Drawing the Line

by Judith Cutler

  There was nothing in the rules to say I couldn’t play the scary nanny too. ‘Lord Elham, if you want to die a lingering death, you can do it on your own. Or we can get rid of all your forgery equipment and ask the police to come and guard us. As for the book, we need a place of safety for it. With someone we can trust to give nothing away.’ OTT or what? It was hard not to laugh at the poor man’s rabbit eyes, or even more at my own attempts at being a dominatrix. But underneath I was deadly serious. And scared. ‘Well, shall I phone my contact?’

  Standing at the side door, we waved Titus off. No, I’d seen nothing of my father’s workroom or its contents, much as I’d have liked to. If the police did get involved, I didn’t want to know what had been hidden in there so I didn’t have to lie. He and Lord Elham had dealt with everything, while I made further inroads into the kitchen – I didn’t find anything special, but at least I couldn’t overhear them making plans for Lord Elham’s future employment. There’d been a load of rubbish sacks to drag into the yards, but to my irritation the lock on the kitchen door hadn’t yielded. It was amazing what a dab of rancid lard could achieve, though, and by the time I’d finished it turned as easily as on the day it had been made. And it locked as easily after my last trip out. I wasn’t taking any risks.

  Herding Lord Elham back in, I turned the front door key just as firmly. ‘Now,’ I said with the same nanny-tone that had been so useful before, ‘Natura Rerum. We have to get rid of it. Now. You give it to me, I drive off and put it somewhere safe, and then I come back and I’ll watch TV with you. How about that?’

  Like a lamb he toddled off, returning with something in a Tesco carrier. Perhaps that was his attempt at camouflage. The living room table was still too filthy to put anything important on, but the kitchen one was clean enough, thanks to my efforts. I headed back there, laying my burden gently onto the newly-scrubbed wood. Yes. There was the twin of the volume I’d handled so tenderly in Oxford. This time I didn’t have any cotton gloves, so I confined myself to just the one page – the one it fell open to. Lord Elham’s sideline hadn’t done the binding any good. Yes, there it was: my childhood, in my hands. And what good had it done me? Why didn’t I simply bag it up again and drop it on the lap of the old soak who was already hooked on some stupid teatime quiz game?

  Because of that breaking glass, that’s why. No, not a champagne glass – crystal makes quite a different sound from a window. And there was a yell from Lord Elham.

  I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed the book, shoving it back into the carrier, and let myself silently out of the kitchen door. The yard was almost blocked by a Focus and a couple of large white vans – they’d come mob-handed, then. But there was room for the Ka to squeeze through. Just. Which would make less noise, a bolt down that pathway or a slow roll? And what the hell should I do once I’d made the lane? I had to make sure the book was safe before I went back to the Hall – no, I wasn’t about to leave Lord Elham to his fate, however tempted I was. After all, he’d kept his side of the bargain. Nine-nine-nine? Yes, if we hadn’t been in a mobile blackspot. What about the people at the pub? I couldn’t ask them to fight for an old book if threatened with violence.

  In any case, the Hop Pocket was closed – wouldn’t open till seven. Where next? Someone was having the first barbecue of the summer. A hundred yards distant, a woman was leading two horses away from me. And then I spotted a familiar car: Robin, the clergyman’s. Diving out of the Ka, I waved him down.

  ‘Has your church got a safe?’ I yelled.

  No wonder he gaped though his open window.

  ‘This is a matter of life and death,’ I added, thrusting the carrier at him. ‘Get it into a safe –’

  ‘I’m just on my way into Canterbury –’

  ‘Will the Cathedral still be open?’

  ‘Yes. There’s a concert there. That’s where I’m –’

  ‘Go and enjoy yourself,’ I said. ‘But make sure you put this in the safe first. One more thing. As soon as you can use your mobile call the police. Bossingham Hall. No, don’t ask any questions. Just call the police. Some men have broken in – they’re threatening Lord Elham with violence.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  I was too busy scooting back to the Ka to answer. In any case, I didn’t want him coming over all chivalrous and trying to tackle Lord Elham’s visitors. So afraid I was swallowing bile, I tried to work out a plan. It’d take several minutes before he could make that call. Why shouldn’t I simply knock on one of these nicely painted front doors and ask to use the phone? I didn’t look threatening, did I? But they were all tight shut. If only there were someone walking along the road, putting out rubbish – anything. I started to panic – Lord Elham was as stupidly stubborn as they came: he could be badly hurt by now.

  At last! A middle-aged couple emerged from their home – a bungalow with the best-trimmed lawn I’d ever seen – with their dog. Which didn’t like my rapid approach, and showed its teeth.

  ‘Accident!’ I yelled, over its snarls. ‘At Bossingham Hall! The private wing. Lord Elham – Could you call the police? And ambulance?’ There was little doubt that’d be needed. And not necessarily for Lord Elham – as soon as the man, nodding helpfully, went back into the house, I turned back to the car.

  ‘Are you all right? Do you need a cup of tea?’ the woman asked kindly.

  The dog didn’t second her invitation.

  ‘No time. Got to see what I can do!’ I was in the car before I could change my mind.

  There were plenty of weapons in the outhouses. The trouble is, if you use something hard and heavy and maybe sharp on someone, you have to use it right, or they can grab it and use it on you. A pitchfork looked impressive, and this one fitted my hand nicely, but it’d be no use against a gun. And it might get tangled up with things – a short cudgel would be better. A broken spade handle was just the job.

  There was no sound from the house as I approached, keeping low on the far side of the vehicles. But then came the slam of wood against wood. I risked a look. Two men, neither familiar, were carrying out that lovely bureau, and had banged it on the doorframe. Murder in my heart, I gripped the shaft more tightly. With a hard enough whack I could lay one of the buggers out cold, and maybe get the second too. Tying them up and locking them in the removal van would improve the odds no end.

  The first went down with the tiniest grunt, the bureau completing the job as it fell on him. At least he was soft and would cushion it, reducing the chance of damage. The second man was so busy cursing his mate, it was easy to take him out too. It didn’t take long to drag him into the nearest van, and truss him with the long tapes meant for the rest of Lord Elham’s furniture – damn it, they’d already stowed his desk.

  The man under the bookshelves didn’t look too good. Gently easing the bookcase upright – thanks, Griff, for teaching me lifting techniques – I peered more closely. Maybe I shouldn’t move him, but leave him for the paramedics. But I wouldn’t take any risks. I tied his wrist and ankles.

  Now for the house. I clutched the spade handle with more fear than I liked to admit. But I had to do it, however much I wanted to cower outside the door, waiting for the Fifth Cavalry. Now? Now!

  But even as I braced myself, luck tapped me on the shoulder. A third man came out, carrying a couple of Hepplewhite chairs. ‘Andy? Mick? Where the hell are you?’

  He’d know when he came to tied back to back with the guy in the van.

  How many more? I daren’t assume that was the lot. Much as I wanted to stop to set the chairs upright and dust them down for damage, I had to go and find out. Where the hell were the police? That vicar couldn’t have let me down, could he? And if he had, what about the villagers?

  No. They couldn’t all be corrupt. Even if by some terrible mischance the clergyman was a fake – he’d been in the right place each time, hadn’t he? – the bungalow couple wouldn’t be in league. So why were there no blue flashing lights?

  Answer – and a cold sweat to go with i
t – probably because they’d all go to the main gates and find them locked. And think everything was a hoax and go back to base. OK. So I was on my own again, at least until I could get on to the landline phone inside. On my own with however many thugs and a lord with at least one head injury and a dope habit worth two. Whatever. Come on, Lina. Do your stuff.

  I did.

  The dust of ages filled my nostrils as I tiptoed inside. Trying not to sneeze, I headed for the living room. No TV. The phone ripped from its socket. Bad signs. But no groans either. And no sign of Lord Elham, though it was clear that this was where they’d broken in. Of course, all the other rooms would be shuttered and locked. As much to stop the whooshing sound in my ears as anything, I tried to get my brain into gear. How could I possibly work out where they’d taken him?

  Stubborn he might be, but he’d not been keen on the idea of pain. And he was as cunning as he was stubborn. What if he’d taken them to the obvious place to keep a book, the library? Then he could have a good fumble round searching for keys.

  It was a long shot. But it was so quiet in this wing, it might be the right one. As I hesitated, I caught a glimpse of something glistening in the passage carpet. Flakes of glass. Dabbing in the code, I clutched my shaft and pushed through the door.

  But I didn’t go directly to the library. Instead I dashed to the area where on quieter days they admitted Joe Public. Somewhere there would be the front gates control mechanism. Not to mention the front door key. And a working land line.

  Of course I ignored the police advice to stay put and do nothing. I had to find out if my theory about the library was correct, after all. And to see how Lord Elham was shaping up. The answer was not at all well. I could hear groans from the top of the staircase, answering the sound of something hard on soft flesh. I could see the splatters of blood on the carpet when I put my eye to the crack between the double doors.

  The next whack provoked a scream. Scary or what? I muscled in. And hit Tony Baker as hard as I could. Lord Elham was barely conscious, and his pulse was feeble and irregular. If only I knew some first aid. But even as I bent over him, he grasped my hand. ‘The others,’ he groaned.

  ‘What others?’

  The only reply was a rasping groan. Hell, where were the paramedics? And why wasn’t there a phone in here? If I did the wrong thing I could make bad worse. At least I could cover him with my jacket. I started to slip it off.

  Mistake. The bugger coming up behind me turned it into a straitjacket and I was well and truly trapped.

  Chapter Thirty

  So here I was, in one of the vans, still parked at Bossingham Hall. I was trussed far more viciously than I’d tied the men I’d socked. I seemed to be on my own. I’d tried to talk to my captor but he not only didn’t reply, he also taped my mouth. At least I’d left my mark – I’d bitten his thumb as hard as I could. OK, that had earned me a stunning slap, but at least if the police ever did turn up there’d be something for their forensic mates to work on. He also taped my eyes, which I took as a good sign. Some criminals got sniffy about being seen and disposed of their victims if they were.

  Hang on: I was not about to be a victim.

  I was going to think my way through this.

  I would do when I’d got my breath back after being shoved flat on the floor with nothing to cushion my fall.

  Tony Baker. How had he got involved with all this? And why? He’d seemed to go out of his way to be helpful, though not very efficient. Did that mean that, as I feared, Marcus was caught up in it too? Nothing Copeland did would really surprise me, of course. But what about Hoodie? And Dave? Where did they fit in? Not to mention Dan Freeman? And also, now I had nothing particular to do except think about people whose paths and mine had crossed, the guy at Folkestone asking whose granddaughter I was? The helpful clergyman: was he the decent man he ought to be?

  But my thinking time was over. Except for thinking on my feet. To which I was hauled with no more warning than the sound of trainer-clad feet on the van’s tailgate.

  He yanked off the tape brutally. But believe me, when brutal hair removal equals swift, I’d chose brutal every time. ‘The book. Where the hell’s the book?’

  I tried to roll with the smack that came with the question. And with the return blow. ‘I honestly don’t know,’ I said, trying to sound frank and reasonable. ‘What does Lord Elham say?’

  ‘I asked you.’ The voice didn’t sound naturally rough, more like a fifties black-and-white film actor trying to sound rough – you know, the sort of thing you get on TV on a wet Sunday afternoon, Laurence Harvey pretending to be a working-class lad despite the socking great plum in his mouth. I’d no idea who it might be.

  ‘I’ve told you I don’t know. Why should I?’

  ‘You’ve been here often enough. Selling things for the old bugger. Right?’

  Remind him you’re a person with feelings: that was what they told people confronted by criminals. ‘Right. But only one egg-cup so far. It’s a matter of digging stuff out of the rubbish and cleaning it up. Did you ever see such a place?’

  The result of all my friendly attempts was another slap. How would I convince Griff I hadn’t done this myself?

  ‘The book!’

  ‘The one with the page I bought? A copy, anyway. I told you, I’ve no idea. I’d hand it over if I had – the old guy’s nothing to me.’

  ‘He’s your father, isn’t he?’

  ‘Nope.’ Well, he still didn’t feel like a father – never would, probably. ‘I think it’s probably a guy from Devon. Another antiques dealer. Devon Cottage or some such. But I hope you haven’t hurt Lord Elham. He’s a dopehead – hardly knows one day of the week from the next.’

  ‘The sodding book.’ He took another swing at me.

  Swallowing blood from inside my cheek, I mumbled. ‘Told you. No idea.’ My tongue told me that at least two teeth moved with very little encouragement. Good job my dentist still took National Health patients like me.

  ‘Better come up with something better than that. Or the old guy gets it.’

  ‘How do I know he hasn’t got it already? He looked pretty ropey when I saw him.’ Someone come soon – please.

  ‘Let’s talk properly,’ the voice said.

  Suddenly my hands were freed. ‘Yes, please!’

  But my enthusiasm didn’t last long, not when my right arm was yanked up behind me, the joint screaming, and not when sharp long nails dug into the thumb. Or it might not be fingernails at all. ‘You do pretty delicate work, don’t you? Restoring china. You must need all your fingers for that. What’s the minimum you need to work with? Come on, Lina – that book.’

  I took a deep breath. It should be safe by now, provided the clergyman hadn’t run out of fuel again. And provided he really was on the side of the angels. But I still gambled for extra time, even by the second. ‘OK, OK. I might be able to take you to it. Roughly. I told you the truth, honestly. I don’t know exactly where it is.’

  ‘You’d better find out pretty soon. And tell us.’

  ‘You won’t get it without me. I’m the only ID it’s got. It’s in Canterbury.’ It would be by now. Always assuming the clergyman was pukka.

  While he and another man – Tony, I rather thought – had a whispered conversation, I fantasised about making a grand entrance to the Cathedral, propelled by a bent policeman and his mate, demanding the keys to the safe. What if I made a bolt for it, claiming asylum on the altar steps? Would the Old Guy who lived there strike these two dead if they touched me? It hadn’t quite worked out that way for St Thomas, had it? And I wasn’t sure about the ins and outs of being a martyr and a saint in the twenty-first century. So I rather hoped it wouldn’t come to that. In any case, if there was a concert taking place, there’d be stewards to grab me and a whole orchestra to get tangled up with.

  And to put at risk. With several million pounds at stake, these blokes could get really nasty.

  And did. All of a sudden, my hands were yanked up again, but not
taped. ‘Who the fuck are you?’ There was a sound of bone on bone, and my captor sagged, letting me slip.

  So help had arrived. And to my everlasting shame and regret, to celebrate I passed clean out.

  ‘I’m all right. Perfectly all right, I tell you.’ It wasn’t the paramedics’ fault I was growling. It was my own. I’d come to quick enough as soon as the blood got back to my head. But in turkey-mode, eyes blacked out, there’d been nothing I could do except lie still and think – no, not of England, but of what might or might not be going on around me. There were armed police: their warning shouts would have awakened the dead. Then some medics arrived, to be despatched inside. At last the noise subsided and someone picked me up quite gently and propped me in a sitting position, not at all comfortable with my hands behind my back. Whoever did the next bit ought to have trained on leg-waxes: so slowly were my gag and blindfold removed I almost wished my vicious captor were back. But there was no sign of him. When my hands were free I had a feel round my face: some eyelashes still there, not a lot of eyebrow, and an upper lip as clean as a whistle. But I didn’t linger anywhere long. My cheekbones and cheeks felt as bad as in the old days, screaming for arnica or whatever. But if I wanted answers they and the jiggly teeth would have to form words. ‘How’s Lord Elham?’ I asked the middle-aged paramedic who’d plucked me. ‘He was in the house – in the library.’ Not a nice word to say with bruises like these. Could they actually have broken something? ‘In his fifties. Beaten up.’

  ‘Was that His Lordship? Wow. I’ve never treated a Lord before.’

  ‘Why didn’t you go with him to A and E – isn’t that the usual system?’

  ‘Because he wouldn’t go until he knew if you were OK. You could share an ambulance, he said.’

  ‘If I admit I’m ill enough to go with him he’ll worry.’ It’d be a first if he did. ‘Tell him I’m fine – don’t need any treatment.’ I closed my eyes to avoid further argument.