‘I don’t know that I ought,’ he said, drinking deeply anyway. ‘I had the best part of a bottle at lunchtime. There again, why not?’ He looked into a distance I couldn’t see – a last meal with an old friend, however corrupt, perhaps reminding him of everyone’s mortality.
As for his account of their conversation, I believed him implicitly. Or not.
I discovered, when I came back the following morning from my regular brief trip to Dodie’s to check her still innocent footage, that I had a whole lot of new friends, including our diminutive PCSO, Ann Draper. Overnight, it seemed, someone had removed all the manhole covers and drain grids from Bredeham, not as some giant practical joke, Draper assured me as I ushered her into our living room, but almost certainly to sell as scrap.
‘Hang on. I thought there’s a national initiative to curb that sort of thing – rules for scrap metal dealers about not making cash payments and so on. Everything to be properly receipted and recorded.’
‘In theory,’ she said carefully.
‘But in fact it’s a law more honoured in the breach than the observance,’ I said, with a rueful smile. Her blank expression suggested she hadn’t registered the allusion. ‘OK, how can I help?’
‘It’s your CCTV cameras. Did they pick up anything?’
‘Let’s look, shall we?’ I led the way to the display console. ‘Didn’t anyone spot the thieves? After all, you can’t just pick up a manhole cover, tuck it under your arm and stroll off with it.’
‘Apparently people thought they must be from the council. Though one lady did get a bit worried and went down to have a look. When the men simply melted into the darkness and didn’t reappear, she felt suspicious and phoned us. 101, though – or we might have caught them red-handed.’
I knew the feeling. ‘Any reason why people thought they were official council workers?’ I asked, automatically shielding the keypad and tapping in our code. I supplied the answer to my question. ‘Lots of official-looking signs?’
‘They were actually official signs. The council lost a lot during some recent roadworks. A prank, they thought, at the time.’
And of course it was much easier for all concerned to continue with that assumption.
‘One good thing,’ Draper continued sunnily, ‘is that it should be the end of problems in Bredeham. Lightning never strikes twice, does it?’
‘It has already. The attack on the church and now this. How about the adage of bad things happening in threes?’ And I knew just the place they’d be after. But I shut up. She was out of her depth, and Freya and I were now back at the point where at least I could pick up the phone and talk to her.
We watched through all the footage together. I’d an idea she’d expected me to fade discreetly into the background, but I rarely did discreet when it was my equipment involved and I was in my own home.
Draper was right. They really did look like genuine workmen. As before, they’d erected their signs, this particular set warning about raised ironwork. Someone had a sense of humour, obviously. But the downside for them was the same as for the church raiders – they couldn’t totally hide their faces. I was as sure as I could be that some of the faces were the same, though no doubt a court of law would prefer the evidence of police facial recognition systems. I downloaded the footage for Draper, who toddled off happy in the knowledge she’d done her job well. She didn’t need to know that the moment I’d closed the door on her I was texting Freya with the information and telling her I’d really welcome another talk. The old Freya would have refused point-blank. The new one texted me that as soon as her meeting in Canterbury with church representatives was over she’d pop over to Bredeham to see me. How about the church as a venue, so she could see how good my camera was?
I sat quietly at the back of the church, waiting for Freya to deal with a flurry of texts and watching the sun play on the stained-glass windows. It seemed ages before she got to her feet and, saying nothing, wandered round looking at the carvings we’d last seen by artificial light. The Seven Deadly Sins still didn’t show up clearly – in fact daylight dimmed them even further – but the gleaming brass lectern might have had ‘Steal Me!’ signs all over it. Inside the vestry, where I followed her, the metal cupboards looked even flimsier.
‘At least the churchwardens here have agreed to move the best plate to the vaults in Canterbury Cathedral for temporary safe-keeping,’ she said, following my gaze. ‘They don’t need a faculty for that. In fact this morning’s meeting accepted most of what the Crime Prevention team and I had to say, which was in essence that for the time being at least they had to take extra precautions. The problem was implementing any major changes. Most churches don’t have the funds, for a start, and in any case, as Robin says, you can’t turn the House of God into a fortress. There’s always a debate about keeping churches open all day every day. Robin and Daniel take the view that it’s the only way, but they have churches in the middle of villages at the very least. I’m truly worried about isolated ones like the one where you were assaulted. We’ve passed on our concerns to the rural deans. But you’re worried about something more specific, I’d say.’
‘Yes. I’m convinced that they’ll have another go at this church. I know it’s in the heart of the village but those were serious efforts they were making when Phil interrupted them.’
‘Is that founded on fact or just your weird divvy intuition?’
It would have been easy to take offence at the word ‘just’. ‘There’s a feeling in the village that now they’ve got all our drain-gratings and manhole covers they’ll move on to the next victim. OK, my intuition, mainly: the people whom I interrupted in Devon wanted carved panels; the people who socked me in Dockinge wanted church sculpture.’
‘I’m not surprised you’re anxious. But with luck, thanks to your camera, we might be able to pick them up before they lay their filthy mitts on anything else.’
We moved back into the nave.
‘Have you spotted my camera yet?’ I asked cheekily. ‘I bet it’s spotted us. There is just one thing, Freya,’ I said, apparently innocently, as we both turned towards the altar, nodding in a sort of bow of acknowledgement, ‘how come you’re involved in this? I thought it was supposed to be Conrad liaising with the Heritage Squad or whatever they call themselves.’
‘It was. But it seems he was due annual leave and when I heard how few senior staff were available I volunteered my good self. Better than a murder for getting home at a decent hour. Although you’ve not been there to nag me every minute of the day, I’ve already been in touch with Devon and Cornwall Police, and have been trying to get up to speed on the observation you made about your Dockinge village hall incident. You’re not the only one to be suspicious of a stall set up at the last minute, with the holders disappearing before everyone else. I am. Very.’
‘And not even paying,’ I added pseudo-self-righteously.
‘Quite. If they’d paid their ten quid or whatever I wouldn’t have cared enough to chase up on the bus driver, who I located in about ten minutes and who gave a nice clear description of the van driver. He also said the van was probably overladen and he hoped someone would spot him and escort him to a weighbridge. So well done you.’
‘I never thought I’d ever hear you say that.’
‘Funnily enough, I didn’t either.’
‘Tell you what, here’s a challenge: if you’re a clever detective and can locate our camera, I’ll get on to the security firm and ask them to release footage to your email address.’
She handed over her tablet with a sideways glance and went on an exaggerated search, like a child hunting a prize in a party treasure hunt. By the time she’d located it, the file had arrived, and was showing an ecclesiastical version of the no-shows on Dodie’s cameras: no one was doing anything they shouldn’t.
Again like a child, a guilty one this time, she put her hand to her mouth. ‘I forgot. Some PCSO contacted me about a problem you’d had with someone knocking you to the ground. No
?’
‘Not quite. But someone seemed to chase me through Watery Lane and the Washes. I was convinced he was going to thump me. But I managed to give him the slip. I almost cannoned into Phil taking Angus for his evening constitutional a minute or so later, and they escorted me back home.’ I paused to acknowledge her sky-high eyebrows. ‘Maybe I should have dialled nine-nine-nine, which was what Phil suggested, but – to be honest – not many of your mates would have approved of my method of slowing Chummie down,’ I explained.
Silent reverence or not, she threw her head back and yelled with laughter. More soberly, she asked, ‘Have any other women runners reported being stalked?’
‘There aren’t a lot of runners of either gender in Bredeham. But I’ll email the women I’m doing cricket practice with and ask if they’ve had any problems. Warn them too, of course.’
‘Good. And we’ll put something on our Facebook page. And Twitter. Where did you say you were running from?’ She got to her feet and led the way out.
‘If you’ve got time for some of Griff’s coffee and biscuits, we could go back via the house I graced with my presence and you can see. Be prepared for serious security – at least as good as Griff’s and mine, I’d say.’
‘You’ve got some posh friends,’ she said, as she drew the car over so she could take in the place’s glories. I’d not have described her as enthusiastic. ‘Parson’s Pride. Wow. Appropriate name or what? What’s it like inside?’
‘I’ve only ever been the wrong side of the green baize door. Someone I know from Pilates lives there. She invited me and another friend for a Chinese the other night. We ate in the kitchen.’
‘But you’re nobility! Sort of,’ she conceded, with an ironic grin.
‘Best mates with the Indian take-away driver,’ I said, and explained how I’d waited for him to complete his delivery slumped down out of sight.
‘Why? Your sixth sense functioning again?’ She set the car in motion and headed towards our cottage.
‘Maybe. Or maybe an extension of my common sense. I thought some guy in a big black Merc was tailing me, and since it was someone in a big black Merc that had scared poor Mary rigid by warning me to stop doing something unspecified, I was a bit rattled. And now it turns out that Honey’s dad drives—’
‘Don’t tell me – a big black Merc?’
‘Exactly. And though we were guests in his house, he locked us in the kitchen. OK, the biggest kitchen you’ve ever seen outside Downton Abbey, and palatial with it. It’s even got its own magnificent cloakroom, but all the same.’
‘Name? Anything else you know?’ There was no doubt her ears were twitching.
‘It’s awful. I don’t know his name. His daughter’s just Honey, his son Spencer. The other girl, Laura – to my shame I don’t even know her surname. It’s all first name stuff.’
‘Youth culture,’ she said tersely.
Given the middle-aged milieu I frequented, I took that as a compliment.
‘Honey said her parents were separated, both in other relationships, and that her dad made his money in recycling. But I thought she was being economical with the truth. Funnily enough,’ I added, as she pulled up outside our gates, ‘her brother Spencer is dead secretive about his father, too. I always think it’s nice to know a bit of background about a person. Just a bit. Well, he really doesn’t want us to know what he does. Or what his dad does. He told me about his schools – fairly posh, I think – and his rugby playing. But how he spends his days I’ve no idea. Now, Griff likes him, so before we go in let me tell you I really don’t care one scrap for Spencer. Like me, he won’t go for DBS accreditation. You know I’d rather not court humiliation because my past’s a little murky. So what does that make his? Of course, like me,’ I added, with an ironic preen, ‘he may have been a model citizen of late. Helping you lot rather than helping you with your enquiries.’
‘So he might. Why don’t you like him?’
‘I used to have the feeling he was trying too hard to find out all about me; he was overfriendly. But then when I was telling him about the guys trying to break into the church, he didn’t get excited at all – no sense that I was putting myself at risk, no jealousy I was with Phil. No empathy. Almost an irritation that the guys weren’t properly masked. Weird. And then – something else you mustn’t tell Griff or he’ll die of terror – while I was with him I nearly fell under a lorry.’
She snapped her fingers. ‘Your text! The CCTV footage. I completely forgot about it. Too busy with someone having placed a pot of geraniums where someone’s stomach should have been, I imagine. Shit! Forget I said that. Please. Me and my big mouth.’ She looked and sounded as contrite as she ought to be.
‘You obviously need that coffee,’ I said mildly. ‘And – please – not a word to Griff. About anything that might alarm him. At all.’
TWENTY-FIVE
In the event, a text made about an unexpected meeting caused Freya to sink her coffee, so quickly that I thought her throat must be asbestos-lined, and hurtle back to Maidstone. ‘Sodding budgets again,’ she declared, grabbing a biscuit. Waving her thanks to Griff, she dived out of the door, pursued more slowly by me. ‘And I’ve not forgotten the CCTV stuff,’ she mouthed. ‘OK?’
When I asked Griff idly if he could recall Spencer’s surname, his face was a perfect blank. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever known. Why do you ask?’
‘You know me – always nosy. The funny thing is that I’ve never known either – nor Honey’s, of course. They certainly know mine. They’ve Googled me, just like you checked on Pargetter.’
It struck me that one way to save the undoubtedly overstretched Freya a little work would be to find the name of the owner of Parson’s Pride; of course she could do it in minutes, but I suspected she didn’t have a nano-second to spare – even delegation took a breath she didn’t have. On impulse I phoned Afzal: straight to voicemail. Next I tried the Pilates studio and got Greg, the owner, first ring.
‘Lina, you know I can’t tell you people’s names. Data protection and all that.’
‘It’s just that she had me for supper the other night – lovely place, Parson’s Pride – and I wanted to send her thank-you flowers. I don’t think Miss Honey, Parson’s Pride would be quite enough for Interflora, do you?’
‘Sounds too Gone with the Wind for words! Well, if you know her address … and you’ve eaten there, you say? What’s it like inside?’
‘Amazing. Wow, Greg, you’d fit the studio into their cloakroom. So it’s Honey …?’
‘Blakemore. There. Oh dear, Lina, I really shouldn’t have done.’
‘If the library had been open I could have got it from the Electoral Roll, couldn’t I? So don’t worry. See you, Greg! Thanks!’ I was already texting Freya. And embarking on a spot of Googling on my own account. I needed a first name for Blakemore senior, didn’t I? Easy peasy. Mortimer. And Mortimore Blakemore in connection with recycling? Google had no suggestions at all. More information for Freya.
I was just settling, rather belatedly, to my morning’s work, when Mary phoned across from the shop. Someone was asking specifically for me. And she had one of my business cards.
Kate Evans? Wiping my hands, I headed downstairs.
It seemed that this time she had fallen in love with items on our website, things I was more than happy to give her a huge discount on – especially as I knew how much Griff had marked them up in the first place. I’m never sure how much I like the most richly gilded modern Crown Derby; in the right setting it looks superb, of course, but in the wrong place it can appear to be simply vulgar. However, I am always amazed by the skills of the original craftsmen, and certainly wasn’t going to do anything to deter Kate from buying a pair of 1930s plates.
We talked about some of our other stock – all very relaxed and pleasant, had I not already missed so much work time. Mary wrapped the plates to perfection, and Kate prepared to leave the shop. But just as Mary was pressing the button to unlock the door, she turned back. �
��Did you ever check those CCTV pictures, Lina?’
‘The police are on to it,’ I declared confidently, my fingers crossed behind my back.
‘Excellent. You need to look after yourself. Or I won’t be able to plan your wedding, will I?’
Mary might appear to be a vague and slightly ditzy woman, but she’d been a teacher for many years and knew when someone had said something of importance. As soon as she’d relocked the door, she turned to me, suddenly gaining a couple of inches and a bucketful of authority. ‘Well? What was all that about? CCTV, Lina? And the police?’ she prompted. ‘And you can plead that you’ve got paint drying till you’re blue in the face, but I can tell when something’s up, even when Griff can’t.’ And then she blew my defences completely by pushing a tin of her home-made scones in my direction.
Coming completely clean was the best option. ‘The day Harvey came, I made myself scarce by going into Maidstone. While I was there, I was walking along a street and found myself almost under the wheels of a juggernaut. Kate Evans and Spencer grabbed me by the arms and pulled me back, just in time.’
‘Spencer: he’s the young man that goes dancing. So you were seeing him to avoid Harvey?’ She screwed up her face as if it helped her understand better.
‘Not quite. We ran into each other. By that time I was heading off to see Freya but he insisted on accompanying me. You know Griff rather encourages him, Mary …’
‘He just wants to see you settled happily. So the CCTV …?’
‘When I met her again in Hythe, she told me I ought to check it. No idea why. Freya said it would be easier if she did it. So it’s in her hands. All safe and sound.’
‘Go on, convince me. Freya’s got too much on her plate, according to Griff, to know what day it is, let alone what she should be doing. When did you ask her? Shrug all you like, Lina, you can’t tell me you didn’t ask her some days back and she’s still promising immediate action.’ She picked up the phone. ‘Go on. Call her. Or I’ll tell Griff.’
‘I’ll text her the moment I get back to my phone.’
Guilty as Sin Page 20
