Drawing the Line

by Judith Cutler

  I found blood on a knuckle.

  Mine.

  My God, Griff! What would Griff think when he came back and saw me like this? I got to the kitchen so quickly I didn’t remember moving. Cold water, plenty of it. Then I remembered the ice for Griff’s gin. Ice’d be even better. In a tea towel. Two tea towels, one for each eye. There. And don’t forget to refill the little plastic trays. He mustn’t know. It’d upset him so much. I was angry with myself, furious. I slapped again. Left, right; left, right. Both together. At least it was slapping, not punching. But I must stop. I mustn’t let him know I’d let him down.

  Was that the only reason he mustn’t know? Or was there another, that I was secretly ashamed? A woman my age shouldn’t have temper tantrums, should she? Yes: foster mother number three, or maybe number four, had been spot on – I was wrong in the head and ought to be put away for my own safety.

  Damn that. And damn everything else she’d ever said. At the time it had only made me worse. But it wasn’t going to now. I was a grown woman earning my own living and trying to dry out an old soak who was better than all the foster parents in the world, even Iris. Griff would be proud of me one day. One day I’d be proud of me.

  There. That was better. Back in the living room I peered at myself in one of the mirrors in the chiffonier. I looked as if I’d had a damned good cry – come to think of it, I had, too – but my cheekbones and brows weren’t too bad. Yet. The trickle of blood from my swollen nose was dwindling to a halt.

  Picking up the books reminded me of my bleak joke about being lead up the Garden of England path. Another idea formed, slowly, like when an icicle just starts to melt and you see a drop of water gathering on the tip, taking ages before it finally drops. The Internet. I’d bet all the takings from the Worcester vase – hadn’t Griff been proud of me! – that there’d be something about Kent’s stately homes on a website.

  The trouble with truanting – not to mention being shunted to about eight different schools according to where my latest lot of foster parents lived – was that I was missing great chunks of information that everyone else took for granted. IT had been a complete mystery, mobile phones excluded, until Griff took me in hand. Even now people thought it odd that a man of his age should be so much more at home on the Web than I was.

  I no longer felt scared when I switched on his computer in case I blew something up, but this was the first time I’d ever searched for something myself. I know: it’s embarrassing, isn’t it? All the same, I was shaking, winding my legs round each other as I squirmed round in the big executive leather chair I always teased Griff about.

  I always teased him about his service provider, too.

  ‘Don’t tell me, dear heart. Such good fortune they’re efficient and I’ve no desire to leave. You may think that Griffith.tripp@virgin.net is amusing. But imagine moving to AOL and having to tell everyone I’m no longer a Virgin.’

  It didn’t hurt too much to grin at the memory. When I’d checked out Kent I’d have another session with ice.

  And there it was, the website of Kent, the Garden of England. It told me to explore, discover, experience and relax. Well, I couldn’t have put it better myself. Scared, still, but with more and more confidence, I worked through what they had to offer.

  The castles they offered first of all were agonisingly predictable. Leeds, Hever, Dover. So I couldn’t hurt myself again, I sat on the fist that wasn’t using the mouse and ploughed on. Would I like to organise my own tour? Yes, please. I typed in Stately Homes and got a list. Hell! Since when had Mount Ephraim Gardens and Sittingbourne Heritage Museum been stately homes? But I moved slowly down. Yes. Higham Hall. That was a genuine stately. But I’d been there a dozen times with Griff to the antiques fairs they held there. And I’d met the owners, manfully trying to rescue what had been an almost derelict house and transforming it into the most beautiful home. Except it wasn’t manfully. It was womanfully. No unknown fathers there.

  I scrolled down further. An A to Z of very nice piles indeed. All were still family-owned, and most had very restricted opening times compared with Trust or Heritage-owned places. Well, if you were actually living in your own house you’d want to make sure you’d cleaned the loos before Joe Public went poking round. With all this success, I dared print off a list. Yo, Lina!

  I was so chuffed I finished the rest of the housework, doing the living room and bedrooms, which I never enjoyed as much. I don’t know why, because in the normal run of things I love handling the china and glass that make the cottage such a pleasure to live in. Maybe it’s because I like a good uninterrupted run at things. By lunchtime there was also a load chuntering in the washing machine: it’d dry on racks in the garage if the weather didn’t improve. The only thing I couldn’t do was have any lunch, because of course we’d run down our supplies of fresh stuff and Griff wasn’t home yet.

  Bredeham wasn’t the prettiest of villages. True, there were some white-painted Kent boarded houses and cottages like ours, and a couple of black and white and thatched jobs, but generally speaking the houses were pretty undistinguished Victorian two-up-two-downs or some very ordinary 1930’s semis. But the nice thing about it was that you couldn’t walk down the street without seeing someone you ought to wave at if not actually stop and talk to. It could take Griff up to an hour to pick up his pension. I didn’t know that many people yet, but there was still Mrs Bourne to flap a hand at, and her dog to fend off. The weird thing was that when I first came I was afraid. I felt it wasn’t my street to walk down, that I needed permission. I had no right to be there. Trespassing, that’s it. The first few times I found an excuse for Griff to come with me I was so scared. No, it wasn’t anything to do with the villagers, because I’ve had the same feeling in other places. The first time I went into Canterbury Cathedral, for instance. Or the first theatre Griff took me to. Just like when I was in Oxford the other week, as if lowlife like me had no place on the pavement trodden by superior mortals.

  Oxford! That was it. That was where I’d seen a man with a walk like the man’s captured on video. Dan Freeman. The don who’d got me into the Bodleian. I clapped a hand to my cheek in disbelief that I could be so thick. The slap hurt. Oh, God! My bruises!

  Fortunately Bredeham was big enough to run not just to a pub and a village shop (even if it was a Londis) and post office, but also a butcher (he also sold Griff’s favourite cheeses) a dentist (one day a week), a doctor (early afternoon everyday) and a chemist, which happened to double as a stationer and bookstore.

  ‘Hello, Lina,’ Mr Elworthy greeted me through the little dispensary hatch behind the counter. ‘Won’t be a second! How’s Griff? Those tablets working?’

  No, it wasn’t the place I’d have gone to buy condoms or if I’d had to take the morning-after pill. Especially as within thirty seconds of his emerging from the dispensary he was round the counter peering at my face, first through his glasses, then with his specs in his hand.

  ‘A drawer,’ I said flatly. It felt strange to be resorting to downright lies again. OK, I used half-truths very, very occasionally in the trade, but nothing blatant like this. ‘I thought I’d spruce up this chest of drawers while Griff was out. It had stuck – you know what old furniture’s like – and I gave it all I’d got. And it came out like a shot. I’ve iced it, but you can’t walk along the street with a dripping tea-towel pressed to your nose!’ I grinned.

  ‘Drawer, eh?’

  I nodded. ‘Plus my fists.’ I mimed putting my hands side by side on an imaginary handle.

  ‘Lose consciousness?’

  ‘Just a bit of blood from my nose. But I’ve got plenty to spare!’

  ‘In that case you’ll be pleased to hear there’s a blood-donor session next week. On the village green.’

  ‘I’ll see you there,’ I lied, loathing the very idea of all these Draculas and their victims.

  ‘I’ll make sure they save you some tea and biscuits,’ he assured me. The bugger: he knew I was lying. And I bet he knew I’d bee
n lying about the chest, too.

  Resisting the temptation to bluster, I ran a finger over my bruises. ‘I suppose you haven’t anything more user-friendly than ice?’

  To my amazement he turned to the homoeopathic section of his counter. ‘Safer to use round your eyes than the stuff I’d usually recommend,’ he said, offering arnica cream. ‘You can take these tablets, too. But my advice to you is to be careful round drawers. Black eyes aren’t my idea of maidenly beauty.’

  I paid up and shut up. And bought some sunglasses, too. But I needn’t have bothered. Every single customer in Londis seemed to be peering at me – though on reflection perhaps they’d have stared at anyone wandering round with sun protection when the rain had come on extra heavy again.

  It was like waiting for a thunderstorm to break. Even though Griff smiled and hugged me as usual, certainly not wincing at the sight of my face, and had nattered away about Aidan as he passed the bags of Waitrose goodies out of the van for me to take into the kitchen, I knew we were going to talk about my face. I stowed things in the freezer, refilled storage jars and put away the bags while he went upstairs and checked his emails. I made tea, reaching out pretty plates for the scones he’d bought from that homemade bakery in Tenterden, and little dishes for his home-made strawberry jam and some Waitrose Cornish cream. Still no sign of him – and, of course, still no mention of the bruises. Did he want me to confront him and confess? After all this time, I still couldn’t. I tried praying to the Guy living in Canterbury Cathedral that Griff’d maybe say nothing and let me off. But I knew that he wouldn’t, any more than I could go up to his study and confess.

  At last he popped downstairs with an empty Unichem bag, which he threw into the recycling bin. He took my hand. ‘Just remember, dear heart, that we lubricate all our drawers with candle wax. There’s no need to tug them hard. Oh, Lina, my love, come here! As if I could be cross with you. As if old Griff ever raised his voice.’

  ‘It’d be better if you did!’ I burbled. ‘But you’re so kind and forgiving and I don’t deserve it.’

  ‘You didn’t deserve a lot of things that have happened to you – well, none of us does, for good or for bad. But I did think you’d given that up. I didn’t think you needed to do it any more. And I think it’s all to do with this silly quest of yours, and I do wish you’d abandon it.’

  ‘Tell you what,’ I managed, through one of his immaculate linen handkerchiefs, ‘I promise you I’ll give one of them up, the self-abuse or the quest.’

  He reached for the kettle. ‘I think that calls for another little celebration. Calling self-abuse by its name, of course, silly. It’s the first time you’ve ever done that.’ He shook his head. ‘I suppose asking you to give up both that and the quest is a bit too much.’

  ‘Like asking you to give up both your booze and clotted cream on your scones,’ I agreed, passing him the strawberry jam.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It wasn’t until after supper, something wonderful and complicated with chicken, which Griff served with much pomp and ceremony and with a white wine from New Zealand I really rather liked and drank a lot of, that I remembered about the resemblance between my assailant’s walk and Dan Freeman’s. I wish I could say it was because I’d been too busy to give it another thought, but the truth was my outbursts had always left me feeling as though the Duracell bunny had nicked my battery and run off with it. As soon as I’d downed my share of that wonderful cream tea, I’d simply fallen asleep, my head on the kitchen table. And I remembered not because my sleep had left me refreshed and brimming with ideas, but because, after one of Griff’s best ever meals, a policeman asked me.

  Yes, one of Tony’s colleagues, a pale young man in his thirties called DC Brent, had got round to paying us a visit.

  ‘Fashionably late, I see, my dear sir,’ Griff greeted him, showing him into the living room.

  ‘Shifts,’ Brent apologised, peering nervously through trendy invisible-rim specs with gold sides. ‘You get into a routine and then it all goes nohow. You know how it is.’

  ‘We do indeed,’ Griff cooed. ‘Our life on the road simply ruins our social lives. And our sleep patterns. However do you manage to visit the land of nod during the day, dear boy?’

  The dear boy edged away slightly. ‘I’m here to brief you on our investigations to date,’ he said stiffly. ‘Firstly, we might just have an ID on the female shoplifter: if we pull her in, could you identify her?’ He looked at me.

  I blame the meal and all that white wine for my really unhelpful answer. ‘I never saw her.’

  ‘But aren’t you the female who raised the alarm?’ He consulted his file. ‘A Mrs Hatch?’

  ‘This,’ said Griff, all camp erased from his voice, ‘is my adoptive granddaughter, Ms Evelina Townend. Mrs Hatch is an associate of mine, a lady of mature years.’

  The whole of DC Brent’s body showed how sorry and embarrassed he was. ‘Do you have an address, sir?’

  Griff flashed me a glance: I could see the old imp was just about to two-finger police shorthand by giving the poor young man our address.

  ‘Chapel Cottage,’ I jumped in.

  ‘Confusingly, it’s nowhere near the church, which is actually the other end of the village.’

  ‘It’s a converted chapel,’ I explained. ‘Just a couple of doors –’

  ‘Indeed. Perhaps the villagers decided the original Baptists were simply too primitive for words. Now it’s elegant in concept, but draughty in realisation. And such a dismal kitchen,’ Griff sighed. ‘May we offer you refreshment, Detective Constable? We were about to partake of a can ourselves. No, strictly non-alcoholic – I won’t take no for an answer.’ He pirouetted into the kitchen.

  By this time poor DC Brent didn’t look as if he knew his ears from his elbow. He looked even more confused when what arrived in a handleless cup turned out to be coffee.

  Griff evidently decided it was time to be sensible. ‘So there appears to be some success vis-à-vis the shoplifter. What about the attempted break-in, video footage of which I believe PC Baker passed to you for enhancement.’

  ‘He did indeed, sir. And we apologise for the delay caused by lack of specialist staff: the officer who’s the real whiz kid’s just gone on maternity leave, and her replacement is still undergoing training. But he took it along to one of the training sessions,’ he added, so triumphantly that we both assumed they’d got a good image.

  ‘Well?’ Griff prompted.

  ‘And got zilch.’ He gave a dry laugh at our expressions. ‘Sorry, they did their best. But technology’s only as good as the material it works on. Of course, if this were a high-profile murder, then we might be able to afford to send it to the US where they’ve got absolute cutting edge equipment,’ he added, as if trying to help.

  ‘I have no intention of sacrificing either of us simply in the hope of that sort of response,’ Griff announced. ‘So is the case closed?’

  ‘Not exactly. It wasn’t ever a case at all to be honest, because nothing happened. But it might have helped solve other crimes.’

  ‘Like the one which Lina was almost involved in last night. You were unaware of that? I’d have expected young Tony to tell you all about it.’

  Trying to spare Tony a black mark, DC Brent muttered about briefings and shifts again, but flicked open his notepad. I gave a brief account of what had happened, Griff chipping in when he thought I was underplaying the danger I’d been in when the car accelerated towards me. ‘Tony mentioned something called the Kitty Gang,’ I concluded, embarrassed by the silly name.

  ‘Did he indeed?’ After a moment’s blankness, he wrote vigorously. ‘I suppose you didn’t get any video footage of that incident?’

  ‘As a matter of fact I did. And although it’s probably not much help, the guy’s walk does seem familiar,’ I added slowly, doubtfully. ‘No. Can’t be.’ I passed him the tape, but couldn’t imagine they’d get any more from it than from the first one.

  Brent’s blond eyebrows would hav
e merged with his hair, had it not receded so far. His glasses twitched up and down his nose. ‘Who?’

  ‘Someone I met in Oxford,’ I said slowly, squeezing Griff’s hand lightly to apologise for saying nothing earlier. ‘A man called Dan Freeman. He’s something to do with the University.’

  ‘Tell me about him.’

  ‘A librarian was rude to me; I got upset; he offered me a cup of coffee to cheer me up,’ I said, receiving a reassuring squeeze from Griff.

  ‘Do you have a phone number? An address?’

  ‘Only Keble. Keble College. It wasn’t that sort of cup of tea,’ I added. ‘In fact, it seems daft of me to say anything about him. What would a respected academic be doing moonlighting as one of the Kitty Gang? I know teachers are always complaining about being badly paid, but –’

  ‘Any lead on the Kitty Gang would be useful,’ Brent declared solemnly. Then the giggles that had been threatening all three of us bubbled up. ‘If only it was called something else!’ he choked.

  ‘The Moggie Mob?’ I suggested.

  ‘The Feline Fraternity?’ Griff capped me.

  ‘Even plain Cat Burglars,’ Brent concluded.

  To celebrate the revelation that our guest was human, Griff produced more scones and the remains of the jam and cream. I waved the coffee pot but none of us seemed to want to risk more caffeine. Normally this would have had Griff into the chiffonier for the drinks. Either he decided that alcohol wouldn’t go with the jam or he was trying to keep his promise. Either way, I heaved a sigh of relief and ladled on more cream.