‘What the hell are you up to?’ Afzal demanded, dragging open my door. He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘I hope the snotty buggers know what they’re doing. They want me to leave this by the gates for them to collect,’ he added, as he relieved me of the box. ‘Paranoid or what?’ It wasn’t clear whether he meant his clients or me.
Back in motion again, with his passenger in a more conventional position, Afzal said, ‘I’ve been thinking. Do you play badminton? Because there’s a group of us play every week and we’re going to be one down on Thursday. Only you’d have to dress ultra-decent: one’s a bit keen on covering arms and legs. Blokes too.’
‘Not for anyone would I play in a burqa. And to be honest, I’d be a rubbish partner. I played a couple of times at school. Nothing since. Well, can you imagine it appealing to Griff?’ On the other hand, he’d adore watching four sweaty young men leaping around, but Afzal preferred a bit of discretion where Griff’s sexuality was concerned. ‘He prefers Test cricket,’ I added.
‘Quite right too. Hey, you ever played cricket yourself? No? Well, my club’s recruiting for a women’s team and Fozia would love to go along for a trial, but she won’t go on her own. Would you do her a favour and go with her? Trackie and trainers are all you’ll need.’
‘It’s autumn, Afzal, football weather.’
‘Thinking ahead. You can’t just say, “Hey, it’s April and we need a team next week.” You need to train people, get them bonding. Play some indoor cricket. How about that?’
If it was good enough for Fozia, a woman with a first-class degree in modern languages and no sign of a job other than stacking shelves at Maidstone Sainsbury’s, it was good enough for me.
‘Ball skills, aerobics and some light weight-training. Meant to be fun.’
‘Get Fozia to tell me the time and place and I’ll be there,’ I promised. ‘Here we are, Afzal – thanks ever so much.’
Suddenly he was mimicking a bodyguard, talking to his wristwatch and holding an imaginary gun at the ready. ‘OK, sister – coast’s clear!’
We might have fallen about laughing, but deep down I knew we were both deadly serious. He made a show of waiting until I had let myself in and given him a cheery thumbs up.
EIGHTEEN
‘So you see,’ I told Griff as we walked briskly down to Dodie’s the following morning, ‘the evening wasn’t a total disaster. I can’t imagine I’ll be any better at cricket than I am at dancing, but Afzal’s such a good mate it’ll be nice to help his sister out. Hang on!’ I pulled him bodily into the delicatessen. ‘Merc alert!’ I hissed. ‘Look interested in the charcuterie.’
He needed no second invitation, then browsing the cheese counter and finally the quiche and pie area, accumulating items as he went and putting them in a basket I’d picked up and put into his hand without his even realizing it.
It transpired, when we finally arrived at Dodie’s, that from the start he’d intended some of his haul for her. I checked the most recent hidden camera footage, discreetly fast-forwarding the session with Pa: nothing untoward. I was ready to leave when the wheelchair was delivered.
‘My transport of delight!’ she chortled. ‘If only it came with a selection of party balloons!’
The sun was shining. With no rugby player in sight, what could I do but offer to push? And blow up the balloons we found at the post office, tying them haphazardly to the chair and to the teddy’s paws? It was probably the most festive mile I’ve ever travelled. The only problem was that this time, when a black Mercedes hove into view, there was no way we would escape the driver’s notice.
At least I could get his number – but just as he whizzed past, a balloon bobbed up and obscured the expensive car.
It was time to tell Harvey his vase was ready for collection and prepare all the paperwork I’d told Honey and Laura about: Griff’s job. He’d got me into this mess, and it was only fair he deal with some of the aftermath. He agreed with surprising, possibly suspicious, docility.
What was going on in that head of his? Had he spotted another man he considered might suit me? Who on earth might it be? Then I remembered he’d seen me getting out of Afzal’s van, and put two and two together to make not just five but five hundred. Oh, Griff! Afzal might have a nice strong Birmingham accent, and he might so far have resisted an arranged marriage, but at heart he was a good Muslim. In any case there were times when a good mate was better than a boyfriend.
As it happened, Griff had forgotten to tell me that there was a PCC meeting that evening, complete with take and share supper, hence the flans. There was nothing special or urgent on the agenda, he explained, so they were simply going to enjoy each other’s company for a change without having to argue about tight budgets. Foolishly I said I’d probably nip down to Afzal’s for something wicked. He pulled a face: he might hope for romance in that quarter, but he didn’t like leaving me in the house alone, and the thought of my actually venturing out solo appalled him. At night, too! Usually I’d have laughed at his fears; this time I’m ashamed to say that I didn’t. However, I was stubborn enough to stick to my guns, so he made me promise that I’d keep my mobile with me all the time. And take the big torch. And wear trainers in case I needed to run for my life. Oh, and if in doubt I should head straight for the rectory, where help would be on hand in the form of a dozen hard-praying pensioners.
Yes, Griff. Three bags full, Griff.
But, guess what, I kept my promise. I actually took myself for a jog, with cricket and general fitness in mind. I’d end up having a curry, no doubt about that, but I’d carry that – it had better be one that didn’t come with a runny sauce – in my lightweight rucksack so I could still take to my heels if necessary. And my phone was tucked into my pocket, within easy reach.
Deciding to jog is far better than having to, and I enjoyed padding through the quiet streets, waving to people I knew indulging in an early evening visit to Londis or the chip shop. Mostly I had the place to myself, except for a truck carrying scaffolding; I only registered that because I heard of someone getting killed when a rogue pole slipped from a moving lorry through their windscreen, a form of death that terrifies me. The rest of the circuit was uneventful, and the queue at Afzal’s long enough to suggest good business, but quick moving enough to show how efficient the whole team was. Their special jhinga bhindi, some dhal and a couple of chapattis stowed in my rucksack, I set off again, surprised by noises in the otherwise almost silent village: clanks; raised voices; someone being busy.
Nosy? Of course I was. And intrigued. I jogged off in the direction of the noise, fetching up by the church.
I wasn’t the only one. Also heading that way was the village pharmacist, Philip Russell, obviously called Phil the Pill, though not necessarily to his face. He was having his nightly tussle with Angus, a dog that knew his own mind, especially when the mind was set on checking each and every one of its canine message boards. Angus was always eager to make new human friends, too, and was yapping excitedly at the prospect of being introduced to, and fussed by, four large men. The lorry I’d seen earlier was parked, and someone had already propped up an official-looking board warning of scaffolding work. Two hard-hatted men sporting heavy industrial glasses unloaded the lorry. Two more, also sporting protective eye and head gear, were already erecting the poles, not needing to use the huge lights still left on the truck because the floodlights the PCC had paid so much to install to show off the fine early Norman building were as good as daylight – though more controversial, given they had a decided orange tinge and some villagers considered them inappropriate. For some reason the two men unloading had taken exception to both Phil and Angus: one was squaring up to Phil, and Angus was now barking, not yapping. Should I intervene? Something told me a young woman turning up would just make matters worse. But I had my phone handy and, still out of their immediate line of vision, snapped away: the truck; each of the workmen; Phil winding in Angus’s extendable lead. But now a second thug was approaching Phil. Thug! I never used s
uch middle-aged, middle-class language: what was I turning into? Before I could beat myself up too much, however, I felt a frisson of personal fear. Underneath all his entirely regulation camouflage, I knew that guy from somewhere. No idea where. But I knew he was dangerous, and that I had to do something a bit more positive than simply taking snaps for evidence if Phil was attacked.
‘Yoo, hoo!’ How middle-aged and middle-class was that? ‘Yoo, hoo! Phil! I’ve been hoping I’d run into you! About that ointment you gave me – oh, I’m so sorry,’ I fluttered, ‘I didn’t realize … Hello, Angus. No, this isn’t for you. I don’t think dogs are supposed to like curry, are they?’ I fussed him enthusiastically, quite forgetting I really didn’t like dogs.
Phil turned his attention to me and the men retreated. Tucking my arm into Phil’s – I’m not sure which of us was the more surprised – I eased him back up the street until we were well clear of the church.
Disentangling myself from him and Angus, I asked quietly, ‘Did you know they were going to have the church repaired?’
‘It’s only five minutes since they had to point the porch, isn’t it? So why not do that and this at the same time?’
‘Quite.’
‘Those guys didn’t like me very much. Or perhaps they just didn’t like being watched.’
‘They didn’t look the shy and retiring sort.’
He gave an amused snort. ‘They’re doing a foreigner, maybe – moonlighting.’ He didn’t sound at all convinced, however. In fact, he gathered Angus into his arms, slipping some sort of doggy treat into his mouth so he couldn’t bark any more.
‘Surely the church wouldn’t employ dodgy builders … There’s a PCC meeting tonight. I’ll see what they know about it.’ I produced my phone again, praying that Griff hadn’t switched his off. He had. The call went to voicemail. So did my attempts to reach Moira and Tony. It must be some beano they were having. Under my breath I used all sorts of unclerical language. But a text chirruped its way in. Griff. Was I OK? No, I bloody wasn’t! Is church due for repairs? Scaffolding being erected NOW! I texted, never using any text-speak abbreviations to Griff, who’d secretly fulminate about the odd missing verb or whatever even as he checked with his fellow PCC members.
His answer was clear enough. No. Then he sent another. We’re all on our way to the church.
Much as I relished the idea of a silver battalion of Bible-wielding pensioners, a confrontation between them and these four hulking men might not end well. Phil agreed.
I texted them back, saying not to be so foolish, and then dialled 999. The call-handler was inclined to be sniffy, wanting to know exactly why we considered the after-dark activities of four men on a church not requiring their presence was suspicious. After a while, however, she conceded that one of their community support officers might call round in due course.
‘DCI Freya Webb,’ I insisted, name-dropping shamelessly, ‘would want action now. Preferably with back-up. These men might well be armed. OK? Call made at 19.54 hours,’ I added strategically.
Clearly trying not to laugh, Phil tugged my sleeve, then pointed at the street. I emerged gingerly. A phalanx of Volvos and Honda Jazzes, plus a couple of other reliable makes, was coming down the street at a strict thirty. It was probably silly to expect them to park neatly, given their usual haphazard Sunday morning attempts, but they did their reasonable best, with one man having the foresight to try to box in the truck, despite driving the smallest vehicle of the convoy.
Pensioner power looked really impressive, I had to admit. But they were no match for the four big men, two of whom piled into their truck, reversing hard enough to knock the little Micra clean out of the way. The other two rushed at another car, tearing the occupants out and completing their carjack by taking off the wing of the treasurer’s Fiesta.
I fought my way over to Griff, who assured me that he was fine so long as I was. We looked on as Phil, whom everyone knew, of course, managed to get some sort of order – no easy task, given the anger and hysteria the previous two minutes had generated. With considerable aplomb, he herded everyone, including Griff, to his shop, where, he said, there was plenty of paper for people to start writing down their descriptions of the miscreants, and an account of what had happened. If and when the police ever arrived, the victims’ preparation should oil the wheels of justice. I caught him eying with concern the couple yanked from their car: they might not need much in the way of first aid – their visible injuries were minor – but who knew better than Phil any underlying health problems requiring prompt medication?
Thinking he’d manage better without me, I gestured that I’d stay where I was, and tapped my mobile: I would get back to the police. He looked reluctant to leave me there, but I waved him away to tend his potential patients.
By chance I got through to the same despatcher. Coolly she assured me that a community support officer had been detailed to come over. Cooler still, I suggested that she send over a team to deal with attempted kidnap (not really, to be honest: they only wanted the car, not the occupants), car theft and criminal damage. And it would help me enormously when I made my official complaint if I could have her name. I didn’t get it.
As I ended the call, I started to beat myself up for not doing more to deter either the bloody thieves or to stop the PCC crusade. Not literally beat up: my self-harming ways were under control these days. Weren’t they?
Almost. What if the police thought the coincidence of my being around during no fewer than three thefts from church property was suspicious? I was beginning to think it odd myself. My hand was raised to slap my face, was already moving, when it was firmly grabbed from behind.
‘None of that, Lina,’ Afzal declared. ‘I know about self-harm. Fozia cut herself a few times. And I know hitting’s not the same as using a blade, but a black eye’s not a good look, you know. Not cool.’ He dropped my hand. ‘The other thing is, you were so busy hating yourself for whatever it was, that anyone could have come up and beaten you up properly. Whatever.’ He looked around appreciatively. ‘It wasn’t you that smashed up that lot, was it?’ He slipped off his jacket and slung it over my shoulders. ‘Just popped out with a local delivery,’ he added, checking his watch: his kindness was costing him business.
I gave a very speedy account of why I was there. ‘Talk about lightning striking twice,’ I concluded. ‘I’d think I was involved if I were the police. Talk of the devil, here they are.’
‘Here she is,’ Afzal corrected me with a grim laugh. ‘I think she might find she’s out of her depth, don’t you?’
‘I think I might be, too,’ I said. ‘Phil the Pill was here when it all kicked off. I think he’d best be in charge, given the circumstances.’ No point in mentioning my aversion to getting too deeply involved this time.
‘You handing over to an alpha male? That’s a first, Lina!’
I shrugged off his jacket and stuck out my tongue. ‘Your fault for treating me like a lady.’
At this point the police car pulled over and parked, in a remarkably leisurely fashion. From it emerged a woman younger and even smaller than me, the woman I’d seen being harangued at Dodie’s. Clearly she didn’t recall me. Putting on her hat and carefully locking the car behind her, she introduced herself as Police Community Support Officer Ann Draper. We returned the compliment before gesturing at the chaos around us.
‘I had a report of minor vandalism,’ she said faintly, managing not to gasp, but certainly going as pale as the orange lights permitted.
‘Uh, uh. Wrong incident. Or right incident, but wrong information. The guy you need to speak to – who witnessed everything – is in the chemist’s shop at the moment, keeping an eye on the victims and the witnesses. I’m just here to make sure the guys who did that’ – I gestured at the cars with my mobile – ‘don’t return. I’m to call for back-up,’ I added, when she stared in horror. ‘As you might want to. Goodness knows what the woman who took my call thought she was doing.’ Perhaps I should boost her ego a bit b
y pretending to ask for advice. ‘Would you like us to make our way to the pharmacy or stay with you here?’
Her terrified eyes answered for her. We stayed.
Once we could all hear the police sirens getting closer and knew that poor PCSO Draper would soon have friends to lean on, Afzal took it on himself to escort me up to the pharmacy, crammed to the gunwales, of course, with Griff’s PCC friends. With a horrified shudder at the sight of all the flat heels and elasticated waistbands, he pushed me gently inside and left me to it, telling me he’d be back at work if I needed him.
Everyone was too bound up in their own narrative to notice my late arrival. Not surprisingly, all the talk was of the brazen cheek of the would-be thieves. While the more urban members of the PCC blamed TV for putting ideas into the minds of those with criminal tendencies, a couple with UKIP tendencies were quick to point the finger at anyone from Eastern Europe. A couple of genuinely rural folk were clear that the police should look no further than a travellers’ site near Ashford; there was gleeful talk of cars being stolen, stripped and torched right outside the gates, in a nose-thumbing gesture to police, who only ever went there mob-handed. A third man reported that all his corrugated-iron buildings had simply disappeared in the middle of the night. The only thing that all these theories had in common was a clear, loudly expressed belief that the police should be doing a lot more and doing it now.
Without his white pharmacist’s top, Phil was much more recognizable as a distinct human being, and one with a smile that ranged from amused to exasperated. He also smelt nice – a good male perfume, not at all pharmaceutical.
‘Why not get them to go back to the rectory where they were having their meeting?’ I asked. ‘It’s close enough to walk, since the police would probably want the cars left where they are until they’ve taken lots of photos and stuff, and there’d be room for everyone there. Where’s Angus, by the way?’
Guilty as Sin Page 14