‘Tax? National Insurance?’ Tony looked as if he ought to sit up and make notes.
‘Dear me, no. Nothing so vulgar!’
Was it being called darling or a real sniff of wrongdoing that had got Tony almost upright?
‘She slips items into the shop and sells them, having fallen into what I suppose you’d call genteel poverty. I value them at a vastly inflated price and because they’re in a reputable shop and beautifully presented she makes a few bob. Far more than if she took them to auction or asked a dealer to sell them. She gets to chat with some nice people –’
‘Usually,’ I put in.
‘And she can save on heating bills. All the time she’s providing a very respectable presence in my little emporium, and if anyone wants to buy any of my stock takes their money. A wonderfully symbiotic relationship.’ Without looking at me he leaned across to the bookshelves and passed me the dictionary. ‘Hence no tax or NI. And hence problems for me if she goes. We’d have to pay someone at the going rate or close the shop on days we’re away doing fairs. We’re off to Harrogate for the weekend,’ he added, ‘so do, dear boy, keep an eye open for any burglars who may or may not be hermaphrodite.’
I’d returned the dictionary but now he passed it to me again. Symbiotic – that sounded like Griff and me. Hermaphrodite? Ah, a bit male and a bit female.
‘I’ll make sure there are regular patrols in the village –’
‘You mean once a month instead of once a year. Darling, what a comfort.’
Tony muttered something about resources and manpower. But he added, chin up, ‘And of course I’ll pop round at the start and end of my shifts. Usually I change into and out of uniform at the station, but if you thought –’
‘I’m positive a spot of blue serge about the place is just what the doctor ordered. The doctor and Mrs Hatch. Take my advice and tread warily – she’s a very predatory lady.’
Chapter Eight
Next on our calendar was a big three-day event at yet another agricultural show-ground – Harrogate. Like many of our colleagues, we’d spend the nights in caravans we’d towed up behind our vans. When it wasn’t in use, ours lived on a farm on the outskirts of the village, Griff having views on the parking of caravans in front of people’s houses as strong as our councillor’s on Sunday Observance.
With great reluctance Griff had agreed to give me some time off if things got quiet: I’d logged two National Trust properties to check out, Benningbrough Hall and East Riddlesden Hall. I’d have liked a peep at Castle Howard, but though Griff thought all my dreams were pretty wild, even in the wildest ones I didn’t imagine I’d come from there. In any case, I’d looked up the present owners on the Internet and there was no family resemblance between us at all.
Apart from rubbernecking at tourist sites, I had another plan. Copeland would almost certainly be there, his maps of the South East replaced by ones of Yorkshire. Marcus would be painting away at his end of the stand, but even Marcus couldn’t paint all evening as well as all day. He’d need a break and it was the least I could do to see he got one. The day’s work over for us all, Griff would be seeking out old cronies who owed him a drink. I’d be left either watching the titchy little black and white TV that was all the caravan ran to, or, of course, reading. A drink, better still a meal, with Marcus would be much nicer. I’d seize a moment when Copeland had his back turned and suggest just that. I might imply a lot more than just that, even though I wasn’t so keen on snogging him these days. Griff wouldn’t like the idea of my using him, I knew that, but where I’d sprung from it was use or be used. I was pretty sure that it was Marcus’ philosophy too, even though he had much less excuse than I did.
It wasn’t Marcus who goosed me, though, just when I had my hands full of a Victorian Royal Worcester vase, heavily ornamented and laden with gilding. It was worth about eight hundred pounds – goodness knew why Griff had got hold of it, because he certainly hadn’t been able to sell it. Every time he saw it he gave an exaggerated wince, saying it was too vulgar to piss in. Highly impractical too, at least for a woman. Not like those mini chamber pots eighteenth-century fashionable ladies used to resort to during extra-long sermons and so on. They looked like gravy boats without the pouring lip. In fact, I’d seen half a dozen in my time being sold as gravy boats. I’d also seen chamber pots sold as planters, which only goes to show.
I placed the vase very carefully on its display stand, even adjusting its spotlight, before I turned. Maybe waiting for a reaction would faze the assailant a bit. No, it wouldn’t faze Titus Oates, showing awful teeth in a smelly leer. I’d have slapped the smarmy face grinning down at me if I’d been one for physical violence. No, it wasn’t any particular moral objection. It was practicality. Strong I may be for my size, but some of the men I worked amongst were strong for their size too – which was a great deal bigger than mine. No doubt Titus had come to talk about my comment to Copeland. Even though I suppose I owed him an apology for slander, it would have been really satisfying to knee him in the groin and bloody his nose as it came down. But then, he was a good foot taller than me, with hands like hams, despite the delicacy of the work they produced. And it was his hands I was interested in at the moment.
And there they were, gone. They soon reappeared, clawing the air as he tried to scrabble upright. But Marcus was leaning over him, in the sort of pose that would have told the most casual observer that it was in Titus’ interests to stay put. He reinforced the message by plonking a trainer-shod foot on Titus’ chest.
‘You don’t do that to my woman. OK?’ He shot his forefinger to within an inch of Titus’ nose, straightened, and strode off.
‘What a marvellous exit line,’ Griff cooed. ‘But does this mean you have something to tell me, Lina?’
‘Not till we’re alone,’ I said out of the corner of my mouth.
‘It was a very definitive statement. And gesture.’ He held out a hand to help Titus to his feet. But he grunted that he could manage, which he did, stalking off with a stride that was intended to tell anyone interested that he could easily have had the better of the argument.
So should I be pleased that Marcus had done something so dramatic? It certainly seemed to settle in whose company I’d be spending the evening.
‘Even given this new-found relationship with you, it was very brave of the young man,’ Griff observed. ‘It isn’t just Titus he’s offended, it’s Copeland, too. Little cousin’s supposed to do what the big boss man says, not strike off – literally – on his own.’
I nodded, but I’d rather have dealt with Titus myself, not least because Griff had probably been right to suggest I show him my frontispiece. It would take one master forger to know another, and a quick word from him might save me all these stately house explorations. Not that I wasn’t looking forward to them – but I knew they were long shots. If I’d grovelled, not that I was keen to, especially after the goosing, I might have got instant information. Now it might have to be the sort of megagrovel I wouldn’t be at all keen on.
The neat figure of a security guard was strolling towards us. ‘Bit of trouble, was there, miss?’
Griff didn’t need to press my arm in warning.
I smiled, shaking my head. ‘A bit of a lad thing. That’s all.’
‘Yes, dear boy – it’s all done and dusted. But thank you so much for your interest – indeed your very presence makes us feel so beautifully protected.’ From a girl the eyelash fluttering would have been OTT. From Griff it made you want to giggle or spew, depending on your mood. It was the guard’s battle-dress top that did it. Griff never could resist a man in the sort of uniform that showed a bum to perfection, especially when the uniform was bottle green.
The guy took no obvious notice, but walked slowly away with that sort of legs apart macho roll that’s supposed to tell you that what’s between the legs is irresistibly massive. The question was, who was he supposed to be attracting? Whoops: whom.
Griff gave his departing back a twiddle-finge
red wave and then, as if nothing had happened, he returned to completing the set up of the stall. A glance at my watch told me he was quite right. It was almost seven and the first batch of punters would be let in at eight, if they were prepared to pay a ten pound premium for the privilege. Only an hour for horse-trading! I grabbed some of the house-sale items I’d cleaned up and set off on my rounds.
I was waiting in line for hot breakfast rolls – I’d made enough in half an hour to treat Griff and me – when Marcus came and stood beside me. Normally I’d have teased him about queue jumping, but there were obviously more important things to talk about than how soon we’d all get served.
‘Since when have I been your woman?’ I asked. No point in beating about the bush.
‘Since you asked me out for that drink and Copeland shoved his oar in. I felt really bad about that, Lina. I’m sorry. Look, how about tonight? A drink and a bite to eat? Go on.’
‘I don’t like leaving Griff on his own,’ I said not quite truthfully. Fat chance of Griff being without a drinking crony or two, but I didn’t want Marcus to think I was too eager.
‘There’s this really good pub I found last time I was here. Just down the road. There’s a disco on tonight. Go on – why not?’
Griff called it playing agent provocateur. Or was it Devil’s advocate? ‘Copeland won’t like it.’
‘Fuck Copeland.’
I produced the sort of girlish giggle Griff would have been proud of. ‘No, thanks!’ I said. And I wasn’t proposing to end up in the sack with Marcus, either, though if Copeland was on the town too I’d certainly suggest we went back to their caravan. No, no matter how much I might sometimes fancy Marcus – and just at the moment I wasn’t at all sure I did – I had a quite different agenda from his. Sex wasn’t on mine. Just a look through Copeland’s filing system.
That afternoon there were far too many people milling round for me even to think about leaving Griff without help. We’d marked all the prices very clearly, but we also had a bottom-line price for people who haggled. This was marked both in code on a sticker and in a little exercise book, the sort you can get in Woolworth’s. So it should have been impossible to sell something for less than you paid. But occasionally, if Griff didn’t eat enough lunch to blot up his gins, he might be too fuddled to remember what the letters stood for. That was when I stepped in. Today might just have been a liquid lunch day. So I sat him down with a sandwich and large cup of coffee and smiled sweetly and made money. A lot. If I looked across at Copeland’s stall I saw far more of Marcus than usual, because he’d been roped in to sell and wrap. All around money was changing hands, at least if the full carrier bags were anything to go by. Were we still in the same country as the Detling fair, only a couple of weeks ago?
‘That was a really good day, wasn’t it?’ Marcus remarked, digging into one of the White Lion’s huge steaks as evidence. ‘All those punters descending like locusts. We made a mint. How about you?’
I nodded, trying to work out where to start on my steak. I’d hesitated a minute before choosing it, because I reasoned I ought to go Dutch and steak never comes cheap. This one certainly didn’t, but since it came with all the trimmings, plus a bowl of salad, I reasoned I’d be able to pass on the pudding and save a bit of cash that way. ‘Good enough.’ Griff hated me to talk about takings, or actually about money at all. There’d always be people richer than us and people poorer than us, and it was no one’s business except the bank manager’s. That’s what he said. And to be honest, it wasn’t one of my favourite topics because I still had a niggle of envy when I saw how much money people had to throw around. Even if it was sometimes in my direction. But I didn’t want to snub Marcus. We’d had a bit of a snog on the walk over here – apart from his designer bristles he was a very good snog – and I wouldn’t mind another later. So I’d better find something to say. ‘What about your hand, though?’ I pointed with my knife at his bruised and scuffed knuckles. Then I remembered you should never point with a knife. Or presumably a fork. I must ask Mrs Hatch. ‘Didn’t that trouble you?’
‘Actually, you’ve no idea how I enjoyed flooring Oates. Bullying bastard.’
‘But very good with his pen. A master.’
‘A man does that to you and you call him a master!’
I thought for a minute he was going to push away from the table and leave me and the steak. But he didn’t. Instead he jabbed at the chips as if they were Oates’ eyes. ‘He’s a cheat and a liar and a – a sexual predator. And he ought to be in jail. And you let him put his hand –’
‘I didn’t let him!’
‘You didn’t stop him.’
‘I was holding eight hundred quid’s worth of vase!’
‘But –’
‘I suppose I could have sloshed him with it. It’d have take a bit of explaining to the insurance people, though.’ I risked a grin. Mistake.
He thrust his lower lip out, like a cross little boy. ‘But you didn’t do anything. Anything at all.’
I said more sharply than I meant, ‘That didn’t mean I wasn’t going to.’ It was the first time anyone had ever jumped in like that to my rescue, and though half of me was rather flattered, or I wouldn’t be sitting opposite Marcus now, half of me would still have rather fought my own battles. Even battles with Titus Oates. I’m not sure how. I’d gone over and over it in my head. There was no doubt I’d been in the wrong to refer to him as I had done. If I’d seen him first, I’d have apologised, preferably in front of other people, to stop him trying to raise the stakes.
‘Sorry.’ He hung his head. ‘I should have realised.’
I knew things were going badly wrong but I wasn’t sure how or why. I did what Griff would have done, reached for his undamaged hand and gave it an encouraging squeeze, but that didn’t seem right either. And when I rubbed his leg with my foot, he drew it sharply away. What was it with this man who could match the Duke of Wellington’s disdainful stare? He’d made a public declaration, after all: why not a bit of private action? I was certainly dressed for it, in a tank top and short skirt that left little to the imagination, despite Griff’s clucks that that was precisely where things like body parts should be left.
Maybe I could free him up at the disco. Otherwise, I didn’t see myself getting my hands on Copeland’s records.
It wasn’t like it was supposed to be in any of the teen mags I’d read when I was young. You were supposed to fall on each other, tearing off each other’s clothes, pausing long enough to grab a condom, of course. The wretched things had been the subject of the only lecture on sex Griff had ever given, with a packet of them in an embarrassed hand: ‘Pregnancy at your age would be bad enough, dear heart, but believe me chlamydia or the clap could be even worse.’
Tonight there was no falling, no tearing, and definitely no need for a condom. If it hadn’t been for the chill that had fallen during the meal, not thawed by a couple of hours at the disco, I’d have said it was the fact that we were in the caravan Marcus shared with Copeland. It was bigger than ours, with their territories carefully marked out. Copeland had the lion’s share. And I suppose we were rather sitting in the lion’s den, waiting for the roars that would announce his return. OK, he was supposed to be spending the night with a regular squeeze, but you never knew. I’d have thought the danger might have added a frisson, but while I might have frissoned madly away, Marcus was most definitely not.
He had his back to me, making coffee in the tiny kitchenette.
I had to say something. ‘Are you sure Copeland won’t be back?’
‘I’d be surprised.’
‘Well, in that case, can I ask you something? And will you give me a straight answer?’
‘It depends,’ he mumbled, extra busy with mugs and spoons.
I didn’t ask why he wasn’t interested in me. I asked about something far more important. ‘That frontispiece. Where did he get it from? I really need to know.’
‘What difference does it make? You got an absolute bargain. Ca
n’t you leave it at that?’
So that was part of the trouble, at least. Copeland thought Marcus had let it go too cheaply and was no doubt taking his anger out on him. ‘How much more did he want for it?’ If it would make things better between Marcus and me, I could use some of today’s earnings.
‘Another fifty.’
I got to my feet. ‘Let’s go back to my caravan and I’ll settle up now.’
‘It’s all right. He’s stopped it out of my wages.’
‘That’s not all right at all.’ I dug in my bag. There wasn’t much cash there after the meal, but there were two tens tucked deep in the lining for emergencies. ‘I’ll go and get the rest now.’
‘No. It’s all right, I tell you.’
He sounded so ratty it clearly wasn’t.
I’d try my original tack. ‘Where did he get if from?’
He shrugged. ‘Where does my coz get anything from?’
‘I don’t need to know that. But I do need to know where that one, single, particular individual page came from. Where does he keep his records?’
‘Records?’ He looked blankly round the caravan.
‘I’m not talking about his CD collection, Marcus. His business records. Lists of who he buys from, who he sells to. I don’t need state secrets or stuff he doesn’t want the taxman to know. Just the provenance of one single sheet of paper.’
‘You’ll just have to go on wanting, won’t you?’ came a voice from the open door.
Copeland had come home. And I wouldn’t say he was pleased to have a visitor.
Chapter Nine
Marcus crumpled, almost visibly. I wasn’t the crumpling sort. Not even when man like Copeland ran his eyes up and down me in an appraising way that reminded me horribly of Titus Oates. There was a lot on show to appraise, of course, and the indication was that even if Marcus hadn’t found it exciting, his cousin might.
Drawing the Line Page 8