Drawing the Line Page 14

  Manly? A year ago I’d have shown total ignorance. Now I could produce a hip-flask and a silver mounted riding crop, my face a perfect blank.

  ‘I was thinking of a print. Or an old map. That sort of thing.’

  My stomach clenched. ‘Anything in particular?’

  ‘Oh, something local. Hang on – a friend of mine’s got the first page of some book or other, you know, coloured and framed. Such a scream.’

  ‘You wouldn’t know which one?’

  She shrugged massively, as if not knowing just showed what an idiot I was.

  ‘Could you tell me what it looks like?’

  ‘Christ! Well, it’s got these funny little men on it, all dressed up in really weird clothes, holding spears and God knows what else. Theatre or something. Very pretty colours – amazingly bright for something hundreds of years old.’

  I breathed out. Not my frontispiece. But possibly the frontispiece of an atlas I’d once seen Marcus working on. If she wasn’t going to buy anything from here, she might as well buy from him and Copeland. I fished out his card, one of a collection we kept by the phone, and moved as if to hold the door for her. At this point, Plan A came into play again. Summoned by Mummy, Victoria came clutching a doll’s torso. And there was no way she could separate the brat from the unfortunate bear.

  ‘Fuck,’ she said, producing a credit card. ‘Bloody pricey, teddies, these days, I suppose.’

  ‘Collectors’ items,’ I agreed sadly. I gathered up the rest of the doll. ‘But I’ll throw in this as a little extra.’

  As if getting a bargain, she reached as if on impulse for the crop. I wrapped it before she could blink. If my face had been blank before, it was impenetrable now. But as I locked up behind her, I could hardly stop myself bursting into song. Treat me as an unpaid childminder, would she? Well, she’d paid me now – and at a rate ten times the national minimum wage.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘So the Longton lady’ll sleep with Archie tonight,’ Griff said mistily. ‘Safe and sound.’

  ‘That’ll be a first,’ I said, ‘Archie sleeping with a woman.’ But actually, in view of all the recent hassle, I was pleased that she wasn’t anywhere near us.

  ‘Naughty, naughty.’ He grinned, raising his glass of champagne in my direction. ‘You know exactly what I mean. And the wonderful thing is that he’ll find a buyer for us and preserve our anonymity – no small consideration after these last few days.’

  I nodded, and wished I hadn’t – movement joggled my bruises.

  ‘Now, tell me about your afternoon.’

  Full of champagne, plus some stuff he’d added to it to sweeten it called crème de cassis, rather like alcoholic Ribena, I gave him chapter and verse.

  Cocking his head like a bird after an especially juicy worm, he asked, ‘How did you feel about screwing all that lovely cash out of Lady Whatever Her Name Is?’

  Yes, her credit card had revealed she was titled.

  ‘Great!’ But then I shook my head. I’d taken advantage of the woman, just as I’d accused Griff of taking advantage of Knight. ‘No, not good. It felt brilliant at the time, but now it feels like – cheating.’

  ‘Caveat emptor, dear heart. Business is business, as Arthur Miller ironically observes. While some things are certainly beyond the pale, some things are entirely legitimate.’

  ‘As to business – well, it wasn’t the wisest thing in the world to risk antagonising her. She won’t be happy when she finds out that teddy bear’s worth next to nothing.’

  ‘I think your original feeling was better, dear heart. She used you. You used her. And she’ll never admit having bought a duff toy. Look at the idiotic prices people were paying for the creatures at Detling. Absolute rubbish, no better than that specimen. Which reminds me, I bought a little present for you in London.’ He hauled himself to his feet. ‘You do realise you might have been talking to your sister, don’t you?’ He asked as he disappeared round the door.

  My sister! Being related to a thick, arrogant cow like that?

  ‘I know,’ I said as he returned. ‘That quip about my sister! It’s all part of your campaign to show me that the aristocracy are nothing to write home about, isn’t it? Like the castles and William the Bastard this morning. I looked him up after work,’ I added.

  ‘William the Bastard indeed. Wrong side of the blanket birth apart, he confessed on his deathbed that he was responsible for the murders – not deaths in battle, you’ll notice – the murders of five hundred people. Are you sure you don’t want to know what I found for you? Oh dear, Lina, you’re not very enthusiastic about presents, are you? I wonder why that is. It’s no doubt buried deep in your psyche.’

  ‘I quite like presents,’ I said, adding fairly, ‘so long as they’re not too useful.’ All those useful knickers and tights and soaps and shampoos for birthdays or Christmas. I should have felt grateful. Perhaps I would have done if I hadn’t been expected to.

  ‘I think you’ll find this far from utilitarian.’ He produced a large bag from behind his back. ‘I haven’t ventured to wrap it – it objected too strongly.’

  “It” was a teddy bear.

  ‘He’s a he, not an it!’ He smiled invitingly and held out his paws. But it was Griff I hugged.

  ‘Dear, dear – well, I suppose fizz always makes one weepy.’ He mopped his eyes, then mine. ‘I had a bear once not unlike this called Timothy. God, he’d be worth thousands now.’

  ‘But you wouldn’t have sold him?’

  ‘Who knows?’ Griff shrugged. ‘I think it might be that you inherited your mercenary streak from yours truly.’

  ‘Well, I shan’t sell this Timothy. Tim. Ever. Hey, what’s this on his bow-tie?’

  ‘A little something I also found on my travels. Strictly non-utilitarian again.’

  This bear – about an inch and a half tall – was made of gold, clutching a ball made out of a coral bead. His eyes were diamond chips. Griff passed me his jeweller’s eye-piece. ‘Only yours if you can tell me the year and city of manufacture,’ he said.

  Knowing Griff he might just mean it. I peered closely. ‘Birmingham. 1930?’

  ‘1931. No matter. What’s a year between friends?’ Pointing at tiny loops between its ears and on its back, he added, ‘It can be either a brooch or a pendant. I know such things aren’t your actual fashionable gear these days, so I shan’t expect to see you wearing him.’

  ‘But you can expect to see him sitting around smiling. Is there room for him in that display case?’

  Someone rang the doorbell.

  ‘Tchh. Trust the outside world to interrupt our charming little sentimental idyll.’

  I stayed where I was, sitting on the settee – whoops! – sofa, Tim snuggling up while I held the other bear in the palm of my hand.

  ‘Lina, my dear – the police for you.’

  Jesus! The fraudulent bear. If I grovelled enough, would that get me off? I promised the Guy in Canterbury Cathedral I’d never do anything like it again if he could get me out of this.

  Dave Brent peered round the door, just like Griff earlier, producing a little bag.

  ‘I was surprised he didn’t offer to smooth that bruise cream on your cheeks with his own fair hands,’ Griff said over breakfast the following morning. ‘More black coffee?’

  Dave’s visit had been only partly official. He’d returned the videotape, confirming that at least we knew my assailant was male. His colleagues rather thought the car might be a Ford Focus. Which didn’t, as he said, narrow it down all that much. Then, presenting the tube of ointment, the sort Mr Elworthy had rejected, he thought it might be nice to take me out for a drink when the case was over – he almost checked with Griff to ask him permission. Griff reminded him, rather too quickly, that the previous evening he’d said there wasn’t a case, just some information that might help solve other cases. But that was the attempted burglary, I’d chimed in, not liking the fact that the discussion was talking place above my head. Trying to run me over had b
een a different matter, surely not connected with those damned cats. Which was presumably when we all fell about laughing and somehow Griff shoehorned me into my first date with Dave.

  Next morning, Griff would have loved all the details – ‘Nothing better than a good goss, dear heart.’ I didn’t exactly point out that I’d never asked for or expected a blow-by-blow account of his dealings with Aidan but he did accept that there were some things that I might not wish to discuss until the aspirins had worked.

  And then not. I had a morning’s restoration work ahead of me, while Griff looked after the shop. If business was slack, and you don’t expect too much action midweek, than I’d take the van and leave him to it.

  Today I was off on my first pilgrimage. Iffin Court. Oh, yes, I’d chosen it especially for the name, and because Griff and I could bury its importance to me under a mound of jokes about its name.

  Like the one when he checked I’d got my mobile phone. ‘Iffin difficulty, call me!’

  He meant me to squirm so I did. ‘Hang on. Is that what they call a pun? Some teacher told us about puns. Lowest form of wit, or something.’

  ‘I think he might have mistaken puns for sarcasm. In fact, puns have a long and noble place in English letters. Shakespeare used them regularly with serious intent. As did the poet, Donne. “When you have done, you have not Donne, for I have more.”’

  ‘But Iffin a hurry, you’ve got no time for puns,’ I reminded him. ‘I’ve still got my gilding to finish.’

  Iffin Court lay between the A28 and the B2068, not all that far from Canterbury. The A20 was nice and empty as usual, people preferring the M20. I’d much rather have driven up in an ordinary anonymous car, not a van with the shop name plastered all over it. In fact, for general security, a car would be better, wouldn’t it, a nice big estate job? Maybe this Longton Hall figurine would provide the cash. I knew more about cars than I’d ever let on, especially about starting them unofficially, you might say. I reckoned I could sort out something sound at an auction for under a thousand. But that meant confessing a bit more to Griff. On the other hand, I told myself, as I parked neatly and emerged, head high, he knew a lot worse things about me, or guessed, at least.

  It was time to chase that memory. There was one pun we hadn’t made. Iffin doubt, turn back.

  Head high, I walked towards the ticket office.

  My mobile phone rang. Marcus?

  ‘Hi. How’s your search going?’

  ‘I’m just going to the first place now. Iffin Court.’

  ‘Iffin court, plead Not Guilty.’

  I groaned.

  ‘Why go there?’ he asked, rather shirty. ‘It’s not on that list of postcodes.’

  ‘I couldn’t work them out,’ I lied. I wasn’t going to tell him I’d forgotten all about them. What with Kitties and teddy bears, I’d never got round to tidying out the caravan or even my bag. Maybe it wasn’t entirely a lie, either – given the choice between having not just the full address of a place, plus photo, and just four letters framing two numbers, which would your brain forget to work on?

  ‘What a good job I’ve had a chance to print off the whole list of Coz’s names,’ he said, sounding kind, to be fair, rather than patronising. ‘What’s your fax number at the shop?’

  I rattled it off. ‘Tell you what,’ I added, ‘I owe you an apology: I gave this poisonous woman your card yesterday. I hope her brats haven’t dabbed their sticky mitts all over your handiwork.’

  ‘That’s how she got hold of us. She phoned last night.’

  ‘So you haven’t had the pleasure of her kids’ company?’

  ‘Strictly phone and registered post.’

  ‘You got a sale, then?’

  ‘She had her eye on a John Speed frontispiece: The Theatre of the Empire of Great Britain. Didn’t have one in, of course. Then she started asking about other frontispieces. Just thought you might want to know.’

  ‘You didn’t tell her about mine?’

  ‘Keep your hair on! Come on: we’re in the same trade, Lina. You ought to know that customer confidentiality is paramount. Even when the customer’s a mate.’

  A mate, eh? Not my woman any more. Who was using whom in this little relationship?

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. Even if I wasn’t quite sure for what. ‘Did you manage to sell her anything?’

  ‘Why do you think I’m calling?’

  To tell me about frontispieces?

  ‘I only managed to flog her a Robert Morden map of Middlesex!’ he crowed. ‘And she wants us to locate a Saxton one, too. Retouching, framing: we’re talking profit, here, Lina.’

  I knew better than to ask how much profit. ‘Great. Drinks are on you next time,’ I said without thinking.

  ‘Er –’

  I could hear his writhe of embarrassment. I’d better spare him. ‘Look, my battery’s dying. I’ll get back to you. OK?’

  I stayed where I was, thinking. Was that why my so-called date with Dave Brent hadn’t exactly set the Thames on fire, apart from the fact I was tired out and already semi-pissed when we set out? Because I still had the hots for Marcus? No, I didn’t think I had. I was damned sure he didn’t have them for me, and if life had taught me anything it was not to give love until you were sure of receiving it. But that didn’t mean I didn’t like him. Yes, as a mate.

  So what now? Should I give up, and nip into Canterbury to scour the charity shops for anything worth selling on? And if I spotted anything they’d really underpriced I’d have told them. Or put a donation in their jar. Whatever.

  Or, since I was here and it was quite a nice day, clean-smelling after all the rain, should I hand over my fiver and snoop round Iffin Court? The grounds themselves were worth a visit. From where I stood there was the sort of view they put on postcards, rolling fields, old churches, even a cricket ground over to my left. Behind me stood Iffin Court. I turned to face a gentleman’s country residence probably built between 1760 and 1800. My period, whatever Marcus had said.

  Iffin doubt, do it.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘So you had a pleasant afternoon?’ Griff asked, but not as if he wanted to know. He eyed the plant I needed both arms to hold, but didn’t comment.

  ‘Oh, yes! Iffin Court’s lovely. No help to me at all: the owners are a couple who need to waste some of what they make in the City. But it was useful, all the same. I thought this would look nice in that planter we can’t shift,’ I said, depositing my burden on the kitchen table, ‘the Crown Devon with the crazed base.’

  ‘The jardinière,’ he corrected me, without smiling kindly as he usually did when he had to correct me. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’

  ‘The whole of the enterprise,’ I continued, more and more alarmed, ‘is geared to making money. But they do it so prettily you feel grateful they’re letting you buy. Tubs and hanging baskets everywhere – they’ll be a picture in a month’s time. We’ve still got time to plant some up. And that jam you always make and we never get round to eating – we could have a corner for produce like that in the shop. You know, like the toy basket. So that even if people come in just to get out of the rain, they’re likely to buy something. And once they’ve opened their purses, they might as well buy something else.’ I was gabbling. Because there was something wrong, really wrong, and I didn’t know what it was.

  Griff took his glasses off and laid them beside the plant on the table. My stomach clenched. Even with quite a stern telling off he’d peer over them. Any moment he’d rub his face and begin. If I’d been the crying sort I’d have sobbed: he was going to take away the lovely memories of my time at Iffin and replace them with horrible ones. ‘You’re clearly a born entrepreneur,’ he began. ‘But I never thought your enthusiasm would permit you to steal other people’s trade secrets.’ He picked up the sheets of fax paper. ‘This is industrial espionage, Evelina. Unethical. There is only one thing to do with this and that’s to burn it. Can’t you imagine the harm it will do us in the trade if it gets about that you’ve got hol
d of Copeland’s list of contacts?’ His eyes blazed. I’d never seen him like this.

  ‘I didn’t “get hold of it”. Marcus sent it to me so –’

  ‘What a foolish boy. I presume it was in response to your blandishments.’

  ‘He’s a mate. I asked him to find out where Copeland had got that frontispiece from. That’s all.’

  ‘This is very far from “that’s all.”’ He counted out the pages, his hands shaking. ‘Eleven A4 pages of addresses. Single space.’

  ‘He promised it’d be just the ones down here.’

  ‘Is Northumbria “down here”? I think not.’ In one swift movement he balled them and opened the Aga door.

  ‘No!’ I made a dive but got no more than a burnt wrist for my pains. That wasn’t the pain that brought tears to my eyes as I watched the paper burn.

  He slammed the door shut, standing in front of it. Did he think I was going to plunge my whole hand in? Well, I suppose I might have done.

  ‘That was the way to my father and you’ve destroyed it. Griff, you bastard – I hate you! Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!’ I screamed a lot more than that before I finished. I told him a lot about his sex life he already knew. I said he did dreadful things I knew he didn’t. I shouted. I raged till my throat was sore. I must have done things I never remembered afterwards because I ended with earth under my fingernails.

  And now I was cowering in the caravan, huddled under my sleeping bag, still crying. OK, as a dramatic gesture, the caravan was a cop-out. But what else could I do? I’d slammed out of the house. The rain had come on again, all the heavier after the sun, and I’d got soaked to the skin just running down the village street. A village isn’t like a town. The evening bus had come and gone. The railway station was nearly two miles from the centre. Thumbing a lift? Even my pounding head knew that at this time of night it was too risky: I’d get some fatherly type who’d drop me at a police station or another fatherly type who’d want to comfort me with a quick shag. No to both, thanks very much.