Trowchester Blues 01 - Trowchester Blues (27 page)

“To deal with us straight.”

“Two thousand.”

“I am dealing with you straight.” Finn tried not to smile at the whopping lie, but he appreciated the irony of it inwardly. “If you want me to still be in business next time you need me, you have to give me a fair price. “Seven fifty.”

Lisa stepped out of the way, to allow Benny to get up in Finn’s face, looming over him too close in an obvious display of physical threat.

“Thousand five hundred and—”

“We don’t hurt you.”

This close, Benny stank of cigarettes and weed, and something chemical, sweet like pear drops. Glue, maybe. Lisa’s sharp little dark eyes were giving him the creeps. He wanted them both out of his shop and his life for good, hoped his team were getting everything they needed, because it was time for this to be over.

“Oh, very well.” He stepped back, palms raised in surrender, and went for the till. “Look, I have about three hundred in here in cash. I’ll give you a cheque for the rest. You know I’m good for it.”

Benny had stood the Lapini up on the cash desk as Finn counted notes into Lisa’s hand. Now he took it away again.

“We don’t take cheques.”

“Strictly cash only.”

Lisa folded the notes from the till and tucked them in her pocket. “We’ll come back tomorrow. You give us the rest of the money, we give you the statue then, yeah?”

Performance-wise it was probably not ideal, but he didn’t have a thousand pounds in cash hanging around so it would have to do. “All right. And after that, I don’t want to see you again. Just leave me alone, okay?”

“Until the next time.”

Lisa headed for the door, but Michael stepped out of the corridor and blocked it just as Davis and Clarke emerged from the darkness of their own hidey-holes. Lisa gave a cry of rage, turned, and tried to claw Finn’s eyes out, but Michael got her by the back of the collar and lifted her away. In a brief, economic flurry of movements, he had her in a lock, her shoulders immobilised, his forearm across the back of her neck, forcing her head forwards and down.

Benny made a break for the back door, but Clarke got there ahead of him. He went for the WPC’s throat, she caught hold of his coat, threw herself backwards, and using his own forward momentum tossed him over her head. He landed all in one piece, flat on his back, and as he was struggling to pull his astonished thoughts together, she slipped a baton under his arm and carried out the same hold on him as Michael used.

“You fucking cunt!” Lisa yelled at Finn, as Michael handed her off to Davis for him to read her rights to her. “What the fuck is this? We’re going to take you down, you fucking traitor.”

Finn found himself trembling, trembling but satisfied, like he’d just crossed the line at the marathon, was ready to collapse at the strain, but also ready to accept some well-earned congratulations. “I warned you both. I told you I’m an honest man. What did you expect?”

“Right, then.” Davis’s voice shared the satisfaction. “Let’s get you two in the car, shall we?”

When they had gone, the room was suddenly too silent and empty to stand in it alone. He and Michael came together like they were sharing one thought. Finn wound his arms around Michael’s shoulders, leaned his forehead against Michael’s cheekbone and held on to the man who was becoming his anchor in a treacherously changeable world.

“Did we do it, now? Is that it, over and we’re done?”

Michael rested a warm and supportive hand at the small of his back and carded the other through his hair. He sighed. “I wish it was that easy, but—”

Davis came back through the door and grabbed Finn’s wrist where it lay over Michael’s shoulder, tugging the two of them apart. “Mr. Fintan Hulme,” he said, with no intonation of regret at all, the bastard. “I am arresting you for receiving stolen goods.”

“Wait!” It was making him bloody seasick, this being thrown from glory to dread until he had no more emotion left in him. “That was a setup, we agreed—”

“To whit,” Davis interrupted, “one book, ancient, belonging to Lady Mary Harcombe of Harcombe House. You do not have to say anything, but . . .”

Of course. They must have phoned the plods in London, who had gone to Martina Whinnery to get the book back. She would have told them who she had bought it from, would have protested that she thought he had come by it honestly, would have shown them the documents of provenance, on the bonded paper he had in his study, and his handwriting, and his pens, because he had been out of the business long enough to have forgotten—in his rush to get the thing out of his house—to disguise all of those things.

He pushed himself away from Michael in horror. Arrested! He’d said never again. Never again would he go through this. And now Michael had brought these people into his very house.

Michael made a grab for his arm, trying not to let him get away. “Finn, it’ll be fine. There are extenuating circumstances. And assisting with the capture of two burglars will go in your favour. You’re an honest man now, Finn. That’s what it means. You trust the law to get it right.”

Trust, eh?
he thought bitterly as he was squeezed into the police car alongside his tormentors. No, he was having no truck with it. Look what had happened when he tried—he had trusted Michael, and Michael had led him into the snare.

Michael drove to the police station on the police car’s tail, with Finn’s parting look rolling around his mind, crashing into the sides of his consciousness like a loose cannon on the deck of a sailing ship. He tried not to let it run him over too often. Of course the guy felt betrayed right now. Of course he did. Who wouldn’t? But there would be time for him to think, and when they had secured a solicitor and taken statements, Michael could take him home and make it up to him.

By the time he had found somewhere to park the car, Finn and the others had passed through into the secure unit and were nowhere in view. Michael identified himself to the duty officer, registered his availability to give a statement and intention to bail Finn out as soon as it became possible, found a vending machine from which he could get a cup of coffee, and sat down among the other undesirables in the waiting room.

It was a new experience for him to see a station from this side of the desk. Fewer smiles greeted him. The officers who passed by did not look at him, busy and distracted by more important matters. He felt itchy and out of sorts, wanting to explain to everyone that this was home for him, that he was one of them, wanting them to stop treating him like an unwelcome stranger.

But it wasn’t home, not anymore. Finn’s little flat was home. Or perhaps Finn himself, because he had no particular affection for the rooms themselves.

He phoned Jenny and spent a quarter of an hour apologising to her for only phoning when he needed something, but could she possibly recommend a good solicitor in the area?

“Right,” she laughed. “So I can see you took my advice and stayed away from your beau.”

“I’m helping him go straight.”

“I’m sure there’s a joke in there somewhere,” she said, tapping away at a keyboard in the distance. “Right, here’s the phone number of the most successful firm of defence solicitors in your area. But you seriously owe me bed and breakfast over the Christmas break for this.”

O . . . kay. He really should get the house sorted out. “It’s a deal. I hadn’t thought about Christmas yet, but it would be fantastic to see you again. You can meet him, see what you think for yourself.”

“You sound better,” she conceded. “Whatever else he is, he’s obviously good for you. Take care, Michael.”

“You too.” He smiled at her down the phone, pointless though that was. “Thanks for this, and see you soon.”

The solicitors’ office was indeed reassuringly efficient when he called it next. They promised to send someone along directly to advise Finn while he was being questioned and charged. After which, Michael was called upon to give a statement of his own, detailing what he knew of Finn’s dealings with Benny and Lisa, his movements on the night of the fire and the day after.

Since he’d still been in London, vouched for by the Metropolitan police on the night of the Harcombe burglary, they didn’t ask him about that, and he did not volunteer any information about storming Harcombe house to free the magistrate’s captive.

It was an awkward interview. He was unfamiliar with how to react on this side of the deal, and his interrogator was evidently not quite sure whether he was a suspect or a colleague. He tried to get a glimpse of the cells as he walked out, but could see only a shut door. Finn would be all right. The guy kept his cool in front of armed robbers. He’d be fine in an inoffensive box, with toilet breaks and tea breaks and someone to talk to.

He was sitting back down in the waiting room, wondering if he could draw that copy of
The Independent
out from beneath a sleeping baby’s pram-wheel without waking the infant up, when Lady Harcombe arrived. She was ushered to the desk by two constables with the pomp appropriate to her rank.

Michael ducked his head, hoping she wouldn’t spot him as she leaned her forearms on the desk and said, “Sergeant. I received a phone call saying you have something of mine?”

“We do indeed, ma’am.” The desk sergeant bent to unlock the strongbox by his feet and drew out a small, carved Indian box. “We need you to identify this.”

“My book!” she exclaimed, opening the casket lid and taking out an object wrapped in what looked like one of Finn’s silk handkerchiefs. She unwrapped a corner of an oxblood-red leather-covered book.

Michael craned forwards to see the marvellous thing that had caused so much trouble, and she spotted the movement and turned. This time he didn’t have his hood on. He felt her examine his lower face, his mouth and chin, and his coat. Her eyes narrowed.

“You!”

Their gazes held as they engaged in a silent contest of wills.
I could have you arrested for breaking and entering
, hers seemed to say.

He hoped his replied,
In which case I’d have you done for kidnapping.

She seemed to read something in it at least, smiling and turning back to the desk. “I presume this will be needed as evidence?”

“That’s right, ma’am. But you can have it back straight after the trial.”

“Excellent. Well, good work, Lionel. Jolly good work.”

He knew she would come over at once. He moved his gloves and hat from the seat next to him so she could sit, but she chose to stand, looking down on him like a distant queen over a troublesome serf. Today she wore a camel coat and tall tan boots and a fur stole made of thousands of jaunty little rabbit fur balls. Her dark-brown hair was in an informal bun and it made her look younger, maybe even younger than him.

“Do I presume wrongly that you had something to do with this?”

“It was Finn’s idea, ma’am.” He stretched the truth a little, but not so far that it broke. “He said the abbot would have wanted his book to come back to you. He told the police where they could find it, and the woman who bought it from him shopped him in revenge. He’s in the cells now, being charged.”

“Well.” She raised her eyebrows at him in a gesture that seemed to indicate a kind of sceptical but pleased astonishment. “He would have done better to tell me when I asked.”

Michael agreed, but he could see how Finn’s pride might have bridled at that. “He’s a good man, your ladyship, and he’s been trying his hardest to be an honest man, but he has a very strong, defiant personality. He doesn’t react well to threats. He calmed down when I got him home and—”

“And you changed his mind.”

“I might have helped a little.”

She smiled, steely and very much in control, but benevolent with it. “You are obviously better acquainted with the man than I am. And you’d swear that he’s honest?”

“He’s in the cells right now because he made an attempt to do the right thing. Because he trusts me, and I trust the British justice system.”

Maybe there was something to Finn’s assertion that anger wasn’t all bad. Michael could feel it simmering under the surface of this sentence—anger for everything that he was putting Finn through in order to be finally free—powering his conviction.

Lady Harcombe raised her eyebrows again. A slightly different tilt to them that seemed to express amusement and tolerance for his naïve beliefs. “Well, what a refreshing view, and all too rare these days. I look forward to seeing you again, Mr. May.”

What did
that
mean, from the local magistrate? She thought he was an idiot for trusting the law because she
was
the law, and she was also the person who had been about to imprison Finn in her basement.

His heart sank. He trusted the criminal justice system in general, true. But how far did he trust her in particular? Hell. And why hadn’t he thought of that beforehand?

After another two hours, Finn was charged with the crime, and Michael was able to bail him out. He emerged from the secure unit looking small. Though he was shorter than Michael’s five foot eight, and slight with it, he had never seemed anything but a giant among men before, coming into a room like an electrical storm and instantly becoming its centre.