Guilty Pleasures (26 page)

He looked at me closely. ‘To see what, Lina? The sea? Or to see if you could see your double? Because you know what, a nice summer evening like this speaks to me more of romantic meals for two than anything else. In fact, while you were sorting out the hire car, I booked a table at Number 75. Al fresco, I thought. And – just for this evening – no mention of crime at all.'

Ashford isn't the most sympathetic place to say goodbye, especially when the lovers go their separate ways in individual hire cars, he off to London and Leda, me with a very relaxed Griff beside me. Aidan was no cook, but he knew his wines inside out and he'd been happy to indulge Griff in his new favourites from the Chapel Down vineyard just outside Tenterden. Griff clutched a bottle of white so that I could have a taste when we got home.

Some idiot had parked so close to our yard gates that it was going to be a struggle to get in. Normally, I'd have sworn; this time I squeaked with fear – who was after us this time? Then I recognized the driver. Freya Webb.

Nonetheless, I stowed the car, and Griff, and zapped the gates closed, before walking round to the driver's door. It was certainly Freya, but I'd never seen her like this before, her face blotched with tears.

I zapped the gates again. ‘Better park safely,' I said, almost tempted, watching her amateurish attempts to reverse inside, to offer to take the wheel myself. At last, however, she was inside, horribly close to the hire car, and I locked us in.

Griff took one look and herded her into the living room. Within moments he appeared with red and white wine, not the expensive one he'd brought home, incidentally, and a couple of bottles of whisky, complete with crystal water jug, and, being Griff, an assortment of appropriate glasses, plus some nibbles and a box of tissues. Then he withdrew, as silently as he'd waited on us, with hardly an enquiring glance at me.

‘Robin?' I prompted at last, passing the tissues.

‘Dumped me. Fucking dumped me by fucking text.' She helped herself to a glass of sauvignon blanc and downed it as if it were water.

Never having needed to do it, I wasn't sure of the etiquette of dumping by text. It didn't seem the kindest thing to do. But then, dumping never was – and dumping in front of someone else, as I had once done, was a bit low too. I wasn't keen on being dumped by posh dinner and even posher teddy bear either. So I made a few sympathetic noises, which seemed enough. I made sure the next glass she sank really was water. She didn't seem to notice.

Another problem, of course, was that I'd never had a close woman friend, as dear Josie had pointed out. I did realize that it wasn't the moment to ask after Josie, though I'd dearly have liked to know how she was. What could I say to comfort her?

‘What did he say?' I ventured.

‘Oh, just a lot of crap about his vocation and a time of uncertainty. Isn't that what
people
are for, to be there in times of uncertainty?' she added, in a parody of the sort of vicar-ly tones Robin never, ever used.

‘Very long words to text,' I mused. ‘Where was he when he texted you?'

‘I don't know. How should I know? Bloody text.'

‘I was just wondering . . . Did you get it at work? 'Cos you might have been able to put a trace on the phone.'

‘Why should I want to do that?'

‘Because he's disappeared off the face of the earth. And we only have the rural dean's word for it.' Maybe in her situation I'd have been so shocked that I couldn't think straight. And the more I thought of it, the more I wondered if she should have been suspicious about Robin texting such intimate stuff in the first place. The Robin I knew and loved – as a friend – would surely have phoned at the very least. Wouldn't he? Except that he'd not been himself at all recently: the bad temper, the smoking – heavens, the state of his kitchen should have rung enough alarm bells. Not to mention nearly forgetting a wedding.

‘Have you tried contacting him?'

‘The shit doesn't deserve me.' That might have been her second large glass of wine speaking.

‘The thing is, Freya, he's not usually a shit. Why not text him back and say you want to talk?'

Because she was so drunk that she couldn't make her fingers and thumbs work, that was why. She must have started before we arrived, which would explain the rotten job she did of parking. She was nearly asleep now. Actually, she was probably knackered after all the hours she'd been working.

‘Too late now. He'll be asleep,' she said at last, as if from the bottom of a deep pond.

‘We'll do it in the morning then – right? I'll just get a pillow for you.' Should I give up my own bed for her? I really ought. But I doubted whether she'd make the stairs. So a pillow, a sheet and a lightweight duvet were all she'd get. She certainly didn't demand more. She was fast asleep by the time I returned.

We woke her at about seven, with a mixture of the smell of bacon – the sort of fry-up I'd fed an equally hung over Robin – and the sound of Radio 4. It didn't work on her. Green, she demanded dry toast, which I suspected she dashed off to throw up. Conversation was clearly not on her agenda.

It wasn't until I unlocked the yard gates for her that I said, ‘You will phone Robin, won't you? In front of your colleagues, so they can locate where he is. After all,' I said slowly, as she stared at me as if I was talking Chinese, ‘anyone could send a text. It doesn't have to be Robin.' Which meant, of course, that I was admitting that my avuncular guardian angel (thank goodness Griff had taught me that useful word) hadn't necessarily been on the side of the angels after all. What did that make him? It was a bit early in the day for theology, wasn't it? I just told her the facts. And she didn't like it at all that Simon Bonnaventure had been in his company. She hardly waved as she drove off.

As I looked up after her, I heard my mobile ring. I took the call, pleased that Griff was cleaning his teeth and wouldn't know to whom I was talking.

‘Long time no hear, Titus,' I said.

‘Been watching your back, like I said?'

‘You know I got hauled in for questioning?'

‘Fair do's to the filth: someone looks like you, talks like you, might well be you. One of his lordship's by-blows they're looking for, I hear.'

Was there any point in asking how he knew? None, really. ‘Getting tired of all this business, Titus.'

‘Not too tired of it to be shagging coppers.'

‘Just the one,' I said tartly, giving myself away nicely. ‘Look, I want my life back. Any advice?'

‘Why d'you think I phoned? Has that Fi Pargetter turned up yet?'

‘Not that I know of.'

‘Funny friends some folk have,' he said.

‘I need a favour. Other people's friends. Photos. If I leave them at Pa's, will you look at them and see if you recognize anyone?'

‘Fucking hell!'

‘I'll take that as a yes.'

Those parcels had sat in the living room quite long enough. So we planned an expedition to the post office. I was to carry the large canvas bags we'd stowed them in. Griff, having checked first that the street was empty, via the street cameras and using his own eyes, would wave me on my way. Then I was to leg it as fast as I could. Meanwhile he'd lock up as carefully as if we were off to the North Pole and follow at his own pace, armed with the illegal spray and the equally illegal swagger stick that my father had once pressed on him to protect me. It would all have been ludicrous if it hadn't been so deadly serious.

It was even more serious when, well clear of the comparative safety of the post office, where we'd completed what must have amounted to a week's worth of business for them, and still fifty metres from the safety of the yard gates, we saw a strange car draw up outside our front door. An anonymous Focus. I had Griff by the arm, ready to drag him back somewhere. Anywhere. The pharmacy, maybe.

Then we breathed again.

The man getting out of it, arms outstretched, was familiar enough. ‘I thought we'd go in this,' he said. ‘Maidstone, of course. To talk to Freya. She wants us to pool our ideas before the MIT, which has been a pain in the butt, from what I can gather, trampling all over our own delicate enquiries.'

‘Time for a coffee while I put on some slap?' I asked, returning his hug with interest. ‘And even if we're not going to be long, you'd best park in the yard. No point in putting temptation in people's way.'

Despite my earlier wise words, Griff insisted on opening the shop, with Mrs Walker and her fiancé, Paul Banner, in attendance. Mary was better than any of us at wrapping parcels and, with the wedding coming up, was glad of any extra cash. Paul seemed impervious to anything as he tapped out his poetry on his laptop, but stationed himself strategically close to the panic button. The day's repair list, headed by a hideous epergne of very doubtful provenance, could wait.

Freya looked a different person altogether from the one we'd waved off an hour or so ago. Changed into a shirt and a straight skirt, and newly-made up, she looked ready for anything. She raised an ironic eyebrow when Morris followed me into her office, to which I responded with a mouthed enquiry: ‘Robin?'

She shrugged the shrug of a woman who didn't care if her man was in outer space without life support. Her shirt rose with the shrug but didn't fall again: it was too tight across the bust.

I took a breath, then shoved Morris outside. ‘You have to phone. You have to find out where he is.'

She opened a file, turning it so I could see the photo. ‘Is this your Tom the Rural Dean?'

‘Yes.'

‘In that case he is who he says he is. And the diocesan office confirmed Robin was indeed on retreat. Please can I have my colleague back so we can discuss the somewhat more important problems that remain to be dealt with.'

‘So long as you phone. And make sure he is where he's supposed to be. Please. He's my friend too, Freya.'

‘Afterwards. OK?' She moved behind me to open the door for Morris, who stepped in, innocent as if he hadn't been eavesdropping on every word.

‘No. Not OK. Apart from anything else, as parish priest he might even recognize some of the people we're interested in. Sure, it was he who brought me the photos of the folk at the fête in the first place, but, given the state he was in, if he'd given them more than the quickest of glances, I'd be surprised. The other person you could ask,' I added with as much irony as I could manage, ‘is Fi Pargetter, the churchwarden, who, if you recall, has vanished off the face of the earth. We need IDs, Freya, so Griff and I can live normal lives again, the snuffbox that started all this mayhem can be sold and St Jude's rescued before it falls down.'

She held up a hand. ‘Enough. This is supposed to be a civilized meeting, not a chance for you to grandstand.'

Morris sat down, crossing his legs and smoothing his chinos reflectively over his knee. ‘She's not put it very tactfully, Freya, but I think she might have something. Robin's input would be very useful. However, if the situation is what I deduce it is, I'm happy to phone him simply about the photos. Then you've got a reason for all the listening in and triangulation palaver. Hey, give me his numbers, fix me up with a couple of your team and I'll go and do the deed now.'

I don't suppose Freya knew whom she hated more, and we couldn't tell, because the looks she gave us were equally poisonous. But she led Morris off, leaving me on my own, which was probably illegal in itself. However, she was back before I could hack into the whole of the Kent Police network – joking. She looked like thunder. Yes, I think it was with me, not Morris.

‘Just don't say anything about last night,' she hissed. ‘Ever.' But she was more upset than angry, I was sure of it. Considering they'd only been an item for a couple of weeks, she was amazingly distressed. And the vibes I was getting were dead interesting.

TWENTY-SEVEN

‘
N
o reply from his landline, and his mobile's switched off,' Morris announced. ‘I presume he's still at the retreat. Freya, on a professional, not a personal note, I want him found. The diocesan office will tell you where he is.'

She looked icily down her nose. ‘And are you my superintendent? Or are you plain DI Morris?'

‘About to become a DCI myself, ma'am,' he said, clicking his heels ironically. Or even offensively. This was a side of him I'd never seen before. ‘At the moment, I'm just a human being whose girlfriend is in all sorts of schtuck. I'm supposed to be investigating forged snuffboxes, but I'm being sidetracked into all sorts of highways and byways I don't honestly have the time for. It's not just Robin's health I'm interested in – it's what he can tell me about the other people who may be involved in the attempted theft of the original snuffbox, current estimated value in excess of a million.' My whistle interrupted his flow long enough for him to say, as an aside, ‘A Fabergé one sold at auction for six-hundred thousand pounds recently. This one doesn't have the intrinsic value, but as a rarity . . .' He turned back to Freya. ‘I would like formally to ask you, ma'am, for your cooperation in organizing a raid on the premises next to Colonel Bridger's property. MIT might want to be involved too, but I've not asked them to the party yet.'

‘Anything else?' she asked, in a tone I couldn't quite place.

He sat down. ‘I bet Lina's got some questions. About her potential half-sisters, for instance. So she can speak to someone in the street without being accused of their murder.'

‘As it happens, we have made some progress there – thanks to your father, Lina.'