‘In that case they are. Are we talking night hawks here?’
I’d already used this term to Will, the very first time we met, but it hadn’t provoked a response like this. I seemed to have pressed a button somewhere in Winters’ brain. ‘Night hawks! A fine romantic name for people who plunder and ruin historical sites all in the name of money!’ It might have been he who was the Heritage Officer, not Will. To my amazement he got to his feet and smashed a fist into the palm of the other hand.
‘They trespass on valuable farm land and risk livestock. They ruin the archaeology! And they’re made to sound like Boys’ Own heroes! Vandals who desecrate graves!’
Perhaps it was a good job he got nowhere near them – he’d have shoved them in one of those deep doorless dungeons and not bothered with minor details like a trial and a verdict. An oubliette. But goodness knows why I should remember a useless word like that, when I kept forgetting ones I needed.
I risked a glance at Will, who quite clearly didn’t know what to do. Neither did I. So I did something, even if it was a bit girly. I nipped into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Griff had already laid the tray with pretty Victorian cups and saucers and a plate of his favourite Waitrose biscuits. All I had to do was fill the cafetière.
When I returned, they’d sat down again, though Dave had moved to Griff’s favourite armchair. ‘People with metal detectors, then,’ I prompted, pressing down the cafetière plunger. They both stared at my hand, like other men stare at Page Three pics.
‘Detectorists,’ Will said at last.
‘Weird word,’ I said, wondering what Griff would make of it. ‘But metal detectives isn’t right, and metal detectors means the things they use. Sorry!’
Both men were blinking, first at me, then at each other. They might have thought I was just chuntering, but I was giving myself time to think about other things. Like the connection between my rings and my body.
I jumped into their silence. ‘So am I wrong to think that there is a connection between the enquiries?’ In my head I sounded as pompous as Harvey Sanditon. But they didn’t seem to mind. Perhaps it reminded them of police station language.
‘It’s not impossible,’ Will said slowly.
‘So Dave’s detectorist might have dug up one or both of the rings that came into my possession and got Sir Douglas all het up?’ Not to mention Winters, of course.
‘Possibly. Very well, likely. Several farmers claim that people have been going on to their land without permission. Holes have appeared. A human ulna turned up the other day. Anything to do with this sort of activity comes to me.’
‘Anything?’
‘From English Heritage – they’ve got an officer with responsibility for liaising with me; from members of the public; from experts like Sir Douglas; from detectorist clubs who suspect one of their members isn’t playing it straight. From you, with luck.’
‘I’ve told you all I know. You have the rings. Still.’ I managed what I hoped was a winning smile. ‘I gather the one I bought from Dilly wasn’t a foreign dress ring with beads?’
‘Saxon, we think. Possibly imported from Europe. So in part the information on the receipt might be correct. But the so-called beads are uncut gemstones. All the same, it isn’t the intrinsic value that’s important – it’s their historical value—’
‘In particular, their value as part of a complete site, for God’s sake,’ Dave chipped in.
‘And someone’s been digging near the place I saw the body? That’s why you’re both so concerned!’
Dave’s sore, jabbing finger came into action again. ‘We can neither confirm nor deny that.’
Ignoring him, I turned to Will. ‘Is that why there’s been no publicity? Because there’s something important there?’
Will’s face was serious. ‘If we’d told you that from the outset, would you have been more cooperative?’
Anger brought me to my feet. ‘I don’t think I could have been more cooperative. I’ve told you all I know.’ There was a heavy silence behind me. ‘What?’ I demanded, looking at Winters. ‘Do you really think I’m holding something back?’
His calm smile unnerved me. ‘Oh, yes. You haven’t told us about your grandfather, have you?’
‘My grandfather? I haven’t got a grandfather as far as I know.’
Winters looked at me with a mixture of triumph and reproach. ‘Come, Lina, the truth, please.’
He couldn’t mean Griff. Couldn’t. Not the man who’d single-handedly transformed me from a feral teenager to a respectable businesswoman. I wouldn’t even breathe his name out loud in case that gave Dave someone else to accuse. At last, as I made myself sit down and breathe quietly, something started to swim through my brain. ‘You don’t mean the man who wants to be my grandfather, do you? Runs a downmarket version of our firm? Devon Cottage Antiques?’
‘Arthur Habgood. Your grandfather.’
‘Uh, uh. Nothing to do with me. He trails round antiques fairs with a gob-swab in a little tube, but that’s as far as it gets. Can’t stand the man.’ No need to explain about the dodgy plate – they weren’t in the business and about to be fleeced.
‘He says you have a reputation for handling stolen goods and—’
‘How dare he! And how dare you come round here and question me without doing your homework. Me handle stolen goods? Get real. And get on the phone to Inspector Morris, of the Met Fine Art Squad.’
He reached inside his pocket.
I was on my feet again, pointing at the door. ‘No, not here. Not in my space. Go back to your office and check. Both of you. And when you’re ready to apologize, you can warn my so-called grandfather that there are laws in this country against slander.’
ELEVEN
The moment I’d slammed the front door on them, kicking it for good measure, Griff was beside me, gripping my hands in one of his and pulling me to him in a healing hug.
I don’t think he was worried about the door. He was afraid I’d hit myself this time.
What the therapist had told me to do was breathe slowly and try to work out what emotion I was feeling. Easier said than done. But I tried. Anger? Humiliation or rejection? Or what? I’d had plenty of all three to deal with in my past. Plus a few others.
This time there was no doubt I was angry. If I’d had Arthur Habgood handy, I’d have decked him, without turning a hair. And if he’d had a few plates with him, restored or not, they’d have ended in pieces on the floor beside him. Lots of pieces.
But the person I’d have loved to be my real grandfather was right in front of me. I pressed my face to his shoulder. My shuddering sobs made my teeth chatter at first. He didn’t let go until I had enough breath to speak. ‘Any chance of some hot chocolate?’ I asked at last, with a really feeble little smile.
‘I’ve reached the milk out already. Come with me, my dear one, and I’ll brew up.’ But he was careful to hold at least one hand as he led the way into the kitchen. I stuffed the other into my pocket. I mustn’t let him down. I sat at the table, spreading both hands flat where we could both see them.
Sooner than I could have dreamt, there was a mug between them, comforting me with its heat and also with the smells of chocolate and cream which seemed to float straight into my brain.
Griff sat down opposite me. ‘An official complaint might be in order.’
‘To the police? They stick together like—’ It was far too early in the day to say how closely they stuck. I pulled a face.
‘Possibly. But let us not rule out the option entirely. And you might wish to send a solicitor’s letter to that louse Habgood telling him that if he repeats his allegation again, you will seek legal redress. But above all, remember that revenge is a dish best eaten cold. Fume a little to me – fume a great deal, if you want – but don’t do anything precipitate, especially something you may later regret.’
‘Such as driving hell for leather down to Devon and putting a brick through my dear grandfather’s window? Well,’ I continued, shuddering as I recalled a
ll the traffic jams we’d sat in, ‘I suppose the A303 would put a stop to any hell-for-leathering.’
‘That’s my child. Now, indulge an old man in his whims, but I have a huge desire to find some sea and breathe in the ozone. Mrs Walker is more than competent to watch the shop. Why don’t we take in lunch during our little jaunt?’
‘Yeah. Why not?’ But even as I smiled to please him, my mind was hunting for the term to describe what he was doing. Diver – digress – some sort of activity. That was it. Displacement activity. I’d got the words – a bonus point. Were they the right ones? They could be. But I couldn’t ask Griff in case he realized I was on to what he was doing. ‘It’s a nice clear day, and you’ve got those nice new specs – do you want to drive?’ That way he wouldn’t be worried about my having an attack of road rage.
We found ourselves in Hythe, which shouldn’t have been a surprise, given that there’s a Waitrose in the middle of the town. We duly had a walk along the sea wall toward Folkestone, overtaken at intervals by Gurkhas running very fast despite backpacks that seemed bigger than they were. The shingle roared and sighed under the incoming tide; fishermen wielded huge rods from the shelter of canvas igloos; across the road golfers hit little balls that changed course in mid-air as the wind strengthened. It was time to turn back. Yes, I could have gone on forever, and at twice the pace, but Griff wasn’t as young and still angry as I was, so I stopped.
‘If I listen carefully,’ I yelled above the wind, ‘I can hear fish and chips calling. Can you? Back in Hythe?’ This time I wasn’t using my precious gift, either.
He cupped an ear. ‘You know, I believe I can. I think they’re calling from that nice restaurant overlooking the sea.’
They were. As was my mobile the moment two gorgeous platefuls arrived. Will. I switched him to voicemail. Bugger him and his excitable friend.
‘It occurs to me, my love,’ Griff said, as we left Waitrose with a bag of his favourite plunder – top of the range, end-date goodies, ‘that our route home could take us past the place where you stopped to tell the police about your body. Would you care to retrace your steps?’
Nodding, I automatically went to the driver’s door. Most of my anger had subsided – it was no more than simmering now. Griff probably needed a little doze after all that food – he reminded me that at least the fish gave us lots of useful omega oils – and all that shopping. So there was no way I was going to take my revenge on the human race by driving as if I’d just been let out of hell. Especially as I was still partly in it, if I was honest. So I drove extra carefully, watching out for Hythe’s usual population of drivers who seemed to have parked by touch, to judge by the dents front and rear. There was a rumour amongst us dealers that at least one old dear regularly turned up to fairs at Folkestone in a nice Volvo despite being registered blind – anyone who knew her made sure they left their vans nowhere near.
I found my way to the road I’d taken back the day of the auction, and picked my way slowly along. Griff dozed quite noisily as soon as I switched on Classic FM. I’d got as far as the lay-by I’d pulled into to call the police before I realized I’d passed no police tape or anything to show there might have been a crime scene. On impulse, I found the road Winters had insisted was a real road, not a bridle way with no vehicular access. Vehicular. I said it out loud. There! If I took it really slowly I could manage the dreaded word. Weird. It was just an ordinary lane. So I turned down it, looking for goodness knew what.
And found nothing. Everything was dead quiet. So was it all wonderful inactivity, or was it all so secret they didn’t want to draw attention to it? I pressed on towards Ottinge, which would take us eventually to Elham, and better roads? I sure as hell wasn’t going to go left, because what should be occupying the road but a 4x4. Not for the first time wishing we had nice anonymous wheels, I carried on the way I was going. Maybe this car had also been heading that way all along. Or maybe the driver was just curious about why someone else should be on the road. Anyway, he sat behind me for mile after tedious mile. Why didn’t he turn off? Very, very slowly – but then, I’d had a big lunch too – it dawned on me he might be tailing me. It’d be nice to be able to get his number, but it was covered with mud – and in any case, reading from a mirror never was my strong point, especially on a road that needed eyes-front attention. I pressed on. What else could I do? A little company might be nice. Elham? What about Lyminge?
If I turned west, I knew there was a garage, preferably with nice husky mechanics to protect me, if that was what was needed. And if the 4x4 shot straight past, I could simply get some fuel and get the number. The rattling and shaking as I pushed the van as fast as I dared woke Griff.
‘Dear child, where on earth are we? What are we doing?’
‘Just heading for Stone Street,’ I said, through gritted teeth.
I didn’t want to slow, but I knew I’d have to. The next section was narrow, with an awkward corner, and the last thing I wanted was to run full tilt into a car on the school run. Or any other run.
He was five or six metres from me.
I swung on to the forecourt without signalling. Far too fast: I nearly hit a pillar box. He slewed to a stop at the halt sign and turned right, for Canterbury, also without signalling. The rear number plate was just as filthy as the front one. But I did get a glimpse of his profile as he turned. Just an ordinary, common or garden profile. Did I know it from somewhere?
By now Griff had got out, heading for the little shop. He stopped dead. Was it something to do with the notice telling customers there were no public loos on the site?
I needed some fuel anyway, so he’d just have to wait.
‘That’s just it, dear one. I can’t. Maybe your friend Robin might be in?’
Hell for leather to Stelling Minnis, then. But the rectory was in darkness, and there was no sign of Robin’s clerical car, either. Still retreating.
I took a risk. ‘We’re only about two miles from Bossingham Hall.’
‘The devil we are!’
‘That’s probably exactly what my father will say, if it’s any consolation. It’s pretty well time for his favourite TV programme and he won’t be pleased to see me, let alone you. But at least he’ll have a loo you can use. Tell you what – if you can spare a packet of those end-date bikkies and that cake, then at least it will make afternoon tea less like the Mad Hatter’s tea party.’ Or more . . .
I might have joked, but I actually felt sick with dread as I parked. At least there was no sign of Titus’ van – not out in the open here, nothing like so risky, but tucked away in its usual hidey-hole. I fished out my mobile – a bit more polite to warn my father than simply to swan in, though I had my key with me. And somehow I’d never quite managed just to ring the front door bell.
‘Mr Tripp too?’ my father observed. ‘Well, well.’
It didn’t take him long to get to the front door and open it, with a bit of a mocking bow.
‘Through there to the left, Griff!’ I said, pointing, by way of greeting.
‘Ah,’ my father said. ‘I quite understand.’
‘I’ll get the kettle on,’ I said.
‘Do that, Lina. And then hunt for a couple of your miracles. Mr Tripp and I can have a nice little chat while we wait.’
It was clear what they’d been talking about, because as I carried the tea tray in, Lord Elham was busy exploding with rage. ‘A man who claims to be her grandfather tells that sort of tale about her? How dare he! And what would his daughter have said? She must have been a nice filly, Tripp. Wouldn’t have laid her otherwise. More to the point, she must have been nice, or she wouldn’t have had such a decent offspring, would she? Nothing to do with me, Lina’s brains.’
I wasn’t so sure about that. My father could finish a fiendish-level Sudoku in the time it took me to work out the instructions. And the fact he’d escaped the notice of the law all these years suggested something about his cunning, at very least. But I wasn’t about to interrupt, because he and Griff, a g
lass of better champagne apiece, were sitting side by side happily shredding Arthur Habgood’s reputation. Well, everything about him really. Nothing for it but to park the tea things, leave them to it, and go for my usual wander round the place. Griff would have loved to come too, if he’d known what I was up to. But the sight of all those unwanted, unloved items, whose only function would be to provide Lord Elham with more champagne, might have given him a heart attack. Joking! Griff would have admired some, coveted others, but would have been able to price everything to the nearest pound. What he wouldn’t have been able to do was stand stock still in the corridor and feel something calling silently but clearly. I waited. No, it wasn’t in the kitchen. It was in one of the rooms on the first floor. In a cardboard box. I had to get at it even though it meant heaving half a dozen other boxes off it. Logically I knew that any one of these might have held half a dozen more valuable or saleable items, but my divvy’s instinct told me it had to be that one. The first thing I touched felt like a skull, and since this was a bit of a jumpy day, I nearly screamed and dropped it. But then I realized it was stoneware, not bone – a phrenological head. Why on earth I could remember a term like that, not an everyday one, goodness knows – especially when really useful ones flew out of my mental window. So what was the head lying on? I burrowed in the old newspaper. A chamber pot! What on earth did my divvy’s instinct think it was doing?
Another burrow. A lid? A lid. A lid for the chamber pot. Which suddenly doubled or trebled it in value. Staffordshire, I thought. A polish with a bit of newspaper brought up amazing bright colours – why something you’d want to sneak down the backstairs should be so bright was beyond me. But this had a broad blue stripe round most of the body, hung around with swags of pink and green garland. Then there were more stripes, and even more on the lid, which had a matching garland looping round the centre. Griff would take one look and declare it vulgar. My father would look and ask how much bubbly it would bring in.
Well, if the head brought in what I thought, and this pot turned out to be what I thought it was, the answer was quite a lot.
Ring of Guilt Page 9
