen on the ground.

Just to waste more time, I bought a pretty vile sarnie too and retired to the van to eat it. And then, and only then, did I drift back to the village hall car park, looking hard on the ground as if I'd dropped something myself (I'd tucked a key in my hand ready to use as a prop just in case anyone noticed me and asked what I was doing). It was clear where she'd fallen – quite a skid. She must have hurt her own leg too. But not as much, I hoped, as she'd hurt the little white one. Because leg it was. In her haste to scarper, she'd left behind perhaps two centimetres of china hoof. I picked it up with the sandwich wrapper, which I bunched into my pocket. A little present for Carwyn Morgan. If he had a tame forensic photographer, perhaps he had a tame forensic ceramics expert too.

But though I went to the trouble of driving into Maidstone, I did no more than drop it off at the reception desk, with a short message telling him how I'd acquired it. I didn't expect him to be working on a Sunday, after all, and even if he was, there didn't seem to be any point in having a conversation, not the way Friday's had ended. In any case, I had a load of china to stow and a van to park before I set off to Tenterden. Should I take Tim and stay the night, which would mean Griff didn't have to worry about my driving through increasingly nasty weather? Or should I make the weather an excuse to leave early?

Since Griff was well enough to play chess with Aidan, I was glad I'd settled for the second option. The drive home was really tricky, but he didn't need to know that, and when I phoned to say I'd got in safely, he crowed that he'd just beaten Aidan.

So I did the routine security check with a light heart. Until the screen told me that someone had been sniffing round. A predictable hoodie, with the face ninety per cent hidden. Perhaps it was just a would-be opportunist thief, deterred by the obviously hi-tech system. Of course, there was a lot more that was even higher tech not on show. I saved the footage and double checked the shop and the cottage. All was well.

The following day, the usual deluge of emails matched the still torrential rain. Two struck me immediately. One was from Tristam, asking if I fancied lunch today. He didn't get it, did he, that I didn't do lunch? But before I could point this out, I had one from his boss, Brian, telling me he'd had another batch of pictures in and he'd welcome my opinion over lunch. Problem. Griff always insisted on good manners, and if I turned down Tristam's offer, how could I accept Brian's? Or vice versa? Tim suggested the best thing was to say no to both; I could offer to see Brian towards the end of the working day, when I'd finished the next stage of the Limoges plate, with a quick drink with Tristam afterwards.

‘We did well with the fine arts sale,' Brian greeted me, ‘and especially well with the lot including the miniature you fancied. Of course, as Tris points out, if it had been a real Isaac Oliver, it wouldn't have been offered here but in a higher end auction house. Anyway, the lot brought in nearly twelve hundred, so the vendor was pleased.'

‘Have you any more lovely miniatures?' I asked.

His phone rang. Checking it, he pointed apologetically at the stack of pictures in the far corner. There was no sign of Tristam, so I was free to browse.

As before there was a strange mixture. There was something claiming to be a Turner, and a David Cox or two. Even I knew that the market was awash with David Coxes you wouldn't want to touch, not just by his son or the school of, but just plain fakes. As for the lowering cloudscape that claimed, by way of a signature, to be a Constable … Heavens, would anyone fall for that? But as I worked my way through, I came across another batch of miniatures. Some were even worse than those on Adrian's spare room wall. But as before there was one cracker. This time it was of a lovely young woman, in the sort of costume you associate with overblown Lely ladies, with the most beautifully depicted eyes and no hint of the Lely pout.

‘Tell me about them,' Helen Baker said, appearing from nowhere. ‘Brian's always on about this gift of yours. Tris too: he'd like to lay his hands on it even more than he'd like to lay his hands on you.' She pulled out the Coxes. ‘Loadsa money in Tris's family. Oh, he says they're hard up but it's the sort of hard up that means they can't have a new Audi till next year – not that they'll need one then, because they last forever. And they can't go skiing twice this year – just the once. He'd be a good catch, Lina. Assuming you wanted to catch anything, of course. Even Tris's so-called flu. Back this morning with not so much as a pink nose or an apology. The young, God bless them. Now why don't I class you as young?' she asked. Her smile suggested it was a compliment; I wasn't so sure. ‘Now, these 'ere Coxes.'

‘In a minute,' I said. If I was called on to do party tricks I'd do them in my own time. ‘This miniature.'

She checked in her apron pocket for a notepad. ‘School of Gibson, according to Tris.'

Had I got as far as Gibson in that book? I must have done, but I couldn't remember anything about him. ‘Only school of?' I queried, hoping I sounded as if I knew what I was talking about. ‘Some pupil!'

‘My sentiments exactly. The others?'

Crap. I couldn't use that word, of course, so I groped for the sort of word that Griff sometimes used. ‘Dross. Unless they have some extrinsic value. Are they all from the same collection? Because if so I can't understand why anyone who liked her should like the others. Can you?'

She shrugged. ‘
De gustibus
…'

Thank God for Griff and his insistence that I must never look blank, even if I didn't have a clue what people were talking about. And then the thought of Griff reminded me I did know the phrase, but in a longer version:
de gustibus non disputandum est.
There's no disputing matters of taste. True. But that was such a difference of taste. Somewhere, deep in the bit of my head I can't explain, a little bell started to ring.

‘The Coxes?' she prompted.

I shook my head. ‘Ask me about china and I'll tell you things worth hearing. Possibly, though I don't know as much about them as Tris, even about little white horses,' I added with a grin.

She tapped the Cox. ‘Like those in this picture?' She wasn't about to let this go, was she?

There were some genuine, absolutely authenticated Coxes in the library of Bossingham Hall. Lovely things. Everything seemed to be in the right place, in the correct proportion – the sort of effect the best landscape architects like Capability Brown were after. Everything about the picture she flourished was right. But not quite. The horses were great little nags. A shepherd the other side of the meadow looked good. But …

‘I can tell by your face, you know,' she said. ‘OK, one for the dodgy pile.'

‘But you can't go on my instincts,' I protested. ‘Not on something I've not a clue about.'

‘Of course not. It's nice to have a second opinion, though, even if it is highly unorthodox. Tris has got plenty to research – and he'll have to dig deep, I can tell you. We don't want to get into trouble. Did you see that case in the paper, some Russian who'd paid millions for a painting and then sued the auction house because he'd got evidence that suggested it was a fake? We don't want to go there, believe me.' She looked across to Brian, who was making frantic gestures and pointing at the phone.

After a last look at the School of Gibson miniature, I followed her. Brian handed over the phone and again beckoned me into his new office. I ran a finger across his desk: the dust was already settling nicely. There was a patina growing on his sparkly new keyboard, too.

‘White Beswick horses,' he said.

‘Fingerprints,' I responded. ‘At least one.' I explained.

‘But the print isn't on the police files?'

‘Not yet. But it's the most definite ID we've got. And it's nice to know that we're not on our own.'

He snorted. ‘Come off it, Lina – with the police decimated, and I mean that literally, not in the general woolly sense of being reduced by a lot, can you imagine them devoting much time and effort to chasing up bits of minor crime? Actually, I'm wrong. They say there are twenty per cent cuts, don't they? Hell, though antiques are my living, I'd rate small-scale fraud lower on a scale of importance than bashing old ladies.'

I had to agree. ‘On the other hand, sometimes little crimes lead to big crimes. And big crimes tend to involve organized criminals sooner or later. Think international people-smuggling, child prostitution and drugs.'

‘So in the interests of world peace, PC Plod should look at little gee gees. Come off it, Lina. Anyway, it's certainly appropriate that we should keep an eye open. After all, if they can't sell fakes, there's not much point in producing them.'

I couldn't argue with that.

‘It's proving tough getting people together to discuss the issue; maybe we'll resort to videoconferencing. You're still up for it? You must be working your socks off, with Griff
hors de combat
.'

Whatever that was. I got the general sense and agreed. ‘That's why I can't take proper lunch breaks,' I said, trying not to sound too apologetic. ‘The end of the day's better, because my hand's getting tired by then.'

‘Helen says the rest of you's looking pretty tired, too.' He laughed, and I had a shrewd idea what was coming next. ‘I just think you're looking pretty, of course.'

‘Thank you kindly, both of you.'

‘Come and have a bite of supper with us one night. We'll even invite young Tris, if you want.'

‘Helen's already tried a spot of matchmaking,' I said, ‘thanks very much. Actually, I've agreed to take him for a drink tonight.'

‘Interestingly put.'

‘Nothing but the truth. You'll have to start paying him if you want him to take me out on a date!'

W
hoever paid, I didn't see many future dates with Tris. We just didn't have enough in common, which sounds amazing when you consider our work. I tried to get him talking about all the research that goes into authenticating a picture – or damning it to the ‘School of' category, of course. He just wanted me to pull identification rabbits out of a hat he didn't even have with him. Was this how professional comedians felt, honour-bound to make people laugh all the time?

At least I had a good excuse not to snog him: I didn't dare catch his flu, I said, when he tried it on, because of passing bugs on to Griff. Since he knew I was mates with Helen and Brian, he could hardly admit he'd just pulled a sickie because he wanted a nice long weekend. He did offer to drive me home but since he'd drunk enough for me to worry he might be over the limit I insisted on walking.

Last time I'd done that, of course, I'd had to take refuge in the takeaway and then had the nasty shock of seeing our cottage lit up like Blackpool illuminations; this time, my walk was quiet and uneventful, and our security nicely undisturbed. The phone rang just as I shut the front door, but years of Griff's training made me fasten every last lock before answering it. ‘If they want us enough,' he always said, ‘they'll hang on or ring back. And if we want them enough, we can always dial 1471 and call them, can't we?'

Of course, there were some people who withheld their numbers, weren't there? And it was one of those who'd called tonight. But then a text came from a real human being – Carwyn Morgan. The horse leg was interesting, he said – and he suggested I pop round to Maidstone police station next time I had a moment to spare to talk about it.