Guilty as Sin

by Judith Cutler

  ‘Devon? Not your not-grandfather, Arthur Whatsit, again?’

  ‘The same. Now, I’ve been thinking, Freya, that you shouldn’t be putting your career on the line for something I can do myself. Our security team: they’ll provide me with a camera, just as they did for that radio – no questions asked.’ I didn’t mention how much it would cost.

  ‘Could you? Really? Because you know something, I’ve forgotten to pick one up anyway. I really wonder how long I can do this – no, forget I said anything. Please.’ Her eyes filled.

  Her phone rang. She took the call. ‘Two minutes,’ she said, which clearly applied to both the caller and me.

  ‘Arthur Habgood,’ she prompted me.

  ‘Handling stolen goods. And it’d be great if you could get someone to run a check on Noel Pargetter—’

  ‘The guy from The Archers?’

  ‘Noel, not Nigel. Lives in Devon. Behaving very oddly to Griff. Just a check?’

  She was on her feet, grabbing papers. I passed her her bag.

  ‘I’ll sign you out as I go.’ She set off at a tremendous speed, one long pace to three or four of mine. ‘What a crazy life. This and the parish – my God …’

  Falling into step with her, I gasped, ‘Do you ever get quality time for just the two of you? I thought not. Look, why not let me babysit Imogen and you and Robin have an evening with no police and no parish business? You could put her to bed, if you wanted, and go for a meal. Just a drink. Anything. Just be together.’

  To my amazement, she stopped and gave me a hug. ‘You’re a good friend, Lina. We’ll take you up on that offer. Thanks for filling me in on the Dockinge business too, and Devon – I’ll make sure Knowles has dealt with it and passed it on to the national squad. And I’ll also make sure they contact you direct. OK?’

  ‘Nearly. Just one more thing. Your mascara’s run a bit.’

  I was pretty sure mine had, too.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Griff was very subdued when I got back, which I took to show some sort of fellow feeling about Harvey’s departure from my life. So I tried to take his mind off things with a couple of questions, although they’d flummoxed Freya. ‘Have the police got back to Mary about the guy who assaulted her? Not to mention threatening me, of course. That Mercedes driver …?’

  ‘Just a text saying they were pursuing their enquiries and that she should report any further incidents via the 101 phoneline. For which she has to pay, of course,’ he added dryly. ‘No wonder crime figures have dropped if you have to pay to tell someone you’ve been robbed. Not that you’ll ever convince me that there is less crime – all this stuff happening all around us …’ he chuntered.

  I couldn’t argue. Despite, or because of, this morning’s session with Freya, I was getting sick of the apparent lack of urgency from the police – and the lack of co-ordination, to be honest. But I couldn’t fault the officers I’d come across: look how hard, how many hours Freya was working. And Fi had been at my service long after she should have clocked off. Both had to resort to cutting corners to get things done. Finishing my tea and newly baked biscuit, I declared, ‘And now to work. I can’t wait to get back into my workroom without that vase of Harvey’s glaring down at me.’

  Griff nodded, and produced something with a flourish. The duplicate of a receipt, signed and dated: Harvey’s acceptance of the work I’d done on his vase. And an email from Harvey’s insurance company – the payment for the work was already on its way into our bank account.

  ‘Which means,’ he declared, ‘there’s all the more reason to make sure that the repair side of the business becomes yours, nothing to do with me any more. What Paul and I have been talking about is this: I buy you out of the shop. With the capital and a loan, you should be able to buy me out of Townend Restoration. And in time I don’t doubt that you’ll be able to buy me out of the house, too. This is important, loved one. Very important. Talk to Paul if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘I didn’t like separating the two parts of the business,’ I began, ‘so—’

  ‘You might not like the idea now, Evelina, but believe me you’ll thank me in years to come.’

  I knew he was serious when he called me by my full name. And since Paul had regularly been in my ear, I knew it made financial sense.

  ‘In fact,’ he continued, ‘Paul and one of his colleagues have already drawn up this contract. I’d like you to read it and talk about it to Paul. And sooner, rather than later, just to put my mind at rest.’

  I took it, and toddled up to my workroom with it. One glance was off-putting enough to ensure I put it to one side while I contacted the security team. Apparently they’d had a callout to someone down in Bridge, and the guy dealing with it could come and see me on his return journey. Excellent.

  ‘The less you know the better,’ I assured Griff, a couple of hours later, the tiny package from the security team in my hand, as I bearded him in the office where he was dealing with emails. ‘So no questions. And no suggestions we discuss it with Tony or Moira or anyone else. Especially Lydia.’

  He said nothing for a few moments. ‘I suppose this can’t wait till Sunday, when we have a reason to be in church?’

  ‘Hythe,’ I said, ‘The Mayfair. One of us has to be there.’

  ‘Drat. Well, I promised to replenish the supplies of tea and coffee in the fellowship area. We could take them down together and what you do while I’m filling the cupboard I’d never know.’

  More or less retracing the route Freya and I had taken, I cased the joint as assiduously as if I planned to rob it, not protect it. Some of the places I’d have chosen to conceal the device because they were such good viewpoints were too high for me. But there was a grimy crucifix hanging over the pulpit, just within reach if I stood on the very tip of my toes. Perching on a kneeler made it slightly easier, if a bit less secure. On the other hand, everyone would see my fingerprints.

  Not if I dusted it. The cleaning ladies never locked their cupboard, and why should they? So I did a spot of benign burglary and liberated a J-cloth. Two minutes’ awkward perching, and the camera, its feed going straight to our security team’s HQ, was in place. I shook the J-cloth over everything the best I could – it wouldn’t do for it to look too clean – and descended to the safety of the pulpit. I had a momentary frisson of amusement: what a stage this would be for Griff – a captive audience and every set of eyes upon him.

  A couple of days later, Moira bustled in, obviously full of news about Dodie. The NHS had come up trumps with an appointment with an eye consultant only three weeks hence. Oh, and Dodie had loved the huge bouquet that Griff had given her.

  For some reason Griff didn’t ply her with sherry to celebrate. In fact, rather shamefaced, the moment she’d gone he explained about the flowers. From Harvey to me, of course: ‘But I was afraid you might simply have slung them in the compost bin, dear one, and there must have been fifty pounds’ worth of lilies and roses there.’

  Or I might simply have flung my arms round the wretched man’s neck and agreed to resume our relationship. But I needn’t tell Griff that. And there was another reason not to succumb to tears: a knock at the door. A peep at our security camera told me it was Spencer with a couple of huge mates, volunteering, he told me as I let them in, for wheelchair pushing duties.

  Griff clucked round them, producing strong coffee in mitt-sized mugs and slices of a fruitcake he’d meant for Dodie. ‘The only trouble is,’ he said apologetically, ‘that since this is a church matter, you need – oh, those things that used to be called CRB checks.’

  ‘You’ll be referring to DBS checks, Mr Tripp,’ said one of the man-mountains politely. ‘Ben and I both coach juniors, so we’re already accredited for work with youngsters. I know it’s supposed to be a different set of checks for oldies, but surely if we’re supervised …’ He and his friend fished out their paperwork simultaneously. Big Ben. Was the other one Big Bill? No, I mustn’t even think of them like that.

  ‘Excellent. You’r
e not accredited, Spencer? What a shame. But we could always get the church to do the paperwork for you. No?’ Griff toddled off to the office with the papers.

  Spencer shrugged. ‘Sod it. The whole process is far too damned intrusive.’

  Was it now? What did he want to hide? ‘Griff feels the same,’ I said soothingly. ‘He actually threw the forms in the bin first time round. And I point blank refused. So I need an accredited chaperone myself.’

  Possibly Spencer looked disappointed. Big Bill, whose name was actually Rob, grinned and offered to escort me. With an identical grin I declined. ‘You’re the one pushing, not me.’

  ‘But you could hold the old biddy’s hand,’ he countered.

  A little thread of tension slung itself round the room, as if spun by a harvest spider. It stretched but didn’t snap when Griff returned, handing the documents back to their owners. ‘I’ve also scanned them and emailed them across to the woman with responsibility for vulnerable adults,’ he said, all bustling activity. ‘Moira Carr, that is. And she’ll be in touch with you as soon as she can. Have you got a match this afternoon?’ he asked, as if he was genuinely interested.

  The four of them were soon involved in a conversation that left me absolutely cold, all about their team positions with even stranger names (tight head? prop forward?) than the even weirder cricket terminology (short square leg!) I’d come to know and love. Griff interested in such a sweaty, muddy, physical game? Heavens, he seemed to be promising to go along to cheer them on! And the promise seemed to be including me.

  Fortunately for me, a text warbled its way on to my mobile. Fozia: would I fancy joining her that afternoon for some ball skills work? Sorry about the short notice but the coach said it seemed silly not to take advantage of the sun.

  It did indeed.

  ‘I thought you’d so enjoy it,’ Griff declared pettishly as we whizzed round preparing an early lunch so he could get to Ashford in time to see the start of the game. ‘All those pecs, all those straining quads!’

  ‘You go and lech on your own,’ I told him sharply. ‘Afzal’s a good friend, and if I can help his kid sister, I will. Just one thing: don’t try to match-make me with any of them. Especially Spencer. You know I don’t like him and I really don’t like Honey all that much. I don’t want to complicate things …’

  I don’t think I’d ever had such pure and simple enjoyment all my life as I did in the couple of hours a dozen or so of us spent chasing and catching tennis balls on the outskirts of the village cricket field. Fozia, hot and puffing, said it was like being back at school again; I said if I’d known school could be that much fun I’d have spent more time there. She didn’t seem fazed by my quick, understated explanation – one I’d never have risked with Honey or possibly even Laura – any more than I’d be disconcerted if she ever wanted to talk about her self-harm, the scars of which were visible when she shoved back the cuff on her long-sleeved t-shirt. The coach, a middle-aged woman called Jan, stern-faced and whippy as Judy Murray, warned us that a hot bath might be more beneficial than hitting the pub, after all the bending and stretching she’d put us through.

  ‘I can hardly wait till next Saturday,’ Fozia declared, with a little-girl skip.

  ‘Nor me. Tell Afzal thank you from me. I’m never going to be the new Charlotte Edwards, but this is such magic.’

  ‘You might only be playing with a soft ball now,’ Griff said doubtfully, ‘but about your hands when you play properly? A broken finger or two …’

  He was grumpy because I’d taken Jan’s advice and soaked for a happy and hot-water-consuming half hour. He’d come back to find the tank almost as chilled as he was. While he waited, he messed around noisily in the kitchen, wondering aloud what on earth we could have for supper. Somehow I didn’t think a suggestion that I nip to Afzal’s would go down too well. Heavens, sometimes he and Pa were more like toddlers than grown men.

  It would have been wonderful to see Dodie at her first church service for years the next morning, but as I’d reminded Griff, we were booked for a fair at the Hythe Mayfair. Once again Griff was torn: where did his loyalties lie? I assured him I didn’t care one way or the other so long as he didn’t spend time hurtling up and down Stone Street on his own again, at the mercy of any passing road hog.

  ‘You could always ask young Spencer to help you?’ he suggested, with an ironic smile.

  I responded in kind. ‘So I could. Don’t worry – there’ll be someone at the fair we know who’ll provide some muscle if I need it.’

  There was, in the form of Will Furzeland, whom I’d last seen in Torquay. He greeted me with a smile, and why not? I’d put several hundred pounds his way when I persuaded Griff to buy that lovely miniature for Aidan’s birthday – which must be any day now, come to think of it.

  As he secured the topmost section of our display unit, we exchanged news of our mutual acquaintances. Finally he dropped the gossipy tone: ‘What’s this about you actually setting the police on Habgood? Just tit for tat, like? I’d have thought you’d be above something like that.’

  ‘When I see a netsuke on his stall I’d dusted only a week before, what am I to do? Have a quiet word in private? Actually, I would have done – I’d even have had a damned noisy one if he’d been anywhere around. But he’d left that clueless woman in charge.’

  ‘Clueless?’

  ‘Twenty pounds for a brooch I can sell on to a Victorian jewellery expert for nearer a hundred? And the netsuke for about a tenth of its value?’

  ‘You saw her coming, didn’t you?’

  ‘If people are straight with me, I’m straight with them. Anyway, tell me about Habgood. Have they locked him up in Dartmoor yet? Solitary confinement for preference?’

  He gave me a look I couldn’t read. ‘You wouldn’t shed any tears if they did, would you? Come on, a lot of us sail close to the wind sometimes. Some would say buying good stuff as cheaply as you did wasn’t honest.’

  We’d had this conversation before, hadn’t we? And probably would again. Did he want me to be some sort of angel?

  ‘Isn’t it called making a profit?’ I asked quietly.

  ‘I suppose it is. But we all need to do that, Lina. Preferably without fleecing each other.’

  ‘And preferably without handling goods stolen from a blind old lady who’s already been robbed – literally – of all her clothes and goodness knows what else. She lives in our village. Too sick to get out till I organized a wheelchair.’

  To my relief he threw back his head in a generous laugh – perhaps we were going to stay as mates after all. ‘Why am I not surprised to hear that you’ve been busy organizing! But this old dear’s really blind? You’re not just gilding the lily?’

  ‘She’s waiting for an urgent cataract operation. And someone’s nicked all that other stuff from her, too. So what I really want is not Habgood’s scalp – it’s possible he’s just earning a crust – but that of the guy who’s taken everything from a decent woman.’

  ‘Down to her clothes and shoes? You’re joking. No, you’re not, are you? No wonder you sound so vengeful. I’ll keep my ears open for you. Promise. So long as you spill the beans about you and Harvey Sanditon. He’s really lost all his stuffing, if you see what I mean.’

  I saw movement. ‘You’ve got a punter heading your way, Will – I’ll push off.’

  I had a customer too, a woman, who peered at the name over our stall, then at me, and then dug in her bag for something. Suddenly it dawned on me that she was the woman who’d stopped me plunging under that lorry the other day. My smile was huge and genuine.

  ‘Kate Evans,’ she declared, shaking my hand. ‘And you’re the Townend half of the firm, is that right? The one who does all the restoration work? I checked you out online,’ she told me, adding with a frown, ‘Does that mean that all the stuff I see is damaged?’

  At these prices! ‘No, items with stickers like this have had work done. Sometimes it’s better to sell damaged stock as it is – like that vase.’ I pi
cked it up to show her. ‘Perfect from one side, but sadly cracked here. A firing crack. I wouldn’t dream, by the way, of trying to con anyone, least of all someone who saved my life. And before you decide you can’t afford something you like, ask me first.’ I gestured expansively: she could browse as long as she liked.

  And in the meantime I sold a pretty Shelley cruet and a stunningly ugly piece of Clarice Cliff.

  At last Kate alighted on a piece I didn’t expect to sell far south, a Midlands treasure by Ruskin, a Smethwick factory started by a father and son called Taylor to emulate the best of Chinese ware, and flambé in particular. Like much of the period, some is so weird in shape and colour that you wonder why anyone bothered to turn on the kiln to fire it. Most, however, is delectable in colour and shape and glaze. This ginger jar certainly was. It was worth a thousand pounds of anyone’s money; how much, I wondered, could I reduce it by if she wanted it?

  ‘I can do it at what it cost us,’ I told her. As her eyebrows shot up, I added, ‘After all, I wouldn’t be here today if it hadn’t been for you.’

  ‘That young man you were with,’ she began. ‘Is he a friend of yours?’

  I rocked my hand back and forth.

  ‘Do you accept cards?’ What had she been going to ask? Something else, surely.

  ‘Of course. Go on, pick it up and check it over.’ In other words, fall in love with it, even if I did stand to lose several hundred pounds’ profit.

  In the end, she didn’t buy it. Or anything else. ‘You’ve just got to fall in love, haven’t you?’ she said with a smile.

  ‘Of course. Although if you were to have a flirtation with an item, I’d be honoured if you’d accept it as a gift.’

  ‘That’s too generous for what was simply a reflex action. I’ll come to your shop, though. And check out your website again.’