Silver Guilt (24 page)

‘You might be smiling at me now,' he said, giving me a hug, ‘but you looked pretty grim a few moments ago. Want to talk about it?'

You couldn't fend Robin off. ‘I'd love to. But I wouldn't know where to start.'

He peered over my shoulder. ‘You're going to feed your father?'

‘He's not an animal in Lympne zoo.'

‘They'd have a job trying to return him to the wild. Why don't I come too? It's been a while since I visited him. And it'd save me having to cook.'

‘You make it sound as if I'm doing you the favour, not the other way round.' He always did, come to think of it. ‘Tell you what, I'll just phone Griff and tell him I shall be late and not to keep supper for me.'

Usually Griff would have sounded a bit hard done by, but as soon as I mentioned Robin he perked up. The trouble was, by the time I got home he'd have spent a whole evening matchmaking, and would probably have worked out that the Archbishop of Canterbury was the only one suitable to conduct the wedding service.

I just found Robin nice, easy company, but I had to admit, as we fastened our seat belts, that I was glad I wasn't wearing Piers' flashy ring.

Robin's presence brought out the best in my father, who insisted on joining us in the kitchen while we prepared the food. He made green tea in some very pretty eighteenth-century coffee cans, smirking as I registered them, and dug in a cupboard to find a bowl for our fruit salad.

‘Lina says there's no market for cut glass,' he said, patting it. ‘And I'm rather pleased. This is such a pretty thing.'

When it dawned on him he was missing the evening news, he toddled off. But soon he was back, demanding a cloth to wipe his table with. Robin's eyes and mouth made a trio of huge Os. I'd have laughed, except I dare say my own face had the same expression. Ten minutes later he was back for cutlery and champagne flutes.

I'd not yet shown him the photos on my phone, but if the evening was going to turn festive, I'd better do it now. He peered intently at the succession of images, but was so long responding I thought the worst.

‘Cracking little machine, isn't it, Robin?' he asked, waving it under his nose. ‘Have you got one like it?'

‘Mine's a bit more basic,' Robin said, showing him.

‘That doesn't seem right.'

‘I don't need it for my work, like Lina does.'

‘All the same . . . Lina, there must be something you could sell that would pay for a couple – one for Rob, and one for me too. You never know,' he added.

‘Of course I'll find something,' I said, before Robin could argue. ‘But first of all, tell me if you recognize that guy.'

‘It's Darrenarris, of course. One of my sons, he says. One of these days I'll get round to looking in that book of mine, Lina. All I can say is he doesn't take after his mother.'

‘What was she like?' Robin asked.

‘Lord knows. Can't expect me to remember every gal I rogered.'

To my surprise, Robin found my hand and squeezed it.

‘But she'd be a nice girl or I wouldn't have touched her. And surely a nice girl would have had a nice child. Look at Lina, now. Now, a spot of bubbly, everyone?'

He wandered off.

‘How can I explain that it's Lent, Lina? And that I'm not drinking?'

‘He wouldn't get it,' I said. ‘Hang on. Isn't God supposed to be all-knowing and all-forgiving? I reckon he'd balance one glass of fizz against all those onions you peeled. You don't have to get pissed, you know. Any more than I do – after all, I'm driving. Now, before my battery dies, I must send these photos through to a policeman who's very interested in Darrenarris. Very interested indeed.'

When I'd finished, there wasn't even enough battery for a text. If anything, I was rather relieved. I already had one dodgy job to do – cornering my father about Lady Olivia Spedding.

On the other hand, did I want to talk about Piers in front of Robin? My father would blurt out all sorts of embarrassing questions about my relationship with Piers, and the whole point of the conversation was to find out if the man was committing a crime. I wasn't sure if a curate or vicar or whatever would want to hear about such a thing without feeling honour-bound to do something about it – like tell the police.

On the whole, I decided to say nothing. Another day wouldn't matter.

‘So when are you seeing Robin again?' Griff rubbed his hands together with even more glee than when I showed him the Ruskin I'd bought yesterday.

‘I didn't
see
him last night, Griff. We just fed Lord Elham together, that's all, who asked me to flog a couple of bits of Crown Derby so both he and Robin can have phones like mine.' Let him chew on that.

‘But why did you go to see Lord Elham, with a van full of Ruskin, for goodness' sake? You're always complaining about the state of that lane.'

I giggled. ‘I didn't tell you I tipped Robin out at the bottom and made him carry the best stuff.' But I knew I hadn't diverted him. ‘OK. I took some pictures at the sale of someone Titus Oates thought was Darrenarris.'

‘The one robbing the old man left, right and centre? Why didn't you call the police at once?'

‘Titus would have loved that, wouldn't he? In any case, I needed Lord Elham to identify him. And, before you ask, I've already sent the photos through to Morris. Do you want to look, before I delete them? Here. What's the matter? Here, sit down.'

I settled him on a kitchen chair and gave him a glass of water. ‘You know him, don't you?'

‘What if . . . You know, he's very like the man who ran me off the road. Very like. Lina,' he said, taking my hand, ‘what if I've sent the police after an innocent man?'

I hugged him. ‘According to Sally Monk, Dean Pardoe isn't at all innocent, and they wanted to talk to him anyway. He might not be the man who hurt you, but the DNA they get from the van will show that.'

‘You'd better tell her I might have made a mistake. And you'd better tell Morris too.'

S
ince I could feel Griff's ears flapping – he seemed equally keen on Morris and Robin as possible replacements for Piers – I didn't phone Morris but texted him the news that Griff might have been mistaken when he'd picked out Dean Pardoe from Sally Monk's mug shots. I was quite happy to phone Sally herself, who promised to come over as soon as she could, though I could tell from her voice that she didn't think the matter was very urgent. I didn't tell either of them that Titus had warned me to change my route home, just that I was acting on a hunch.

I was just beginning to wash the haul of Ruskin when Griff came bustling in. ‘Dear heart,' he said, ‘I've just remembered I'm supposed to be having my eyes tested over in Canterbury this afternoon. I shall have to put off the appointment, I suppose, if the constabulary are about to descend on us.'

‘You can't drive until you've got new glasses,' I said. ‘I'll let Sally and Morris know you won't be in. Do you want me to take you? I know I'm supposed to be in the shop this afternoon, but Mrs Hatch would be glad of the extra hours, I dare say.‘

‘I could always go by train.'

Normally I'd have said yes. But it's quite a step from Canterbury West station to the optician's, which isn't far from the Cathedral. I wouldn't have thought twice about doing it myself, but I was still a little anxious about Griff.

‘I'll pop round to the shop and see what she says,' he said.

I shook my head. ‘I'll go. You stay and feast your eyes on these beauties,' I said.

‘I'm not an invalid, my angel. You must let me out of your sight occasionally, you know,' he said, not quite joking.

‘OK. I'll start cataloguing them. I can't make up my mind which to put in the shop and which to keep for good fairs.'

‘Remember we've got Antiques for Everyone at the NEC in April,' he said, as he went out of the door.

Which meant some deep pockets, if we were lucky.

Cataloguing was a long and fiddly process, involving recording on our database where we'd bought an item, how much we'd paid and what we ought to ask for when we sold it. These days it also involved taking photos and adding them. And then we'd decide which to sell on line, via our website, which in the shop and which to save for when we wanted to make a big statement, like at the NEC. I was well into the task when I came across one – dark green and a very strange shape, but complete with the factory stamp – I needed Griff's advice on. It was only then it dawned on me that the house was very quiet. I called out. No reply.

Ten to one he was just having a nice gossip with Mrs Hatch. Or with a regular client.

Or—

And it was the last
or
that made me hurtle downstairs two and three at a time. Despite myself I locked up as I ran out of the back door, and set the alarm. Then I was across the yard and with my ear to the little airbrick at the back of the shop. Any voices? Any other sounds? Why should I think I heard a muffled scream?

Retracing my footsteps, I went back through the house – all the alarm and lock business all over again – and, grabbing a jacket, out into the street, walking towards the shop just like an ordinary customer. Rain? Good, I could pull the hood up without looking odd. So I mooched, hands in pockets, dawdling across the road to the pharmacy, as if really interested in hot water bottles, but trying to use the window as a mirror. Nothing. So I crossed back, and pretended to check out the china and glass on display. Griff and Mrs Hatch were where they should be, behind the counter. They were still on their feet. Thank God. Clutching each other? Not so good. The customer looked familiar, despite the ski mask. And the sword he was holding looked familiar too. I was more used to seeing it in its sheath, in our most secure display cabinet. Not with its blade bare, jabbing near their throats.

Why the hell hadn't one of them had the sense to press the panic button and set off the alarm? It wasn't just the house and shop it rang in – there was a direct line to Maidstone police station.

I had to rescue them. I stripped off my jacket, ready to sling it at the man, and then overpower him. The movement caught Griff's eye, but he looked away immediately, though I could have sworn he shook his head, ever so slightly.

What did he mean?

And then I remembered the words he'd made me repeat every time I'd served in the shop in the first year of my apprenticeship. If there's trouble,
Don't be brave, be clever
.

I couldn't move. I wasn't clever. I was bloody dim.

But suddenly I was cunning. Moving casually away from the shop, I prised a brick from a neighbour's wall – sorry – and heaved it as hard as I could through our front door. The alarm was on the same circuit as the shop, ringing straight through to Maidstone. You wouldn't be able to hear yourself think in the house; you'd be blasted in the shop, too. And hidden cameras would start working overtime in both buildings. Plenty of shots of a man in a bloody ski mask, of course.

Still with the jacket in my hands, I sprinted back. What I'd do was hurl it over the intruder's head as he fled. That should hold him up.

It would have done, if I'd thrown it better. Maybe it was one of the things I'd have learned at school – netball or something – if I'd hung round long enough. OK, it tripped him, and he'd have gravel rash on his palms, but he gathered himself up and simply hared off. I reckon I'm fast, but even in my blind anger I was no match for him. I didn't even see his car, just heard it roaring away from the village. Or was it a bike? I was too panicked to tell.

In any case, I was into the shop by then. And then even more scared – no sign of either Griff or Mrs Hatch.

‘Griff?' I screamed, over the racket of the alarm.

‘Behind the counter, angel. Heart attack, I think. Dial 999, for God's sake.'

Even as I jabbed the numbers into the phone I heard the twin horns of a police car. I dashed outside to flag it down. ‘The attacker's gone. But my partner's having a heart attack.'

One officer shoved me to one side so he could get into the shop more quickly. The other spoke into his radio – I heard the words, ‘Ambulance urgently required.'

Don't be brave, be clever.

There'd be aspirins in the house. Weren't they supposed to be life savers? I was in our bathroom before I even knew I'd killed the alarm. The silence was almost shocking.

My Griff. He mustn't die. Mustn't. God, I'll do anything if You let him live.

‘What the hell's that?' one of the cops asked, as I shoved the packet under his nose.

‘Aspirin. To put under his tongue. Let me get to him, please!' I was ready to fight.

‘Get out of the way, miss. For God's sake, get out of the fucking way. We've nearly lost her once.' But he took the aspirins.

Staggering as if I was having an attack myself, I stuffed my hands into my mouth to stop myself calling out. And then I thought of being clever again, and ran out into the street in case the ambulance needed to be flagged down too.

One of the cops came and put a gentle arm round me. He must be about to tell me that Griff had died. Something between a sob and a scream tore out of my throat.

‘Dear one! Dear one! I shall have to slap your face if you don't calm down. Don't make me do that. Please.'

Griff.

The world turned. I didn't often faint, but my ears were rushing now. Only Griff would try to catch me and I'd drag him down. And that would hurt him.

I turned and threw myself into his arms. Or he threw himself into mine. I don't know.

At this point we heard the ambulance.

Mrs Hatch mustn't die. Or Griff would blame himself. Hell, I'd blame myself too. All this Darrenarris business was my fault. And it was hurting other people. Not just me.