Guilt Trip

by Judith Cutler

  ‘I think it’s uncommonly generous of you not to. On the other hand, the police will be going to a great deal of trouble for nothing.’

  Yes, and maybe ruffling feathers I’d rather have kept smooth.

  I dabbed a finger on the radio. Classic FM. Soon Griff was snoring gently. So I was left to wonder what I should do about the note Paul – if that was his name – had left for me. It would feel like betraying Morris if I phoned him. Wouldn’t it? Or would Morris want me to, in the interests of digging up a few more facts? Suddenly, I felt more cheerful – what a good excuse to contact him. I found myself humming along.

  ‘Cocoa with skimmed milk doesn’t really press any buttons, you know, angel heart.’ Griff sighed, peering into his mug.

  ‘I know, but I read somewhere that cocoa – or is it chocolate? – is actually very good for you, and I know full-fat milk isn’t, so you’ll just have to put up with it,’ I said firmly. ‘And keep your hands off that biscuit barrel too.’ Just to make sure, I grabbed it and shoved it on the top of one of the kitchen cupboards. ‘Now you’re awake again, I want some advice.’

  ‘Awake again? When was I asleep?’

  ‘For pretty well all of that nice piece on Classic FM. The Brahms. You’d dropped off during the Fauré.’ I suppressed a sigh. It was all very well my having a wonderful education in classical music – thanks to Griff, of course – but I hardly ever heard so much as a note of what people of my age ought to be listening to. No wonder my boyfriend was twice my age.

  Perhaps, I wondered sourly, he’d already been tucked up in bed and fast asleep when I’d tried to phone him when we’d got in. Tried in vain. And somehow asking his permission to phone another guy was not something I could do on voicemail. Which was why I needed Griff’s help, after all.

  I stirred my own cocoa grimly. For God’s sake, Brahms was one thing, but what was a girl my age doing drinking cocoa? I pushed it aside, almost slopping it over Griff’s nice clean linen tablecloth.

  I spread the scrawled note in front of me, then turned it round so Griff could read it. For good measure I even hunted for and found his reading glasses. ‘There. What shall I do?’

  ‘Why don’t you wish to do exactly what he suggests? Because you’re attracted to him and fear that you’re being disloyal to Morris? My dear child, he’s talking about a drink, not a full-blown affair. Go for it, say I. No?’

  The cocoa had skinned over. The more I stared at it, the more I felt sick. And then some words came out that scared me. ‘What if it wasn’t that guy who wrote the note? What if it was Charles Montaigne?’

  NINETEEN

  Which was why, the following morning, despite everything, I tried phoning Freya again. Still voicemail. I cut the call without saying anything.

  ‘My advice is to talk to Morris,’ Griff said over The Times, where he’d just started the easy sudoku. ‘Oh, just do it, Lina – there shouldn’t be room for shyness like this in a relationship, surely.’ Obviously, he was struggling. I hadn’t the heart to tell him that Pa could shoot through even Super Fiendish ones in a matter of minutes.

  Nodding, I headed back to the office to make the call. Even I could work out that I wanted to make it businesslike, as if lust for Possibly Paul had never reared its tempting head. So I spent a couple of minutes jotting things I wanted to say in the order that I ought to say them. It was a complete waste of time, of course, because Morris was up to his ears in what sounded a very lively meeting in French and simply muttered that he’d ring me back before cutting the call.

  I headed upstairs for the workroom past my open bedroom door. Tim the Bear looked very sympathetic, and I found myself in a ball on the bed being hugged. Then he sat up and gave me the benefit of his advice. Phone Possibly Paul, he said, and make sure you arrange a meeting in a public place, just as if you were meeting for a blind date. If it turns out to be Charles Montaigne, scarper.

  It was hard to argue, and since there was no other advice available, I sniffed, wiped my eyes and took it.

  I’d never have thought of a garden centre as a meeting place, but that was what Paul – definitely, now, not just possibly – suggested. To look like a genuine customer, I grabbed one of those low awkward trolleys with fat, unsteerable wheels and managed to push it inside. And there he was, watching the antics of a large bird in the pets area. His smile, as he turned to face me, lit his face and certainly reached his eyes, a good sign, I decided, especially as they were just as attractive as I remembered them. But he said only, ‘I need some bulbs,’ before heading off to another part of the centre, away from the nosy CCTV camera, presumably.

  Lurching from one aisle to another, I trailed after him, suddenly not best pleased to have come all the way to Ashford when I could have been fixing a vase. And certainly not wrestling with the trolley, which insisted on going its own sweet way. I spotted an offer on large ceramic pots, supposedly frost-proof, which I knew Griff wouldn’t have wanted me to resist, but which the trolley wanted to bypass. As I dragged the wretched thing to a halt and reached for the pots and a couple of bags of tulip bulbs and some fibre to fill them, a thought struck me like a blow on the chest: what if Griff wasn’t alive to see them come up? I think I gasped out loud as I pressed my hands to my mouth.

  Paul came back. ‘Are you all right?’

  Shrugging, I said as lightly as I could, ‘Someone walking on my grave.’ Which wasn’t at all what I wanted to say or, by the look of it, what he wanted to hear.

  ‘Be careful what you wish for, and be careful what you joke about,’ he said, cramming daffodil bulbs in a paper bag – only two pounds for a bagful, no matter how many. Clearly, he meant to get his money’s worth, even if this whole trip was a smokescreen.

  ‘I certainly wasn’t wishing for it. And not necessarily joking. Why am I here?’ I passed him another bulb.

  ‘Because you’ve annoyed the guy I work for and my mum needed some daffs.’

  ‘Is it me or all the actors? You’re going to tear that if you pack in any more.’

  ‘They just park and go in. You sniff round. What part are you playing? Miss bloody Marple?’

  ‘I’m not acting at all.’

  ‘Give up, then. And stay away from the estate.’

  ‘Can’t. I’m prompt and props, remember. Essential.’

  ‘Well, do as I just said. Park, eyes down, inside. Changing the car for the van was a good move.’ He reached for another bag and stuffed it with just as much care.

  ‘What am I not supposed to be looking at?’

  ‘Bloody hell! Just give it up or do as I tell you. I’m putting my . . . job on the line telling you.’

  What had he meant to say instead of job? Not life, surely!

  ‘It’s something to do with that skip I found full of offcuts of good wood, isn’t it? Now empty, I’d imagine. And maybe the planks that shouldn’t be where they are? Not to mention a certain antiques dealer.’

  ‘Just piss off and do as I told you.’ His bag split, and daffodil bulbs rolled everywhere.

  It seemed a good moment to obey. And since he was scrabbling around taking no notice of anything except the hyperactive bulbs, I managed to fish out my phone and snap him. It was back in my pocket and I was stalking off, with as much dignity and haste as the trolley would allow, before he was off his knees. He must think a lot of his mother to go to so much effort for her. On the other hand, he must have liked the look of me to go to such lengths to warn me off.

  There were only a couple of security cameras, and I worked out how much of the area they covered so I could move the car well out of their range. Then I took forever to stow the things I’d bought into the boot. At last Paul emerged. Funnily enough, he’d parked not far away – he must be a fellow camera-watcher.

  Catching his eye, I smiled, and he sidled over, spreading his hands in helpless exasperation. ‘Now what?’

  ‘I take it you’ve not been to work this morning? You’re not going to be very happy when you get in.’ I explained about the ring and th
e chance of a visit from the police.

  He swore fluently.

  When he’d finished, I said, ‘I think you’re risking more than your job to talk to me. I think you’re taking a real risk. Why?’

  For answer he grabbed me, kissed me very hard on the lips, and stomped back to his car. I took the number and – feeling a louse – its photo as well.

  I had something like evidence. Now all I needed was a bit of concern, a bit of interest, from Freya or Morris. Though perhaps neither of them need know about that kiss.

  Or my heart-hopping reaction to it.

  Texting both of them seemed better than trying yet another voicemail message. I did it back in the garden centre, safe in the little café, where for some reason the rim of the coffee cup kept rattling against my front teeth. My thumbs kept finding the wrong letters too.

  At last I managed, then I sent the photos to Freya. I thought about it for a bit and eventually sent them to Morris too.

  I sat and waited – but there was no reply from either, so I trudged back to the car and headed dismally for home, where I found Griff staring without enthusiasm at the pile of mail Mike the Postie had just put into his hand. One of those white envelopes with another card from Morris. I took it without saying anything, looking at the one that had attracted Griff’s attention. A brown window envelope – the appointment for the fasting tests he’d mentioned, perhaps. I knew he wouldn’t be keen on anything involving going without food, but now wasn’t the moment to joke him out of it. Instead, I tucked my hand into the crook of his arm and walked him through into the kitchen.

  ‘I said I’d take you, remember,’ I said, putting the kettle on.

  He shaped his face into something approaching a smile. ‘Of course you did, dear child. The trouble is, it’s rather sooner than I expected. Monday. I have to be there for eight thirty.’

  The NHS wasn’t hanging about, was it? The medics must think that whatever was wrong was more serious than Griff was letting on.

  ‘They must have had a cancellation,’ I said lightly. ‘When can you have your last nibble? We must make sure it’s a nice one.’

  Before he could reply, someone rang the front doorbell, knocking hard at the same time. A glance at the security camera trained on the door told us it was Wayne, my fake fiancé.

  ‘I’m supposed to be writing some damned report,’ he moaned, as a greeting, eyes rounding as he sat down and took notice of the contents of our cottage. ‘Is that clock new? I mean, I know it’s old, but—’

  ‘I think you were too busy sorting out disguises and your backstory to notice anything last time we met,’ Griff said, bustling off to bring tea.

  ‘Someone said something about a new development. I’ve not seen the DCI for a couple of days. Meetings or something. That’s all the senior officers seem to do these days, run off to meetings. Leave us holding all the babies.’

  Perhaps that was why Freya hadn’t been in touch and also why she was so ratty.

  He added, ‘Not literally, of course – except in her case.’

  I grinned as Griff brought in a plate of his finest cakes and another of biscuits. He withdrew as if he was playing the part of a well-trained butler. ‘Is there any news from Trading Standards or the Met Fine Art Squad?’

  ‘Not that I know of. But these things take time, Lina. Things can be high on your priority list, or even on mine, but they may be at the bottom of the in-tray for management. It depends what the media are likely to be interested in too, if you ask me,’ he added. ‘Hey, where did you get these biscuits?’

  ‘Griff made them. So if you wanted to get an investigation going fast, you’d tie it in with someone in the headlines?’

  He stared at the biscuit as if it might have an answer. ‘I didn’t quite say that. But I suppose so.’

  ‘So if you could find some Kentish celeb who’d bought a fake at the Centre, things would move along.’

  ‘I suppose . . . Hey, do you know any?’

  ‘I wish. But it’s something you might think about. I can’t, obviously.’

  ‘You’re very keen on pursuing this. Why?’

  ‘I believe there’s a big scam going on,’ I said. ‘Very big. And I think I may have stirred something up on the industrial estate where Griff’s part of a theatre company.’ I explained. ‘In fact,’ I continued, ‘that’s why you’re here. One of the guys working on the estate met up with me this morning to warn me off. And I think he took a big risk to do it.’

  ‘The guy whose photo you sent through?’

  ‘I felt a total heel doing it. He’s a good guy.’

  ‘Working for a dodgy organization?’ Wayne sneered, reminding me sharply of Freya on a bad day.

  ‘Perhaps he’s a decent guy who’s had to take a crap job,’ I hazarded, ‘to pay off his student loan or something.’ I wasn’t just winding Wayne up. It seemed as good a theory as any.

  Until Wayne explained how the loan system worked. Five minutes later he was still holding forth.

  Griff must have been more than hovering: suddenly, he was not just in the room but also ready with a couple of questions. ‘Did any of your colleagues recognize this young man? Or did the clever facial recognition programs do their work? Not to mention your computer finding his car registration, of course?’

  ‘We’re on to it, sir.’

  Possibly. His voice said it was on the furthest of back burners. I watched him carefully while Griff continued his attack.

  ‘Wasn’t it rather a waste of your time to come out without some hard information?’ Griff’s smile was full of tender concern. Until he added, ‘And Lina’s time, of course. She doesn’t want talking therapy, Wayne, she needs to know how the case is going and how the police propose to act – and, I would add, how they will take care of her. It seems this criminal is more concerned for her safety than you are – not you personally, of course, but your colleagues in general.’

  ‘There’s no need to take that tone, sir.’

  ‘I’m not taking any tone. Just requesting action. Every time we venture to the oast theatre, I fear an ambush. Every moment we spend there, there is some new practical joke. Every journey back, there are the same fears, made all the worse by the darkness.’

  ‘We’ve even been warned off the public meetings about the new antiques centre,’ I threw in. ‘Griff was one of the working party.’

  ‘And will you heed the warning, sir? I would advise you to.’

  ‘I don’t like threats. I’d rather be there. But some games aren’t worth the candle. Unless someone else can be there to watch the play?’

  Wayne was visibly puzzled by what I picked up as a suggestion that Wayne or a colleague might want to be there to see who else was at the meeting. ‘This is the play at the oast house, sir?’

  Griff turned away; I heard his spray in action. He faced Wayne again. ‘I actually meant the action at the village hall tonight. But surely the addition of a police officer to the cast of our humble production could be a good idea? The latest merry jape has been to steal a cast member’s ring.’

  ‘And did the person report the theft?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you. I’m sure you could ask your colleagues in the Sussex police.’

  ‘Sussex?’ A strange expression took over Wayne’s face. ‘All this is going on in Sussex?’

  ‘Only the events surrounding our play,’ Griff said, looking and sounding confused.

  Wayne got to his feet, closing his notebook. ‘In that case it’s nothing to do with me, sir. If the alleged crime’s being committed across the county border, it’s up to the Sussex police service to deal with it.’

  Some words came out of my mouth that quite surprised me. ‘So now crime has to respect county boundaries! Hell’s bells! Why, Paul came into Kent to warn me – isn’t that enough to interest you? Wayne, this is all tied together, I’m sure of it!’

  ‘I’ll report your concerns to DCI Webb when I see her. I’m sure she’ll be back in touch with you.’ He nodded to us and let hi
mself out of the front door.

  Griff sat down and leant back with a sigh. ‘Do you remember the dear dead days when the police used to hunt in pairs, the idea being, I suppose, that one officer would keep an eye on the other and vice versa? All gone with the cuts, no doubt . . . Thank goodness I didn’t invite him to lunch. George the fishmonger has managed to produce not just some lovely salmon, but also what really must be the last samphire of the year. I’ve had to blanch it, of course, since it’s getting tough now . . .’

  TWENTY

  It was only the sudden recollection that we had a one-day fair the following day that stopped Griff picking up the phone and demanding police protection when he went to the meeting at the village hall that evening. I’d remembered the gig a couple of hours before he did, when I’d have had plenty of time to prepare, but had kept quiet: it was better for him to have a genuine reason not to turn up – packing the van – than an excuse.

  But he refused to give up the rehearsal on Sunday. I made sure we arrived just on time and bundled us both inside without so much as looking round. Amazingly, we got straight to work, with no mention of Emilia’s ring, though I can imagine most of us would have liked to ask her if it had turned up. Perhaps we’d all had enough tantrums. A sudden burst of rain during the mid-afternoon break kept all but the most desperate smokers inside. No one seemed to want to talk to Emilia – I almost felt sorry for her. I’m sure she’d have liked to tell us all about whatever accident had caused her to come in with one hand swathed in bandages.

  But then I found a very good reason to dislike her. This was the afternoon I should have been reading the part of the actress who was away. Read? I knew it by heart!

  ‘Now, I know we thought of tackling Act Two, Scene Two. But one or two of us were very shaky with our lines earlier this afternoon, so we will run through Scene One again. Places, please.’

  Now, Act Two, Scene Two, was where I would have come on. My head told me she’d made the right decision, since the woman for whom I’d been going to understudy would be back next week. But my heart thudded with unpleasant thoughts of possible revenge – really adult things like spray-painting her car for her – as I trudged back to the corner where I lurked as prompt.