Drawing the Line (13 page)

‘I’ll see you there,’ I lied, loathing the very idea of all these Draculas and their victims.

‘I’ll make sure they save you some tea and biscuits,’ he assured me. The bugger: he knew I was lying. And I bet he knew I’d been lying about the chest, too.

Resisting the temptation to bluster, I ran a finger over my bruises. ‘I suppose you haven’t anything more
user-friendly
than ice?’

To my amazement he turned to the homoeopathic section of his counter. ‘Safer to use round your eyes than the stuff I’d usually recommend,’ he said, offering arnica cream. ‘You can take these tablets, too. But my advice to you is to be careful round drawers. Black eyes aren’t my idea of maidenly beauty.’

I paid up and shut up. And bought some sunglasses, too. But I needn’t have bothered. Every single customer in Londis seemed to be peering at me – though on reflection perhaps they’d have stared at anyone wandering round with sun protection when the rain had come on extra heavy again.

It was like waiting for a thunderstorm to break. Even though Griff smiled and hugged me as usual, certainly not wincing at the sight of my face, and had nattered away about Aidan as he passed the bags of Waitrose goodies out of the van for me to take into the kitchen, I knew we were going to talk about my face. I stowed things in the freezer, refilled storage jars and put away the bags while he went upstairs and checked his emails. I made tea, reaching out pretty plates for the scones he’d bought from that homemade bakery in Tenterden, and little dishes for his home-made strawberry jam and some
Waitrose Cornish cream. Still no sign of him – and, of course, still no mention of the bruises. Did he want me to confront him and confess? After all this time, I still couldn’t. I tried praying to the Guy living in Canterbury Cathedral that Griff’d maybe say nothing and let me off. But I knew that he wouldn’t, any more than I could go up to his study and confess.

At last he popped downstairs with an empty Unichem bag, which he threw into the recycling bin. He took my hand. ‘Just remember, dear heart, that we lubricate all our drawers with candle wax. There’s no need to tug them hard. Oh, Lina, my love, come here! As if I could be cross with you. As if old Griff ever raised his voice.’

‘It’d be better if you did!’ I burbled. ‘But you’re so kind and forgiving and I don’t deserve it.’

‘You didn’t deserve a lot of things that have happened to you – well, none of us does, for good or for bad. But I did think you’d given that up. I didn’t think you needed to do it any more. And I think it’s all to do with this silly quest of yours, and I do wish you’d abandon it.’

‘Tell you what,’ I managed, through one of his immaculate linen handkerchiefs, ‘I promise you I’ll give one of them up, the self-abuse or the quest.’

He reached for the kettle. ‘I think that calls for another little celebration. Calling self-abuse by its name, of course, silly. It’s the first time you’ve ever done that.’ He shook his head. ‘I suppose asking you to give up both that and the quest is a bit too much.’

‘Like asking you to give up both your booze and clotted cream on your scones,’ I agreed, passing him the strawberry jam.

It wasn’t until after supper, something wonderful and complicated with chicken, which Griff served with much pomp and ceremony and with a white wine from New Zealand I really rather liked and drank a lot of, that I remembered about the resemblance between my assailant’s walk and Dan Freeman’s. I wish I could say it was because I’d been too busy to give it another thought, but the truth was my outbursts had always left me feeling as though the Duracell bunny had nicked my battery and run off with it. As soon as I’d downed my share of that wonderful cream tea, I’d simply fallen asleep, my head on the kitchen table. And I remembered not because my sleep had left me refreshed and brimming with ideas, but because, after one of Griff’s best ever meals, a policeman asked me.

Yes, one of Tony’s colleagues, a pale young man in his thirties called DC Brent, had got round to paying us a visit.

‘Fashionably late, I see, my dear sir,’ Griff greeted him, showing him into the living room.

‘Shifts,’ Brent apologised, peering nervously through trendy invisible-rim specs with gold sides. ‘You get into a routine and then it all goes nohow. You know how it is.’

‘We do indeed,’ Griff cooed. ‘Our life on the road simply ruins our social lives. And our sleep patterns. However do you manage to visit the land of nod during the day, dear boy?’

The dear boy edged away slightly. ‘I’m here to brief you on our investigations to date,’ he said stiffly. ‘Firstly,
we might just have an ID on the female shoplifter: if we pull her in, could you identify her?’ He looked at me.

I blame the meal and all that white wine for my really unhelpful answer. ‘I never saw her.’

‘But aren’t you the female who raised the alarm?’ He consulted his file. ‘A Mrs Hatch?’

‘This,’ said Griff, all camp erased from his voice, ‘is my adoptive granddaughter, Ms Evelina Townend. Mrs Hatch is an associate of mine, a lady of mature years.’

The whole of DC Brent’s body showed how sorry and embarrassed he was. ‘Do you have an address, sir?’

Griff flashed me a glance: I could see the old imp was just about to two-finger police shorthand by giving the poor young man our address.

‘Chapel Cottage,’ I jumped in.

‘Confusingly, it’s nowhere near the church, which is actually the other end of the village.’

‘It’s a converted chapel,’ I explained. ‘Just a couple of doors –’

‘Indeed. Perhaps the villagers decided the original Baptists were simply too primitive for words. Now it’s elegant in concept, but draughty in realisation. And such a dismal kitchen,’ Griff sighed. ‘May we offer you refreshment, Detective Constable? We were about to partake of a can ourselves. No, strictly non-alcoholic – I won’t take no for an answer.’ He pirouetted into the kitchen.

By this time poor DC Brent didn’t look as if he knew his ears from his elbow. He looked even more confused when what arrived in a handleless cup turned out to be coffee.

Griff evidently decided it was time to be sensible. ‘So
there appears to be some success
vis-à-vis
the shoplifter. What about the attempted break-in, video footage of which I believe PC Baker passed to you for enhancement.’

‘He did indeed, sir. And we apologise for the delay caused by lack of specialist staff: the officer who’s the real whiz kid’s just gone on maternity leave, and her replacement is still undergoing training. But he took it along to one of the training sessions,’ he added, so triumphantly that we both assumed they’d got a good image.

‘Well?’ Griff prompted.

‘And got zilch.’ He gave a dry laugh at our expressions. ‘Sorry, they did their best. But technology’s only as good as the material it works on. Of course, if this were a high-profile murder, then we might be able to afford to send it to the US where they’ve got absolute cutting edge equipment,’ he added, as if trying to help.

‘I have no intention of sacrificing either of us simply in the hope of that sort of response,’ Griff announced. ‘So is the case closed?’

‘Not exactly. It wasn’t ever a case at all to be honest, because nothing happened. But it might have helped solve other crimes.’

‘Like the one which Lina was almost involved in last night. You were unaware of that? I’d have expected young Tony to tell you all about it.’

Trying to spare Tony a black mark, DC Brent muttered about briefings and shifts again, but flicked open his notepad. I gave a brief account of what had happened, Griff chipping in when he thought I was underplaying the danger I’d been in when the car accelerated
towards me. ‘Tony mentioned something called the Kitty Gang,’ I concluded, embarrassed by the silly name.

‘Did he indeed?’ After a moment’s blankness, he wrote vigorously. ‘I suppose you didn’t get any video footage of that incident?’

‘As a matter of fact I did. And although it’s probably not much help, the guy’s walk does seem familiar,’ I added slowly, doubtfully. ‘No. Can’t be.’ I passed him the tape, but couldn’t imagine they’d get any more from it than from the first one.

Brent’s blond eyebrows would have merged with his hair, had it not receded so far. His glasses twitched up and down his nose. ‘Who?’

‘Someone I met in Oxford,’ I said slowly, squeezing Griff’s hand lightly to apologise for saying nothing earlier. ‘A man called Dan Freeman. He’s something to do with the University.’

‘Tell me about him.’

‘A librarian was rude to me; I got upset; he offered me a cup of coffee to cheer me up,’ I said, receiving a reassuring squeeze from Griff.

‘Do you have a phone number? An address?’

‘Only Keble. Keble College. It wasn’t that sort of cup of tea,’ I added. ‘In fact, it seems daft of me to say anything about him. What would a respected academic be doing moonlighting as one of the Kitty Gang? I know teachers are always complaining about being badly paid, but –’

‘Any lead on the Kitty Gang would be useful,’ Brent declared solemnly. Then the giggles that had been threatening all three of us bubbled up. ‘If only it was called something else!’ he choked.

‘The Moggie Mob?’ I suggested.

‘The Feline Fraternity?’ Griff capped me.

‘Even plain Cat Burglars,’ Brent concluded.

To celebrate the revelation that our guest was human, Griff produced more scones and the remains of the jam and cream. I waved the coffee pot but none of us seemed to want to risk more caffeine. Normally this would have had Griff into the chiffonier for the drinks. Either he decided that alcohol wouldn’t go with the jam or he was trying to keep his promise. Either way, I heaved a sigh of relief and ladled on more cream.

‘All the same,’ Brent began, stopping for his tongue to chase a dab of jam.

I passed him what I called a paper serviette but Griff insisted was a napkin.

‘All the same,’ he continued, ‘it sounds as if you could have been badly injured last night. However stupid the name we gave the gang, we should take the incident very seriously. I suppose you didn’t get a glimpse of a registration plate?’

‘The driver doused his lights as soon as he realised I’d escaped. And I’m sorry – I’ve tried and tried but I can’t place the car.’

‘With a bang on the head like that, I’m not surprised.’ He leant towards me, concerned.

I pulled back. I didn’t want his attention and I didn’t want his sympathy.

‘That was done today, I’m afraid,’ Griff put in. ‘I came back from the supermarket to find the house like a new pin and Lina clutching ice to her forehead and looking as if she’d gone a couple of rounds with Lennox Lewis.’

‘A drawer stuck – and then came unstuck,’ I said,
adding ruefully, ‘I’d have thought the arnica should be working by now.’

‘There’s something I always use when I’ve had a rough game of rugby,’ Brent said. ‘Lasonil or Lanosil or something. Shall I drop some by? When I report back on this video?’ he added, as quickly as if he needed some sort of excuse.

Before I could suggest I simply nipped along to Mr Elworthy’s the next morning, Griff jumped in. ‘That would be more than kind, er –?’

‘Dave.’ Brent produced what Griff would instantly accuse of being a winsome smile. I was never sure about men and winsome smiles. Especially when I didn’t know whether they were directed at Griff or at me.

‘The funny thing is, Dave, that Lina had already involved herself in a spot of heroism on Saturday evening. Not here, but up in Harrogate. A distinctly non-feline interloper had broken into a number of caravans and she managed to trip him as he tried to escape. I believe that ultimately he eluded the security staff, alas.’

‘You wouldn’t be suggesting that the two individuals are in fact just one – and an Oxford don, to boot?’

‘Put that way my theory does indeed seem far-fetched. Now, are you sure I can’t offer you a tiny drop more coffee?’

The following morning Griff summoned me to the computer to check the list of houses I’d found.

‘If you double-click there,’ he pointed, ‘you get a description of the house. Some have photographs too – oh dear, how very amateurish. When will people learn
that there’s more to photography than merely pointing the camera and pressing the shutter? Now, click through the whole lot and tell me if anything rings any bells.’

‘All I remember,’ I said, sitting down and grasping the mouse, still warm from his hand, ‘is a grey marble fireplace and big windows, deep set, going almost from floor to ceiling.’

‘So which of these could we eliminate without further thought?’ he asked, peering over my shoulder.

One of Griff’s little tests. I’d like to pass it. I peered at the first, a lovely black and white Elizabethan manor house overlooking a deep valley. ‘That one – unless someone’s made some alterations we can’t see.’

‘What you speak of would be a major alteration, structural, not just cosmetic. Is there a rear view?’

There was. It hadn’t been altered. I tried the next. It was an early Victorian rectory. Click on photos: no, nothing.

‘We could be at this all morning,’ I said. ‘Shall I press on while you phone Mrs Hatch and warn her about the police?’

‘I fancy “inform” might be a better word, Lina. And if you think I’m going to leave you on your here so you can have even a smidgen of the temptation to hurt yourself the way you did yesterday, you can think again.’

I was hurt. ‘I promised you I wouldn’t.’

‘Smokers promise never to touch another fag – but under pressure far less extreme than you might be enduring, they soon light up again.’

For
smokers
read
drinkers
. I said no more. I clicked away, sometimes bringing up a photo that sparked a response in him.

‘Now you ought to wheedle your way in there. That belongs to that pop star who tried to save the world – I wonder if he still lives there? Such a darling young man he was. I was three-quarters in love with him. But he proved quite irredeemably straight, alas. And that one – no, you should go nowhere near there, not even on public open days. The owner’s
nouveau riche
– well, I suppose very few owners are descended from the original family, but this one’s got a reputation for being one of the East End’s most successful criminals. Of course,’ he continued, getting thoroughly into his stride, ‘that’s probably all too appropriate. The founding fathers of our so-called aristocratic families were Duke William’s hit men. They’d be tried these days for war crimes.’

‘So the great and the good aren’t great or good at all?’

‘Mortals like the rest of us.
Noblesse oblige
, indeed. You wouldn’t expect the descendants of the Kray brothers, if they had any, that is, to be rulers by divine right, would you?’

I’d never heard Griff quite as forthright in his criticism of the upper classes before. Was it just to put me off my search? What was the point in looking for my dad if he was no better than any other man? Was that his message?

‘It won’t work, Griff – I’d want to find my dad even if he were Hannibal Lecter. I might not stay to dinner, mind.’

‘It’s not a question of putting you off, child. It’s a question of modifying your expectations.’

I looked him in the eye. ‘Griff, any man who doesn’t make any effort to see his daughter in nearly twenty years can’t be all that much cop. But I just need to
know.’

‘So long as you pursue your inquiries in that spirit, I shall worry less. Proceed, dear heart.’

A couple more blanks and I said, ‘You know your way around the county. You might have some idea of where it is!’

‘Might. But don’t. Lina, my child, have you any idea how many great old houses from whatever period are now used for something else? Posh hotels, head offices, schools – even chopped about to make retirement apartments. They wouldn’t be open to the public, not even on the odd day that these admit hoi polloi.’ He shook his head sadly, leaving me to absorb the implications.

I clicked the mouse again. Jacobean – unusual in this part of the world, I knew even without Griff telling me. But not the period I was looking for.

Late Victorian; Tudor; Georgian, like the illustration in Griff’s architecture book, in other words. But it wasn’t very big, not very grand. But the next one was very grand indeed. It was a Palladian mansion, and lovely.

‘Early Palladian, I would say,’ Griff said. ‘Whereas this one –’ he continued, as I clicked again, ‘is quite late Palladian. Both are likely to have the sort of windows you want to see. Let’s see if they have any rear views – tut, how very frustrating. But neither’s very far away – in opposite directions, of course, one near Tunbridge Wells, the other near Canterbury. I’d certainly mark them down for a visit, dear heart.’

I already had. There were four other possibles, each of which went on my list. Griff shook his head gently. ‘It will take an age to jot down all the details of opening hours and road access: allow me.’

Slowly but surely the details of each rolled out of the printer. Patting me on the head, he produced a large manila envelope. ‘There. To be perused at your leisure. Meanwhile, in the words of the poet, “there’s work to be done ere the setting sun”. Did I say poet? Versifier at best…’

If I hadn’t been working in silence on an especially tricky bit of gilding, I wouldn’t have heard the scratch at the front door. There was only one person who announced his arrival like that, Joe Knight. Joe was half antiques dealer, half layabout, making a living I’d bet my new boots that the DSS knew nothing about. They’d see him as a sad case, barely able to read and write, and crippled with arthritis that would have made the heart bleed of even the hardest DSS doctor. We knew him as a lively old man, gnarled as a character in Griff’s favourite Hardy, dependent on seasonal vegetable and fruit picking. This was always paid cash in hand – ‘just to oblige a friend’, if anyone asked. He used to oblige Griff, too, drifting to boot-sales or village bring-and-buy sales, picking up stuff for pennies Griff would mostly pay him pounds for. Sometimes he’d bring his wife along, and I’d challenge myself to pick up more than one word in ten, her accent was so thick and her teeth so few and far between; others, like today, he’d be alone, touching the side of his nose when I took him through to Griff, still in the kitchen although he was due to open the shop in half an hour. This meant he’d rather talk to Griff on his own, if I didn’t mind. Since he ponged even more than his wife, I didn’t. I returned to my gilding.