Guilt Trip

by Judith Cutler

  It was too much trouble to explain about Griff and my father. In any case, the odd reference to a grandfather sounded pretty convincing.

  ‘Is he leaving it to you? Or is there anyone else in the family?’ he continued.

  ‘Just me.’ He’d always assured me he didn’t have any issue, to use his term. But what about Aidan? He might have a claim on the cottage, if not the shop, in which I was a proper legal business partner. But I couldn’t imagine Griff wanting me turfed out of what had been the only settled home I could remember, and to do him justice I didn’t think Aidan would either.

  Wayne whistled. ‘Lucky cow.’ And then started chuntering about how brilliant it must be to be in my situation.

  Yes, with a great hole in the antiques market and cash-strapped museums which couldn’t afford my restoration services. But no doubt he just meant my housing situation. If so, I didn’t think telling him about Pa’s place would help the conversation. Changing the subject, I said, ‘If I stop next to anything and start saying how pretty it is, it means I think it’s dodgy.’

  ‘You mean nicked?’

  ‘How would I know that? I mean it’s a fake, or at best has been cobbled together from other old pieces.’

  ‘And how would you tell?’

  ‘Years of experience.’ It was one thing arguing with Freya, another admitting a lack of expertise to anyone else – particularly someone I was coming to dislike as much as Wayne. Besides which, I’d sat up till the silly hours reading every book on fake furniture I could find on our shelves.

  ‘But you’re only a kid.’

  ‘Whatever.’ I was getting rattled now. ‘I was taught by a brilliant master, who told me to use my eyes. They probably taught you the same thing at police college, so why don’t we see how you get on? OK, smile for the CCTV camera.’

  Whoever had set up this instant old emporium had done a pretty good job. Outside it might betray its origins as a service station; inside there were low beams and panelling and dim lights. You might almost have thought yourself inside a genuine barn conversion, if that’s not a contradiction in terms. Hang on: I knew the proper word. An oxymoron. I grinned.

  Wayne thought I was admiring a pretty whatnot. I didn’t explain. But he didn’t need to know how hard it could be for me to recall the right words. Just in case you’re wondering, a whatnot is the correct name for a little set of Victorian shelves, not me scrabbling round trying to recall what it’s called. Whatnots aren’t usually expensive unless they’re unusually delicate, so I didn’t expect this rather chunky one to have problems.

  ‘Do you want a photo?’ he demanded. ‘Evidence,’ he added much more quietly.

  We’d attracted the attention of a CCTV camera, which I really didn’t want. Taking a photo might attract human attention. ‘Not a lot of point. It wouldn’t fit in the living room, would it?’ I added clearly. ‘Much more sensible to have a chiffonier like that so we could put things in it and close the door on them.’

  ‘God, you sound more like my fiancée—’ he muttered until with what I hoped looked like playful affection, I punched him in the midriff.

  ‘I said I wanted a chiffonier. Always did. The trouble is, this mahogany one or that pretty rosewood? Have you got your tape measure handy?’ I pointed at the more expensive one, apparently Regency. It was an eye-watering seven thousand pounds, about twice what I’d have expected them to ask for a perfect one – though I had seen something similar in a top-notch shop in the Cotswolds for twelve thousand, and that one had even had a SOLD label on it, which must prove something.

  ‘It’d be a lot out of our budget,’ he said, back in role, thank goodness.

  ‘But it’s very beautiful,’ I countered, quite sincerely, squatting down to stroke the lovely wood. The feet were right. The drawers looked good. The brass inlay was spot on. So why wasn’t I happy? Something to do with the fact that it had been placed firmly against a wall, so I couldn’t see if the shelved back married up to the lower section, with its drawers and grille doors.

  Since the place wasn’t exactly bustling, my interest had attracted the attention of a saleswoman so chic on her ultra-high heels it was clear that asking her to turn the chiffonier round wasn’t an option. Actually, asking her to do anything more difficult than slotting a credit card into a terminal wasn’t an option. So I tucked my arm into Wayne’s, shaking my head regretfully and dragging him towards a nice set of glass-fronted bookshelves, just over a metre high. Victorian. Except they weren’t quite right. Not with those feet. They’d been added later.

  I looked inside. ‘Ah, here are the peg holes that would have fastened the shelves to a bureau underneath.’

  Wayne peered too. ‘Black mark against the centre?’

  ‘Possibly. Possibly not. Not many modern houses have ceilings high enough to accommodate both the bureau and its shelves. But they could have done a better job with those feet. Talking of feet, take a look at that Victorian card-table. The inlaid one.’

  ‘The one on the fancy stand?’

  ‘Yes. It’s called a pedestal. And it’s Victorian Gothic – see, it looks like a mini cathedral. Tell me what you see.’

  ‘It’s a different wood from the top?’

  Slightly different shape, too, but I’d make him sweat a bit. ‘Go on.’

  ‘And the top looks as if it’s been patched?’ He ran a gentle finger over a section that no one without the sharpest eyes could have spotted. At last he inched up in my estimation. He jotted figures on the back of an old envelope and made a show of totalling them, sucking his teeth and shaking his head.

  ‘And it’s quite a different style. So we won’t buy it for our dream home.’ I tucked my hand into his arm and moved to another piece, a mahogany Victorian extending table with, we found when we opened it out, a middle leaf from a slightly different table.

  There wasn’t anything I’d have touched; I’m sure not everything was dodgy, but there was enough that was to make me suspect the rest. There were old dressers with new drawers, dressing tables that were actually desks with added mirrors. There was a lot of high end stuff I’d have loved to look at, but that might have blown our cover, especially as Ms High Heels was now definitely tracking us. There was no point in looking around for other customers who needed immediate help – the place was still empty. All that stock and no clients. Since they must have relied heavily on passing trade, no doubt they did most of their business at weekends.

  Wayne pulled me into the crook of his arm and turned us to face her. ‘It’s all just a bit out of our price range,’ he said. ‘We hoped we could get a table and chairs and a pretty dresser or a little sideboard thing.’ He gave her a winning smile. ‘And madam here wanted a nice bedroom suite too. Looks like we’d better head to IKEA, Kaz. Kaz?’ He jabbed a hidden finger in my ribs.

  So I was called Kaz, was I? Hell, what a pair of idiots not to have sorted names out earlier! ‘There must be something,’ I whined. ‘Look, there’s some sort of coffee place over there – let’s go and do some sums.’

  Ms High Heels smiled earnestly. ‘If you were buying any sort of quantity I’m sure we could come to some accommodation. Why don’t you give me a ballpark figure and I’ll see what I can find?’

  Wayne jabbed again. ‘I think we need to talk it through properly, thanks. And we’ve got to buy a birthday present for Kaz’s auntie, so we’ll be looking at the china, too. Just give us a few minutes. Cheer up, Kaz.’

  To do the place justice, the coffee and cakes were spot on, and not expensive. A loss-leader, maybe. We might have had our very un-lover-like talk but for the presence of several cameras. As it was, we maintained our roles. Wayne did a very good job of working his way through a column of genuine figures, while I argued about each item.

  For someone wearing steel tips on the end of her shoes, the saleswoman made a remarkably silent approach. I’d have squeaked when she spoke if Wayne hadn’t gripped my wrist to warn me.

  ‘I saw you looking at a draw-leaf table earlier. What abou
t a Victorian Pembroke table – for some reason they’re not so popular these days, and we could offer one at a very favourable price? And if you could have three pairs of chairs, not six matching, that would come in much cheaper. And a sweet mahogany chiffonier, probably about 1850, has just come in – we haven’t got it out of the stockroom yet.’

  She knew her stuff. For the sake of argument, we went and had a look. Nothing wrong with any of them as far as I could tell, but of course they were all bottom of the range.

  Fortunately, Wayne thought on his feet. ‘They weren’t quite what we had in mind. Look, how about we write down the dimensions and then I take a few photos, so we can imagine what they’d look like in our new place? After all, we’re not in too much of a rush.’

  She pursed her lips. ‘At least you asked,’ she said slowly. ‘We had some man here the other day who started taking pictures left right and centre without so much as a by-your-leave. We had to ask him to delete them and leave – security, you understand.’ Wayne did a very good job of looking extremely puzzled and wanting an explanation, but she simply continued, ‘So I’m sorry, but no photos. And I can quite see that you want to check the dimensions in your rooms – I suggest cutting pieces of paper to the same size and laying them out where you’d want the pieces to go. That’ll give you a good idea. But don’t leave it too long to make a decision. Furniture of this quality at this price doesn’t hang around, you know.’

  I bit my lip, as if I believed her and was anxious not to lose a bargain. But Wayne led me away, in a very manly fashion, and suspecting, no doubt, that the saleswoman or the cameras might still be on us, kissed me comfortingly on the forehead.

  I clicked my fingers. ‘Don’t forget the china. Auntie’s birthday, remember.’

  He slapped his forehead. He really ought to have been in Griff’s am dram group. ‘Auntie Jackie! Of course!’ He propelled us into the area devoted to smaller items. We were joined by an elderly couple who squawked every time they saw something they recognized from their youth and loudly regretted having given whatever it was away. Then a woman in her thirties paid using plastic for what she thought was a Martin Brothers bird. I could see from three metres that the makers’ mark, supposed to be incised, was moulded. Ugly and a fake. Not a good combination.

  Ms High Heels might not have followed us, but I’ve an idea a camera did. So I didn’t risk a detailed examination of anything, despite having some very bad vibes. At last I alighted on a Victorian papier mâché spectacle case inlaid with mother of pearl at only a couple of pounds above its proper value. If I sold it on to our collector customer, we wouldn’t be able to mark it up to make a profit, but at least we’d break even. ‘Just right for Auntie Jackie,’ I announced. ‘She’d be able to use this every day,’ I added, as I was sure a Kaz would.

  ‘It’s a bit precious for that,’ Ms High Heels said, appearing from nowhere.

  ‘She likes pretty things, and she’s got a lot of vases and stuff. My mum’s always on at her to sell them,’ I said. As she wrapped the case, I added, ‘I don’t suppose you’d be interested in buying some?’

  For the first time, she looked flustered. ‘Oh, I couldn’t say. That’s the owner’s area, not mine.’

  ‘Some of it’s really nice,’ I pursued, trying to sound downhearted. ‘What’s this guy’s name? The owner? Then she could contact him?’

  She made a great show of looking for something I suspected wasn’t there. ‘No, I can’t see any of his cards here. But she could always phone us: the number’s on your receipt.’

  ‘Knowing Auntie Jackie she’ll never get round to it,’ Wayne grumbled. ‘OK, Kaz, ready for a spot of lunch? And then we’ll go measure,’ he added, making it sound a big adventure as he grabbed my hand and led me to the car.

  Since – I presumed – Ms High Heels was still watching, he gave me a smacking kiss before we set off.

  ‘Remember to take the Maidstone road,’ I muttered as it turned into a mini-snog.

  As it happened, there was no need to worry about that. We were going back to Maidstone anyway, to report to Freya, surely too senior an officer to be involved at this point in such a lowly activity as debriefing a constable. However, she was multitasking, eating a huge home-made salmon salad out of a battered plastic box once occupied by ice cream. She despatched Wayne to the canteen for sandwiches for us.

  ‘First off, no sign of the so-called Charles Montaigne,’ I said, accepting a plastic glass (if you see what I mean) of her bottled water. ‘The assistant was edgy when we asked about the owner – we wanted to sell some of my pretend Auntie Jackie’s china. Edgy enough to see us off the premises – or maybe she was just a good assistant. She certainly worked very hard for an imaginary sale.’

  ‘I trust she didn’t guess it was imaginary.’

  ‘She didn’t let us take any photos. Security. Reasonable enough. And she said some man had taken some before and they’d made him delete them.’

  ‘Two questions.’ She speared a prawn from under a chunk of salmon. ‘Who would want to take pics? And why make him delete them?’

  ‘As I said, security. Steal to order. A lot of it goes on.’

  ‘Fair enough. Ah, Wayne – what have you got?’

  He looked nonplussed. He’d been sent to get food for us two, after all, yet here was a predatory – and very senior – hand reaching out for his goodies. ‘Two sorts of sarnies – cheese salad and tuna salad, ma’am. And some crisps.’

  She took the crisps and flipped him a fiver, which he pocketed before she could change her mind.

  ‘Lina reckons a lot of the furniture is well dodgy, ma’am,’ he said as he opened the tuna sandwich pack. ‘But some might have been OK.’

  ‘Do you want us to buy any of the pieces?’ I asked. ‘Or maybe Wayne could phone to say the sizes didn’t work? Ms High Heels – you should have seen them, Freya, they were this high! – worked very hard for a sale, and I know from experience you want to know why people don’t do the deal.’

  Freya shook her head indulgently, as if I was a five year old asking a particularly silly question.

  ‘I think Trading Standards could take a look,’ she said. ‘Their thing more than ours. Or, of course, the Met Fine Arts Squad, if it’s still managing to stagger along without the famous DCI Morris.’

  I ignored the dig and said, ‘But neither of them until I’m completely forgotten, thanks very much,’ I said. ‘Wig or no wig, I felt vulnerable.’ As always, I slightly stressed the l, to show that I knew it was there. ‘I live only a mile or so from them, remember. And Montaigne is not the sort of guy I’d want to annoy further.’

  ‘We need some good reason to find out who really owns the place. Companies House says it belongs to Chartham Holdings, and it lists three directors, none of whom is called Montaigne,’ she said through her crisps, which she alternated with her salad. ‘But that doesn’t mean a thing.’

  ‘It means whoever’s chosen the name knows my passion for vintage designer clothes,’ I muttered, before I remembered what she thought of my wardrobe.

  ‘Quite,’ she said, in the voice of my least favourite head-mistress when she meant to stifle any more comments.

  ‘We bought a spectacle case, but that was all,’ Wayne said hurriedly, as if to head off any unpleasantness.

  ‘No china?’

  I shook my head. ‘There was plenty I’d have liked to look at, but the CCTV camera was on us the whole time. Prices high, quality low, I’d say. And there were some objects so badly repaired that I’d have liked to strip them down and repair them again. Which might just link it to Montaigne, though he can’t be the only one with cracked vases.’

  ‘Quite. Now, assuming this is part of a scam, we don’t want to go in too early. If they’re faking furniture, we’d want to take out the carpenters too.’

  ‘Cabinetmakers really,’ I amended, wrinkling my nose. ‘They may be fakes, but they’re adequate fakes. I wonder why they’ve suddenly appeared. I don’t suppose someone with those skills h
as just left prison or returned from abroad?’

  Freya’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Teaching your grandmother, eh, Lina? Well, Kent police have been sucking eggs for some time, thanks very much.’ She looked osten . . . let me get this one right – ostentatiously, not ostensibly – at her watch.

  ‘What about the spectacle case, ma’am? Is it OK for Lina to keep it? Or—’

  ‘Did she pay for it? Yes? Right, keep it. No “ors” about it. It’s no good sending it off for any sort of forensic tests, Wayne, because the world and his wife will have had their sticky mitts all over it, won’t they?’ At least she got tetchy with other people too.

  Wayne had to run me back to Bredeham, of course, but on Freya’s orders he chose a different car from the pound and I shed my wig, for which I was duly grateful – it was very itchy under there.

  I let Wayne in via the shop, so he could see what a real antique shop with guaranteed timelines should look like. To my surprise, not Griff but Mrs Walker was behind the counter. Mrs Walker took to him enthusiastically, pressing him to take tea and have some of Griff’s best scones.

  I let her get on with it, with only one thought in my mind: where had Griff gone without telling me?

  THIRTEEN

  I was no wiser and a great deal more suspicious when Griff insisted on changing his shirt and putting a load through the washing machine that evening. He didn’t tell me where he’d been, fending off every question with another enquiry about my doings down at the antiques centre.

  ‘I hope and pray that Freya didn’t suggest you contacted that dreadful Montaigne person and agree to work for him,’ he said at last. ‘Just to flush him out.’

  ‘To be honest, I’m quite surprised she didn’t. There’s still time, of course. What, off to bed already?’