Guilty as Sin

by Judith Cutler

  ‘Your father,’ Fi said, turning to me with a nod at Griff, ‘is impoverished, I understand. And – pardon me – might be described as shady. How long has he been involved?’

  ‘They had what I suspect was a liaison years back – I doubt if either could remember the year, to be frank. He’d love to see her again, and as you know sent her flowers – chosen and delivered by me – but Moira said reintroducing him into her life might have a detrimental effect on her mental stability.’

  Fi gave a crack of laughter. ‘She would, wouldn’t she!’

  Griff looked troubled. ‘Your father came to the village by taxi the other day to see you, my dear one. Could he have taken it into his head to see Dodie while he was over here?’

  I got to my feet, arms akimbo. ‘If he did, I was spark out and wouldn’t know. And – to be blunt – what if he did? He certainly wasn’t there to nick anything, shady as you deem him to be.’ Any moment now I’d have one of my tantrums, so I made myself sit down again, splaying my fingers to count points off. ‘One: we need somewhere to plant a device. I’ll see if I can find a souvenir at the Hall gift shop that’s suitable. Two – Griff will arrange an eye test. I doubt if we need anyone’s permission but Dodie’s for that, provided the optician is chaperoned. Three – you, Fi, might like to dig a bit further into the family background and find what happened to Dodie’s money. Wherever it’s gone, it was well before Griff, Lord Elham or I came on the scene. And four – as Griff’s DBS tests may not have made absolutely clear, Tripp and Townend have a reputation second to none for probity.’

  To my amazement, she raised her hands in amused surrender. ‘Unlike Arthur Habgood? You see, though we’ve been working flat out on this and other things, I haven’t forgotten him. Devon and Cornwall Police have had a word with him about how a probably stolen item came into his possession; he claims that all antique dealers have sources that are well below the radar – says that you do too, incidentally.’

  ‘We did,’ Griff said shortly. ‘He was murdered.’

  ‘Was he a thief?’

  ‘He’d spot things at boot sales or flea markets. The money I gave him kept him fed, just about. No more, because he’d have drunk himself to death. What about Habgood’s supplier? Did you get a name? Because although we’re clean, we didn’t come down in the last shower, either of us. We know who’s straight, who’s bent.’ He dealt her another of his hard looks. ‘Habgood hasn’t pointed the finger at my Lina again, has he?’

  ‘He’s got form there, has he?’

  ‘Dead right he has,’ I said, with a terse explanation.

  Fi nodded at intervals, as if my narrative confirmed what she’d already heard. When I’d finished she said, ‘Another name he gave us was Titus Oates. I thought he was some sort of historical figure, to be honest, but I find he’s been of interest to us in the past.’

  ‘Titus doesn’t steal,’ Griff declared so firmly I could have hugged him there and then. ‘He’s a most unusual individual, but theft isn’t his line at all. And he’d die rather than bring trouble to Lina’s door. Lina’s been unofficially sniffing round after some low-life church thieves in Devon—’

  ‘Do I know about them?’

  I gave her my Devon contacts’ names, more useful to her than just hearing the story from me.

  ‘Titus has told her in no uncertain terms to keep out of it,’ Griff said firmly.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. If you do see Mr Oates,’ she said dryly, ‘then you could ask if the grapevine’s thrown up any ideas about Dodie’s thefts. Informants,’ she concluded, getting up and shedding biscuit crumbs, ‘get paid.’

  ‘I will indeed,’ Griff said solemnly, shaking her hand. ‘It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Fi.’

  FOURTEEN

  The obvious place to meet Titus was at my father’s – but Titus wouldn’t dream of doing anything obvious. Phone communication was pretty much a no-no too, now he’d realized that electronic messages could be traced. Semaphore? Smoke signal? A bit of psychic exchange? The best I could do, when I went to Bossingham Hall to buy the souvenir I’d promised Fi, was to nip over to Pa’s quarters and leave a message with him asking Titus to get in touch. I wasn’t, with our security, expecting him to roll up at our front door, either.

  So I returned to my usual existence without holding my breath, but clutching a photo, signed extravagantly by Pa, who relished the whole plan, of the approach to the Hall set in a faux-rococo faux-silver frame.

  Griff and I toddled down to Dodie’s together, me to check the radio-camera and to tell her that another was on its way, him to mention the next day’s NHS optician’s visit he’d set in train with Moira’s verbose consent.

  ‘National Health? My dear man, I’m in BUPA,’ she declared grandly. ‘My bank pays every month.’

  Did it indeed? For a moment, I wished I was the one entitled to have a few meaningful conversations with her family. As for the camera, it showed nothing of interest, as you’d expect. The junk on the table top appeared undisturbed, and the rat nestled on the teddy bear’s lap, Dodie stroking both from time to time.

  While I made slow but very good progress on Harvey’s vase, Griff contacted both Fi and Moira, who’d agreed to act as chaperone, and also, from the wonderful smells wafting up to my office, cooked another batch of biscuits. My nose also picked up bread and what was probably a chicken casserole.

  He’d also found time to organize a salad with some late tomatoes, the dwarf vines still heavy with fruit as they basked on a south-facing wall.

  ‘They’re not ripening as fast as I’d like,’ he sighed.

  ‘Does that mean you have to make your green tomato chutney? Please?’

  ‘If you’d like some, sweet one. How’s your head after its first morning of toil?’ He laid a cool hand on my brow, suddenly reminding me of my mother when I was a tiny kid with a headache.

  I welled up.

  ‘My love?’

  ‘I’m fine, honestly.’

  ‘And these sudden tears?’ He wiped them away.

  ‘Just one of my dratted flashbacks. Nothing to worry about. Now, who are all those biscuits for? You’re not planning to corrupt Fi, are you?’

  ‘Poor lady, it’s wrong to offer her anything as calorie-laden as that. But she’ll expect something when she comes round with the camera for that frame, won’t she? And Dodie would like some, I’m sure. I’ve made enough casserole for her supper, too. I shall have to take it round and heat it myself, of course, since her carer merely provides her with a jam sandwich.’

  ‘You’re sure of that? After all, Dodie’s memory—’

  ‘Is getting sharper with what Moira would call each interaction. I can’t wait to hear the optician’s verdict.’

  ‘And, if she needs specs, how will she pay?’

  ‘BUPA, of course.’ We shared a grin. ‘If only we could find her bank details – maybe Fi will tell us how things are progressing if I offer her biscuits to take home for her children, assuming she has any. Not that I’m bribing her, of course.’

  ‘Her son has power of attorney,’ Fi declared, outside her second biscuit. ‘So basically he runs her financial life – does everything concerned with money. What I’d really like to do is get a forensic accountant on the case. But,’ she continued, in response to my eyebrows, ‘there are three unfilled vacancies at the moment, and a big fraud trial coming up. I’d send in an ordinary copper, but we don’t want to blow any possible case by muddying the waters.’

  ‘So he can just get away with it!’

  ‘Assuming he’s getting away with anything, Lina. He might be a very caring son. Meanwhile, Dodie’s social worker is writing to him to make sure he pays any new bills. I’ll text her and ask her about BUPA. You never know when old people may get confused about things like that.’

  ‘Or when they may need urgent treatment,’ I added.

  Harvey’s vase temporarily sidelined, I drilled a minute hole in one of the curlicues of the frame, Fi breathing disconcertingly down my n
eck. It was the work of moments to insert the little – very little – camera and to replace the photo.

  ‘Well done you. It would have taken ages to find one of our techies with enough time to do it. It’s a clever piece of kit – activated by movement. And you’ll deliver it?’

  ‘Me or Griff. He’s taking up some supper for her this evening. And some bread and biscuits.’

  She shot another hard look at me. ‘You’re sure all this is above board? He’s not trying to winkle his way into her affections … What have I said?’ she demanded, as I gave a shout of laughter.

  ‘He’s not the marrying sort, our Griff. And he’d have to fight my father for her. Whatever one has, the other wants it more. Two kids in a playground.’

  The antiques fair at the Grand Hotel in Folkestone was one of our regulars. But Griff was torn this time: God or Mammon? Holy Communion or his job? In the end I cut through all his dithering: he would come with me to help set up, dash back to Bredeham for the service, and then come back to me – always assuming he could find somewhere to park, all the roads to the Leas being chockful by then.

  In fact I was happy to be on my own, since it was likely that Titus would be there, either with his own stall selling historic books and maps, or simply as a punter, keeping his ears open for gossip, his eyes for bargains. As far as the latter were concerned, he’d be in straight competition with me, of course, something that caused Pa endless amusement.

  Griff and I took a funny mix to the fair – some bottom end and some really good stuff, with little in between. We also braced ourselves for a gentle stream of old people forced to eke out their pensions by selling what they thought were priceless heirlooms. The problem was that while most of the pieces were good quality, a lot were simply out of fashion – and fashion dominates the world of antiques as much as it does everything else. It was hard to say no; some of our colleagues would offer desperately low prices, and some actually diddled the sellers. I preferred a straight negative, plus explanation. And sometimes I’d tell them what Tripp and Townend were really looking for, with amazing results at the next fair.

  Equally, some people thought we stallholders were all on a tame version of the BBC’s Antiques Roadshow, eager to do valuations for nothing; they often argued if we suggested less than they expected. One old friend had to summon security when his word was doubted and a whole family surrounded him, yelling obscenities. And then there was the tripper crowd, though they usually only bothered to come on wet days so we could entertain their children – ice creams, buckets and spades and all – for free.

  It didn’t take us long to set up, and I shooed Griff on his way to church. It was great to see him behind the wheel again.

  ‘Old guy’s looking OK,’ a voice said in my ear. Titus.

  I knew better than to look round and offer a proper greeting. In fact, he continued without a pause, ‘That bang on your head. Same guys. Told you not to mess with them.’ He was about to move off but I stopped him.

  ‘I didn’t mess. Just happened to be there. Innocent bystander.’

  ‘I might believe you. They wouldn’t. What’s this about blood money?’

  ‘Deal: cash for info.’

  ‘Snout. Snitch. Grass.’

  ‘Call it what you will, it might help when they catch up with you.’

  ‘Told you: going straight. Me and your pa.’

  He was gone before I could point out that the police might be interested in his past activities, not just his current ones.

  Griff turned up rather later than I expected, looking rattled. I assumed it was a parking problem until, over a cup of coffee, he told me about a road rage incident.

  ‘But I’ve no idea what provoked it, dear one. I know I’m not the world’s greatest driver, but I was buzzing down Stone Street, minding my own business, when this white van came towards me. Next thing I knew it was behind me – at least I’m pretty sure it was the same one – trying to see if it could get up our exhaust pipe. Believe me, it was terrifying. But then I saw salvation in the form of Six Mile Garage. As I signalled, the van came alongside me, and I really thought my number was up. But they suddenly lost interest and drove on. They might have been waiting in ambush later, of course, but I took to the lanes after that, as you can imagine.’

  I might have inwardly chuckled at dear Griff being law-abiding enough to signal to his pursuers that he was about to manoeuvre, but I took his anecdote quite seriously. ‘I suppose you didn’t get a chance to look at the driver? Passenger? No.’ What had I expected? But I pressed on. ‘What about the van itself? The make – or the number plate, for instance?’

  ‘It was a recent one, of course, that irritating mixture of letters and figures that are impossible to recall. Except two of the numbers were one and three, and I thought how ironic it was to be pursued by unlucky thirteen.’

  ‘So it was a fairly recent model. Anything else – the odd bit of paintwork damage?’

  ‘Is there a white van on the road without one?’

  ‘Point taken.’ I was about to fish in my bag and show him the photos on my phone, but we had a sighting of that rare creature, a punter who looked ready to buy. Griff was on his feet in an instant, a friendly and obliging smile replacing his anxious frown.

  It might be, of course, that Griff had encountered two different white vans, and had inadvertently committed some offence that annoyed the second. And there were hundreds of vans registered in 2013, not just the one I’d photographed in Devon. What worried me, in a deeply personal way was that the driver had pulled back when he saw the van was being driven by an old man. Perhaps it was old-fashioned courtesy, and if a young man had been at the wheel it would have ended in macho violence. But what if it was a young woman they were after?

  This wasn’t something I was about to discuss with Griff, however. Not yet. Not in as many words. What I did float, in a post-lunch lull, was the idea of changing my hair. I’d thought of growing it properly, but it had got to the irritating straggly stage and I was beginning to resemble a sheep. I’d also got into the habit of tucking stray tendrils behind my ears when I was working, not the wisest move when my hands had been dabbling in glue or paint.

  Should I have a nice girlie conversation with the Pilates women next time we got together in the Pig and Whistle? Or should I consult my usual style guru?

  ‘Griff,’ I said, clutching a handful of the offending locks, ‘what shall I do with this? Is it time to go blonde again? Or darker, perhaps?’

  ‘If you were still keen on your retro wardrobe,’ he said, head on one side, ‘you could go for the Audrey Hepburn look. But now you’re addicted to modern fads, it’s hard to say. Let me give it some thought.’ Had he seen through my ploy? It was impossible to tell.

  One thing was certain: I wouldn’t show him the photos on my phone until he’d had time to forget this conversation.

  FIFTEEN

  Monday morning brought the interesting news that Dodie had been referred to a consultant to inspect her eyes: it seemed she had cataracts, with incipient glaucoma. Would BUPA cough up for an immediate consultation, or would she join the NHS queue? My socialist principles told me that it should be the latter, so long as the waiting time wouldn’t exceed her life expectancy. My interest in the BUPA option was more to do with what it would suggest about her son’s financial care.

  Meanwhile, I did something I should have done days ago. I contacted the organizer of the fair in Dockinge village hall to ask for a list of stallholders. It wasn’t my job to do so, of course, but I could hardly phone up DC Knowles, although my fuzzy memory of him was of a quietly efficient person – hadn’t he summoned Carwyn for me? – and ask if he’d already checked them out. There was one in particular that worried me, with the benefit of hindsight: the garden statuary people, who obviously dealt in stone objects and who had left early.

  The fair was privately run, a money-spinner to raise funds for the hall, according to Jane Dockery, the village hall secretary. She’d not organized it – th
at was the treasurer’s doing. She havered for a bit about letting me have details of our fellow stallholders, muttering about the Data Protection Act.

  I tried to sound persuasive rather than plain exasperated. ‘Jane, if I could lay hands on the little programme we’re all given when we go in, stallholders and punters alike, I could just look everyone up. But I was indisposed, you might say, and Griff had other things – like me – on his mind.’

  ‘Oh, you’re the young lady who was taken ill. The heat or something?’

  ‘Someone whacked me on the head when the church was being robbed,’ I corrected her dryly.

  ‘Of course! You tried to stop the vandals! Oh, is there anything I can do to help?’

  ‘Could you email me the programme? Or send me a hard copy?’

  ‘Oh, Martin will have that, and he’s just gone away.’

  ‘Martin …’

  ‘Martin Fellows. But if you want, I could dictate it? Here and now?’

  Who was I to argue? The task didn’t take too long because I knew a good proportion of the stallholders, but I slowed her down as she reached the end of the list. ‘What about the outside stalls?’

  ‘The produce? I know it wasn’t really appropriate, but we’ve all got such a glut we thought it might help the hall fund.’

  ‘It was more the statues and pots – the people nearest the hall entrance.’

  ‘Statues? Oh, of course. I’ve no idea who they were. They said they were someone’s friends and that Martin had said it was all right, so long as it was on the usual terms. But they skipped off without paying. Perhaps they hadn’t sold anything and were peeved.’

  ‘What a shame,’ I said neutrally. ‘I suppose you couldn’t find out whose friends they were? They had some interesting stuff.’ Some of which, by the time they did their flit, may have included the twelfth-century crucifixion panel so rudely torn from the church.