Guilt Edged (24 page)

‘Would he buy one just because he loves it? I think it's you my friend would welcome. Shall I make a phone call? Toby's house is pretty well on your route home. Valleys, it's called.'

We waited while he fished out his mobile and dialled. The conversation was short. At one point Richard frowned as he turned to us. ‘Can you be there at nine? Excellent. Nine tomorrow morning it is, then.'

I didn't care how many people he might have killed in his past, or how he'd made his loot; in my book Sir Richard was suddenly a friend. Particularly as it was clear he wasn't including Aidan in the proposed visit.

V
alleys, not surprisingly, was tucked away where two streams joined, deep in the eastern part of the Cotswolds. I suppose its chief security lay in the fact that no chance traveller would guess it was there, the drive like just another farm track, with no entryphone or obvious security cameras.

Likewise, the house looked ordinary – large, yes, if not on the scale of Warebank Court; late Jacobean; beautifully weathered. It wouldn't have been out of place in the National Trust portfolio, but it was far too ill-kempt to be taken for a publicly-visited stately – more like my father's territory, for instance, than the trustees' chunk of Bossingham Hall land.

A man about Pa's age and with a similar disregard for the niceties of fashion, not to mention shaving, opened the door. ‘Toby Byrne,' he said, shoving out a hand. ‘And you must be Mr Tripp and Ms Townend.'

‘Griff and Lina,' Griff suggested politely.

He nodded. ‘Toby. Welcome to my poor abode.'

I wasn't so sure about that description, because now I could see some serious security – only partly concealed by the door frame was another frame, with the sort of sensors you get in some shops that scream if you try to leave with tagged goods. All the windows were locked, too, with gratings in place where there weren't original shutters. Deep within the house some very large dogs bayed – and though they sounded as if they came from the same sort of electronic source as our Fido, I didn't want to go and check.

‘No trouble, no trouble at all!' he declared, overriding Griff's murmured apologies. ‘There's a steady stream of students and scholars – not the same thing at all – coming to look at my collection. I'm sure Richard told me, but I forget: which are you? Student? Scholar?' He nodded at each of us in turn.

‘Neither,' Griff replied. ‘I'm a humble antiques dealer. My young partner is an international expert on fakes and forgeries – just back from an assignment for Interpol.' Talk about over-egging the pudding. But he wouldn't want me to glower at him in public.

Toby regarded me from under eyebrows that needed reaping, not a simple trim. ‘Background?'

‘Not academic,' Griff put in again. ‘In fact, as Richard may have told you, she's an unqualified success.'

I managed a demure stare at my shoes. But I was squirrelling away the phrase for future use – on someone like Tris when he sneered at my background.

The two men laughed at his joke. They seemed to have taken to each other. How would Aidan feel about that?

‘Coffee? Before or after you've looked your fill – not during, as some young people seem to assume. Would you believe I caught one eating chocolate with one hand, a priceless specimen in the other? This way then,' he continued, assuming we'd gone for the latter option. ‘Oh, just leave your coats and bag there, please. The room's kept at a constant temperature; constant humidity too.' He pointed to a bin which he locked, pocketing the key. All very efficient, no matter how informal he might be.

Toby Byrne had chosen an inner room to house his collection, and, like Sir Richard, he stored it in long, shallow flat drawers. ‘Look your fill. Please use that desk and those pencils if you want to take notes. Use the spotlight sparingly. And, of course, cotton gloves at all times. Even when you're jotting – don't want you forgetting to put them back on.' He barked a laugh and stepped outside. ‘I'd prefer to lock you in, which is my usual practice, but Dick assures me you're kosher. All the same, I'd rather you pressed this button when you want to come down.'

Rather to my surprise, out on the landing Griff got into a technical discussion about security systems and their pros and cons; I let them get on with it. All I wanted to see was the contents of the drawers.

They were arranged chronologically, with sections for major artists. There were subsections marked ‘Attributed To' and ‘School of'. Unable to resist, I headed briskly for my favourites, Hilliard and Isaac Oliver – but stopped myself. ‘Attributed To' and ‘School of' first. Porridge first, and only then the marmalade.

‘Oh, you can have more light than this, young lady!' Toby declared, making me jump out of my skin. As he twirled the dimmer switch, he added, ‘Your grandfather's gone to the lavatory. So listen for the bell – I'll need to escort him back. Now, why are you wasting your time on the Championship players when you can have Premier League? Look!' He closed the drawer I was looking in and opened the one above it. And howled like an animal in pain.

In the centre, in pride of place, was a card marked Nicholas Hilliard: unknown gentleman. Above it was a delicate gold frame. But it was empty.

The bell rang – Griff needed to be let out. But it was clear Toby wasn't going to leave me alone this time. He slammed the door on me, and I heard the bolt shoot home. And no matter how long and how hard I rang the bell, nothing happened.

I could pretend that I gave calm thought to my situation and made a rational response to it. Or I could admit to spending a few minutes howling in terror and banging on the implacable door. Gradually, it dawned on me that he wouldn't keep me there for ever – just until the police or his security people arrived.

A few minutes of the breathing my therapist had taught me brought a few more ideas. Since I was locked in with things I wanted to look at, I might as well look at them. So, drying my eyes, I did. Drawer by beautiful drawer. Each drawer responded to being opened by supplying extra light. What a good system.

And what marvellous works – and what dodgy ones – were mine alone, for a few minutes at least. No wonder people became obsessive collectors – paintings, matchboxes, whatever. I was so absorbed with them at first that I didn't register the vibration in my jeans pocket. Bloody hell, I'd still got my mobile on me! And a signal in the middle of nowhere, while we struggled for coverage at home.

The caller was Rob Sampson, of all people, with news that he'd been offered a white Beswick horse. He was inclined to chat, but since I was getting low battery warnings, I cut him off short. First I called Griff: voicemail. Who next? I was just about to call the police and ask them to arrest me, when I thought of our security system. It was a long shot, but what if Toby was his client? He'd know if there was a hidden exit button, just in case Toby ever locked himself in by accident.

By some miracle it was Geoff who was on duty. I rattled off my password. ‘Is Toby Byrne, who lives at a place called Valleys, one of your clients? Quick, Geoff – running out of battery.'

‘Oxfordshire?'

‘Yep. I'm stuck in his strong room. Help me!'

‘I shouldn't tell you this.'

‘I know. Battery's almost dead.'

‘Bottom drawer – those long shallow ones. Right-hand side …' And the voice faded.

Finding the drawer and indeed the right-hand side – hardly rocket science. But what was I looking for? There were no hidden catches, no secret buttons.

There was only one thing to do. Sit still and listen. I'd done it before, with tricky furniture that didn't want to be examined. How about I do it now to save my skin?

No ideas at all.

So I'd do the obvious thing and look at the miniatures before me. I was comfortable enough, after all, and they had their bonus light. Why not make a virtue of necessity – again?

But by now I was really worried about Griff. Why wasn't he riding to the rescue, as I knew he'd want to? What if he was having a long row with Toby – no good at all for his health? Why had I brought him to this out of the way place, miles from ambulances and hospitals and defibrillators and all the other things on which his life depended?

Bottom drawer. Right-hand side. What if I tried to lift it out? It wasn't moving. There wasn't room for even my small hands to get between the side of the drawer and the wall of the cabinet.

I tried the panic button again. Nothing.

Bottom drawer. Right-hand side … What if I lifted out the not very exciting miniature? Would I get an electric shock or be squirted with permanent dye, both weapons in Geoff's armoury?

Shielding myself as much as possible, and braced for the worst, I reached for the miniature and lifted. And the door opened as sweetly as a nut.

What I didn't expect was to step into the arms of two policemen.

I think they were as surprised as I was. Which gave me the chance to ask, ‘Have you arrested an elderly man? Because he's just had heart surgery. Serious.'

‘And I'm the Pope's grandma,' said the younger one.

‘He dies on your watch, you'll look good, won't you?' I might have sounded cool, but I could hardly stop the tears. ‘Please, just check he's all right. Then I'll cooperate in every way I can.'
Which may not be in the way you expect
, I added under my breath.

While the younger one, seriously overreacting, handcuffed me, the older one spoke into his radio, edging away so I couldn't hear the response.

‘Police informant? You don't seem to be registered.'

This wasn't going quite as I'd hoped. I'd not been allowed to speak to Griff, who'd been taken in for questioning, apparently, but at least a spotty young man who introduced himself as an FME, whatever that might be, popped his head round the door of the interview room in which I was trapped with two hostile officers. One was the officer who'd used his radio earlier; the other was an overweight young woman in plain clothes. All three of us stared.

‘A doctor,' he explained, seeing my blank face. ‘Is it you who's ill?'

‘No. My business partner, Griff Tripp.' I explained how recently Griff had had surgery and rattled off the names of the pills he relied on. ‘You can check for yourself – they're in his overnight bag. Except that's in our van, isn't it? He's also got one of those little puffer-sprays for if his angina returns. He might just have that on him. But look at his scars if you're not convinced.'

He nodded cautiously and withdrew.

‘So what's this story about being an informant? Not very helpful for a young woman caught in the act of removing someone's property. Come on.'

I wouldn't be rushed. ‘I'm not going to be awkward and demand to have a solicitor before I answer any of your questions. First up, I didn't say I was an informant. I said I was working with the police on a fraud issue.' Griff would hate me for using such a grey word, but maybe they'd think it sounded professional. ‘And,' I continued, ‘I'm about to give evidence in a major trial. I'll be in the witness box, not the dock.' My smile was bleak. It wasn't something I was looking forward to.

The woman regarded me coldly. ‘Does that prove anything? Didn't Blunt work for the Queen herself while all the time betraying his country?'

Who? No point in shouting my ignorance. ‘I'm not an informant, but I repeat, I am working with Kent police. At DCI Freya Webb's suggestion, I'm liaising with one of her colleagues.' Whose name I'd forgotten. Bloody stress. Often if I kept talking the missing word – or name – would come of its own accord. ‘Why don't you fish my mobile out of the evidence bag it's no doubt lurking in and charge it up? You'll find the name of Carwyn Morgan. He'll tell you what I've been up to.' Like he'd tried to get me to finger Titus, and I'd refused. I ground my teeth. No, better to keep talking. ‘I told him some time ago that I believe someone is engaged in fraud. They take an ordinary cheap model horse and repaint and reglaze it so that it fetches at auction ten times its worth. And maybe the same person, maybe someone else, is doing the same for some art pottery called Ruskin ware. I've kept DC Morgan informed and was due to join him in a video conference alerting auction houses to the scam. He's been too busy,' I added bitterly.

‘And what's a slip of a kid doing playing with the big boys?'

It was out before I could stop it. ‘That's remarkably sexist language!' That got them on my side, I don't think. Since I'd lost them, I continued in what I hoped was assertive, not aggressive mode: ‘I really think you and Toby Byrne have got hold of the wrong end of the stick. He panicked when he discovered one of his miniatures was missing. He trapped me in his strong room and probably locked Griff in the loo. But the painting was missing when he – not I – opened the drawer. I don't know what's become of it. I wish I did. A Hilliard.'

‘You had another one in your hand when you exited the room.'

‘So I did. A really poor one. I was wondering why it was in there with others that were so much better. I picked it up and the door flew open.' I'd better keep Geoff out of this, hadn't I? ‘As for the Hilliard, to speed things up you can search me. Strip search me if you insist.'

‘I presume that's because you handed it to your accomplice,' said the stout young woman.

‘Couldn't have done. He was in the loo. And Toby had locked my bag away when I went into the house. Officers, I'm as puzzled as you are. It's like an old-fashioned locked room mystery.'

There was a tap on the door. The stout female DC left – or exited, of course, to use their jargon. She was replaced by someone else who slid silently into the corner just behind me. It wasn't reassuring to see the uniformed guy mouthing something – it looked like a question – and getting a response I couldn't see, which he acknowledged with a flick of the eyebrows.