Guilt Edged (20 page)

And if so, what on earth was he doing outside our shop?

O
ne thing was certain: I was not going to find out tonight, as I told Phil when I reported back.

‘Lovelorn swain, is he?' He cackled at his take on village life.

‘Could be. He'll be a cold lovelorn swain by the morning, won't he?'

‘You're a hard woman, Mrs Tripp. I'll cast a beadie over him from time to time, so you can go and get your beauty sleep.'

Tristam's car had gone by the time I woke up to a chilly house in the morning. So there was still no power. When I phoned the emergency helpline I got a recorded message assuring me that they knew about the problem and were working hard to solve it. Well, they'd hardly say that one man and his dog would have a look when they'd finished their breakfast. Local radio was more informative. Someone had nicked a whole lot of cable from our local substation and replacing it would take till noon at the earliest.

Great. Last night's mist had become fully-fledged fog, so with no lights the chances of finishing any delicate repair work were zero. Nothing I could do using the computer, either.

I called Paul and Mary to suggest they didn't come over till there was some reason to open the shop: like lights, a till and a working credit card terminal. I left a large handwritten notice to that effect on the door. I phoned Carwyn, but he wasn't in the office and wasn't expected back till noon the following day. Great.

So leaving the cottage and shop under Geoff's eagle if far distant eyes, I set off on foot to Brian's premises.

They were, of course, in darkness too. Brian, phone clamped to his ear, was too busy trying to locate an emergency generator to do more than flap a hand; Helen stared longingly at the coffee machine; the office staff huddled together as if their mobiles would provide heat. But where was Tristam? There was no sign of his car.

‘Oh, he looked like death so I sent him home,' Helen said, offhand. Then her eyes gleamed. ‘Of course, if I'd known you were hoping for a
tryst
with him …'

‘I hope you breathalysed him first,' I said unkindly, cutting across her little joke. Or whatever.

One of the office staff abandoned her phone, turning to me with huge eyes. ‘Tris? Was he ill?'

‘Not as far as I know,' I responded coolly. ‘He just spent last night slumped behind the wheel of that car of his outside our shop. The security people didn't spot him till midnight and I wasn't about to toddle down in my nightie to offer sympathy and a hottie bottle. Not with the security cameras following my every move,' I added.

‘But what if he'd died?'

There didn't seem to be an answer to that. Eventually, I settled for something neutral. ‘All I want to know is why he should choose my cottage to park by. Which is why I came down,' I told Helen. ‘To ask him.'

Tris's fan pushed forward again. ‘I could call him? Text him?'

I nearly snarled, ‘So could I.' But I'd been young and in love once. I produced the most grown-up smile I could, horribly patronizing. ‘I'd prefer to speak to him face to face, thanks.'

Since there were still a couple of hours to go before the power was likely to come on again, I headed out to Smeeden. It wasn't a particularly pretty Kentish village, but it did have a small antiques and collectibles fair every Thursday – so small, and so focused on collectibles rather than genuinely old items, that Griff and I no longer took a pitch. The question was, would it have electricity? It did. So I handed over my one pound entrance fee and strolled round casually, just like any other punter.

Battered teddies; Dinky cars with no paint; lots of Fifties' china; a huge area of second-hand books. There were a few more interesting stalls, at one of which I found for fifteen pounds a mauve Fieldings' Devon lustre planter, just right for one of the plants Griff had acquired while he was in hospital. A willow-pattern meat dish – genuine Chinese, would you believe it? Not hugely valuable, but worth much more than the fiver I had to fork out. Another root around unearthed a Shelley bonbon plate, which I bought just because I liked it – and, come to think of it, it matched a couple of other items in store so I'd have a set to offer, which was always more profitable.

Next, a stall groaning under model animals. Normally, I wouldn't even have paused, but Puck and his friends had given me an irritating interest. Yes, Puck's cousin, in brown, was there, badly chipped and on offer at fifteen pounds. I didn't have the least inclination to buy him and embark on the spot of restoration Rob Sampson might have encouraged me to do to improve the price. What I liked much better was a little model of a cat. It was only about six inches high, a purply-grey colour, with far bigger eyes than it should have had and its paw on a cartoon-like mouse. But Tom and Jerry it was not. I didn't know anything about it, but my divvy's instinct was working overtime, so I would have coughed up the sixty quid the stallholder was asking without turning a hair. I might have asked for – and probably got – trade discount, but I preferred not to. As it was, with hardly a haggle, I got it for fifty. Just to show there was no ill-feeling, I pottered around a bit longer, buying some home-made cakes (at the WI stall) as a bonus.

The power came on just as I opened our front door. The return of civilized life. Computers. Lights. And – in response to my phone call – Paul and Mary.

I wanted to nip down to Tenterden to show Griff the cat and pick his brains about its identity, so at about four I phoned to invite myself to supper. Griff sounded delighted but cautious – the fog was already getting thick, and he didn't want me to take any risks. How about tomorrow evening, weather permitting?

It was no more than murky in Bredeham, but, since they'd not seen a customer all afternoon, I sent Mary and Paul home early, as usual locking up the big yard gates behind them. This was one time when our fortress was vulnerable – the gates were, of course, heavy, and even at my briskest I couldn't move them quickly. In the past I'd have been carrying keys – now, in the most recent upgrade, we'd changed to touch pads. Griff hated them because he was always afraid he'd forget at a crucial moment.

The first was closed, and the second halfway there when a figure appeared. In an instant what was really no more than mist seemed to become the sort of swirling fog you imagine at the start of
Great Expectations
, but at least it wasn't Magwitch that materialized on the pavement outside. It was Tristam.

I couldn't read his expression at all. If I'd been him, I wouldn't be best pleased. In fact, I might owe him an apology: I'd given away information about him he'd no doubt have preferred to keep to himself. Whatever sort of conversation was about to take place, it was going to take place in front of our cameras. Leaving the gate ajar, I stepped into the street.

‘I know it looked bad last night,' he said. ‘I know it did. But I just wanted to see you. And you know that song – about the street where you live.'

Him! Love me! Nah, didn't buy that, not for one minute. I didn't even think he had a crush on me, not the way he'd behaved when we'd had those drinks together.

I mimed a phone. ‘Call? Text?'

‘But not at that time of night. I just wanted … and then I fell asleep,' he admitted.

I must not laugh. Absolutely must not. ‘Anyway, here I am.' But I found myself folding my arms. Defensive? Or combative? If I wasn't sure how it would look, it was because I wasn't sure how I felt. I added an encouraging smile. Was this how Morris felt when he was dealing with me, an adult indulging a kid?

Fog or no fog, I could see his blush from where I stood.

‘I was wondering – would you fancy a drink?' he blurted. ‘The Crown?'

A quick check of the watch. I ought to get at least two more hours' work in, preferably more. ‘About half seven? But then I have to do some more work – I've got a contract to finish.' In other words,
Tris, you're not coming back with me
.

His mouth opened a few times which I took to mean yes.

‘Great,' I said. ‘See you then.' I tried to make my retreat behind the gate look leisurely, but all the same I was happiest with it locked.

Drat the boy. I really didn't want to go out, especially with him, because there were a lot of things I didn't want to let slip, especially to someone else in the trade. I'd have to stay on the wagon and make sure he did the talking, which he usually did anyway. But not about me and my doings.

That was what was different about this evening's drinks, which, as I'd expected, I bought. I drew the line at buying us both food, though – I was telling him the straight truth that I really did want to get back home to work. Even as I made the point I felt mean – after all, I had a sound income, and occasionally busted a gut to earn it. And I'd have to eat something anyway.

He started picking my brain about other auction houses in the area.

I countered with another question. ‘Are you fed up with Brian? He's got a wonderful wide range – you must be learning a lot there.'

‘I was just thinking of a paying job,' he said, tugging at my heart strings.

‘Brian and Helen are the only people I'm friends – as opposed to friendly – with. I couldn't give you half a dozen names and tell you to phone them and say, “Lina Townend says you should give me a trial.” I'm just another dealer to most auctioneers.'

He wouldn't take no for an answer, listing all sorts of firms in Kent and Sussex, and asking for my opinion. But I hadn't had years of training – both dodging trouble on the streets, and then, for professional reasons, with Griff – to know when to keep shtum. Mention the Lyminge Sale Room and the one near Hastings I would not, just in case I mentioned my plans for tomorrow. Double tact; double silence.

‘What about people in your line? Dealers. There must be someone you know who'd give me a job. I mean – while your partner's ill, couldn't you do with a hand? National minimum wage – that's all I'd ask. As a friend. Come on, think about it – someone to do all the heavy work. And didn't I hear that old bat of yours, the one that yacks all the time, is going on holiday soon? How'll you manage without someone in the shop?' He grabbed my hand.

Now how did he know that? Of course, Mary wasn't the most silent and discreet of people. But I didn't like to hear her described like that, not one bit – even if, especially if, that was how I'd once thought of her.

‘Mary's a highly experienced shop manager,' I said curtly, removing my hand. ‘But at least I'll talk the idea over with Griff. Another half? Because it's time I got back to work.'

‘I
told
you that you needed help!'

‘I'm just about to make from scratch an entire hand for a Staffordshire figure, and paint and glaze it so well that no one but me will be able to tell what I've done without looking at the documentation I give them and their insurance people. When you can do that you can help.' I shouldn't have said that, not in that tone: it was too brutal. I added with a smile, ‘I'm really sorry, Tris, but you've got a wonderful brain and plenty of brawn, but not these.' Safely out of range, I waved my fingers at him.

‘It's not fair. I've studied for years. I've got all the qualifications anyone could dream of, and a few more. And no job. But you – you don't have so much as a GCSE, do you? Sorry. Shouldn't have said that.'

Damned right he shouldn't. But how did he know?

He had the grace to blush, and he changed the subject quickly. ‘Are you going to bid for anything at the sale on Friday?'

Should I go for his jugular? On the whole I couldn't be bothered. Besides which, getting angry made my hands shake. So I answered coolly: ‘Not this time. In fact I—' I'd nearly dropped it out, hadn't I? ‘In fact, I'm expecting a vase from Harvey Sanditon. He'll expect absolute priority – and pay for it,' I added fairly, even though I was lying through my teeth about the vase.

‘That's the upmarket guy you were shagging, isn't it?'

Who'd told him that? I suppose the world of antiques was small enough. ‘How dare you! He's married, and I don't do married men. Or, to be frank, men who sit outside my house at midnight. Sorry, Tris. But at least you know where we stand. Mates.' At best. At very best.

‘But Lina—'

Hell, he was only trying to snog me, here in the bar!

‘You emptied the ice bucket over him!'

‘Only a couple of cubes.'

‘Even so, he won't like that!' Afzal looked more serious than amused. He tipped extra salad between the thick cheeks of the naan bread. ‘Some guys don't cope with humiliation. Look, I'm just making up a takeaway order. Rafiq'll take it and give you a lift. Just in case.'

Rafiq was another cousin – how many did he have, for goodness' sake? I'd never met him before, but he seemed to know his way around the village.

‘You're that antiques lady, innit?'

‘Right.'

‘Cottage and shop, innit?'

‘Right.'

Pausing only to make sure the delivery order was anchored, he set out. Talk about bats out of hell! Still, maybe that was how they drove in Birmingham. So he didn't see me gripping the seat as if my life depended on it – maybe it did! – I mentioned that Griff had once taken me to Edgbaston for a day at a Test Match. Well, I didn't reckon he'd want to hear about my adventures at NEC antiques fairs.

Bingo. We nattered about cricket during the short journey home in his van. But to my amazement he shot straight past the cottage.

‘Someone there,' he said. ‘In the shadows opposite. Saw the light of his mobile
.
I'm going to deliver this order and then bring you back. OK?'

The speed he was going it had to be OK, didn't it?

At last he screeched to a halt, grabbed the insulated bags and hurtled off on foot. I called the security firm, to flag up – in his own words – to Phil that we might have someone to worry about.