Guilty Pleasures (15 page)

By the time Robin and I got back, a familiar Saab was sitting in the White Hart car park. Morris strolled up to the cottage while we were wrestling with the new tyre, and, leaning against our front door, offered helpful suggestions.

‘Haven't you got some masterpiece you ought to go and ransom?' I asked, pushing a lock of hair off my face with the back of my hand. Robin might be bright and generally strong, but he really was clueless about cars. All the more reason for AA membership, I'd have thought.

‘There's one in Sweden, but Interpol are on to that. Are you sure that's not a bit overinflated? Or maybe it's the others that are soft. He embarked on the classic manly
see, I know the right pressures just by kicking the tyre walls
routine, with Robin soon joining in. I let myself into the house to find soap and water and have a conversation with Tim the Bear, before sending Robin off with a suggestion that the fuzz forensic team might like to give the whole car another once-over.

‘The TV ploy didn't work, then,' I said later as Morris passed me a mug of tea. It was too hot, so I put it on the bedside cupboard. ‘Because if it had, whoever planted the tracking devices would have known he didn't need to bother tailing my contacts.'

‘So we're looking for someone in the south-east who doesn't watch TV or read the local press – we got a lot of newspaper coverage too,' he said ironically. ‘There, you didn't even see it yourself, did you?'

‘I've not had a lot of time, with the succession of visitors I've had this morning. You included, of course. Why did you come down?'

‘I'd have thought the last hour made that abundantly clear. Plus I was out Folkestone way – someone trying to spirit something they shouldn't have through the Tunnel – when Freya Webb called to say there was further activity here. I wanted to make sure you were all right. Being guarded by teddy bears is one thing; I thought you might need a police presence. And I'd say you were expecting me.' He patted my morning's purchase. ‘Maybe hoping?' It might have sounded smug, but he looked almost anxious.

I peered into my mug. Josie would have wanted to read the tea leaves. Even thinking about her made me twitch with guilt – I'd never phoned to ask about my double, or to pass on Griff's thanks for the cake, in whichever order. I'd never – the list was quite long.

‘Post-coital
tristesse
?' he asked, touching my hair.

‘Might be, if I knew the words,' I grumbled, trying hard to work out the meaning. Morris was one of the few people I'd ever told about my poor vocabulary (I'd learnt that word very early on!), and as far as I knew was the only one who'd ever betrayed my trust. He'd meant if for the best, of course, but a lot of things go wrong when people do that. ‘The thing is, Morris, I've let all this snuffbox business bury me. I've got work to do, contracts to fulfil, a big fair next week. All without Griff, of course.'

‘I can't say I'm sorry Griff's not here at the moment.'

‘I know. He really needs a change after that break-in.'

‘I wasn't quite thinking of Griff's well-being, Lina.'

‘Neither was I, to tell you the truth,' I admitted. ‘But every minute I listen to Robin's miseries, for instance, and he's got so much to bear at the moment, is a minute I can't be doing something else. A something that keeps our business afloat.'

‘No, the economic climate's not good, is it? Any moment I expect a call saying our squad's been abolished or merged and that I've been transferred to Traffic.'

‘Now who's got post-coital
tristesse
?' He didn't correct me so I must have used the term properly. ‘Seriously, what if they do close you down?'

‘I go private. Bruce Farfrae's always on at me to go in with him. Crime never stops, even when police officers are being made redundant. He'd like me to run his New York office. But obviously, I wouldn't want to move to the US.' He kissed my lips. ‘Obviously. But we were talking about you, Lina. Your problems. Which I'm about to make worse, actually, as far as invading your time is concerned. I want to chew this business over with you officially.'

‘Which means we'd better get dressed and go into the office,' I said, swinging my legs on to the floor.'

‘Absolutely. But not just yet.'

‘So when you went to see Colonel Bridger, he denied all knowledge of the snuffbox and this poor thing.' He patted the poor tatty folio.

‘Never seen either of them ever before. My father recognized the box, don't forget.'
And would love to get his sticky mitts on the folio
, I added, but silently. To the best of my knowledge, Morris still thought my father was a boozy old idiot.

‘I think we should talk to your father.' He got to his feet – we were off now, it seemed.

‘And while we're in Bossingham, maybe we should look at Bugger Bridger's neighbours. The ones sharing a boundary with him. They could have popped it into his box of rubbish, hoping someone would pick it up at the fête?'

‘Why? It sounds a dead risky move.
Was
a dead risky move. After all, you got there first. The whole point of covert operations like that is that they're successful and that no one else knows about them. But we can at least look at their property. Now what?'

‘Just texting my father to say we're on our way.'

‘Texting? That's a bit twenty-first century!'

‘So is Sky, and he's still hoping to find a hidden site for a dish.' I didn't like not telling Morris that sending a text was simply warning my father not to be doing any illicit forging when we arrived. I preferred Morris to think of him as a doddery old soak, rather than as a master forger.

‘The locks you installed for me are still working very well, as you can see,' my father told Morris. ‘Had a bit of a scare then – nice quiet life since. Until some other bastard turns up claiming to be one of the family.'

As always, I tried not to flinch at the word. What was I if not a bastard?

‘It's surprising none has,' Morris ventured. After all, he'd seen my father's list of sexual partners and their offspring.

‘Nothing for them if they did. Everything belongs to the bloody trust. Even that damn apology for a track, though they won't admit it. Hope your suspension's still in one piece? The sump?'

Morris blinked. ‘I think so.'

‘Actually, there's a few quid in a trust fund Lina insisted I set up. Sold some book to the nation – wouldn't take a penny profit for herself. Maybe I've already told you. Sorry. Have some more fizz.' He topped up Morris's glass before he could put his hand over it. ‘Any chance of your finding a few goodies to sell, Lina? And bringing in a few cases next time you come?'

‘In a minute,' I said. ‘Morris is really here to talk about that snuffbox I showed you. You said you remembered someone round here using it. Colonel Bridger didn't. In fact, he didn't even recognize it.'

‘Johnnie Come Lately, isn't he? They say he's tidying up his place because he's importing a mail order bride. Certainly didn't want to let me in to clutter the place up.'

‘Nor Robin the Vicar and me when we went to talk to him. And no, he didn't so much as pinch my bum, thanks to you.'

My father leant confidingly towards me. ‘It's not so much pinching, Lina, as—'

Morris rescued me. ‘Is he normally a hospitable man? Or is this reluctance to admit people a recent development?'

‘Always been a few pence short of a shilling – but then, the army, you see,' my father explained. I think.

‘But you knew the snuffbox?' Morris fished in a pocket and put it into my father's hand.

‘Yes, indeed. And it isn't this one, young man. The one I knew was worn, where the owner flicked it open. I told you, Lina. This is some copy. Not sure they've got the pattern the right way round either.'

Silently, I passed over my eyeglass. After a bit of a fuss about fitting it, as if he didn't use one regularly for his work, he peered at the snuffbox. ‘Saw something on the box the other day. I know Lina thinks I'm wasting my time, but I learn some things you'd never dream of.'

He did.

‘They can forge almost anything, you know.'

I looked away.

‘And if someone thinks there's a market – bingo! Some nasty folk living in Kent, you know. A lot of so-called businessmen get shot – turns out their posh houses and great carts of cars are paid for by drugs money. Someone kidnapped in Ashford. A man gunned down outside Sainsbury's. Kenneth Noye gets road rage. People nick JCBs and dig cash machines out of post offices. It all happens here.'

Morris nodded, as if the information was new to him. ‘So you think this is a forgery?' He looked at me. I'd said the same thing, hadn't I? And asked him to get it tested.

There was no stopping my father. ‘Man in the news the other day selling fake furniture to people with more money than sense. He was Kent, too, come to think of it. And Lina tells me there's a man at these fairs she goes to sells nothing but dodgy bookshelves and dressers.'

I nodded. It was true. I was so impressed by all this righteous indignation that I almost believed my father had never forged an Elizabethan document in his life. With luck the idea would never even cross Morris's mind. When he spoke, I wasn't sure, however.

‘So why do you think this is a fake?'

My father sighed, as if Morris was a dim child. ‘You wouldn't get two of these boxes, not cropping up in the same place. The one I knew has been knocking around fifty years or so to my knowledge. Worn. This one – good as new, apart from this tarnish. None of the stuff Lina sells for me is dodgy, is it, my girl?' Before I could answer, he continued, ‘And before you ask, she keeps a record of everything she takes – which she makes me sign, as if she's some Betterware salesman – and then she tells me how much she makes, keeps back her ten per cent and then makes me give her a receipt.'

‘I'm just anxious in case any of the rest of your family turn up and accuse me of diddling you,' I said with a blush.

‘Well, go and find me a pot of gold at the end of the corridor and sell it for me, there's a good girl. I'll just open another bottle of bubbly for Morris here.'

Leaving them alone had not been on my agenda. But I could hardly insist I stay and mind him.

‘Before we drink any more, just tell me who was using this snuffbox. I mean, the original, of course,' Morris began as I left the room.

I didn't let myself stay and eavesdrop, much as I'd have liked to. All I heard was my father saying, ‘I could be mistaken, probably am, but I've an idea it was old . . .'

For some time I'd had my eye on a pair of filthy Meissen lambs with cute little pink bows round their necks. I found them sickly sentimental, but a client had mentioned he'd started collecting sheep. Each to their own – and if it brought in cash I was happy to oblige. Once I'd cleaned these up, provided they were as perfect as they looked, they'd buy a few weeks' booze. So I grabbed them and headed back to the others.

My father stared. ‘You know, I came across a few more of those the other day. Come with me.'

I managed not to gape. But he was right. In the far corner of a filthy and broken corner cupboard on a half landing were three others – not with bows, but possibly earlier and more valuable. I gathered them carefully up, putting two in Morris's surprised hands. ‘Nearly a flock now,' I said. ‘Any more?'

‘Any more,
Pa
,' he corrected me. ‘Father's a bit pompous. Don't hold with this fashion of kids calling their parents by their Christian names, either.'

I made my mouth work. ‘Any more, Pa?'

‘As it happens, there may be one in the old nursery. I had it when I was a nipper.'

‘That's in the trustees' half,' I objected. ‘So you're not entitled.'

‘Not even if I played with it with my nanny?'

‘Probably not,' Morris said, still staring at his burden.

I tell you, it was nothing to mine.

‘So your father – your
pa
– actually recalls seeing the snuffbox when he was young. Shame his memory stops there.'

‘You're lucky to get any recollections from him. They're what Griff calls intermittent.'

‘But why has the box surfaced now?' He braced himself as I, who'd held back on the champagne and was just within the alcohol limit, drove very slowly down the disputed track. ‘And he's a lot better than when I last met him, Lina – what have you done to him? Hey, why are you crying? No, stop. Pull over and tell me all about it.'

It took several sobs and a lot of false starts before I could say it. ‘All the time I've known him I've never called him anything. Not to his face. I mean, not a name. And now he wants me to.' I might have turned on a tap. And then I choked. ‘Griff – he'll be so upset!'

‘Why?'

‘Because he's afraid I'll come to love my father best and leave the cottage and go and live at the Hall.'

‘And will you?'

‘Not a chance.'

He took my hand, and asked more quietly, ‘Will you
ever
leave Griff and the cottage?'

SIXTEEN

B
efore I could get halfway to framing an answer to that, my phone rang. Pulling a face, I took the call. ‘Robin?'

‘Seems there's another tracker device on my car. So there's probably one on that guy Trev's too. Which means he's leading whoever down to your friend Harvey.'

‘So it does. I'll call them.' With a word to Morris, I did just that – Trev first, since he was presumably most at risk. ‘Just drive straight to your nearest police station,' I suggested.