Guilty Pleasures (18 page)

When I saw it, I knew what Titus had wanted me to check. A snuffbox. Not just any snuffbox – I knew next to nothing about the things in general, after all. Another copy of the precious original. I didn't even reach out to touch it. I knew the stallholder by sight; I knew nothing bad of him. But in the middle of an interesting – and dead expensive, given the fair's location – collection of silver and pewter was this fake.

Titus caught my eye across the hall. This time I shook my head. He turned away. Trying to keep my face as expressionless as Titus', I headed back to our stall. What should I do? Griff was flirting with what sounded like an old flame, a man who looked so seedy and second-hand that I could only presume Griff felt he needed to keep in practice. I did the obvious thing. I took the money for a pretty pair of Swansea pearlware plates from a waiting and talkative customer and, mobile – the old one – in hand, went outside.

‘Morris – I've found another one.'

‘Shit. What sort of price?' He whistled when I told him. ‘Going on the assumption it's kosher, then?'

‘Not high enough for the real deal, surely? But too high even for what Griff sometimes calls an
homage
. Are you still there?'

‘Just thinking. I'm due for a conference call with Interpol in three minutes. So I can't help.'

‘Bit of a step from London to Exeter anyway.'

‘Not necessarily. It depends who's down there.' He gave a lovely rude laugh. Then he was quiet. ‘Sorry, I'm still thinking. And I'm not sure that you're the one to do this, because of your reputation as a divvie. I need someone to go and buy it. And pay full whack. And get every piece of documentation going. Provenance on the receipt, that sort of thing. But not you. I wonder if I know someone in Devon CID well enough . . . Shit, I'll have to call you back on this. Maybe an hour – maybe two . . .'

‘I think I've solved the problem,' I said. ‘Someone's turned up, and he's just the guy to help.' Sadly, I cut the call.

Two someones, actually. Harvey, who got a formal air kiss, and Trev, who got a proper hug. ‘No, don't go in yet,' I said. ‘This is what one of you has got to do . . .'

Harvey's face grew more serious by the second. ‘And if I won't?'

‘The vase gets it,' I said.

‘Not the Harry Davies!' He sounded genuinely shocked, as if he believed me.

I played along. ‘The Harry Davies I've spent fifteen hours repairing and regilding. That one.'

Knackered and feeling dirty, although we probably weren't, since our caravan had all mod cons, we had to put on our best bibs and tuckers, whatever they were, to dine out with Harvey and, most disconcertingly, his wife, whom I'd never met. I'd have preferred Trev's company, particularly in view of what he'd said about her.

We met near the restaurant he'd suggested, one specializing in seafood down in the Quayside area. As you'd expect on a Saturday evening, the whole scene was buzzing; I was almost disappointed when he led us to a small, quiet place, with only a dozen or so well-spaced tables. I had to admit, however, it was better for Griff's hearing. Even though I'd persuaded him to admit there was a problem and he now sported a pair of hearing aids no one dared notice or mention, he still found loud trattorias trying. And the carpets and table linen were definitely his sort of thing. And, presumably, Harvey's.

Harvey looked as chic as he always did; Griff assured me that good tailoring always did that to a man, a point he himself proved in a suit he'd bought on his London break.

Estelle, who shook hands as if I was a wet fish, was a few years older than Harvey, I thought, despite the work on her face, which left her looking not so much young as desperately sad. However, she wasn't just smart and elegant. She was intimidatingly well turned out, from her beautifully cut and coloured hair to her manicured feet.
Pedicured
feet. I recognized the dress from a Sunday supplement, but didn't know the designer – probably one with a capital D. The wow-factor heavy silver jewellery was modern Danish at a guess. ‘Georg Jensen,' Griff mouthed.

I always found summer difficult to dress for, unless I went for the vintage look Griff preferred, which sometimes made me look like Little Bo Peep. A sudden flutter of the brain made me wonder if Pa had liberated the sheep illicitly from his old nursery. He was quite capable of it, especially when he'd warned me off. I'd plumped for a silk dress Griff had picked out last time we'd been to London together. It hadn't been expensive to start with, and had been further reduced, but he insisted the empire line suited me. It did until I sat down opposite Estelle. Provincial, that was what I felt.

And tonight I felt provincial in my conversation too. Griff was full of London news, not just the opera but a couple of actors – household-name actors – he'd lunched with and the exhibitions he'd been to. Estelle mentioned her box at the ENO; Harvey talked about his friends at Sotheby's. I did what Griff said always pleased people. I let them get on with it and fired occasional questions to show I'd been listening. Since I didn't know what the ENO was, I was a little stuck, especially as I thought to ask might be a question too far.

Then I let a disgraceful thing happen. I let my phone ring. I wasn't sure my blush was because it was so not done or because the caller I switched to voicemail was Morris. At least I had the decency to wait till the main course was over before slipping to the loo.

I was glad the call was over by the time Estelle joined me in there.

I knew I ought to say something. I looked around me at the chic decor – those interesting glass washbasins with the taps and even the soap dispenser operated by hand movement. No towels, paper or fluffy, just one of those Dyson hand driers you put your hands in. So nothing to talk about really. In any case, she'd not seemed the sort of person you could have a girlie gossip with, heading with no more than a nod into one of the cubicles. I touched up my lippie, but since she didn't say anything, decided it was better manners just to slip back to the others.

I was just summarizing briefly – very briefly – to Harvey the conversation I'd had when she returned, looking thunderous for some reason. Should I have waited after all?

‘It was my contact at the Met,' I repeated, so she couldn't complain she didn't know what I was talking about. ‘He wanted to ask how today's operation went and to pass on his thanks to Harvey.'

‘You told him how much he owes me?' It was hard to tell if he was serious or mocking.

‘Yes. He says should the Met go bankrupt, you'd be able to claim it back from the stallholder if he's sold you a pup, which he obviously has.'

‘Or claim a complementary repair from Tripp and Townend,' he suggested, raising an eyebrow at Griff, ‘by way of compensation?'

By now his wife was furious, not sad. Naturally, she was far too polite to say anything, but she oozed cold anger, directed at me, of course. I was just the messenger, but that wouldn't stop me getting shot at if she had a chance.

Harvey didn't seem to have picked up her mood, turning to me with an ironic smile only a degree cooler than his usual flirtatious charm. ‘I take it you'll take the damned thing back with you? I've photographed it and copied all the paperwork, just in case.' He handed over the sort of pretty card carrier-bag that usually comes with a present inside.

‘Thank you kindly, sir. I think.' I wrinkled my nose. ‘Thank you for disguising it so well. I'd seriously prefer no one to know I've got it.' I was going to witter on about being on local TV, but thought better of it. Whatever I said would be the wrong thing for poor Estelle. However, there was one question I must ask. ‘Are you happy with the repair?'

‘Perfectly. As I frequently tell Griff, you are a very talented woman.'

I didn't need Griff's glance to tell me the way to play this. ‘He always makes sure I prioritize the work I do for you: he loves top-end china, you know. I think I understand why we only deal in middle-range – because he couldn't bear to sell the sort of stuff you presumably handle every day. On the other hand, I don't suppose he'd told you he walloped an intruder with a Moorcroft vase the other day – and intends to claim on our house insurance.'

‘It was absolutely hideous,' Griff said, grinning. ‘I shall buy an altogether more tasteful replacement.'

‘Intruder?' Harvey repeated.

At last I could back out of the conversation, with the perfect excuse that I hadn't been there. But Griff recounted how I'd not dialled 999 but had summoned a police officer ex-boyfriend to his aid.

It was a pity for Estelle's sake he'd described Will as an ex. She'd have preferred me to be thoroughly engaged.

Declining an invitation to go back to their house with them – it was quite a schlep and we had to be ready for an early start tomorrow – we sipped a leisurely cup of coffee, though I knew Griff's beauty sleep would suffer, even with decaf.

I was half expecting Estelle to grab my arm and hiss a warning to stay away from Harvey. But I caught her face in repose. It was even unhappier. Trev might not like her, but, despite her wonderful outfit and her admittedly fading beauty, I surprised myself by managing to feel sorry for her.

Until she stopped, turned and asked, ‘You may know a friend of mine, Arthur Habgood. He runs a pretty little shop down here. Devon Cottage Antiques.'

This was worse than grabbing my arm. It was grabbing my identity. Habgood had run a long campaign to persuade me to take a DNA test to prove I was his granddaughter. When I'd refused, for a variety of reasons, one of which was that in Griff I had a better grandfather than any biological one, he'd become very vengeful and had tried to do me a lot of harm. Damaging someone you claimed to want in the family didn't make sense to me.

On the other hand, Habgood had presumably given Estelle only one version of the story, the one that cast him in the light of a dear loving father seeking the only child of his late daughter. He'd probably made Griff the villain of the piece too. As for Devon Cottage Antiques, it could be as pretty as a picture, but it would never replace the equally picturesque Tripp and Townend in my affections. So did she believe Habgood, or, knowing that Harvey didn't like him much either, was she just being malicious?

There was only one person who could reply to her, and that, unfortunately, was me. It was a pity I was way out of my depth with all sorts of relationship undercurrents swirling around and carrying me away from the shore. Was this about Habgood and me, or really about me and Harvey? Or even her and Habgood? Whatever I said, I didn't want to give her any ammunition she could possibly use against Harvey, or against me for that matter.

‘I've never seen his shop. Is it as sweet as it sounds?' I managed. I didn't add that he almost certainly sold dodgy china in it: he'd once tried to flog as perfect something I'd repaired, which was what had turned me against him. I knew Harvey didn't try that game, at least with stuff that had been through my hands. I'd checked his website several times, and anything I'd worked on always warned of some restoration.

‘I'm sure he'd love you to go and see it. It'll be open tomorrow, of course.'

I shook my head with what I hoped looked like real regret. ‘I'm afraid we've got to be on the road very early. Griff had to take time off to recover from being assaulted by that intruder – the one he socked with the ugly vase – and I'm way behind with the restoration work. I've got a courier collecting something I'm working on for a museum on Monday, and it's not quite ready.'

Her voice reduced me to something on the level of a worker ant. ‘So you really do just the gluing and so on?'

Especially the so on. ‘Of course.' I nearly spoilt it by pointing out that Habgood would confirm it, but managed to shut my mouth in time.

‘So it's Griff who runs the company?'

He must have come back to look for me. ‘It is indeed. You could say I'm the public face, doing the contracts, wining and dining clients, and so on. I don't quite lock Lina in an attic with only a candle to light her work, but she's very much a back-room person.' It must have been his acting past – he always lied beautifully. And I was happy for him to do so this time. There was only so much I wanted Estelle to know about me, and we were pretty near that point now.

Suddenly, we were past the point. ‘So why was it you who were dealing with the Metropolitan Police back there? If you're just a back-room girl.'

Again I had a terrible sense that anything I might say would be taken down and used in evidence against me.

Griff jumped in. ‘Oh, Estelle, didn't you notice the rosy glow about her when she took that call? He's her boyfriend, of course. A very special one.'

‘He's the one that asked Harvey to buy that snuffbox. He also wants him to look at some photos,' I said, since we'd reached Harvey himself by now. ‘Did you recognize anyone?' How long was it since I'd sent the huge file through? Now I came to think of it, I felt a bit aggrieved he'd not got back to me, even to say no one rang any bells.

‘Did you need to inflict so many on me? I've only just got through the first scan. Hell, such awful photos, Estelle – they'd have had you spitting tacks. Estelle's quite a dab with a camera, Griff – I often think she could have made a career out of photography.'

If he'd spoken about me like that I'd probably have slapped him. Patronizing bastard. And to think . . . No, it was she who'd married him.

‘But there are a couple of faces . . . I didn't say anything because I wasn't sure. But I'll look tomorrow or Monday, if I have a moment, and get back to you – or direct to that inspector of yours, if you give me his email address.'