Ring of Guilt (11 page)

I clasped his hand. ‘I don't want to go through that again, Griff.'

‘Last time you spoke with as much authority as Counsel could have asked. Just think of it as stage fright, though in truth that's bad enough. But with luck, it may not come to that – in either enquiry. Now, your eye shadow's just a little heavy.' He tissued the spare away, and kissed my forehead. ‘There – let battle commence.' He peered out of the window. ‘At least they've had the sense to turn off those fairground lights they polluted the village with last night.'

Touching his finger to his nose, he set the surveillance system. The policemen might not know it, but even though he disappeared smartly as soon as he'd let them in, shutting the living room door with a sharp click, he'd be able to see if I got upset, and stage a miraculous invasion with a tray of tea things.

I managed to get the men sitting facing the window, so they were better lit than I was. As before they sat shoulder to shoulder. I looked from one to the other – which of them wanted to speak first?

Will.

Did this mean I had a good-cop-bad-cop routine? Because I definitely had Will down as a good cop. But he only spoke to introduce his mate – at last! – as DC Winters. ‘Known to his friends as Bernie or Bleak,' Will said, nicely unofficial again.

‘And what about to people like me? I asked.

‘Dave would be fine,' DC Winters said, with another huge, deep blush, which didn't go at all well with the bruise-like smudges under his eyes.

‘OK. Right: whose questions do I answer first?' All this sounded very competent, as if I dealt with the police every day. But it was the result of an hour's coaching from Griff: ‘If they think you're rattled, they'll do their best to rattle you some more. So make sure they're the ones on edge – but not enough to make them hostile.'

Winters smiled without much amusement. ‘Your body – the body you
found
, Ms Townend.'

I nodded. ‘I'm happy to be Lina. All I did was see this young man in a field. As I said to your colleagues at the time, I should have done the right thing – gone to see what I could do. But I was on my own, with my firm's name blazoned all over the van, which was full of uninsured items, and I was afraid it was a scam. One of my friends was the victim of a similar one not so long ago. He lost his van and everything in it, which was a bit of problem, as you can imagine. Especially since he dealt in silver.' Was I talking too much? It sounded fine, but was it a bit too pat?

He nibbled a fingernail. ‘Did you see any other vehicles in the vicinity?' He peered anxiously at me as if it really mattered.

‘If I had, I'd have flagged one down. There was no network coverage for my mobile, but someone else might have had better luck.'

‘So no cars, no vans, no lorries?'

‘A pretty quiet road on a pretty nasty day. But I can't work out why no one saw him earlier and called him in.' Neither could they, it seemed. ‘I know I should have done more. But to tell you the truth, I was – scared. For my safety.' I lowered my eyes as if ashamed, and didn't tell him that I reckon with the dirty skills learned during my street days I could deal with most individuals who attacked me. To be fair, not two at once. Not now I was out of practice.

He jabbed in my direction with another, badly bitten finger. ‘But you took a photo.'

‘Just in case. Because I could. I don't know.'

‘Did you expect him to disappear? So you wanted proof of your story?'

‘Put it another way,' I said, getting irritated, ‘I was afraid that if I stopped another driver they wouldn't believe me. And I don't think your mates from Folkestone would have done, when they turned up and found him gone. But when they saw the photo they got all serious. And they found something to interest them – enough to want to keep my phone.'

‘I gather you wouldn't let them.'

‘Would you let them keep yours? All those phone numbers and appointments? Quite.' I smiled. ‘In any case, they had the photo – surely that was all they needed.' I paused. ‘Why are we going over all this again?' By now I didn't want to call him Bernie, Bleak or Dave. I think my voice might have told him that.

Suddenly he was Mr Nice, all apologies and fluttery movements of those poor hands. ‘I just wanted to get everything straight in my mind. And to hope that talking about the incident might just help you to remember another detail or two. Can we just go back to how he was lying?'

Was one of us being dense? ‘The same as in the photo. On his back. One arm across his chest. One behind his head, but not cushioning it.' I demonstrated.

‘And it couldn't have been a cow or a sheep?'

‘Not according to the photo.'

‘I'm more interested in the photo in your head, so to speak.'

‘Are you trying to ask if he moved between the time I first spotted him and the time I took the photo?' I closed my eyes as if trying to relive the scene. Funnily enough, I saw the body as if in the photo, rather than as I'd first seen it. I tried to see myself catching sight of it, pulling over, deciding not to get out – and then taking the photo. ‘No, I'm fairly sure he didn't. And I didn't see anyone hanging around ready to carry him away, either. Though there could have been – there was a bridleway on the left as I headed north. That would have lead in roughly the right direction. But I didn't see anyone driving up or down it. Or riding, come to think of it.'

That had surprised Will at least. ‘Riding?'

‘Well, it was a bridle path. It said so on the sign. No access for cars or something.' Not for anyone was I going to attempt the word
vehicular.

‘That's very strange,' Winters said, accusingly.

‘Are you saying there isn't a bridle path there?'

‘Not at all. Or rather, there's a perfectly good road there, leading exactly where you said. But it doesn't have any signs like those you've described.'

‘So I've done what that American politician did –
misremembered
? Sorry.'

Winters shook his head. ‘Not necessarily.'

‘Someone changed the signs?'

‘Not necessarily.' This time he said it with menace. ‘Was there something you wanted to say?' He managed to make this into an accusation.

‘Ye–es.' Quite a lot, actually. ‘It's weeks since I saw this, and made my statement. I'm a sucker for stories. I want to know what happens next. And yet this story seems no further forward than when your colleagues first asked me these questions. If it was a body, aren't things going a bit – well, slowly? And if the man was alive, won't he have left tracks your clever forensic scientists could have picked up? And if he was dead, someone else must have picked him up – lots of tracks there.'

‘We're exploring a number of possibilities,' he said, as if that was the end of the matter.

‘I'm sure you are. And here's another possibility. What if you and Will didn't share the same car just because you wanted to save petrol? What if my body and my rings are connected?' Should I have said
the body
and
the rings
? Probably.

Will flicked a swift glance at his colleague. ‘Lina, you know we can't tell you.'

‘In that case they are. Are we talking night hawks here?'

I'd already used this term to Will, the very first time we met, but it hadn't provoked a response like this. I seemed to have pressed a button somewhere in Winters' brain. ‘Night hawks! A fine romantic name for people who plunder and ruin historical sites all in the name of money!' It might have been he who was the Heritage Officer, not Will. To my amazement he got to his feet and smashed a fist into the palm of the other hand.

‘They trespass on valuable farm land and risk livestock. They ruin the archaeology! And they're made to sound like
Boys' Own
heroes! Vandals who desecrate graves!'

Perhaps it was a good job he got nowhere near them – he'd have shoved them in one of those deep doorless dungeons and not bothered with minor details like a trial and a verdict. An oubliette. But goodness knows why I should remember a useless word like that, when I kept forgetting ones I needed.

I risked a glance at Will, who quite clearly didn't know what to do. Neither did I. So I did something, even if it was a bit girly. I nipped into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Griff had already laid the tray with pretty Victorian cups and saucers and a plate of his favourite Waitrose biscuits. All I had to do was fill the cafetière.

When I returned, they'd sat down again, though Dave had moved to Griff's favourite armchair. ‘People with metal detectors, then,' I prompted, pressing down the cafetière plunger. They both stared at my hand, like other men stare at Page Three pics.

‘Detectorists,' Will said at last.

‘Weird word,' I said, wondering what Griff would make of it. ‘But
metal detectives
isn't right, and
metal detectors
means the things they use. Sorry!'

Both men were blinking, first at me, then at each other. They might have thought I was just chuntering, but I was giving myself time to think about other things. Like the connection between my rings and my body.

I jumped into their silence. ‘So am I wrong to think that there is a connection between the enquiries?' In my head I sounded as pompous as Harvey Sanditon. But they didn't seem to mind. Perhaps it reminded them of police station language.

‘It's not impossible,' Will said slowly.

‘So Dave's detectorist might have dug up one or both of the rings that came into my possession and got Sir Douglas all het up?' Not to mention Winters, of course.

‘Possibly. Very well, likely. Several farmers claim that people have been going on to their land without permission. Holes have appeared. A human ulna turned up the other day. Anything to do with this sort of activity comes to me.'

‘Anything?'

‘From English Heritage – they've got an officer with responsibility for liaising with me; from members of the public; from experts like Sir Douglas; from detectorist clubs who suspect one of their members isn't playing it straight. From you, with luck.'

‘I've told you all I know. You have the rings. Still.' I managed what I hoped was a winning smile. ‘I gather the one I bought from Dilly wasn't a foreign dress ring with beads?'

‘Saxon, we think. Possibly imported from Europe. So in part the information on the receipt might be correct. But the so-called beads are uncut gemstones. All the same, it isn't the intrinsic value that's important – it's their historical value—'

‘In particular, their value as part of a complete site, for God's sake,' Dave chipped in.

‘And someone's been digging near the place I saw the body? That's why you're both so concerned!'

Dave's sore, jabbing finger came into action again. ‘We can neither confirm nor deny that.'

Ignoring him, I turned to Will. ‘Is that why there's been no publicity? Because there's something important there?'

Will's face was serious. ‘If we'd told you that from the outset, would you have been more cooperative?'

Anger brought me to my feet. ‘I don't think I could have been more cooperative. I've told you all I know.' There was a heavy silence behind me. ‘What?' I demanded, looking at Winters. ‘Do you really think I'm holding something back?'

His calm smile unnerved me. ‘Oh, yes. You haven't told us about your grandfather, have you?'

‘My grandfather? I haven't got a grandfather as far as I know.'

Winters looked at me with a mixture of triumph and reproach. ‘Come, Lina, the truth, please.'

He couldn't mean Griff. Couldn't. Not the man who'd single-handedly transformed me from a feral teenager to a respectable businesswoman. I wouldn't even breathe his name out loud in case that gave Dave someone else to accuse. At last, as I made myself sit down and breathe quietly, something started to swim through my brain. ‘You don't mean the man who
wants
to be my grandfather, do you? Runs a downmarket version of our firm? Devon Cottage Antiques?'

‘Arthur Habgood. Your grandfather.'

‘Uh, uh. Nothing to do with me. He trails round antiques fairs with a gob-swab in a little tube, but that's as far as it gets. Can't stand the man.' No need to explain about the dodgy plate – they weren't in the business and about to be fleeced.

‘He says you have a reputation for handling stolen goods and—'

‘How dare he! And how dare you come round here and question me without doing your homework. Me handle stolen goods? Get real. And get on the phone to Inspector Morris, of the Met Fine Art Squad.'

He reached inside his pocket.

I was on my feet again, pointing at the door. ‘No, not here. Not in my space. Go back to your office and check. Both of you. And when you're ready to apologize, you can warn my so-called grandfather that there are laws in this country against slander.'

T
he moment I'd slammed the front door on them, kicking it for good measure, Griff was beside me, gripping my hands in one of his and pulling me to him in a healing hug.

I don't think he was worried about the door. He was afraid I'd hit myself this time.

What the therapist had told me to do was breathe slowly and try to work out what emotion I was feeling. Easier said than done. But I tried. Anger? Humiliation or rejection? Or what? I'd had plenty of all three to deal with in my past. Plus a few others.

This time there was no doubt I was angry. If I'd had Arthur Habgood handy, I'd have decked him, without turning a hair. And if he'd had a few plates with him, restored or not, they'd have ended in pieces on the floor beside him. Lots of pieces.

But the person I'd have loved to be my real grandfather was right in front of me. I pressed my face to his shoulder. My shuddering sobs made my teeth chatter at first. He didn't let go until I had enough breath to speak. ‘Any chance of some hot chocolate?' I asked at last, with a really feeble little smile.