I picked my way over. The carpet might have been very good once: I suspected it had been made for a much larger room, and was now folded over to fit this.
‘Real Stubbs on the West corridor. You ought to take a look. Costs a fiver though, doesn’t it? Tell you what, come again. Yes, come again tomorrow. A bit earlier. I’ll give you a bit of lunch. Or you could bring something. I’m always partial to a bit of smoked salmon.’
It wasn’t one of my favourites, but might have the edge on Pot Noodles. Griff would tell me what to take with it. Except I wouldn’t be going home to Griff.
He got to his feet, too. I was being ushered to the door. For a moment I stood my ground. ‘It’d be really helpful for casting if you could look out a few photos – of your ladies.’
‘What?’ He sounded flabbergasted. ‘All of them? Tell you what, if we can find it, I’ll show you the list.’
Chapter Nineteen
What the hell did Griff think he was up to? He’d only let himself into the caravan and rooted through my things! No note, no nothing. Except a carrier bag with an empty shoebox inside it dumped by the sink. I’d kill him. I’d bloody kill him.
I strode into the village to ask what the hell he thought he was doing. OK, he had a perfect right to be in the caravan. It was his, after all. He had a key. But to go in and not leave me a note! And to pick up my clothes and drop them on the floor – Griff, a man who demanded such meticulous tidiness! What was happening in that skull of his? Any moment he’d turn into another Lord Elham and then where would we be?
Lord Elham. Was he mad or was he bad? How much of this present lifestyle was real? That was the easier question. All that dirt and mess would have taken time to accumulate. They were genuine. But was he? Was he putting on airs of innocence to hide something? If so, what? None of my research showed anything to hide. But –
No, I mustn’t think about Elham, or I’d lose my head of steam. I had to be furious with Griff, or I’d throw myself into his arms and howl that the man I’d hoped was my dad was a dopehead, and weird with it, but that I had to go and see him tomorrow in case he was simply a very clever man.
As I turned the bend into the village, I could see some activity ahead. Outside our cottage. A man in a hoodie talking to Griff. I speeded up, even more when I saw a Ford Focus parked about twenty yards further down the street. But hoodie man was still talking and Griff was pointing, as if giving directions – no, there was nothing to worry about. Someone was simply lost and Griff, the gates open and the van half inside, was helping.
If I sprinted before, I hurtled now. It wasn’t help the man wanted, it was the van. Hoodie stepped towards Griff, grabbing his shirtfront. Griff was struggling. He wouldn’t stand a chance: he was too frail. The other bloke must have thought he was quids in.
Not with me to reckon with, he wasn’t. I’d learned to fight years ago, but never with any rules. Head down, I went for the man’s midriff. But not before Griff staggered back too. I heard him stumble – couldn’t see, because I was in mid head-butt. Hoodie dropped the keys. My fingers just missed them. The Focus roared into action. Hoodie was up now on all fours retching. That didn’t stop him fumbling after the keys. But I got there first, flinging them out of his reach. And not just that – hard as I could, I threw them at Tony’s front window. I knew what to expect. Hoodie didn’t. Suddenly the quiet street winced at the sound of Tony’s alarm. That, and the scream of the Focus’s tyres.
‘Sweeter than the “Hallelujah Chorus”,’ Griff declared, and went out cold at my feet.
‘Sweeter than the “Hallelujah Chorus”,’ Griff said every few minutes, as we waited for the ambulance.
‘Just a spot of concussion,’ Tony said, trying to sound reassuring. Reassuring nothing: wasn’t concussion serious? ‘When his head hit the pavement. And yes, I’m sure you’re right – that wrist looks broken to me. Bones break easily when you’re his age.’
‘I thought it was women who had osteowhatever,’ I objected.
‘Oh, men too.’
‘Sweeter than the “Hallelujah Chorus”.’
‘Absolutely,’ I agreed, smoothing his hair back with one hand, the other holding his good hand. What I wanted was an even sweeter sound – a nice two-tone ambulance horn. Even a wail if they felt like it. I’d heard about old people and shock, all right, and I was scared.
‘Did Tony get those thugs?’ Griff asked suddenly, returning my grip.
‘He got the number. So his mates will.’
Tony had found a blanket and tucked it gently up to Griff’s chin. ‘Was it the number I left on your answerphone?’ I asked him.
‘Yes. But that’s not a lot of consolation. It’s a cloned number. In real life it belongs to a church organist in Warwickshire. Sorry.’
‘And they’re probably changing it even as we speak for another cloned number?’
‘Probably. Plenty of lanes round here to provide cover – there’s a lot to be said for cities and CCTV.’
‘You’ll get something from our security camera,’ I said.
‘Probably no more use than before. Unless it caught him full on his face. Ah! Sounds like help at last.’
The paramedics treated Griff as he hated to be treated, a slightly deaf old bat. Chattering inanely, they popped a support round his neck and another on his wrist. Then they stowed him in the ambulance. I wanted to go to, but Tony laid a hand on my arm.
‘They’ll almost certainly want to keep him in overnight. If you follow in the van, then at least you’ll be able to get home.’
I hated the idea, but he was right. The garage and house needed to be secured, and I couldn’t leave that to him, not when he had his own window to worry about.
By the time I arrived at the hospital – and I certainly didn’t hang around admiring the view – Griff had already been registered and was being seen by the medics. I hung around, feeling useless and miserable – after all, I’d only gone into the village to bollock him – and guilty. If I hadn’t walked out, I’d have been there to prevent him doing anything as silly as talking to anyone with the van as vulnerable as that. Wrong. The villains hadn’t been after the van. If they’d wanted the van, Focus man could have been in the driver’s seat before you could say Kitty Gang. After all, the engine had still been running when I’d arrived. Why hadn’t I clocked that at the time?
They’d been after the house keys. Perhaps they were Kitty Gang members after all. I’d have to make sure that next time they came, Griff wasn’t on his own. It’d be the work of five minutes to move back home again. It’d be the work of slightly longer to make sure that Griff wasn’t there at all. Yes, I had to get him out of the house into a place of safety.
A coffee told me the answer. What about farming him out to Tenterden and Aidan? OK, I’d never liked the man any more than, to be honest, he’d liked me. But he and Griff were friends, if not lovers – and if they were lovers, what business was it of mine? Slipping outside, into what was now a thin drizzle, promising more later, I dialled Aidan’s number. I couldn’t do much in the way of breaking the news – a fall is a fall.
‘And yes, he was pushed,’ I added. ‘There’s a gang preying on older people in the area at the moment. The police know all about them.’
‘So why don’t they do something?’ He sounded pettish.
‘The thing is, I think he’d be safer out of the way for a bit. This is the second time they’ve marked us out for attack, and this time they may have broken his wrist.’
‘Can I speak to him?’
‘I haven’t even seen him myself yet. The doctors are still with him.’
‘You’re at William Harvey? I’m on my way.’
‘Wouldn’t you rather –’
But he’d cut the line. I awarded him a whole row of brownie points.
They were just looking for me when I went back in. The dear old NHS had X-rayed him, plastered his arm and even found a bed for him so they could keep an eye on his head injury.
‘A bed? You mean, h
e won’t have to spend the night on a trolley? Promise?’
The doctor, who didn’t look much older than me, eyed me coldly. ‘There’s no need for sarcasm.’
‘I wasn’t being sarcastic, just grateful. Can I see him – just for a minute – before he goes up to the ward?’
‘He’s already gone up.’ She scribbled the number. ‘But I daresay they’ll give you a minute with him. No more. I’ve given him something to help with the pain. And not the brandy he thought would help.’
‘That’s my Griff,’ I grinned. ‘Thanks, doctor. Look, when you discharge him, you’d better give me all the instructions about physio and such – I’ll make sure he carries them out.’
‘I’ll make a note, Ms Tripp.’ She managed a smile, which I appreciated all the more since she looked as if she’d been on her feet for the last twenty-four hours. ‘Wonderful old man, your grandfather, considering.’
‘Considering what?’
‘Well, the probable state of his liver.’
‘It wasn’t booze that made him fall,’ I assured her blithely. ‘He was pushed.’ And then I asked the question I didn’t really want the answer to. ‘He’s an alcoholic, isn’t he?’
‘You’d know the answer to that better than me. Even if he isn’t, he’s certainly drinking to excess far too often.’
Her bleeper chirruped. ‘Talk to your GP,’ she added, over her shoulder.
Chew on that, Lina.
Having done the decent thing and called Aidan, the least I could do was leave a message for him with the reception staff. Then, following their directions, I went to find Griff.
I didn’t recognise him at first. He took such care never to let me see him without his dentures or in any way unkempt. And there he was, this frail old man, dressed in a hospital gown that showed his poor scrawny neck, lying on his back, mouth slack and toothless. Thank goodness I’d brought his toilet bag with his clothes for tomorrow. If he consented to go and stay with Aidan, he’d want to be spruce before he was picked up.
I took his hand again, and leaned across to kiss him.
He whispered something. I bent closer to hear. But whatever it was, it slurred into a snore.
There must be a tissue somewhere in one of my pockets. No? I tiptoed out, rubbing my nose fiercely with my cuff.
‘My God! He’s –’ Aidan leapt up and strode across, gripping my shoulders.
‘He’s just asleep, Aidan,’ I insisted through my sniffs. ‘He’ll be fine. You’ll be able to see him first thing. I tried to stop you coming, but –’
‘My dear child, I had to come. I’m in BUPA. I can get him proper treatment, private ambulance, everything.’
‘I don’t think he’ll need anything like that. What I do think he’ll need is a haven for a couple of weeks. Until the police have sorted everything out.’
‘You mean stay with me? An invalid? Bedpans and everything?’ His voice rose with each question. ‘No wonder you want to palm him off on me!’ Zip went the brownie points.
‘Especially bedpans. And probably blanket baths. Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Aidan,’ I exploded at last. ‘The only reason I don’t want him to stay in the cottage is his safety. Or I’d nurse him happily. And no,’ I added, really quite worked up now, ‘you can rest assured I won’t steal all his property and sell it to the Kitty Gang. I shall look after it as if it were my own. Griff’s my friend too, you know. I love him.’ There. And the three simple words – which I’d rather have said to Griff himself, if only the old bugger had been halfway conscious – reduced me from snivels to full-flown tears. I’d have liked Aidan a lot more if he’d produced a hanky, not just watched in horror as my nose dripped.
There was a note Blu-tacked to the front door:
IF THERE’S A LIGHT ON, I’M STILL AWAKE. SOUP ON OFFER. TONY.
So that was why I was so weepy. I was hungry. Nothing since His Lordship’s Pot Noodles. Bombay Bad Boy, indeed. How old did he think he was?
The light in Tony’s window was still on. I was very tempted. What was there to hold me back? Thinking of Iris and her pigs, I rang Tony’s doorbell.
He was wearing that snazzy bathrobe again. And, as before, nothing else that was visible. Oh, apart from a big grin.
‘I’d almost given you up,’ he said, almost scooping me in. ‘Food or drink first? Come on in and tell me all about Griff.’
I sometimes wondered, not very hard and not very often, why I never fancied going to bed with Tony. He was attractive enough, after all, with his long muscled limbs and friendly smile. He was bright enough to appreciate Griff. He was in a respectable job – unlike some of the mates I’d mixed with when I was young, I didn’t object to the police as such, or as Griff would have put it, per something or other. His hobby, classic motorbikes, didn’t seem to occupy too much of his time. So why, with a stomach pleasantly full of soup, garlic bread and rosé wine, didn’t I want to round off an interesting day in his bed? It would have been less effort than nipping home, with all the keys, bolts and burglar alarms that that involved. He’d probably have given me quite a pleasant time. He’d almost certainly have had handy the condoms it had made Griff so embarrassed to talk about. Three or four years ago I certainly would have done. I’d actually bonked blokes I didn’t like much at all. You do all sorts of things when you’re young and lonely and – yes, stupid. I wasn’t exactly in my dotage and the cottage would feel horribly empty, but – no, unless I felt a real spark, I’d sleep in my own bed. With Tim the Teddy Bear for company if needs be.
Tony did his best to persuade me. He was good at kissing, no doubt about that, and not bad at all at several other things, but a tiny corner of my head told me that he’d never shown much interest in me when Griff was around, apart from making sure I noticed his legs. Was he simply chancing his arm at an opportunity that might not present itself again?
‘Look, Tony, I’m really sorry, but I just don’t feel like it tonight. It’s been a bit of a day, what with one thing and another. At least now that Griff and I are friends again I shall be able to use the van to get around. Buses, trains! They’re awful.’
His expression was hard to read, but despite now steady rain he insisted on walking me the few yards home, looking carefully up and down the street for cars or hoodies. ‘Are you sure that that van’s the best means of transport?’
I looked at him for a second, ready to tell him just how long it took to get from A to B without your own wheels. But that might involve mentioning that B stood in my case for Bossingham. Until I’d sussed Lord Elham to my own satisfaction, I wasn’t going to share him with anyone. Slowly I took in the implications of what he was saying. ‘Are you saying it might just be sensible to take it in for its thirty thousand mile service and borrow a courtesy car? Preferably one that doesn’t announce to the world it belongs to Ashford Ford or whatever?’
‘I’m saying just that. I’m not happy about your living on your own, either: you haven’t got someone – else – you could stay with?’
Why hadn’t he smiled like that when he was trying to get me into bed?
‘Tell you what,’ I said as casually as I could, ‘how about I cook supper tomorrow – well, it’s today, now, isn’t it? At least I’ll have some police protection for the evening.’
Chapter Twenty
Griff had had a good night, the nurse I phoned said, but she couldn’t say officially when he’d be allowed out. I could try again at ten-thirty. No, there was no point simply turning up hoping he’d been discharged.
Ten-thirty – and it was now only seven! No, despite being as knackered as I ever remember, I hadn’t slept well, and had given up when two wood pigeons had stomped around on the roof with their stupid c’coo-coo-ing. Why couldn’t they manage a decent song? C’coocoo, c’coo-coo! Only six o’clock! Anyway, I had a lot to do. A really nice hot shower started me off: then, with a bit of luck, I was ready for anything. Griff wasn’t very efficient about opening the post or checking calls on the answerphone. I’d better sort everything out s
o I could report to him later. He’d need a bag packed, too, with enough of his favourite clothes for a week, but only those he could slip on over that wrist of his. And food – Aidan wasn’t much of a cook, as if the kitchen was the place for the lower orders. Griff might have objected to Aidan’s tone, but he was happy to be let loose in Aidan’s designer kitchen. Usually.
So now I had the mixing bowl out. Scones first. Griff loved scones. Mine might not be as good as his, or even as those from the Tenterden baker, but they’d be mine. Bread was already proving in the airing cupboard.
I don’t know whether it was the smells or the stickiness that made me feel better. There’s nothing more gluey than scone mixture and few things more satisfying than taming it with a well-floured rolling pin. This one had belonged, so Griff said, to his grandmother, made for her by a prisoner of war. Which war he didn’t say and my history wasn’t good enough to work it out. But using something as old and well-worn as that, I felt calm and happy – until the ideas started popping into my head.
What if it had been someone else in the caravan? Griff would have tidied it up, not trashed it. And it wasn’t in his nature not to have left a note. Even knocked silly by that fall – just how many times had he mentioned the ‘Hallelujah Chorus’? – he would have said something about his visit. That box in the carrier bag. What on earth was that doing there? Griff loathed carrier bags, refusing point blank to use them himself. It had taken me weeks of nagging to persuade him that at least at fairs we should have a supply of the standard ones advertising future fairs. As for the shop, I used any supermarket ones coming our way, usually via Mrs Hatch, who couldn’t or wouldn’t understand his reservations, and in any case pointed out that what we were doing was true recycling.
And an empty box? Why take an empty box all that way? If he’d taken along a few essentials to replace our supplies, he’d have needed a bigger box.
Drawing the Line Page 18
