Guilt Edged (25 page)

It was no use getting rattled, however. Not if keeping calm would get me back to Griff more quickly. I concentrated on breathing: I'd always got stressed out of my mind when I was in a situation like this. It had been better when I'd had Morris as back-up, but I'd have to be on my way to the Old Bailey before I'd ask him to vouch for me.

The stout DC returned, looking scornful. ‘Seems she's got friends in high places,' she said. It was either the cat's mother she was talking about or me. She opened the door and gestured with her head. I was to leave. Exit.

The guy reunited me with my phone and bag, sneering at my scribbled signature, and escorted me at breakneck speed through to the reception area – reception indeed! Griff was there, looking grim but healthy, and so were Sir Richard and Charles. Sitting down behind the others was Toby Byrne, grey-faced and looking far worse than Griff had ever done. I went and joined him, taking his icy hands between my warm ones.

‘It wasn't me who stole your Hilliard. I promise. I also promise I'll do everything I can to help you get it back.' Less dramatically, I continued, ‘But you'll have to trust me. And so will the police, I'm afraid.'

He said something I didn't hear. If anyone needed the spotty young FME – it now dawned on me that the initials stood for forensic medical examiner – surely it was him. Moving away as unobtrusively as I could, I said as much to Richard, who responded prosaically by suggesting we all get some fresh air. It seemed he and Charles had arrived in his Merc – the same model as Aidan's, only more recent – and I deduced from the bewildered way Toby was looking about him that the police might have brought him along, though I couldn't see why. Come to think of it, it was more likely that Richard had picked him up en route. Our van was still at Valleys, unless the police had impounded it. So it seemed logical for us all to pile into the Merc and head there. Richard drove, and Charles, sitting beside him, made a lot of phone calls. The rest of us sat like three shocked monkeys in the rear. I couldn't be sure whether either of the others was hearing or seeing evil; none of us was speaking it.

But I was sure as hell thinking it.

A
t last Sir Richard turned the car on to the Valley's track with a convincing spurt of gravel. Boy racer, eh?

Although it was Toby's house, Sir Richard took charge at once. Because the place was still swarming with purposeful-looking people in white suits, he didn't need the alarm code, so he strode straight in, herding us into what was presumably Toby's sitting room, complete with sagging sofas and a TV Noah probably chucked out of his Ark. At least it had a digibox in attendance. Longing to take a duster and hoover to the place, I drifted to the window. The curtains, rotting where the sun had faded them, smelt of age-old dirt. At one time Toby must have smoked cigars.

‘Charles: see if you can find some clean cups in the tip he calls his kitchen,' Richard ordered. ‘Toby: do you have any medication you should be taking? For God's sake, sit down, man. And you, Tripp.' He pointed to the sofa.

They both sat. ‘Bedside table,' Toby muttered.

‘What are you waiting for, Charles? Be off, man, and find it.' Charles did as he was told. ‘Tripp: that medic said you were OK, but do you need a second opinion?'

‘And spend hours mouldering in A and E when all I want to do, to be blunt, is go home? No, thank you, Richard.'

Charles reappeared, clutching a packet of tablets and a glass of water. He selected one of a nest of tables, which he moved one-handed to Toby's side. Toby popped two pills and sipped, nodding his thanks.

‘Good man,' Richard declared – to Charles, I think. ‘Coffee all round? Tripp?'

‘Coffee would be good. Unless Lina's secreted some green tea in that bag of hers, in which case, Charles, a mug of boiling water would be better. Thanks.'

I produced a tea bag. Silently. Charles nodded, and was off.

Meanwhile, I braced myself for Richard's next utterance – to me. Except he was very much Sir Richard, now, with no hint of informality about him. I hoped he wouldn't speak to me as I expect he wanted to, or my self-control might just disappear with an almighty bang.

‘And Lina – ah, Lina … I absolutely believe that you are completely innocent. But that was an extraordinary comment you made back at the police station. Am I wrong to deduce that you know who did take the precious miniature? And if so, why, in heavens name, did you not warn Toby – and preferably the police?'

‘Because I know nothing. Nothing at all. But I feel as if I ought. Griff always says that I have a pair of antennae to pick up the vibes that objects are sending my way. Like when I said that stuff about your coins.'

‘Your antennae …?' Sir Richard prompted, as if angry to be reminded of his moment of vulnerability.

‘Are working overtime. And it feels as if they've tripled in number. People say, “I can't hear myself think,” and that's how it feels in my head. I've told many people before, Sir Richard, and I dare say I'll tell a lot more. I just can't be a divvy to order.'

‘That's regrettable. Because I'm sure we could all do with the benefit of your insights, and sooner rather than later.'

Charles reappeared, carrying a tray. He flashed me a kind smile. ‘I wasn't sure if you wanted green tea as well, Lina, so I've brought both water and coffee.'

I pushed forward another of the nest of tables – Edwardian, a nice rosy mahogany – and instinctively reached in my jeans for a tissue to use as a duster. He passed mugs to Sir Richard and to Toby, while I dunked the tea bag for Griff. Usually, we simply shared one, but I had a feeling that such meanness – or greenness, depending on your point of view – wouldn't go down well at the moment. So I settled for the surprisingly good coffee. None of us touched the plate of biscuits Charles'd dug up from somewhere, even though it was well after our usual lunchtime.

Toby, not looking much better, said, ‘I thought the system was foolproof. The alarms everywhere … even a watch will set off that system by the front door. I lock up bags and cases and coats.'

‘But you didn't confiscate my phone,' I murmured.

‘I assumed it would be in your bag,' he countered. ‘I must ask you to delete any photos you took.'

‘Did you send photos to anyone?' Sir Richard piled in, for all his protestations that he believed I was innocent. ‘They must be deleted too, if it's not too late.'

‘I didn't take any and certainly didn't transmit any. Why should I?' I asked reasonably. ‘I don't know anything about miniatures, let alone deal in them. And since as far as I can see there's no way of getting the things out even if I wanted to, I wouldn't be about to steal to order, would I? Unless,' I continued, slapping my face in frustration at my rotten memory, ‘I did what your thief did. Unless I left the frame behind. And it'd be easy to stow a miniature in a pocket, even in your underwear. And no, I didn't.'

Toby was blinking in disbelief. ‘I never noticed. You're sure?'

‘Ask him,' I said, gesturing with a thumb at a white clad and hooded SOCO – or were they privatized these days? – in the hall. ‘You're entitled – it's your picture, after all.'

The polar bear lookalike tapped on the door. ‘Excuse me, sir, I was wondering if you wanted to make sure that the Hilliard was all they took. There was another picture out of place, by the way, but a slot left vacant that it might just fit.'

Toby heaved himself off the sofa and headed upstairs after him.

‘Why in hell did you say nothing about the frame before?' Sir Richard demanded.

‘Because I'd been frogmarched off to a police station, having been forcibly detained? Because I'd been worried sick about Toby, not to mention Griff?' I went to sit down beside Griff, tucking my hand into his. Maybe this would calm me down. ‘And maybe, just maybe, because I'm an antiques dealer, not a detective?'

‘I don't think our cottage has ever been more inviting,' Griff declared that evening as he filled the kettle, though he leaned with one arm on the work surface to do it, and I had to pass him the teapot and cups and saucers. Easing himself into his favourite room in the whole cottage, the living room, he said with a deep sigh, ‘I want to hug everything in every last corner. But not necessarily that.' He pointed to Morris's last bear, which I'd still not got round to moving up to my bedroom.

I tucked it under my arm, head first, as if it was a battering ram. It growled, faintly but definitely. I stopped dead and stared in its poor ugly face before tipping it again. This time I'd swear the growl was plaintive.

‘You know we were wondering how to ensure you never forgot your pills,' I said slowly. ‘Well, this chap is the answer. Every day, when you've made your bed, you can pop your tablets in his lap, and you can't get into bed until you've taken them.'

‘And where do I put it then?' he asked. ‘It's not sharing a bed with me, not like your Tim.' He shuddered with revulsion.

‘On that pretty nursing chair that's too low for you to sit on – or, rather, to get up from,' I added unkindly. ‘Or you could sell the nursing chair and buy one for you both to share. Why don't you go and discuss it with him? Him, not it, please note! Yes, have a rest – even a sleep. You look absolutely done in, and who can blame you? Not just the Toby business but that hold-up on the M25.'

He nodded. ‘When you empty the van, sweet one, just stack the plastic crates. I'll stow the contents tomorrow. If I'm tired, you must be exhausted.'

No point in arguing. ‘Would you like supper in bed?' I'd microwave the last of those frozen healthy meals.

‘Absolutely not! We have some standards, this bear and I, and eating in bed falls far beneath them. Wake me at eight, prompt.'

There was much more to do than simply stack the crates, of course, though it was clear that Mary and Paul had kept on top of the emails and prioritized those that needed a response from me or Griff. There was also a little job I had to do that Griff didn't need to know about.

‘Little gold frames,' I greeted Titus.

‘That miniature of yours in one, is it?'

‘I never thought! But there's a Hilliard on the loose somewhere that needs one.' I explained, but kept everything nice and anonymous.

He whistled. ‘Good wheeze that. Something you'd do again and again. Like at the V and A, for instance. Or the Wallace Collection. Even the Tansey Collection, if the bastard risked the same MO in Germany.'

I might have whistled too: there were times when Titus could still surprise me. ‘In fact,' I concluded for him, ‘anywhere there were unsupervised study areas for people who appeared to be
bona fide
students or scholars. ‘I'd better go and look at mine,' I said – but I said it to a dead phone.

Getting out the ready meals triggered something in my brain. Something alarming. Nothing to do with the food itself, or with Marks and Spencer. A sort of non-memory, if you like, of a time when I associated a late meal with fear. But it swam away and allowed the microwave to do its usual mundane and invaluable job.

Happily fed and watered, Griff retired to the living room. There he sat very still, his post-supper glass of red wine untouched beside him, and the miniature I'd bought at auction – was it only ten days ago? – in his lap. He put down his eyepiece. ‘It's a very serious crime, faking hallmarks. Heaven knows what the penalty would be. But that's what you fear may be the case here.' He touched the miniature, or rather its frame, which, despite my fears, looked authentic enough: just a little battered, just a little scuffed.

‘Would it be a worse crime than stealing a masterpiece and passing it off as a very inferior product?'

‘Why should anyone do that? I fear, my love, that since my operation my thought processes have become painfully slow.'

‘Because if you wanted to sell a named item – let's say a Hilliard or an Isaac Oliver – at auction or to a respectable dealer or even a respectable private collector, you'd have to have proper provenance. Detailed provenance. And somehow I don't think
Nicked from the private collection of Tobias Byrne
would quite hack it, do you?'

He sipped slowly. ‘So if you sell it as part of a poor lot, you get rid of it with very few questions asked. I begin to see. And you'd bring in a reasonable amount of money – not a huge sum, but if you paid nothing for it in the first place, at least something.'

‘Exactly. Actually, I think the first miniature I saw at Brian Baker's probably was a Hilliard, maybe even Toby's Hilliard, rather than a school of Isaac Oliver, despite the intern's verdict on it. But because it was one of a batch from a collection somewhere in the Midlands no one bothered to raise an eyebrow.'

‘Not even Brian? He's usually most meticulous.'

‘
He
is – but he'd dumped a lot of work on to his unpaid intern, remember.'

‘So you think this lad's been slipshod? But ultimately it's Brian's responsibility, my love. If what you suspect is true, of course.'

‘Big if. Dangerous if, possibly – because people won't like being caught out, will they?' Or even suspected. I shivered, and not just because we'd left the central heating off while we were away and the cottage was taking its time to warm up again. I'd been on the receiving end of enough little scares recently to tell me that I'd annoyed someone, even if I'd not understood who. Had that woman who'd made me take refuge in the Indian takeaway – ah, that explained my frisson of fear earlier! – really been tailing me? Puck's Mrs Fielding, perhaps? It had been bad enough when I'd been on my own – what would it be like if I had Griff to worry about?

Pushing the fear to the back of my mind, I said tentatively, ‘Do you think, after all he's been through today, Toby would still send me a copy of the Hilliard he's lost? Because I'd recognize it. I know, I know: I should have thought of this when we were with him.'