I had no option, did I? Even if what he wanted me to do was tax evasion at best? Or was it avoidance? I’d forgotten again. ‘I promise.’ Oh, dear. It was one more reason not to get any closer to Carwyn. Then I asked the question I should have asked two minutes ago. ‘Why should anything happen to you? What’s been going on, Griff? No, don’t pretend you’ve got to see to something on the hob. Sit down and tell me.’
Griff looked guilty, anxious and scared, all rolled into one. ‘It’s not a thing a gentleman of my generation finds easy to talk about, my love. The euphemism is waterworks trouble.’ He coughed, blushing.
‘Don’t think I haven’t noticed how many times you use the bathroom during the night.’ Or during the daytime either. Hmm. This had been happening for less than a week though, surely. Did that sort of thing inevitably spell a death by prostate cancer? ‘And our current GP is a woman and you’d rather sit around worrying about death than have her finger up your bum,’ I said, deliberately crude. ‘OK, I’ll fix you an emergency appointment for tomorrow.’
The surgery had a computerized booking system which generally let you book appointments for a couple of weeks after the symptoms subsided of their own accord. But there was an emergency button, which popped you up the queue, provided you were prepared to tell them the symptoms that were troubling you.
Facing an eight-thirty appointment the following morning, Griff dealt with the problem over supper by chatting briskly about absolute rubbish. At least I thought it was until I heard the name Noel Pargetter again.
‘I’ve had such a peculiar email from him,’ Griff was saying. ‘Such a strange tone from one old friend to another.’
‘What does he say?’
‘He tells me that sometimes it’s best not to renew acquaintanceship but to remember good days in the past. Something about my having divided loyalties. And then he says he’d rather I didn’t take up his suggestion that we meet in London for lunch next week.’
‘What a strange way of putting it. Why not say he’s going to be busy and will have to postpone it? That’s what people do when they change their minds. And eventually the other person loses interest.’
‘Quite. How many times have I done that?’ he chuckled.
‘What does he mean about divided loyalties? Is he jealous of Aidan?’
‘Aidan and I were an item of sorts when Noel and I first met. Nothing’s changed. All we’d agreed to do was have a civilized lunch at his club, not embark on a torrid love affair. I’m not sure how to respond, to be honest.’
‘Normally I’d suggest just a dignified silence. That’s what you’d advise me to do. Delete it and move on. But the funny thing is that Pa’s heard of him, apparently in a different context. And worryingly, he was going to talk to Titus about him.’
‘Oh, dear. In that case I shall certainly not pursue the acquaintance.’ He shifted with embarrassment. ‘Dear me, is that the time? Bed for me, my love.’
Me too. But first I’d give myself the pleasure of hearing Carwyn’s voice: we nattered happily about precisely nothing of importance for about ten minutes. He sounded pleased that my contact with Harvey was now limited to formal emails written by Griff, and wanted to talk about my current repair job as a rest from thinking about people-trafficking.
It was only when I caught him in a giant yawn that I remembered that France was an hour ahead of the UK, and I was ready to end the call. Before I did, however, I told him about the Noel Pargetter email, which puzzled him as much as it did me. He was also interested in the sudden burst of money and then his disappearance from the Rich List. However, he told me his immediate theory for the cessation of pleasant relations between the men: that Griff must have farted at the wrong moment. That seemed a good note on which to say goodnight.
TEN
‘Cystitis? But everyone gets that!’ I told Griff as he returned home, a silly grin all over his face.
‘I know, I know.’ He returned my hug. ‘But she still wants to run some tests. And she frowned all the time she was tapping into her computer. Not like old Doctor Allinson – he’d sit you down and have a proper natter.’
‘The poor things are all target-driven – haven’t got time to blow their noses,’ I said, pouring coffee. ‘But it’s so far, so good – right? So I can go and finish retouching that revolting piece of Majolica.’
‘Absolutely. Don’t forget we need to check Dodie’s camera, will you?’
‘Drat. So we do. It’s very odd it’s picked up nothing so far.’
But this time it had. It had picked up a hand – well, a hand picking it up. And moving it to where we found it, right by Dodie, so the only thing it could photograph was the probable victim herself.
‘My son,’ she said dryly, patting the radio. ‘Being kind. I told him it was good exercise for me to get up and switch it on but he insisted. By the way, tuning it to Classic FM was an act of genius. For some reason I’d stopped listening to music. My silly old ears, I suppose. But, do you know, I’m beginning to enjoy it again. Now, I have some news – and I suspect, dear Griff, that your Lina may have had something to do with it. Tony says some ladies from the church are going to come and … I believe the expression is tart me up. Not that a church lady would use it, of course. One is going to wash and blow-dry my hair, another give me a pedicure, would you believe. A chiropodist – through I think she’s got another name, which I always forget – comes in because of my diabetes, but imagine the joy of having the nails painted! And a manicure, too!’ She stopped fiddling with the alarm on a cord round her neck – well done, Moira – and gestured rather grandly.
I squeezed the hand lying on her lap with pleasure. ‘Now, Dodie, forgive me if I’m speaking out of order, but you might feel better in some nice clothes. I could reach some for whichever of your carers gets you dressed.’
‘Would you really? Oh, I do hate these drab things. They so encourage dwindling – and one thing I dread is slipping into senility. I want to be me when I die.’
‘Those slippers are pretty dwindly,’ I said.
‘You darling girl! When I think I used to wear heels like this …’ She gestured – three-inch stilettos, by the look of it. Not the footwear she could dream of wearing now, of course. Nonetheless, she twisted her foot to show a once well-turned ankle. ‘And clothes, darling. Dior. Balmain. All the great couturists …’
I didn’t find any Dior in her wardrobe because I didn’t find any clothes in her wardrobe – apart from two pairs of baggy tracksuit bottoms and three shapeless tops, all stained. My hope was that some of the church ladies had taken the rest to wash them, and that Dodie had forgotten. My fear was that someone had spirited away a load of expensive clothes, something that would never catch the eye of the radio-camera, of course. Good shoes, too, though perhaps she’d got rid of them when she became unsteady. On the off-chance, I looked in the spare room wardrobe, too – absolutely bare.
I walked slowly back down, wondering how on earth to break the news. This was something I very much wanted recording, so I sat close to her, taking her hand again. ‘I was wondering if you’d asked someone to have your clothes cleaned or washed,’ I began.
‘Why should I?’ She added, to my astonishment, ‘Are you telling me that my clothes have gone the way of my netsuke? Perhaps they’ll come back in the same miraculous way, but as you youngsters say, I’m not holding my breath.’
Griff moved closer. ‘Dodie, do you remember when your radio-camera was moved? Because it’s not the only thing that isn’t where it should be. The netsuke’s gone again.’
‘It has, but only a little way.’ She dug in one of her pockets. ‘Here he is. He keeps me company. Oh, dear, oh, dear – I was hoping to get out of these weeds.’
‘You will. I’ll find you something myself. But what do we do, meanwhile, about the missing clothes? Your social worker needs to know, as does your family.’ Not to mention the police, though that might not be what she wanted. ‘Moira, the lady from church who organized your hairdo and pedicur
e, will know what to do. Shall we phone her and ask her to come over?’
Remembering that Moira had considered that even tea with my father might harm Dodie’s emotional balance, I thought that having her entire wardrobe purloined might harm her even more. When Moira arrived, I slipped out to cast an eye over the rails in one of the two charity shops in the village. Replacing couture wasn’t even in my mind: just finding something to fit. Elasticated waists were probably a necessity in both skirts and trousers. Having found three skirts and two pairs of trousers in what I guessed were Dodie’s size, I turned my attention to tops, of which there were plenty. I could only choose what appealed to me – bright, a bit off-beat. The kind volunteers insisted that if she didn’t like them I could bring them back and replace them with something more subdued. Jewellery was going for a song: several stylish costume pieces joined the clothes. Shoes? No, too specialized. But I’d love her to have something better than those Velcro-fastening monstrosities. Then I made one last, off-the-wall, purchase.
Moira had summoned a gloriously confusing meeting in Dodie’s living room: on one side, by the television, were a harried and equally polysyllabic social worker under a pile of paperwork, and a resentful son dragged from what he kept telling everyone was a vital meeting, and on the other, by the door, a police community support officer being told that she was no use and that someone with investigative powers was required.
Dodie sat looking from one to the other, increasingly bemused, as if a loud Wimbledon game had just descended into her space. She’d been entirely what I should imagine was her old self before; any moment now she’d regress into a weepy old lady. I shooed the lot of them into her kitchen, small and cramped enough to encourage a quick decision. Meanwhile, I stayed behind to show her my booty, over which she nodded approval. No one could have raved over the skirts, but she held the tops up and made me find a mirror. She was happy for me to take all the clothes away to wash them, but nothing would separate her from some gorgeous beads, which might have been but probably weren’t amber. There was a super chunky ring too, not Georg Jensen, of course, and not silver, but with real pizzazz.
‘True anti-dwindling devices,’ she declared, slipping them on.
Finally, with the sort of smile I remember giving when I had a mother to buy me non-useful presents (after she died I’d had so many practical gifts from temporary foster parents I came to hate Christmas), she reached into the bottom of the bag.
‘A teddy! Bossy, he’s just like my old Mop.’ And not unlike my own Tim. ‘Thank you so much, my darling.’ She smiled sweetly and promptly fell asleep holding him. So much for washing him, which Health and Safety would probably have decreed.
Bossy, eh? Surely that must be short for Bossingham? It would certainly be appropriate for my pa’s selfish demeanour. And everyone said how alike we looked. It was a good job the social worker hadn’t overheard. It would have shot my insistence that she was lucid and furious right out of the water.
There was no point, I told myself, in interrupting the still rancorous committee, and I had work to do before I did a supermarket run for Pa.
‘Robbed! What bloody mongrels! Stealing from a helpless pensioner! What is the world coming to?’ Pa raged. Just in case, I removed the eggs from his clutches and transferred them to the little rack in his fridge. ‘Old ladies and churches. Whatever next?’
Unable to think of a satisfactory response that didn’t involve kettles and pots, I did the next best thing: I made mugs of green tea for us.
‘When can I go and visit her?’
‘Not until she’s had her make-over,’ I said firmly. ‘And until I’ve got her some more clothes, of course.’ I told him about my emergency dive into the hospice shop.
His blood pressure must have been soaring. ‘Buying someone else’s leavings! What were you thinking of, Lina? The widow of the former ambassador to Tokyo reduced to rummaging in a charity bag?’
Stung, I responded, ‘It was me doing the rummaging, actually, not her, largely because I don’t know where else to shop for old ladies’ skirts at a moment’s notice. But I take your point, because it raises another. She’s not exactly living in style, and ambassadors aren’t known for their poverty. If her husband’s dead, he must have left her a pension, probably quite good, which she ought to be drawing. How come she’s eking out such a miserable existence?’
‘You’ll have to find out. By the way, I could do with your selling a few more pots for me – more of that Chinese stuff. I’ve been watching that TV chappie – he’s always talking it up, just as you are. Internet sales, that’s what you need.’
How did he think I’d sold the last batch?
‘I’ll see what I can find. Any news for me on the church thefts, by the way?’ I added caustically, hoping to catch him out.
He might have been tricked like that when I first met him but not now; maybe it was the green tea. ‘If I did have, I’d tell young Carwyn, not you. They’re dangerous, these people. Very dangerous. And no more asking Titus how we’re making our money – I’ll tell you when we’re good and ready. Now, have you managed to get rid of that Devon creep of yours yet?’
Which one? There were two in my life, come to think of it. One I’d given absolutely no thought to, of course, was Arthur Habgood, owner of Devon Cottage Antiques. To my absolute horror I’d completely overlooked his part in the reappearance of Dodie’s netsuke. The only excuse was my wretched erratic memory, not to mention all the goings on involving Harvey and then the church robbers. It’d be much easier to stay schtum – but I’d already told Carwyn about it, and it would look much better if, now the police were actively involved, I reminded them of my part at least. Wouldn’t it? Even if Habgood did claim to be my grandfather.
Griff nodded soberly when I asked for the name of the police officer Moira had demanded and finally got: DS Hunt. ‘Are you dobbing Habgood in because you think you should or because you still harbour resentment against him?’
‘It’s not tit for tat, if that’s what you’re worried about. If I had the chance, I’d go down and tackle him myself. But with that huge backlog of repairs, I don’t have time, Griff. Especially as Pa now wants me to add buying clothes for Dodie to my list of pastimes.’
‘I thought you already had – and put them through the machine. They look excellent to me. And you can always buy her clothes online, so they can be returned if they don’t suit.’
‘Of course. I’ve not been thinking very clearly, have I? But Pa made a very good point: why is she reduced to garments from the hospice shop, given her background? Did whoever nicked her clothes nick other things, too? And there’s one question I really don’t like to ask – who will pay for her new gear? Not the stuff I’ve bought – that can be a present. But anything from Marks and Spencer or wherever will cost a lot more.’
‘You’re already several hundred pounds out of pocket for the little netsuke, aren’t you? I noticed you didn’t put it through the firm’s account but your own. It’ll have to be a conversation with Moira, won’t it? A serious one.’
‘Moira. And the police.’
I strongly suspect that DS Hunt was just going off duty when I rolled up in Maidstone, but she was too polite to do more than sigh and check her watch every two minutes. She wore a wedding band and was the right age to have a child at home, waiting for its supper. Perhaps she herself had eaten too many junk food suppers on the hoof: though not fat, she was pudgy rather than chunky. How would she meet the fitness and endurance levels Carwyn worked so hard to maintain?
‘If this is inconvenient,’ I said pointedly, ‘I could come back first thing tomorrow. No? Well, these are the pictures I took of the Devon Cottage stall at the antiques fair in Exeter, with the netsuke in situ. And here’s the receipt for it. I’d say it was underpriced by at least a hundred pounds, probably more,’ I added, thinking of my haggling.
Hunt’s eyebrows shot up. ‘You think they were trying to get rid of it fast?’
‘I’m not sure. They sold m
e a gold brooch set with precious stones for under twenty pounds, so maybe they’re just not very switched on. But I was worried enough to send DS Carwyn Morgan the photos. He said he’d referred them back—’
‘Oh. Those photos. I didn’t have a clue what he wanted doing with them, since there was no evidence of a crime being committed.’
‘There is now, isn’t there? And just for the record, Dodie recognized it as hers in front of a witness. Here are the pics from the hidden camera.’ I handed over the memory stick onto which I’d downloaded everything – a duplicate of which, incidentally, I’d kept at home.
‘I can’t think what possessed you to set up your Boys’ Own surveillance equipment,’ she said pettishly.
‘Would you people have had the resources to?’ I countered. ‘It’s a shame her son moved it, isn’t it?’
‘Are you making an allegation there, Ms Townend?’
I held up my hands in mock surrender. ‘I’ve never met the man. I don’t know anything about him. I’m just doing what Carwyn says people should do – giving you all the information and letting you sort out what’s relevant and what isn’t.’
For a moment she showed why she might have been attracted to the police in the first place. ‘It is weird, isn’t it? All those clothes going missing … Why steal clothes? Assuming the old dear didn’t just give them away.’
‘There’s a lot of interest in designer clothes – retro chic.’
‘Would they be that good?’
‘If there was evening wear, it would be good enough to go to embassy balls—’
‘Come off it! A poverty-stricken old bat in a one-horse village in Kent owning Chanel or whatever?’
I asked quietly, ‘You do know her background? That she was married to a career diplomat?’
I must have pressed the right buttons. ‘What? My God, what if the media get hold of this? Tell me everything you know.’
And suddenly I was useful. As was my father.
Guilty as Sin Page 8
