Guilty as Sin

by Judith Cutler

  I thought the encounter was over, but she dodged back, looking almost embarrassed. ‘How hard is it to look at the CCTV footage of – say – Maidstone? I don’t want … no, just see if you can.’

  ‘What am I looking for, Kate?’

  She shook her head emphatically. ‘I really don’t want to go round making accusations. At all.’ She waved a hand, ready to move away.

  ‘Hang on! If you let me have your contact details, I’ll send details of our stock,’ I said. ‘And tell you about the footage.’ I stowed her card – she was a wedding planner – and waved her goodbye.

  It wasn’t until we were packing up at the end of the day and my lack of inches needed Will’s excess of them that we were able to resume our conversation about Habgood. Apart from an early sale, Will had had a bad day; mine hadn’t been much better. The main consolation was that Griff hadn’t wasted a day, or spent it hurtling around Kent. The slackness made me realize even more clearly the wisdom of Paul’s advice when he had told us to separate the profitable from the dwindling business.

  ‘Habgood’s cronies,’ I prompted eventually, as Will passed me the last light fitting.

  ‘All I know is that he’s got a wide net of people who supply him from car boot sales and the like. No questions asked. But like you said, provenance is all. Or was it Hamlet who said that?’ he asked, with a quirky smile. ‘My oldest’s doing his A-levels, and goodness knows how many versions of his set books we’ve had to watch on DVD. I don’t dislike the man as much as you do, obviously, and to be honest, I still don’t think it reflects well on you to bad-mouth him – though I can quite understand why.’ Would he ever let this go? It was beginning to feel more like nagging than friendly and constructive criticism. ‘But I will ask around,’ he conceded.

  ‘No. Don’t do that. Please. That’s not your job. You’ve got a business to run and a family to look after. Just keep out of it.’ Perhaps I surprised myself by my strength of feeling. ‘If by chance you hear anything and can pass it on, that’s different.’

  He looked at me closely. ‘Has something happened today to scare you?’

  I shook my head. ‘It’s just this divvy thing of mine. Sometimes it seems to function with other things besides antiques. People. So please, Will, just keep your head down.’ I suspect my smile was watery as I added, ‘And maybe we should end this conversation with an almighty row, just in case any of Habgood’s mates should be here.’

  ‘Can’t do acting,’ he said. ‘Come on, let’s get this lot into your van.’

  ‘Not on your bloody life!’

  ‘What’s got into you, you crazy woman?’ He looked genuinely shocked.

  I dropped my voice. ‘See, you can act.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  Naturally I said nothing to Griff about Kate Evans and her advice. However, having given Freya Sunday evening off, as it were, I texted her first thing on Monday asking for help tracing the CCTV footage – it shouldn’t be hard for her given that I’d met her only minutes later and could give the precise location. She texted back almost immediately that she’d been drafted in to help out on a murder enquiry, but she’d asked Conrad Knowles to chase it up as soon as he got in. Did I know what I was looking for?

  My attempted dive under a lorry. The one that had upset me and helped reduce me to tears.

  She texted back: Illget him to priotise. X

  I got the gist, anyway.

  For some reason, though I had to sit firmly on my anxiety, I didn’t hold my breath. But I did make a note to call him the following morning just to remind him of my existence. Then, after my now less regular check on Dodie’s cameras – nil returns – I settled down to a delightful day of really pleasurable work … apart from the smells drifting up insidiously from the kitchen; Griff had decided to make chutney. Eventually I gave up and took myself down to the shop to get some kids’ tennis balls – soft, not much bounce – that happened to be on offer at this time of the year. As I told Dodie when I nipped in to see her for a few of what she called her anti-dwindle moments, I was going to hurl these at the back wall of the yard to improve my throwing and catching. It turned out she’d played cricket when she was a girl – she almost pronounced it gell – in the days of long socks and divided skirts. We parted with our usual hug and soft kiss.

  The smell of vinegar and spices still clung to Griff’s skin, despite his shower and change of clothing, as with the rest of the dance class we practised – endlessly – a quickstep figure called the fishtail. His feet flashed through the steps, apparently instinctively. I didn’t help my cause by trying to look down at mine to see why they weren’t working. Any day now I might chuck the whole course in – but that would upset Griff and deprive him of a session of nice aerobic exercise. There was a large notice on the board too – that learning to dance helped prevent Alzheimer’s. I marked, learned and inwardly digested, and resolved to button my lip a while longer.

  Spencer was making one of his rare appearances, completely monopolizing poor Dee and her long-suffering feet. The only bonus was that they weren’t mine. At the end of the hour, back in street shoes (we all wore special soft-soled dance gear), we inevitably fell into step; I made sure the conversation followed strict rugby lines. My thanks to him and his friends were lavish, and sincere. At this point Griff virtually pleaded with him to submit the appropriate vetting form. Sensing that this time Spencer might actually get angry, I changed the subject abruptly, reminding Griff that there was some TV programme that he wanted to see and had forgotten to record. It might have been beyond rude actually, but I had an idea that Spencer was relieved. So what was he hiding? Late though it was, I thought about texting Knowles. Or did he deserve an evening off too?

  The blinking eye of our answerphone announced what turned out to be a message from Phil. Landline? Of course – we’d never exchanged mobile details, had we, probably thanks to Freya’s intervention. He reminded us that we’d spoken of Thai food, and that what was supposed to be a better than average place had just opened in Canterbury. Would I care to join him – Griff too if he was so inclined? Tomorrow?

  ‘No. It’d mean missing Pilates,’ I told Griff, who was rubbing his hands with glee at the thought of my having a decent respectable man to wine and dine me. He waved aside the socially and physically inept Spencer; Phil, with his flourishing business and bijou cottage, might be the answer to Griff’s prayers – not for himself, of course, but for me. ‘And I wouldn’t want,’ I added with a smile that Griff would interpret as coy, ‘to sound too keen. He mentioned you too, remember, and you’re joining Aidan for that am-dram production in Tenterden. I know you’re only going so that you can both have a good sneer, but you can’t really stand Aidan up, can you?’

  ‘He wouldn’t think twice,’ he said flatly. ‘But Phil only asked me as an afterthought – you can tell from his voice.’

  ‘Whoever he invited, he’s going to have to find another evening,’ I insisted. ‘Am-dram for you, and for me Pilates with the girls it must be. Will you call him? I’ve got a really important text to deal with.’ I ran upstairs to prove the point. But I got no reply from Conrad Knowles. The next day I even tried phoning, to no avail. Any moment now I’d get so pissed off I’d dob him in to Freya.

  Compared with the ball skills work, Pilates epitomized dullness, but I knew it was doing me and my back good – I was almost beginning to think of it, with all its individual bones and muscles, as a separate entity. I certainly didn’t enjoy Laura and Honey’s company nearly as much as I enjoyed Fozia’s, but I went along with them to the pub as usual, and then nearly fell off my stool in surprise when Honey invited us back to her place – her parents’, of course – to eat our latest Chinese feast.

  It turned out to be Parson’s Pride, the very house to which Afzal had delivered an order when he’d been taking me home – high gates and entry-phone, which I now saw protected a big garden, lights giving some indication of its range, and a floodlit four-square Georgian house to die for. We entered by what would o
nce have been the servants’ entrance, a kitchen so large that pretty much the whole of our cottage would have fitted inside it. For chicness it rivalled Phil’s. The table was already laid for us. At one point Laura asked for the loo, and tried to open the door she probably assumed – I would have done – led to the hall and a cloakroom. It was locked. Honey, rather giggly even for her, shooed her to another door, which opened, Laura announced when she emerged, into the biggest loo in the Western World. I was filling the water jug at the sink (I knew my place) when a car crunched the gravel outside, heading to the rear of the house – stables now converted to a garage, at a guess. Then there were footsteps past the kitchen; the walker was heading to the front door, no doubt. Motion-sensitive lights switched on and off to mark their progress, the only remotely environmentally friendly part of the lighting system I’d observed.

  Honey was full of Spencer’s good deed in recruiting people to help what she infuriated me by referring to as ‘Lina’s old bat’. I joined in, though I did mention the other young men involved too. As for Dodie, I said firmly, she might be old but she was bright and canny, and everyone who met her liked her.

  ‘But fancy you refusing to go along to support Spencer’s team!’ she said, provoked. ‘That wasn’t very nice, Lina, after all he’s done for you.’

  All what? Getting others to do his dirty work? ‘I’d got a prior commitment, Honey. Just as I had with you two tonight when someone asked me to do something else,’ I concluded lamely, not wanting to feed Phil into her conversational mincer. ‘Aren’t I a dreadful Goody Two-Shoes! The way I was brought up, I suppose.’ They weren’t to know I was being deeply ironic.

  ‘Someone was saying Griff isn’t your real grandfather,’ Honey said, as if that might provoke me.

  ‘Oh, he’s not. He adopted me.’ This wasn’t legally true, because I’d been too old when we had the idea.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because my mother died when I was young, and my father wasn’t exactly … I’d not rate him very high in the father stakes.’

  Laura abandoned her chopsticks and picked up a spoon. ‘Someone said your dad’s a lord.’

  ‘Yep. Not a famous one, though. Doesn’t live anywhere as grand as this. He only has the servants’ quarters, which are almost as basic as in the days when there were servants. Before they could ask the perennial question – if I was a lady, with a capital L – I spread my hands, opening my eyes wide. ‘This is some pad, Honey. No wonder you don’t want to move out.’

  ‘Oh, I’d go if I could afford it. Don’t you worry, I’d rather live in a place like yours, Laura.’ Were we seeing the real Honey for once? ‘No one keeps an eye on when you come and go, after all. I mean, it’s nice having a rich dad, but not if he’s a bit of a control freak. He says he’s just looking after me, but it doesn’t feel like that. I mean, I’m nearly thirty, for God’s sake!’

  ‘What about your mum?’ Laura asked.

  ‘Jumped ship years ago. I still see her, obviously, but I don’t like her new man, not one scrap. The way he looks at you … I don’t like the bitch who’s likely to become my stepmother either, ingratiating cow. I said to Dad, just give me some money and I’ll get myself a place in Canterbury and a little car, something like your new one, Lina, and leave you to it. I mean, he’s rolling. He says this is cheap plonk—’ she pointed to the bottle of excellent Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc she’d just emptied, and reached for another from the giant American fridge. ‘Twelve quid a bottle, and he calls it plonk!’

  Laura giggled. ‘I could take a couple of these home if you wanted to get rid of them.’

  ‘He’s just got himself a new car – OK, second-hand, but new to us. I don’t suppose he got much change out of fifty K. And he won’t fork out for a little runabout for me.’ Her lower lip wobbled.

  So my handsome new Audi was a little runabout, was it? Motoring luxury, in my book.

  Laura caught my eye, jerking her head minutely. I nodded. It was time to leave Honey to what would probably be a monumental hangover the following day. ‘I’ve got to be up before seven, Hon,’ she said. ‘Working day. Shall I pop that back in the fridge for you?’ She screwed the top back on the Sauvignon and got up. I followed her lead. At least we could walk part of the way together. And this time I’d got proper trainers in my rucksack.

  ‘Oh, Dad’ll take you home. He’d like to show off his Merc … But he said!’ she added, whining like toddler, as we both shook our heads.

  Laura patted her stomach. ‘After all this food it’ll do us good to walk, won’t it, Lina?’ She watched as I changed my shoes and slung my rucksack on. I also added a little gadget I’d found online: a torch you wore round your head. I might look weird, but it would be good to see where I was putting my feet. The trusty truncheon torch lurked in the rucksack. ‘You’re not expecting me to run, Lina? I only do walking.’

  ‘Of course not. It’s just that I’m really into this cricket thing and want to get fit so I shall jog from yours to mine.’

  Honey roused herself from her sulk to say, ‘OK, if you insist … No coffee? All right, I’d better buzz you out, then. He’ll be really pissed off, though.’

  ‘Mercs, a place like this, security gates – what’s your dad do to get this much money then, Honey?’ Laura, who’d drunk rather more than me, had the brass neck to ask. Good for her.

  ‘Recycling or something,’ Honey said, off-hand.

  It felt like a lie. At best a partial truth.

  As Laura observed as we set off down the drive together: ‘I don’t know if I want to do this again,’ she said quietly, watching the gates swing open. Giggling, we dived through as if dawdling would get us sliced sideways. She continued, ‘I just get so sick of her sense of entitlement. I worked my way through Uni and we saved up for ages to get the deposit for our flat, and you should see our poor old car. But she thinks she should get everything on a plate. She sneers at my things, too. Like my poor plates.’ That sounded suspiciously like a sob.

  ‘She shouldn’t. Sure you couldn’t spend a fortune on them but you chose wisely – nice simple designs, nothing fussy.’

  ‘You mean that? And you’re a china expert? Thanks!’ She gave me a tiny hug. ‘Another thing: I wish she didn’t drink so much – it’s not good for her.’

  ‘It’s not. Perhaps she drinks because she’s so unhappy. Remember the fancy dress I told you about? At Torquay? And how I sang, “Only a Bird in a Gilded Cage”? Do you think Honey might be like that bird?’

  ‘Locked in the servants’ quarters! Did you see? We might have been guests, but we weren’t getting into the house proper, were we?’

  ‘You’re sure it was locked? Literally?’

  She nodded, fit to shake her head off.

  Curiouser and curiouser. I’d have to hope we did get another invitation there after all and I’d try the door for myself. ‘You see, all I meant was that she was trapped by her father’s money.’

  ‘There are worse things to be trapped by. Being poor, for instance. My parents were actually driven to using a food bank till I found out – but I wouldn’t want Honey to know that. Redundancy. Illness. Two professionals and they have to choose whether to keep their own roof over their head or to eat.’

  It was my turn to hug her as she sobbed to a halt. ‘What a good job they’ve got you. And of course I won’t tell anyone, anyone at all. Tell you what, it’s time the church had a new project. I doubt if it’ll help your parents specifically, but we could organize donations to whichever is our nearest food bank. Actually,’ I added, to lighten the moment, ‘when my pa heard about bottle banks he had the notion that if you put empties in, you’d get full ones out …’

  TWENTY-THREE

  My jog from Laura’s was almost uneventful – but not quite.

  I told myself that it was because I saw danger in every black car – pretty stupid statistically, if you think about it. In any case, I really could not believe that Honey’s father would be so outraged that someone should reject his wheels
that he would get the new black Merc – another one to worry about! – out again and prowl the streets of a sleepy village looking for the ungrateful ones. But I did see the same car a couple of times, so I took to one or two car-unfriendly lanes. These added a few minutes and removed a few more calories – always welcome. Of course, they came with hazards of their own: evidence of lazy dog-walkers. They’d gathered up the mess but then left the poo bags on the ground. Some kind soul had actually festooned a couple on someone’s hedge.

  I was no longer alone. Other footsteps were following me. Just another jogger …? I didn’t spend too long on speculation. I might just get away with turning round and confronting whoever it was, but this wasn’t a great place to do it. On the other hand, it was a great spot for anyone with enough speed to attack me from behind. So stopping and fishing the mega-torch from the rucksack didn’t seem the best option. If only I hadn’t had quite so much wine: my head would be clearer and my legs stronger.

  Whoever was behind me was definitely gaining, and I had to do something simply to reassure myself that this was an innocent health freak and not someone with evil intent. I tried accelerating. No good. The footsteps kept pace. Should I slow down and wave him past?

  Not without seeing him first.

  Turning at right angles to the path, I bent, as if to tie a lace. I could look up to face him, illuminating his face with my mini-headlight, of course. We might exchange a friendly smile and a comment about the weather. I’d also be in a position to do an explosive start. Unless, of course, my would-be assailant – I hoped I was getting ahead of myself here but couldn’t be sure – took advantage of his height to wallop me over the head. Heavens, I was getting paranoid, wasn’t I? Or at the very least obsessed with potential head injuries.

  All the same …

  All the same, when a man wearing a balaclava for running on a mild night slows down and raises his right arm as if to strike, you might be entitled to feel mild suspicion. I dodged to my left, ready to sprint, but the hand I was using to boost lift-off landed on something squidgy and vile. OK, it was still in a polythene bag, but there was no doubting what it was. Or that it would constitute the only weapon I had available. Even our grim-faced cricket coach might have cracked a smile as I grabbed it, threw and scrambled to my feet.