Gold Digger

by Frances Fyfield

‘Shit,’ Jones said.

  He went down the corridor from the snug to the door, peered out through the side window, and then went through the stained glass. The view was distorted but the colour of uniforms instantly recognisable.

  ‘Police,’ he shouted back. ‘How do you open this fucking door?’

  He knew he couldn’t tell them to come round the back. He had to let them in. Jones followed instinct even when badly shaken. Like if any policeman knocked at the door like that, best let them in soonest; otherwise they’d bash the door down and he had done it often enough himself to know. It was difficult to turn the key and open the winter-damp door. Doors swelled here in winter, you wrenched them open, and slammed them shut, until they shrank again in summer. He pulled and they kicked, and the thing opened with a loud noise. There were two large men on the doorstep.

  ‘Evening,’ Jones said. ‘You’d better come through. And you’d better have a fucking good reason for being here at this time of night. A very good fucking reason indeed. Otherwise you’re right in the shit.’

  It was an empty threat. Jones was in a state of shock. No one had told him about this. Di was getting in the clear, second post mortem refused, he knew; they were looking at nothing, even if they were still looking. He’d checked with his contact, it was all sweet, that end. His man had told him. Mrs P had fucking questions to answer still, always would have, but nothing yet and his man had lied. Fuck. They had come for Di, again.

  Jones yelled his way back to the snug by shouting ahead of himself all the way, announcing the two uniformed men. Once he had led them back into the snug, he recognised one of them, the older one who had been there on the afternoon when Thomas had died in that chair over there. He watched as the man looked around, puzzled by uncertain remembrance and a touch of wariness. Been here before. Old man dead in chair, with a shabby girl, not nice, looked dodgy, didn’t like her then or now. He fixed his eyes on Di. Must be her, all dressed up, it was her who had to be the one they wanted. He continued to fix his eyes on Di, who stood, supporting herself on a chair, looking back, challenging them. Jones looked too. He could see the door to the cellar was open. He felt the presence of Peg, lurking on the top of the stairs, hiding. No police. He’d promised.

  The bigger, older man in uniform advanced a step towards Di and held out a piece of paper.

  ‘Got a warrant for your arrest,’ he said. ‘For—’

  ‘No, you fucking haven’t!’ Jones screamed. ‘No, you fucking haven’t. That’s all been cleared up. Fucking warrant for fucking what? She didn’t fucking poison him, she didn’t. She might have waited, but she didn’t kill him, she fed him, for God’s sake. You can’t fucking do this. You can’t come arresting her NOW. No one told me. You’ve got it wrong, mate, wrong, fucking wrong.’ He swung round to Di. ‘Unless you really have found something new. Could they?’

  The older one hesitated and then took one step further forward. The younger one hesitated, also, sensing trouble because there was this mad old geezer in front of him, talking shit. He had never been here before, found himself in a smallish, snug room full of good food smells that seemed so innocent. Got to get it right. He consulted his phone screen, verifying details better than a piece of paper.

  ‘Hang on. We got a warrant for Elisabeth Smith. Other -wise known as Peg. For burglary, in London. She’s here, isn’t she?’

  ‘Fuck me,’ Jones said. ‘For fucking Peg?’

  Di stepped forward.

  ‘You’re in the wrong place,’ she said. ‘No one of that name here.’

  The younger man looked at her and saw a young woman with awful hair, with a fierce, defensive voice, who looked as if she might spring to attack. She had to be the one. There was no other female in the room. He took another step towards her.

  ‘No,’ Jones said. ‘It ain’t her, fuckwit.’

  He looked towards the open door to the cellar. That was where Peg had vanished. The door had been firmly closed before he left the room. Peg had panicked and taken the nearest exit and Christ, if she wanted to hide, that was the worst place tonight. Couldn’t let her stay down there.

  ‘She’s not the one,’ the older man said, his memory clearing. ‘She’s that widow Porteous. Come on, Di, where’s the other one? We know she’s here. Peg, she’s called Peg. Wanted for theft and criminal damage.’

  There was a horrible pause, in which Di said, ‘No one of that name here. Some mistake, surely. Would you like a drink?’

  ‘Shuttit, Di.’ Jones went to the cellar door, shouted. ‘You’d better come out, Peg.’

  She was already halfway there. She had gone no further than a few steps down because the cellar frightened her as much as what she was going to meet upstairs, what shit, there was nothing frightened her as much as that. She had a fleeting, longing thought of the laundry room: should have run up, not down, then Di would have hid her, like she knew Di would have done. Di would have hid her until they could sort it, she knew she would, only she couldn’t now, could she? Fucking Jones.

  Peg came out from behind the door and Di saw in her face the unbearable terror of being locked away, the reality of punishment, and oh God, there were better ways of learning than this. Diana Porteous felt like the biggest traitor under the moon. Traitor; one who betrays others. Peg was shaking so much she could scarcely stand, and all the same, she was fighting tears. The question was in her eyes. Who told on me?

  She looked at Di, pleadingly, then at Jones.

  ‘What did you do, Peg?’ He asked so softly.

  ‘Warrant’s for a dozen shop burglaries, criminal damage. I wouldn’t say anything if I was you, Miss. Not yet.’

  Peg opened her mouth, facing Jones, forcing the words out. She had so wanted to tell him. Di didn’t make her feel ashamed; Jones did.

  ‘All right, I tried to tell you, only you wouldn’t listen. I trashed some places, right? Not houses, shops. And I’m fucking ashamed of it. I didn’t steal stuff, I just trashed it.’

  Jones laughed, a great big bellow of grating laughter. It went on and on.

  ‘Is that all? Jesus, Love, I thought you’d fucking murdered somebody.’

  He turned to the first officer, calmer now.

  ‘Can’t quote what she said,’ he said. ‘Not without a caution, so don’t even fucking try it.’

  The man nodded. Jones looked at Peg.

  ‘I’m sorry love, if you’ve done it, you’ve got to face the music. Otherwise you’ll be on the run for the rest of your life. Look, mate,’ he appealed to the older one, ‘can’t it wait until tomorrow? I’ll bring her in.’ And even as he spoke, he knew he’d blown any chance of that, ’cos he’d pissed them off and so had Di.

  ‘No, it’s got to be now. Got to get her inside. Skipped bail last time.’

  Peg began to cry. ‘I can’t go now. I’ve got to be here … I’ve got a job. I gotta be here, right now.’

  Her terror was all-consuming. Everything else was forgotten, such as it being half past ten in the evening, thieves coming in soon.

  ‘If you’ve got to go, you’re not going alone,’ Di said. ‘Jones’ll go with you. Stay with you until you get bail. You’re not going alone. Jones, tell them I’ll stand bail.’

  ‘And what relation are you, madam?’ the younger one said, trying to keep the sneer out of his voice. ‘Looks like you’ve been harbouring a fugitive.’

  ‘So?’ Di said. ‘Any time I get the chance. She’s a great girl, and she’s coming back soonest, aren’t you Peg? Go with her, Jones. Bring her back.’

  ‘But I can’t … ’ Jones began, looking at Di, thinking of his promise. Don’t leave her alone, not tonight. Saul said, she must not be alone when Gayle and Edward come.

  ‘Please, please,’ Peg wailed. ‘Please come with me. Please.’

  He looked at Peg, knowing what could happen, knowing that if she was alone, she was the kind to fall apart and beat her head against the wall of the cell until she drew blood and go mad, like Di did, and he couldn’t bear it. It would be so different
if she knew someone was waiting; it would make all the difference in the world.

  He looked at Di and Di nodded back.

  ‘Course I’ll go with you, love. You’re looking smashing, Peg, you really are, sweetheart, that’s half the battle. Only you’ll need a coat.’

  Di’s coat was on the back of the door. She handed it to Peg.

  ‘What about you?’ Jones asked Di, the decision already made.

  ‘I’ll manage. Just go.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Di, I’m sorry,’ Peg was saying. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Di touched her necklace, lightly. Peg’s necklace, announcing her name.

  ‘I know you are, Peg. Pity we couldn’t do this our way. See you soon.’

  They went out the front door. Di went with them as far as the front door, stood in the corridor, feeling the draught from the door, and then leant against it, trying to shut it. The door stuck and wouldn’t budge. She left it, went back to the snug and felt sick. Should have hidden Peg, should’ve, should’ve, should’ve. Peg had already paid plenty; Peg was already mortified; Peg had already had her epiphany of self-loathing and shame, just as she had; Peg was a person on her way to coming right, without prison. She was already making amends, she was learning, but Jones was right. If she did not go now, she would be on the run for the rest of her life. There would always be a warrant. But hell and damnation, going to prison was hell. She could not ration her own terror of the prison van, felt Peg’s horror, and it made her want to shout with grief. Yes, there had to be punishment, but there must be better ways for those already punished.

  Got to get her out of it.

  Di lit a cigar and felt the silence. Remembered where she was.

  Looked at her watch. Ten forty-five. The enemy were advancing, and she was entirely alone and suddenly, as the anger and pity faded, profoundly afraid.

  Tell me a joke, Di, tell me a good one. Make me laugh. She had always been able to make him laugh. She could not laugh now. She counted on her fingers. Two people who hated her were about to enter Thomas’s house. They must not know she was alone. Instinct told her not only that, but also told her it was all going to go horribly wrong. It was her time for punishment. For being a thief in their eyes, for taking away what belonged to them.

  Panic struck her. She was so used to waiting for the axe to fall, for waiting for Thomas to die and dreading it, she could not bear waiting any longer, raced upstairs to the gallery room, to find that Jones had set the scene. The fire burned, the music played, the lights beamed on to pictures and how she loved this room. She changed the CD in the player so that it was not the music Peg liked, but Thomas’s choice. She heard the sound of William Byrd’s triumphal marches swelling to fill the room.

  Then she ran.

  Down the stairs, out of the house via the front door which was stuck looking shut, but not quite shut. It needed Jones’s weight to ram it closed. She ran halfway to the pier along the footpath that skirted the sea, feeling the wind, stopped and ran on. Got near to the pier and stopped. She wanted to stay there all night, bunk down in one of the shelters, wait it out, go back at dawn, but she knew she could not. It was not a real choice. Running away never was.

  Fishing competition, the pier full of men, fishing. Lights and radios, alternative life, a big swell on the sea. Men dressed for weather. She was icily cold in her almost party clothes; no phone, no boots, no coat, only responsibilities.

  She jogged back. Went through the front door, pushing it as far towards shut as it would go, warped in winter, shrinking in summer. Needed a kick to close it. Di knew as soon as she was inside that they were there already. She tiptoed up the second set of stairs which led into the back of the gallery room, turned the music up even louder. Poured whisky out of the decanter, logged onto the computer, and waited.

  In the last months of Thomas’s life and since his illness, he had felt the cold, although nothing much else had changed, except the speech. She had found him a fur stole from the dressing up box which was still draped over the back of his chair. They joked about it. If the Elizabethans could wear ermine, why not you? You look like a king.

  She looked at her fingers. Her fingers were covered with scars. So clumsy. Such a silly, corruptible girl. She drank the whisky.

  They were here, in the cellar.

  She looked at Madame de Belleroche, who nodded back.

  The wind had got up. She lit another cigar, and talked to him.

  Do you know Thomas, I loved you to extinction. And now you do this.

  You invented a bad game.

  She faced the screen and wrote, remembering that the door to the cellar, opened by Peg in her run to escape, was still open. She did not dare use the phone.

  The camera winked discreetly in the furthest, hidden corner of the room.

  She really could not care less.

  Talk to me Thomas. Don’t tell me this is what you meant.

  She sat and wrote, fingers moving automatically over the keys, the screen her confessional.

  She was back. Ten years ago. All it needed was a storm.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Set out too early, get there too early. Gayle was like that, always trusted to be early. Gayle was the one for the task; slim, sleek, athletic. She did not say how much she remembered about the house she was not going to enter.

  You want to get there late rather than early, Beatrice said. Get the goods and go. If there’s any problems with the shutter, phone Saul.

  ‘He says not. No calls to be traced to him. He’s the one who calls, never the other way round. If in any doubt at all, abort the mission.’

  ‘Take Patrick, then: he knows the way in. He can do it.’

  ‘NO. He stays with you, Beatrice. You’re looking after the children. He’s never going to go near that place ever again.’

  Beatrice smiled and raised her eyebrows. Gayle was afraid that if darling Patrick returned to that house, he would never come back.

  Do I lock him up, Beatrice asked, and Gayle said, Yes, if you must.

  It sounded so simple. Park up the back road, go through the gate, into the yard. Prise up steel shutters, go down the ramp. Find two pictures, loosely wrapped in blue canvas, propped against a chest of drawers in front of a door. They’re the ones, take and run, put them in the back of the car, drive away. Di and her mates would be drunk upstairs. Leave them alone. Take a torch if you want, but the switch is just inside the shutters, don’t worry about the light, no one can see. You should be inside five minutes, max. Then, go. Gayle travelled equipped, a sheathed packing knife in the back pocket of her jeans, and a length of rope with a knotted end, the remnant of an old swing which she had found and looped round her waist. She would surely need neither, but they made her feel credible.

  Easy, peasy.

  Instead they were sitting in their big car, the one with the payments still owing, in a car park at the back of the town, waiting because they were early. We must be precisely on time, Gayle said.

  Edward was not good at waiting. They should have eaten more than a sandwich; hunger was bad for the nerves. When they finally moved the car to the right spot, both of them were brittle with tension, Edward realising that it took more than a bit of bravery and expertise to be a burglar even when reclaiming your own. They parked fifty yards away from the fence that led on to Thomas’s back yard, shuffled along the wall in silence. Rubber-soled shoes and the rope and the existence of the knife empowered Gayle. They found the rickety gate that led into the yard with a view of the downhill ramp and the shutters. Remember when he had that vintage car he never used? Edward said. Gayle did. Sold it, never gave the money to us. That gave a bit of extra anger, as if she needed it. This is my house, she repeated under her breath. Mine.

  The tension eased a little as they approached. There were lights from the upstairs windows. Gayle thought she could hear music, although she could hear nothing but the sound of wind and the sea from the far side of the building and it was otherwise too silent. Once he could see that it w
as all exactly as it had been described, Edward felt easier, too. There were the steel shutters, which moved upwards with hardly a sound and fell back as quietly; there was the master switch that filled the room with light, or more aptly, the uplighters illuminating the vaulted ceiling, leaving the contours and corners of the place in various degrees of shade. A soft surface underfoot, almost sandy. It was all as it was supposed to look, and more than enough light to check a wristwatch. Five minutes, and then they would go. And then something changed. They started looking around instead of straight ahead. A spell came over Edward: his eyes grew wide.

  The briefest of inspections showed that there were any number of objects and paintings down here. It was what they expected to see, but then it wasn’t. There were a hundred paintings here, if all the objects wrapped in canvas and stacked against walls were paintings, but there were also things of different shapes, something which could have been a figure, something else which could have been a chair. Two parcels stood prominent against the rest, leaning against the old chest of drawers with others behind. Take them: Go.

  Edward was peering into the corners where he could not see in this strange light, looking for more. He could not go with just the two. Gayle could not, either. She was not really on the same errand any more; it had turned into a mission as soon as she was inside and she knew it was where she had been before, playing as a child in a secret, wonderful place that had somehow been changed. Half a ceiling instead of a whole ceiling, lit to show the brickwork rather than the detail, and that strange sound of breathing that made it sound as if there was something live behind the wall, a voice from somewhere saying, shush, shush, shush. The memory of how she had loved this damp, smelly place. Compounded by the more recent memory of how Patrick had described it, albeit under duress.

  Liar, liar, pants on fire, tell us about it. And his response. I want Di. I want Peg. Anyone but you. The cellar is full of wonderful things.

  This place was seductively warm. Lit and warmed, full of treasure, bigger in diameter than their own flat. They were in the bowels of a treasure trove, and upstairs sat the Queen, holding court. Gayle had a dim memory of something else, of feeling safe and hearing music. She wanted to hear all the echoes, but Edward, in the meantime, was going mad. Eyes bigger than his stomach, that was Edward, amateur thief, suddenly seeing what else might be had. Everything here was valuable, otherwise why was it here? Why stop at two?