Drawing the Line (27 page)

Mistake. The bugger coming up behind me turned it into a straitjacket and I was well and truly trapped.

So here I was, in one of the vans, still parked at Bossingham Hall. I was trussed far more viciously than I’d tied the men I’d socked. I seemed to be on my own. I’d tried to talk to my captor but he not only didn’t reply, he also taped my mouth. At least I’d left my mark – I’d bitten his thumb as hard as I could. OK, that had earned me a stunning slap, but at least if the police ever did turn up there’d be something for their forensic mates to work on. He also taped my eyes, which I took as a good sign. Some criminals got sniffy about being seen and disposed of their victims if they were.

Hang on: I was not about to be a victim.

I was going to think my way through this.

I would do when I’d got my breath back after being shoved flat on the floor with nothing to cushion my fall.

Tony Baker. How had he got involved with all this? And why? He’d seemed to go out of his way to be helpful, though not very efficient. Did that mean that, as I feared, Marcus was caught up in it too? Nothing Copeland did would really surprise me, of course. But what about Hoodie? And Dave? Where did they fit in? Not to mention Dan Freeman? And also, now I had nothing particular to do except think about people whose paths and mine had crossed, the guy at Folkestone asking whose granddaughter I was? The helpful clergyman: was he the decent man he ought to be?

But my thinking time was over. Except for thinking on my feet. To which I was hauled with no more warning than the sound of trainer-clad feet on the van’s
tailgate.

He yanked off the tape brutally. But believe me, when brutal hair removal equals swift, I’d chose brutal every time. ‘The book. Where the hell’s the book?’

I tried to roll with the smack that came with the question. And with the return blow. ‘I honestly don’t know,’ I said, trying to sound frank and reasonable. ‘What does Lord Elham say?’

‘I asked
you
.’ The voice didn’t sound naturally rough, more like a fifties black-and-white film actor trying to sound rough – you know, the sort of thing you get on TV on a wet Sunday afternoon, Laurence Harvey pretending to be a working-class lad despite the socking great plum in his mouth. I’d no idea who it might be.

‘I’ve told you I don’t know. Why should I?’

‘You’ve been here often enough. Selling things for the old bugger. Right?’

Remind him you’re a person with feelings
: that was what they told people confronted by criminals. ‘Right. But only one egg-cup so far. It’s a matter of digging stuff out of the rubbish and cleaning it up. Did you ever see such a place?’

The result of all my friendly attempts was another slap. How would I convince Griff I hadn’t done this myself?

‘The book!’

‘The one with the page I bought? A copy, anyway. I told you, I’ve no idea. I’d hand it over if I had – the old guy’s nothing to me.’

‘He’s your father, isn’t he?’

‘Nope.’ Well, he still didn’t feel like a father – never would, probably. ‘I think it’s probably a guy from
Devon. Another antiques dealer. Devon Cottage or some such. But I hope you haven’t hurt Lord Elham. He’s a dopehead – hardly knows one day of the week from the next.’

‘The sodding book.’ He took another swing at me.

Swallowing blood from inside my cheek, I mumbled. ‘Told you. No idea.’ My tongue told me that at least two teeth moved with very little encouragement. Good job my dentist still took National Health patients like me.

‘Better come up with something better than that. Or the old guy gets it.’

‘How do I know he hasn’t got it already? He looked pretty ropey when I saw him.’
Someone come soon – please
.

‘Let’s talk properly,’ the voice said.

Suddenly my hands were freed. ‘Yes, please!’

But my enthusiasm didn’t last long, not when my right arm was yanked up behind me, the joint screaming, and not when sharp long nails dug into the thumb. Or it might not be fingernails at all. ‘You do pretty delicate work, don’t you? Restoring china. You must need all your fingers for that. What’s the minimum you need to work with? Come on, Lina – that book.’

I took a deep breath. It should be safe by now, provided the clergyman hadn’t run out of fuel again. And provided he really was on the side of the angels. But I still gambled for extra time, even by the second. ‘OK, OK. I might be able to take you to it. Roughly. I told you the truth, honestly. I don’t know exactly where it is.’

‘You’d better find out pretty soon. And tell us.’

‘You won’t get it without me. I’m the only ID it’s got.
It’s in Canterbury.’ It would be by now. Always assuming the clergyman was pukka.

While he and another man – Tony, I rather thought – had a whispered conversation, I fantasised about making a grand entrance to the Cathedral, propelled by a bent policeman and his mate, demanding the keys to the safe. What if I made a bolt for it, claiming asylum on the altar steps? Would the Old Guy who lived there strike these two dead if they touched me? It hadn’t quite worked out that way for St Thomas, had it? And I wasn’t sure about the ins and outs of being a martyr and a saint in the twenty-first century. So I rather hoped it wouldn’t come to that. In any case, if there was a concert taking place, there’d be stewards to grab me and a whole orchestra to get tangled up with.

And to put at risk. With several million pounds at stake, these blokes could get really nasty.

And did. All of a sudden, my hands were yanked up again, but not taped. ‘Who the fuck are
you
?’ There was a sound of bone on bone, and my captor sagged, letting me slip.

So help had arrived. And to my everlasting shame and regret, to celebrate I passed clean out.

‘I’m all right. Perfectly all right, I tell you.’ It wasn’t the paramedics’ fault I was growling. It was my own. I’d come to quick enough as soon as the blood got back to my head. But in turkey-mode, eyes blacked out, there’d been nothing I could do except lie still and think – no, not of England, but of what might or might not be going on around me. There were armed police: their warning shouts would have awakened the dead. Then some
medics arrived, to be despatched inside. At last the noise subsided and someone picked me up quite gently and propped me in a sitting position, not at all comfortable with my hands behind my back. Whoever did the next bit ought to have trained on leg-waxes: so slowly were my gag and blindfold removed I almost wished my vicious captor were back. But there was no sign of him. When my hands were free I had a feel round my face: some eyelashes still there, not a lot of eyebrow, and an upper lip as clean as a whistle. But I didn’t linger anywhere long. My cheekbones and cheeks felt as bad as in the old days, screaming for arnica or whatever. But if I wanted answers they and the jiggly teeth would have to form words. ‘How’s Lord Elham?’ I asked the
middle-aged
paramedic who’d plucked me. ‘He was in the house – in the library.’ Not a nice word to say with bruises like these. Could they actually have broken something? ‘In his fifties. Beaten up.’

‘Was that His Lordship? Wow. I’ve never treated a Lord before.’

‘Why didn’t you go with him to A and E – isn’t that the usual system?’

‘Because he wouldn’t go until he knew if you were OK. You could share an ambulance, he said.’

‘If I admit I’m ill enough to go with him he’ll worry.’
It’d be a first if he did
. ‘Tell him I’m fine – don’t need any treatment.’ I closed my eyes to avoid further argument.

‘I’m afraid you might, you know,’ a vaguely familiar voice said. ‘We’ve met before. Robin Levitt.’

I raised a lid with care. The clergyman. ‘Why are your knuckles bleeding?’

‘I had to hit someone.’

‘In the Cathedral?
Natura Rerum
!’ I was scrabbling to my feet before I noticed he was holding out his undamaged hand to lever me upright. There.

‘It’s fine. In the Cathedral safe, as you asked – er – Lina. Are you sure you’re all right? Here.’ He passed me a folded tissue.

‘It’s just so rare,’ I sobbed, ‘to meet someone who is what he says he is and does what he promises.’

He patted my shoulder very cautiously. ‘Is there anywhere in this madhouse we could find a cup of tea?’

‘Not sure about tea,’ I admitted. ‘But if you get rid of the medics, I can tell you where there’s plenty of chilled champagne.’

It was great to hear the wail of the ambulance taking Lord Elham away. They wouldn’t need the siren to cut through swathes of traffic, not out here, but maybe to warn other hapless drivers on the narrow lanes to find a gateway and pull into it. Fast. Maybe police drivers. There was no end of coming and going, with incident tape looped all over and people in white suits and photographers dotting purposefully round like ants. I felt quite sorry for Lord Elham – he’d already had his experience of real life
Casualty
, and I’m sure he’d have swapped a real life
Bill
for it, now the incriminating evidence had safely been removed, at least. Before I could fight my way into the living-room and that welcoming fridge, I was intercepted three times, each time by a different policeman who was inclined to bluster but gave way at the sight of Robin’s dog-collar.

The fridge almost within reach, yet another hand grabbed my arm.

‘Scene of crime, Miss, if you don’t mind.’

‘She needs somewhere to sit down, officer. One of the victims,’ Robin said.

What if he wasn’t a decent man? What if he’d stolen
Natura Rerum
and was about to dispose of me?

‘I ought to be making a statement,’ I said with as much authority as I could muster.

‘Better get her to Maidstone,’ someone muttered.

‘I’m staying here.’

Robin lost his nerve. ‘You’ll only be in the way here – you can see there’s so much going on. If you like, I’ll accompany you – if that’s all right, sergeant?’

‘You a witness too? In that case, thanks but no thanks. Two separate cars.’

‘I’m staying here.’

‘The reverend’s right – you’re in the way.’

‘In the way? When there are a hundred rooms in the house? I think not.’
Think Mrs Hatch – and square those shoulders
. ‘In my father’s absence, I’m responsible for the place. Find me a couple of bottles of champagne from the fridge in there and I’ll wait for the investigating officer in the Yellow Drawing Room.’

Robin clearly didn’t know whether to be amused or embarrassed by my show of authority. Neither did I, to be honest. He was openly terrified when I produced my keys from my back pocket and proceeded to open a display cabinet.

‘We’ve got to drink the stuff out of something,’ I said. ‘And though I’d say this wasn’t top quality glass, at least eighteenth-century airtwist stemmed flutes are not to be sneezed at. I’m sorry you’re missing your concert, Robin – please sit down – but I’m very grateful for your
company. Just who did you hit, by the way?’
Please don’t
let his knuckles fit my bruises
.

‘The man who’d slapped you. The first time I saw you you’d got bruises all over your face: had he done it before?’

I reached for an unopened bottle, pillowing my cheek against it. There’s something quite stylish about soothing bruises with bottles of ice-cold vintage champagne. Oh, yes: Lord Elham might have given me fizz to drink, but it had always been ordinary stuff, if anything costing more than twenty quid a time could be called ordinary. The stuff the police had found for me was truly, frighteningly excellent: it killed pain as well as any aspirin, and perked me up no end after my humiliating failure.

‘I used to self-abuse,’ I said, sitting down hard on sofa, its satin upholstery worn to ribbons, ‘if I got stressed. And I’ve had quite a bit of stress recently.’

‘You might be in for a bit more,’ Robin warned, as the door opened to admit two more men, one in the very well-cut suit of a senior officer, the other less well dressed but vaguely familiar.

It was to the second I turned, rising. ‘I think you owe me an explanation,’ I said, ‘Mr Dan Freeman.’

‘Detective Sergeant
Dan Freeman. Attached to Scotland Yard’s Fine Art and Antiques Squad. How do you do, Ms Townend?’ He held out his hand, which I shook. He was taller than I remembered, and with that disgusting long lank hair close cropped all over he looked much younger. Even his skin looked different, as if he’d found some decent moisturiser. ‘Or is it Lady Elham?’

As I shook my head with irritation – and wished I
hadn’t – the uniformed officer chipped in, ‘According to His Lordship you’re his daughter. I presume you only get the title when he dies –’

‘He’s as ill as that! I must –’

‘No, no. Not well, but stable.’

‘What’s this about a title? Because I’m not –’

‘When that clergyman turned up he was convinced he was dying.’ He turned to Robin for confirmation. ‘He yelled out, “I’m not proud of much I’ve done, but I’m damned proud of that daughter of mine. Pity she didn’t get much education – she’d have made a good heir.”’

‘Talk about damning with faint praise,’ I said, sitting down again.

‘Or,’ Robin put in, ‘praising with faint damns.’

The other men worked that out, Freeman more quickly than the other, and grinned as if they’d thought of it themselves.

‘So are you here to arrest me, Sergeant Freeman? Or will your colleague be doing the honours?’ I played Griff with a dash of Mrs Hatch. That seemed about right for a nearly ladyship.

‘Neither of us will be. This is Detective Superintendent Close, by the way.’ We exchanged gracious nods. ‘Nor any of our colleagues. We just thought you’d like to make a statement about this afternoon’s events. And any others, of course. And we’ll update you as far as we can.’

There was a tap at the door. What I presume was another detective, a young woman in a denim
trouser-suit
I coveted, murmured to the superintendent, who smiled at Robin. ‘Seems your car’s parked a bit awkwardly, sir. And we can’t start it. Do you have the
knack?’

Robin and I exchanged a grin.

‘I suppose you forgot to check your petrol gauge.’

‘Or to fill it up again,’ he grimaced. ‘I’d better come and have a look. Though I must say Lina seems to know more about these things than I do.’