I nodded, though I had a distinct idea that Will might not actually have left the police at all. Morris had dropped out that he’d had a conversation with him. Morris very rarely dropped things out, so I’d squirrelled that away – and told no one, not even Griff. But it was certainly something to mention to Morris when we spoke tonight. Will – and Charles Montaigne, of course.
Although it was tempting to sit and bask, we drifted back to the kitchen for our tea – always green these days. As the kettle boiled, the phone went.
Before I could even say hello, Freya spoke. Harangued, more like. Very loudly and clearly.
‘Look, Lina, I’m really not answerable to you, you know, for my every single action. If I choose not to answer my phone, if I choose not to reply to your cascade of emails, it might just be that I choose to do something of more pressing importance. And as for badgering Robin – I simply won’t have it. Understand?’ Freya cut the call.
So that was what you got for honest concern. OK, I was worried for myself too. Perhaps that was why what she said hurt so much. I didn’t know whether to hurl the handset across the room or cry. Fortunately, Griff relieved me of the phone and provided a shoulder.
‘My, my, how the poor lady’s hormones are raging,’ he said. ‘But how very ill-mannered of her to let you be the object of her rage. I should imagine her team tiptoe around her like mice – and then get screamed at for not being assertive. At least you have Morris to fall back on. Not that he and Freya are the best of friends, as I recall.’
‘I’m sure he only took this job in Interpol to get back at her for pulling rank on him so often and so publicly. But when we talk, Morris and I, we don’t necessarily want to talk what he calls shop.’
He passed me my mug of tea, looking over the rim of his own as he sipped. At last he said, ‘Without wishing in any way to pry, I do wonder what long-distance lovers talk about. Even dear Aidan and I, with so many friends and so much experience in common, occasionally dry up.’
‘Have you told him about the cat on the roof yet?’ I shot at him.
‘Tonight. Our regular Skype time. I promise. But it was of you that we were speaking. Have you – as lovers very new to your relationship, and with so many difficult areas to tiptoe round – ever discussed your future, for instance?’
My turn to sip tea. At last I said, as honestly as I could, ‘I don’t really know if we have a future. He was supposed to be dealing with one specific problem in Interpol’s internal organization, but now he’s obviously been moved on to doing something else. Something big. And I’ve a nasty idea that when this big thing is over, there’ll be another, and then another. And even if he comes back to England, he’ll be in London and shooting over to France every other week to see Leda, which I know he really has to do.’
‘Even though she might not be his biological daughter?’
I put my mug down and folded my arms. ‘Like you’d turn me out into the cold because I’m not your biological granddaughter!’ As our laughter died down, I added, ‘He simply adores her. She adores him. But I’ve a terrible suspicion that if her “real” parents didn’t find him dead useful looking after her when they were working and weren’t too mean to hire a full-time nanny, they’d ruthlessly cut him out of her life.’ I’d been with him when he’d returned Leda to Penny and her horn-player, and I’d seen the expression on their faces. And to think I’d really liked Penny when I’d first met her.
‘And how would he deal with that?’
The words that came out surprised me as much as they clearly shocked him. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he went to work for Farfrae in New York.’
‘And would you go to New York too?’ I’d never heard his voice so flat and neutral.
‘Why should I go there? What on earth would I do in New York?’
‘I fancy you wouldn’t have to do anything, though someone with your skills would be snapped up immediately, green card permitting. I fancy the partner of an antiques expert might just have to be – to exist, in other words, as a highly decorative wife.’
I was gobsmacked. ‘But my place is here. Here, as in with you and with Pa. I can’t go swanning off halfway across the world and leave you two alone. Well, you’ve got Aidan,’ I conceded. ‘But Pa – all Pa’s got is Titus!’
‘And that indeed is an appalling thought,’ he agreed.
EIGHTEEN
The very evening I really wanted to talk to Morris, he was working. He took my call while he was in the lobby of a building which tourists took photos of and was about to meet the sort of people I only read about in newspapers – and then only if Griff reminds me I ought to be keeping abreast of current affairs. Since I hadn’t mentioned my particular version of the cat climbing on to the roof, I didn’t want to worry him by jumping straight in and asking for help – he clearly needed his mind on the job in hand since he told me the meeting was going to be conducted in French. But I asked him to phone the moment he had a chance and made him promise he would – something I didn’t ever like doing because it made me sound needy. Actually, I felt needy, since Freya still hadn’t got back to me about my sighting of Montaigne or the warning from Gorgeous Eyes – or even got one of her minions to do it, which, given our last phone call, sounded more likely and was even preferable, to be honest. If I’d really messed up I would take criticism on the chin, but this time I thought she was so in the wrong that it’d be hard not to tell her so, despite her Condition and her Raging Hormones.
I hadn’t quite expected a call at six thirty the next morning, but Morris had forgotten that French time was an hour ahead of ours. It took me longer than I liked to gather my thoughts, but we filled the interval quite satisfactorily.
At last he said, ‘Last night you sounded quite unlike yourself, Lina. Desperate. You’re not – not . . . Are you?’
It took me a while to fill in his dots. ‘Pregnant, you mean? Absolutely not. I leave that to Freya – which is why I wanted . . . needed . . . to speak to someone who . . .’
‘So I’m a pale substitute for Freya, am I? Seriously, what’s troubling you?’ he added, in his sort-of-official, sort-of-tender voice.
‘Someone called Charles Montaigne.’ Hell, I’d forgotten about warning him the cat was on the roof.
‘Charles who?’ he asked sharply, not as if he hadn’t heard but as if he wanted to make sure he’d heard right.
‘Charles Montaigne,’ I repeated, ready to bristle if he criticized my pronunciation.
There was a pause, as if he was jotting something. ‘OK. Go on.’
‘Originally, he just wanted me to work for him. When I said no he got a bit unpleasant. Mentioned breaking bones and things. He’s done nothing yet, but that doesn’t mean he won’t, does it?’
‘Indeed it does not.’ He sounded very official.
‘What with the new antiques centre and the hassle over Griff’s play – my play, now, of course – I feel as if I’m in a forest with nasty grey things inching closer by the minute.’
His voice changed to completely tender. ‘I’m not surprised. My poor—’
I dived into the next sentence; he should have had this information earlier. Would have done, but for our lack of communication recently. ‘There is something else you need to know. Last time he spoke to me it was clear he knew a lot about me. And he knows about my clothes.’
‘Clothes?’
‘There was a dress designer called Charles Montaigne. Fifties, sixties. I thought I recognized the name, but it wasn’t until I came across some vintage dress patterns recently that I remembered where from. So I think he’s invented the name to unnerve me. To show how much he knows. He also knows about Griff. About Pa. And also about you.’ If he asked I’d have to give him chapter and verse, but I hoped he wouldn’t. Because it was too early in the day to talk about such things, which ought to be discussed face-to-face, anyway.
There was a long pause. ‘How would you feel about coming over here for a bit?’
My heart leapt. Yes, please.
But my head said, ‘And leave Griff? I have a nasty feeling that this Montaigne guy might turn his attentions to him if I jumped ship.’
‘He could always come too.’
Which meant that Morris didn’t have a romantic interlude in mind. ‘Oh,’ was all I could manage.
‘I didn’t put that very well, did I?’ He laughed. ‘I meant, I wanted you here, very much, but could quite see that you wouldn’t want to expose Griff to any danger – any more than I would. I like the old guy. Now, I need to think this all through, darling, but – hell, I’m being summoned already. Talk very soon – OK? And for God’s sake, take care. I mean that.’
‘I will. Morris, before you go, I’ve been meaning to thank you for the lovely postcards – very sweet of you.’
‘Postcards? What postcards?’
‘Those of those places in France we’ve been together.’
There was a very long silence. ‘We’ll talk later – OK?
End of call. Now what was all that about?
It hadn’t been the best conversation I’d ever had. It was too one-sided – too much me, not enough him. And no chance to ask for further details about going to France. Not that Griff would go – not if it meant sacrificing the play.
I was so excited by the chance of reading a few of someone else’s lines while she was away that I almost forgot the important business of the evening, which was to talk to Gorgeous Eyes and get Griff to take his photo. We’d had a couple more practice sessions, and Griff really was pretty nifty now. The light was pretty poor, since Emilia had worked us far longer than usual before grudgingly permitting a break. This turned out to be lucky – there was a positive flood of people emerging to make calls. I managed to drift away from them, pretending that I was using Griff’s phone – one without the photo facility – and needed to find coverage. Griff tailed me at a discreet distance. All very cloak and dagger. All to no avail. Gorgeous Eyes had evidently given up on me, and who could blame him?
Emilia summoned us all back in, her voice carrying like an old-fashioned train whistle, even though we’d only had ten minutes. I felt like kicking gravel. As it was, I mooched past our car, like the others still safe and sound. So far.
But not untouched – ours, at least. Someone had tucked something under our wiper. He must have done it carefully or he’d have irritated the extra-sensitive alarm we had on all our vehicles.
8.56. Can’t hang around any longer. Phone for drink sometime?
He’d added a mobile number and a scrawled signature that might have been Paul.
Now what? I didn’t want to drink with the guy, just to identify him. A drink implied all sorts of things, which, with Morris suddenly putting the idea of me and Paris in the same sentence, weren’t welcome at all. Unless I could view it as an undercover operation, with no emotions involved at all . . . I was still pondering as I headed back to the oast, where I was greeted by an almighty scream. Not a scripted one. The play didn’t have a single shriek. Actually, it could have done with one. If I’d been the author I’d have been sitting in the back for every rehearsal. The actors might have been mangling his lines, but at least he’d have realized that while some were too long, others had breaks in the wrong place. He could have changed them. And he’d have realized how dull much of it was. A scream would have been a welcome addition. But an acted one, not a real one. I was inside that oast before I knew I was moving.
One look told me it wasn’t so much a scream as hysteria. Emilia did hysteria remarkably well – all the more reason for the playwright to include a scene involving it. Everyone knew someone should slap her, but no one wanted to be accused of assault. I did the obvious thing: I grabbed an open bottle of water and slung it over her. Good news, bad news. The good was that it turned down the uncontrolled noise, the bad was that her top was silk. At least the water was cold. The colour shouldn’t run.
Griff cast his eyes heavenward: he might have been exasperated with me, but equally he could have been getting tired of what he regarded as an interruption to an evening’s work.
As before, and with slightly more justification, she turned on me. But she wasn’t accusing me of wrecking her top. She was accusing me of theft.
‘Of what?’ I asked, trying to stay cool.
But my voice was drowned out by the solicitor with the four by four and a sense of humour. Gerald.
‘Emilia, I really cannot permit you to make such accusations. All we know so far is that you can’t find a ring you’re sure you were wearing when you washed your hands. You say you may have taken it off and put it down while you were washing them. Or it might have been after, in the dressing room. Let us conduct a quiet and rational search and hope it’s just fallen down somewhere and rolled away.’ He gave me a smile I couldn’t quite interpret. ‘For the sake of everyone’s reputation I suggest we hunt in pairs.’
‘You mean, so that she can’t slip it back and play the innocent,’ Emilia said waspishly, pointing at me.
‘What a good idea,’ I said, so that everyone heard. ‘OK, let’s find rings, folks.’
It did seem a good idea, until I found myself partnered with one of the less exciting actors – Nose-Picker, no less – who, as soon as he found himself alone with me in the dressing room, tried to kiss me. It was the work of a minute to make it clear he should take himself off, by which time Gerald had wandered in and grasped the situation at a glance. I was so busy being grateful for his company that I forgot to wonder, until we were all back in the oast, where his search partner, Wine-Box Lady, might be.
Griff, perhaps thinking he should restore his family’s reputation, stepped forward into the middle of the returning searchers. ‘Does anyone have anything to report? Anything at all?’ he added sternly. It took me a moment to realize he was in role as an old-fashioned stage policeman. ‘No? Any open windows? Unlocked doors? You see,’ he added, ‘we shall clearly have to involve the police. Investigating the theft of a valuable item isn’t a job for enthusiastic amateurs.’
He might have slung a firework into a hen run. Amidst all the fluttering women, Emilia flapped the most. With a most realistic shudder, and without quite elbowing him aside, she neatly upstaged Griff.
‘Enough time has been wasted on my poor trinket. It will just be a lesson to me to be less careless in future – and to trust less those whom I thought were my friends.’
Wow and double wow. It was really hard to hate a woman who could come out with lines like that on the spur of the moment.
‘But you’ve made a very serious allegation, Emilia,’ Gerald said. ‘Two, in fact. First, without any apparent reason, you point the finger at Lina. Now you include the rest of us. Griff is right. We call the police. After all,’ he added, with a cynical smile, ‘you have to notify them of the so-called theft if you wish to make an insurance claim, which I’m sure you will.’
The police must have been having a boring evening, because within five minutes there were half a dozen officers milling round. They did what I always find irritating – they left their blue lights flashing, as if warning Jo Public not to mess them around because at the drop of a handcuff they could leap into their cars and start fighting crime ten miles away. What would the rest of the industrial estate make of it all? In particular, Gorgeous Eyes and his unpleasant mate. If you were doing anything dodgy all this illumination must have been dead irritating at the very least. Not a single light shone from any of the units, but I had a sense of watchfulness and of fingers being crossed that any police activities didn’t extend to checking their premises – or even their vehicles. Not to mention the odd skip.
Having come mob-handed, the police couldn’t then lose face in front of each other by saying the whole thing was a waste of time and that the old bat had probably left it at home. So we were questioned just like in an Agatha Christie play, and there was talk of SOCOs and goodness knows what else. Griff’s face got greyer and greyer, but I think he was simply worn out, not in any pain – he didn’t use his spray, at least when I had my eye
on him.
At last, the final statement given, we were allowed to head home. But not before I heard words I really didn’t want to hear from one of the officers.
‘Tomorrow we’ll ask around the estate – someone working late might have seen something suspicious.’
‘Emilia really gets up my nose,’ I said as I started the car, stating the obvious, I suppose. ‘Why do you all let her get away with her bullying? You’re all grown-ups!’
‘I suppose it is bullying – but that’s what actors do: we accept instructions from the director. If we start arguing every point, where would we be?’ Griff said.
‘It’s not the acting part – it’s her general attitude, not just to me but to people like that nice woman who brought in the wine box. It’s almost as if she’s trying to provoke a walkout. But you’re all so nice and polite you just take it.’
‘I think we’re all trying to be mature and professional.’
Forgetting the need for kid gloves, I flared, ‘And I’m not? Maybe it’s something to do with the fact that she seems to have picked on me as the person she most likes to hate.’
‘That was why I suggested the police should be involved,’ Griff said, hardly answering my point. ‘I know that you’re as honest as the day: it needed to be proved to the others.’
‘It hasn’t really proved anything, though – I bet she told the fuzz I’d swallowed the damn thing. In any case, it’s only paste, isn’t it?’
‘Is it?’ Griff sounded genuinely shocked.
‘Yes. Like those ear studs of hers.’
‘How do you know – ah, of course you know. But so wise of you not to tell the police.’
‘Quite. They’d want to know if I’d tried writing on glass with them or whatever you’re supposed to do to test diamonds. Actually, I might have kept my mouth shut for Emilia’s sake.’
‘Really?’
‘You said the old bat’s not as beautiful as she was. Maybe she’s not so well off, either – and it’d be a bit mean of me to broadcast that to the world.’
Guilt Trip Page 14
