Drawing the Line (11 page)

Or had I been in the antiques trade too long?

‘Tell you what,’ I said casually, still holding the laptop to my chest, ‘why don’t we go and check this hasn’t been damaged? It hit the ground with an awful bump.’

‘OK,’ he sighed. ‘You win. So long as you tell me what I’m looking for.’

‘Easy. Just the names and addresses of people he buys from. So I can work out who sold him that page.’

‘Easy! Just about the most confidential material he has. The decaying aristocracy don’t want folk knowing they’re selling up their libraries so people like us can buy up old tomes and fillet saleable pages from them.’

‘You always said you only handled books that were literally falling apart!’ I hissed. ‘Not destroying historical objects!’ I thought of that wonderful volume in the Bodleian, and suddenly, instead of resenting Oxford’s huge wealth, felt a rush of relief that there was at least one old library that wouldn’t throw the odd book to hyenas like Larry Copeland.

Marcus flung up his hands. ‘Do you want me to check or do you want to hang about in the dark talking ethics?’

‘There!’ we yelled. ‘Bingo!’

Marcus had found Copeland’s address book. Not email addresses – proper snail-mail ones. But I soon stopped chortling. It was long, and most addresses were incomplete, just a name and a postcode. Copeland hadn’t brought his printer, of course, so it was going to be a long, tedious job copying them all by hand.

At this point my opinion of Marcus took a sharp upwards turn. He provided paper and pencil without asking.

Suddenly he stopped tapping, resting his hands either side of the computer. ‘This could take forever. We have to use our brains here.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed cautiously, never having had much opinion of mine, at least. ‘We ought to narrow the field a bit – is that what you mean?’

‘Yep.’

‘So we ought to look – say – where I was born.’

‘Not many stately homes in London, Lina – well, there are, but stinking rich folk live in them and don’t need to charge a fiver to get punters through the door.’

‘OK, I lived in London, but I wasn’t born there. According to my birth certificate I was born in Maidstone.’ Before he’d done more than open his mouth, I added, ‘Don’t ask where I was conceived! But my mother was supposed to be a country girl.’

‘Don’t tell me – the classic rich man in his castle and the poor maiden at the gate. You’re sure you don’t know which bit of country?’

I shook my head. And there was nothing in my little box of treasures to help.

‘I suppose we could check through all the parish registers
for Townends,’ he said, rubbing his hands. ‘Everything’s available on the Internet.’

‘My mother’s dead,’ I said. ‘And if all the social workers of Lewisham couldn’t find any maternal family, I don’t think it’s worth trying. It’s my father I’m after.’

‘No family at all? Really?’

‘Orphan Annie, that’s me,’ I said smiling. But it was through clenched teeth. He was wasting time we didn’t have.

‘That’s terrible. Mind you, I always wondered how you to have landed up with an impossible old soak like Griff Tripp. Is there any time of day he’s actually sober?’

‘Griff is my friend, Marcus, thanks very much. My friend,’ I repeated. No one but me criticised Griff. ‘So does knowing my place of birth help?’

He nodded. ‘Might do. I’ll start looking for places in the south east, of course.’

‘Makes sense,’ I said, mentally kicking myself. Why hadn’t I thought of all this before? Before putting together my itinerary for the whole of Great Britain? God, why was I so
stupid
? ‘But how do you know which postcodes represent where?’

‘Stints on the Christmas post,’ he said, suddenly rubbing his finger on the touchpad and wiping everything.

‘Hey, what are you doing now?’

‘Setting up a game of FreeCell. So if Copeland turns up out of the blue, we can switch to this window and he won’t know what you’re up to. Those two aces out, and then…’

‘What the hell are you two doing?’ Copeland demanded ten minutes later. ‘I thought you were going out.’ His
tone of voice said,
I thought I told you to go out
.

Marcus stood up, shielding me as I tucked my list up my knickers. ‘We started off just checking it was all right after its fall, Coz. Then I discovered –’

‘Fall? I told you not to touch the bloody thing!’

‘It wasn’t Marcus who dropped it.’ I thought it was time to add my mite. ‘It was Burglar Bill. That’s why we’re here. We were going to have a drink in Griff’s caravan but there’s been a spate of break-ins. Didn’t you notice the damage to the lock?’

Evidently not. He dodged back to check. I hitched the list higher.

‘We’re still waiting for the locksmith,’ Marcus said, quickly hopping back the database and killing it. ‘And since the computer went flying when Lina tripped the thief, we thought we’d better check it. Like I said.’

‘Which is how Marcus came to teach me FreeCell. We only meant to have one game, but we just got hooked. I suppose you couldn’t get us out of this mess, could you?’ I pointed to the screen.

‘I think we should restart the game,’ he said, elbowing Marcus aside and sitting between us.

Copeland’s advice about restarting the FreeCell game seemed to apply just as well to me and my parent hunt. Especially when taken with Marcus’s theory that I should look local. So everything might be coming together. I thought I’d be too excited to sleep, but the sound of Griff snoring gently – he must be on his side, not his back – lulled me as it usually did. Plus the realisation, of course, that even if I stuck to Kent and Sussex, there were still a hell of a lot of stately homes to check out. The National Trust might have a good crop, but there were many others. If I was lucky I’d find they hadn’t become hotels or whatever. Others were private homes, only opening their doors once or twice a year, if that. Yes, there was a long haul ahead – and a long day ahead, too. Enough of daydreams; it was time for the good old night sort.

Predictably, the following morning there was a lot of gossip amongst the dealers before the doors officially opened, and I found to my embarrassment that I was a bit of a heroine.

‘Indeed, dear heart,’ a mercifully unfuddled, headache-free Griff observed, ‘if only the security folk had actually caught the miscreant you’d be in danger of sanctification. Even so, if you take up all those offers of a drink, you’ll end up with an awful head. And yes, I do speak from experience, and no, I don’t need nagging to mend my ways. Far more tonic than gin last night, I promise you.’

For once I didn’t laugh. ‘This isn’t a nag, Griff, but you’ll have to have more tonic than gin every time you
go on the juice. It’s much nicer,’ I added, kissing him to show we were still mates, ‘to have my morning cuppa still in the cup.’

You’d have thought that the third day of a fair would be quiet: if I were a serious collector, I’d want to beat everyone else to the bargains. But the good folk of Yorkshire weren’t put off by the thought that all the best stuff must have gone. They swarmed in, aided and abetted by a wonderful sunny day, really hot for May – the sort of day I’d have wanted to be outside, starting my tan, if I’d had any choice. And they bought. We’d discounted some items, but I didn’t buy the tight-fisted Yorkshireman theory: most were happy to pay up without a quibble, let alone a full-scale haggle.

After last night, we were all a bit anxious about our takings, not to mention the stuff left unsold. Many dealers, us included, had planned to stay overnight, rather than risk the long drive home after such a busy three days. But Griff was fidgeting to set off. I didn’t mind driving, but wanted to wait till quite late to hit the road: we knew from experience that both the M1 and the A1(M) would be clogged up by people scurrying back to London.

‘We’ll be safer on the road, even if we’re crawling,’ he insisted. ‘And I can assist with the driving.’

Even stone-cold sober he didn’t have the best night vision, so I didn’t exactly jump at the offer. Instead, I just repeated, ‘Safer?’

‘From all these burglarious types, of course.’ He’d been getting more and more irritable during the day, despite our good sales.

It was on the tip of my tongue to point out that we
were more vulnerable on the road. The combination of van and caravan made us an obvious target. Then I realised that by leaving early he was denying himself the post-fair booze-up he and his mates usually enjoyed. On impulse I gave him a hug. He looked bemused, as well he might, since he didn’t know what had been going on in my head, but patted me kindly.

I could do with a bit of kindness, of course, since I was denying myself the chance of a last minute snog with Marcus, who did no more than peck my cheek when I popped over to say goodbye. He and Copeland were going to stay over, heading to Bradford for a market on Tuesday, one that started at the God-awful hour of seven in the morning, which meant that trade would be in at six. That certainly wasn’t Griff’s time of day, and in any case he didn’t like to leave the shop, however capable Mrs Hatch’s genteel hands might be, for too many days in a row. We’d had no phone call from either her or Tony Baker, so we assumed all was well and that there’d been no more incidents.

So I started to pack up, needing several plastic storage boxes fewer than when we’d set out. I was shoving the first into the back of the van when Titus Oates ambled past.

We were both clearly in two minds whether to speak, but we exchanged half-hearted grins and he walked on. I reckon we were about even, now, since rumour had it that a packet of the stuff the thief had left behind in his hoodie was his, and not his usual stock in trade at all. At least, not the official one, and certainly not a legal one. Maybe next time our paths crossed I’d be able to ask him about my page.
‘You were right about the traffic,’ Griff conceded, as we pulled into the caravan’s usual field just outside Bredeham. ‘To misquote the poem, “A slow coming we had of it.” Dear God, I’m so tired and stiff.’

I didn’t know the poem, of course. It would have been easy to snarl at him that I’d warned him and that we should have stayed over or at least eaten before we set out. We didn’t even eat a proper meal at one of the motorway service areas I’d made sure we stopped at regularly.

‘Dear heart,’ he’d quavered, ‘not in one of those awful cafeterias!’

In fact he’d been so het-up he’d insisted that one of us stay on guard while the other used the loo and bought a snack to eat in the car park. I’d never known him like this, and while I’d have liked to shake some sense into him, I wondered if his twitchiness might be to do with not getting his usual drink, like the bad temper I’d seen in mates denied their fags or spliffs. I wasn’t holier than thou about either, but fortunately for me the very first time I’d smoked I had a really bad chesty cold, and been afraid I was going to cough my lungs up. It was a lot cheaper to go on abstaining. And more sensible, if that was what going without your fix did to you. Not to mention, of course, what smoking itself did to you.

Mind you, after the drive, I could have done with some sort of pick-me-up. Two hundred and fifty odd miles in heavy and often solid traffic, in the dusk and then the dark, was not my idea of an ideal Sunday evening’s excursion. I’d had enough chocolate and burgers to guarantee mega-spots for a month and I still felt hungry.

It was the work of moments to park up, connect up to the electricity and uncouple the car. But Griff went back three times to make sure he’d locked up the caravan, even when I pointed out it was me who’d made the final turn of the key and clamped the wheels. I didn’t argue about the extra checking at home, though, and was quite happy to go round with him to do it: gate, garage, van – four eyes were better than two.

He started his usual routine, opening his letters and putting them down while he wandered round. ‘Just nurturing my babies, darling!’

I’d have thought the houseplants could have waited a few more hours for water, and would have preferred conversation in daylight too. And I’d certainly have preferred not to have to trail round after him picking up scraps of paper – he never could open envelopes in one piece and in any case we saved used stamps for some historic railway he’d once had a ride on.

If I wasn’t careful I’d snap at him. So I headed for the kitchen to make some cocoa. Only to find he’d left the milk on the table. It was off. Very off indeed. No. Nothing in the fridge. Just this yucky cheese in the jug.

A couple of years back, I might have picked up the lot and slung it at him. I still felt like it, to be honest. Yes, jug and all. But it was a jug I liked, not because it was fine china but because of its shape, round and solid. It felt at home in your hands, as it had done in countless other hands for a century or so. And in any case, if I threw it at the wall, who’d have to get all the mess up?

Gagging because it smelt so foul, I couldn’t pour it down the sink because I simply couldn’t face podging the lumps until they got small enough to swill away. The
loo? Occupied by Griff.

A drain.

The one in the yard was nearest, but that meant a whole fiddle with the alarm system. If I used one in the street, it’d be a fag carrying water to flush it away but there was only one section of the alarm system to isolate.

In broad daylight, after some sleep to put my brain back into gear, I’d have waited for Griff to complete his ablutions, even though he was might have been removing not just each tooth and giving it a good polish before returning it to its socket, but brushing every strand of hair. As it was, maybe I should have passed the time soaking his breakfast prunes.

But all I was thinking of was getting rid of that smelly, slimy, lumpy mass. Like, now. Check: key in pocket to let myself in again; kettle full of water; stinking jug.

I stepped out into the dark, quiet street. Thin cloud was shifting to reveal a few stars, so bright you understood why folk wished on them and why our councillor hated the streetlights that obscured them. Across the street, a nightlight glowed in the new baby’s room. Bending I tipped the curds and whey carefully down the nearest drain. And fell over. Fell? Was bloody pushed!

An education like mine means you learn to bounce up before some bastard stamps on your fingers. So I was up and ready to run before whoever it was knew it. To run home, of course. Wrong. If Griff thought there was anything amiss, he’d have opened the door before you could say street crime, and whoever had toppled me would have shoved past him and into the house.

So – just like an athlete feet ready for the starting
pistol – I waited, tense and ready for action. Action as and when I could see who and where my assailant was. More sodding cloud. Yes, there was a figure already pushing hard at our front door. I almost thumbed my nose and jangled the key. No. No point in bravado. I stayed put, my right hand clasping the jug, as if it would comfort me like a teddy. At last the figure gave up, heading towards a car parked under one of the village’s historic trees, much prized by our dratted councillor. Whenever pruning was mentioned, he spoke passionately of shade on hot sunny days. I muttered about providing cover on dark nights.

The car started, first time, and pulled into the street, headlights full up. I couldn’t see the colour or make, but there was one thing I could see – it was heading straight for me. Olympic sprinters, eat your heart out: I was out of the non-existent blocks and over the nearest garden wall as if a gold medal depended on it.

So how would I be able to identify the car again? Without thinking, I hurled the jug at it, hard as I could. The windscreen didn’t break. The jug did. And I sat on whoever’s front door step and howled.

‘It was my favourite, my absolute favourite,’ I sobbed, as Griff gently but firmly took the shards from my hands and consigned them to the bin.

Tony, in the same fetching get-up as before, was swabbing the odd cut on my hand.

‘It’s just a jug, Lina, for goodness’ sake,’ Griff continued. ‘We’ve sold hundreds better, and hundreds worse.’

‘Shock,’ Tony said, out of the corner of his mouth, as if I wasn’t supposed to hear. ‘Hot sweet tea.’

‘But that’s the whole point,’ I sobbed. ‘I was throwing the milk away when this guy socked me and then he drove at me. And yes, I know I said his headlights were on main beam, but he must have turned them off as he went past – there were no tail-lights or lights on the number plate.’

‘I’ve got plenty in the fridge back home,’ Tony said. ‘I’ll be back in half a tick.’

‘Here’s the front door key. Don’t leave the door ajar in case they come back.’

‘They’re miles away now,’ he insisted, but took the key anyway.

‘Brandy. You need a shot of brandy,’ Griff announced, toddling off despite my insistence that I didn’t. ‘Well, I do!’ he declared over his shoulder.

When Tony returned he declared it was better for me to stick to tea, or at least drinking chocolate, which he’d brought with him. He and Griff might see what parts the brandy reached. I didn’t argue – I loathed the stuff.

‘I reckon they were part of the Kitty Gang,’ Tony said, swirling the brandy round in its balloon till even I could smell the fumes.

‘Jesus! That’s very reassuring! Being run over by bastards with a stupid nickname!’

‘It should be reassuring. We’ve got extensive reports of old people being jumped when they let the cat out – or especially back in. Seems one of them makes a noise like a distressed moggie, the owner goes to look and – bingo! – he or she’s smashed over the head and their house done over. The funny thing is, a couple of times someone’s phoned for an ambulance: they can’t be all bad.’

‘Well, you’ve certainly put my mind completely at rest,’ I observed. ‘It could have been a thoroughly nasty person, the sort that drives their car at pedestrians lying in the road!’

‘That is new,’ he conceded. ‘A very unwelcome development. I’ll see the investigating officer hears about that tomorrow. Today.’ He got up, yawning as he stretched. ‘The best thing you can both do is get some sleep and tell the colleague I’ll send round all about it. OK?’

‘Hang on: how did Chummy know I was going to pour milk into a public drain?’

‘I’m sure he didn’t. He – or, of course, she – might have simply been waiting for any door to open. Or been just about to miaow outside a neighbour’s – hasn’t Mrs Hatch got a cat? You just provided a nice opportunity for a bit of opportunistic crime.’

The theory made sense. And I’d like to say I bought it.

Griff was still sober enough to shake his head. ‘There are altogether too many coincidences for my taste. Surely you darling boys in blue should be as suspicious as I am, and start keeping a special eye on our humble abode?’

Tony muttered things about resources and priorities and beat a hasty retreat.

When I lay down to sleep, knackered as I was, my brains felt like a hamster on a wheel. The birds were already in mid-chorus by the time I fell asleep.