Guilty Pleasures (8 page)

‘Because the chemicals they use to clean blood off carpets might not be good for you, and because Aidan has invited you to go up to London with him as soon as you're presentable. Mind you,' I said, glancing sideways at him and wondering how long it would take him to suggest I stayed over in Tenterden too, ‘that may be some time. Come on, Griff, what happened?'

He sighed. ‘You know our friend X?'

‘Yes. Well, of course, I know
of
him.' X was a drifter who irregularly turned up at our cottage first thing in the morning with items for Griff to buy. One glimpse of me and he'd stayed away six months at a stretch, so always I was stuck in my bedroom until he slipped away again, pocketing whatever cash Griff chose to give him. This was nowhere near what we'd sell for, but enough to keep him in cheap cider for a while. Any more and he'd drink himself to death within a week, Griff insisted. ‘But it was never him, not in broad daylight, surely?'

‘No. But a man who said he was a friend of his, with an urgent message.'

‘Did he actually use X's name?'

‘No. Now I come to think of it, he didn't. He just said, “Our friend.” But you know I've always promised to be there for X if he ever needs me. I thought – if I thought at all, which I may not have done, having just been awoken from a little doze, if the truth be told – that he needed me to stand bail and had sent this man to fetch me.'

‘Wouldn't the police have contacted you?'

‘I'm sure you're right. I just wasn't thinking straight, as I said. Anyway, as soon as I stepped aside to let him in, I realized there was something wrong with his face.'

‘Something wrong?' I had a weird thought of leprosy or something.

‘I couldn't put my finger on it at first. By that time he'd hit me, and I'd retaliated with that over-the-top Moorcroft vase Aunt Bea left me. And then he persuaded me that I ought to open the safe. Well, I knew we were insured – I shall be able to replace that Moorcroft with something much more tasteful – and I knew about the camera. But I don't think even that will give us a true image of him. They'll see a poor aged man, balding, stooped.'

‘I know. I looked. But then he seemed to get younger before my eyes. And then old again. Do you think the stoop was fake?'

‘I think so. And I also suspect that he was wearing a very good wig and particularly fine make-up. TV or film quality. That good. Might even have been wearing a latex mask or part-mask, I suppose.'

‘And wearing gloves, no doubt.'

‘Of course. But again, very fine, so I didn't see them through the peephole. And yes, I was alert enough to check, I'm sure of that.'

I slowed into a tail of traffic. There were often long queues on this route, which was far too narrow and winding to deserve to be called an A road. ‘So what did you tell the police? Did you mention X? Because surely they'll ask why you let him in.'

‘They already have. I said I thought he was an acquaintance from my long-ago theatre days. Cunning, don't you think? Because then I could introduce the idea of make-up, which you may be sure I did.'

‘Did he say what he wanted?'

Griff pretended he was dozing.

‘He did, didn't he? It was that damned snuffbox, wasn't it?'

‘I'm afraid it was,' he said in a small voice.

‘And what did you say?' I added, in an even smaller one. After all, it was my fault.

‘That if it was valuable, you must have put it in the safe – I hoped that all the goodies in there would distract him. I said my hand was shaking too much to deal with the combination, and that he'd have to do it. Which is how he came to set off the alarm, because I forgot to tell him how to switch it off.' He was trying to divert me, I knew he was. ‘So then he decided to make himself scarce. Do you think he'll come back, sweet one?'

If he was wearing make-up as clever as that, we might not recognize him if he did. ‘Forewarned is forearmed,' I said brightly. ‘And I'll find somewhere else to hide the snuffbox, just in case.'

‘Such as where? Lina, my darling, I know what you're thinking – that you could conceal it at Bossingham Hall, and no one would ever find it. But consider the old man. You'd never forgive yourself if he got beaten up.'

It was a bit rich to refer to my father like that, when Griff was at least six years older. But he had a point.

‘You're not suggesting I ought to keep it until that bastard comes back with another disguise and then just hand it over without an argument?'

‘We don't need it, whatever it is. It's just a piece of metal.' When I said nothing, he sighed. ‘Oh, my love, I know you divvied it, and I never doubt your instincts, never. But I just wonder if in this case the game isn't worth the candle. We're not experts or collectors.'

‘There must be someone, not just this Damian of yours, who could help. We can't just sit around until he comes back.'

‘But—'

‘If someone wants it this badly it must have more than intrinsic value,' I said, with a bit of a jut to my jaw, not least because he'd taught me the expression in the first place.

‘In that case, you know what we have to do, don't you? My angel, I know you don't want to get in touch with him yourself, but that doesn't stop me doing it. I want to entrust this to Morris.'

‘Really, really, no. You promised me, remember! Morris's marriage has got to stick. Got to. Leda deserves a proper father, not an absentee one.' I scratched my head, desperately. ‘More to the point, what if it turned out to have dodgy provenance? It'd be a police case before you could blink. That's why I wouldn't ask Will or Freya to help.'

‘So you need someone strong with the morality of the police but not absolute subservience to the law—'

‘Not Robin. Definitely not. If anyone asked him, he'd blush and give the game away. Besides,' I added, ‘I need him to get me access to the guy who donated the book, remember?'

‘My poor dim memory informs me that it was the same man who donated the snuffbox. Very well, you don't want to involve Robin as a guardian, but as your muscle. But if you have nothing to guard, what of all your enquiries then? I would click a dismissive thumb and finger if I could, sweet one. In fact, I'm going to put my foot down. That snuffbox has to leave the cottage. Preferably under the eye of the media, so our friend would know there was no point in coming back, but I suppose that's too much to hope.'

I allowed him to think I was too preoccupied with the traffic to respond. For some reason the pace had slowed to about five miles an hour.

‘Bruce Farfrae,' Griff said at last. ‘Thoroughly and lastingly married. You even chose his silver anniversary present, didn't you? No longer in the police. Fingers in every art pie going.'

‘Not his thing, though. Impressionist painting, that's what he knows all about.'

‘And other things, I should imagine, since before he went private he was Morris's superior officer at the Met. He's also kindly and avuncular.'

When Griff had taken me over as a young uneducated street urchin, I'd had no education to speak of. He'd dealt with that as best he could, but there were times when he used words I recognized but couldn't place. This one, however, was a stranger.

‘
Avuncular
?'

‘From the Latin. It originally meant
like a little grandfather
, which was how the Romans described maternal uncles.'

I smiled. ‘Like your deputy? If I had an uncle.'

‘If indeed I had the honour of being your true grandfather. Now it just means
like an uncle.
Kindly, dispassionate, supportive. And, in Farfrae's case, always happy if you can pick him out another print of the villages in his romantic past.'

‘He didn't respond to my last emails,' I grumbled, ‘and I really needed an uncle then.'

‘He has explained, loved one. When a man is trying to sort out the provenance of middle-eastern art treasures that suddenly surfaced after the Iraq war and the looting of Baghdad's museums, then he can't always fly to your aid. Ah, I see the problem ahead. There's a tractor trying to turn into a field, and it's jammed in the gate. What fun.'

It was quite late in the day when I eventually delivered Griff to Aidan's. Overnight case apart, he kept a selection of clothes and other necessities there, even spare pills. I knew he'd be in good hands, even if he had to wait till he was able to go out before he could eat well. Aidan's eye-wateringly expensive kitchen was wasted on a man who could barely boil an egg. All the same, it was harder than usual to decline Aidan's invitation to stay. My excuse was that I wanted to get home in daylight, something that made no sense at all to me but always seemed to ring bells with them.

‘But you could stay till morning,' Griff urged.

Aidan nodded, with courtesy, if not much enthusiasm.

‘Tim the Bear would be so upset if I wasn't there at bedtime,' I said firmly, adding, when Griff opened his mouth for one more protest, ‘and I haven't got Farfrae's contact details here.'

They couldn't argue with that. In any case, they had a diversion – a couple of plain clothes officers arrived clutching a laptop. Despite all our footage, they wanted to see if Griff could recognize anyone on their database. I left them to it.

EIGHT

N
ever having had a teddy bear when I was young, I was now the proud possessor of three. Two were very smart indeed, Steiff collectors' bears, complete with buttons in their ears. One looked smug enough to remind me of Aidan, who'd given him to me; the other always looked a bit furtive, possibly because Morris had used him as a sort of farewell and apology mixed.

The third bear, not collectable at all, was far more precious. He was Tim, a present from Griff. Tim had accompanied me on various travels and always gave me sound advice in the middle of the night if I couldn't sleep. It was he who, having suggested I shove our highly-illegal pepper spray in my pocket, joined me at the supper table – we'd got a new takeaway in the village, and although I was sure their speciality, chicken tikka with salad in a huge naan bread, was crammed with cholesterol and other things I wouldn't let Griff anywhere near, it was the best comfort food I knew. I hadn't had any lunch, after all.

Tim insisted I mustn't get any on his fur, but then made it quite clear I'd put off phoning Bruce Farfrae long enough. It was true. Since the Crime Scene team had finished with the cottage, I'd given it a spring-clean. I'd also changed all the towels and sheets, though I couldn't have given a single reason.

Making sure that the security system was active, not to mention having locked up very securely, I headed, with Tim in tow to supervise, to the office. I could have phoned Bruce, but thought an email might be better: it wouldn't disturb him if he had a rare evening with his wife, who apparently stayed at home when he was off on his adventures recovering stolen antiques, and I could sort out exactly what I wanted to say before I said it.

So far, so good. And then the front doorbell rang, I jumped out of my skin and Tim fell across the mouse and made me accidentally click the SEND button. So much for careful preparation.

Tim thought he'd better stay where he was, face down. Gripping the pepper spray, I headed for the security monitor and toggled it so I could see our guest. At first I didn't make sense of what I saw. Then I focused more clearly and realized I was eyeball to eyeball with a bedroll strapped to a rucksack. There was a tousle of blond hair beyond.

I might have summoned Bruce to the rescue, but I'd got Robin.

With a highly visible sign that he meant to protect, not comfort me. But then, I had Tim for that.

It's one thing sharing a takeaway curry last thing at night – Robin had turned up with that, too, and I found I could tuck in again – but quite another sharing breakfast with someone still crumpled from a night on the living-room floor, which he'd had to leave early not because I'd disturbed him but because the carpet-cleaning expert was ready for action. We caught whiffs of whatever he was using, although we closed the living room and kitchen doors.

Robin had had more of the wine I'd produced than was good for him and was silent to the point of miserable. Hung-over, probably, if I wanted to be less than charitable. I'd been up hours before him and had already sent a follow-up email to Bruce Farfrae, explaining the situation and apologizing for the note of panic in the tru . . . truc . . . truncated one I'd sent by mistake. Thank goodness for spellcheck.

‘I want you to introduce me to Bugger Bridger, Robin,' I told him as I tipped grilled bacon, sausages and tomatoes on to his plate. ‘Go on, a full English is supposed to be the best remedy for a bad head. Scrambled eggs? Fresh from the farmer who looks after our caravan. And Griff made the bread himself.'

He said nothing. Just tucked in, at first as delicately as if the food would bite him, then with increasing appetite.

When his plate was nothing but a smear of tomato ketchup and a trace of golden yolk, I said, ‘So when do we set out? I can leave the shop in Mrs Walker's hands.'

He shook his head. ‘Look, I don't see how we can possibly go and knock at a guy's door and ask how he came into possession of two items and why he wanted to ditch them. Because that's what he did. He got rid of them. Didn't want them any more. Not our job to suggest he shouldn't.'

‘You've got this wrong. It's not saying he should have kept them. It's finding the best place for them to go if he's really happy to be rid of them.'