Scar Tissue (16 page)

‘Caffy said it was nice inside,’ I said wistfully. ‘I suppose I couldn’t …’ But the team who’d boarded up were used to people like me, and there wasn’t a single crack I could press an eye to. I shook my head regretfully and turned to go. I knew the lie of the land, now, and there wasn’t much point in hanging round. After all, if the house were being used for people smuggling or whatever, then all the fuss on the TV would make sure it wasn’t used again, at least while there was a police presence. Unless Marsh put his cronies on guard, cutting them in on the deal. Now that was worth thinking about. Meanwhile, if I went quietly this first evening, maybe I’d get friendly with young Simon and wheedle him into letting me into the house. Something else had occurred to me: if my sleeping quarters were almost undetectable, then I’d bet my teeth that there were other hidden places. Priest holes, cellars for smugglers and their booty. There’d be something, wouldn’t there? And if anyone could find it it’d be people like Paula and me. The only question was whether we should come back illicitly, as in my original plan, or be open about it to Sid. I’d give it thought as I headed back to the hotel. At least it was almost all downhill.

I hitched myself on to the bike.

‘Oi, Lucy Whateveryournameis, where d’you think you’re off to?’ Simon’s mate yelled.

I nearly fell off. ‘Back home,’ I said inaccurately.

‘Not on that bike, you’re not. No lights. And it’ll be pitch dark before you get back to Ashford.’

‘Cycle lanes,’ I said with more hope than confidence.

‘Still need lights. Don’t she, Simon?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘I shall have to push the bloody thing,’ I said.

‘I’m sure young Simon’d be happy to give you a lift, soon as we finish here. Tennish, that’ll be.’ He jerked a thumb at the police car.

‘I suppose you can’t leave till someone else takes over,’ I said, all winsome.

‘That’s right.’

‘Well, bollocks to that.’ But I only said it in my head. And I did what I’d seen kids do, dab a foot on a pedal, shove off, and swing the spare leg across the crossbar while on the move. I couldn’t quite manage the leg bit, not without risking intimate acquaintance with a healthy bank of nettles, but I managed a damned fine scoot. It wasn’t until the men were beyond earshot that I stopped, pulled under a tree and got on properly. Good job I did, actually. A police car swished past me, right down the road I’d been heading for. I found what claimed to be a bridlepath going roughly the same way. Roughly indeed. It was so rutted my teeth were nearly shaken out of my head. But I stuck it out. And, at last having picked up a proper tarmaced road, I had time to wonder exactly why they’d been so keen to bring an errant cyclist to book that they’d abandoned an important crime scene. Pity I was simply too knackered to cycle all the way back up again and take advantage of their absence to let myself into Fullers. No, not to hunt for priest holes. To rescue a book.

It was lucky I’d worked out how to set the phone wake-up call because, book or no book, once I collapsed into bed, I slept like the dead. All that exercise, I suppose.

True, I hadn’t gone all the way back up to Fullers. Once off my track and on the main road I’d realised the wisdom of the two officers’ objection to my cycling without lights. I was simply invisible to passing motorists. Perhaps I’d been
paranoid
: the cops really had wanted to protect me, not to hunt me down. I quickly abandoned any hope of arriving in one piece if I cycled back the hotel, so I swallowed my pride, dismounted and pushed the damned bike all the way back on the right side of the road, facing oncoming traffic. At least that way I’d see them even if they didn’t see me. If I did manage to get into Fullers the following night, then I’d rescue that powerful lantern torch too.

I was dog-tired and hot and sticky when I made it back to the area behind the kitchen. So when I saw the cycle’s owner propping up the back door, lighting up, I lost my rag. How could he manage to smoke, on his wage? And if he could afford cigarettes, he could afford lights for his bike! I slapped a fiver in his hand. ‘No bloody lights!’ I snarled. And realised, rather late, that I was dependent on the bike for transport later in the week. I fished out a reluctant tenner. ‘But you can have this if you make sure you’ve got some for next time.’

‘Next time?’ He pocketed it.

‘Like tomorrow.’

He shook his head, innocent as a cherub. ‘Evening off.’ And he disappeared inside.

The sad thing was, my legs were too weary to give chase. A shower and bed called.

‘The ground-plan of Fullers?’ Paula queried as soon as I could get her on her own at Crabton Manor. ‘Why?’

Sid had been rather more in policeman-mode when he picked me up this morning, I thought. He’d checked to see if I’d heard any more from Moffatt and asked how I’d spent the previous evening, pressing quite hard when I was evasive. Surely he couldn’t be in cahoots with the men up at Fullers? All my life I’d lived in a world where I could trust no one. Now I’d met Paula, the rest of the Pots and now the Daweses, of course, I’d learnt there were people you could believe in. It was disappointing to say the least to be reminded of the other world. Now, narrow-eyed, Sid turned to see why I wasn’t following him up on to the scaffolding.

I touched the side of my nose. ‘Have you got one?’ I pressed her, very quietly. He’d have had to come all the way back down again if he wanted to eavesdrop.

‘Not here, but –’

‘Are you here all day or out and about?’

Unless they knew her very well, no one would know from Paula’s face that she was trying not to laugh. ‘If I have to go and estimate for a job down in Hythe, you’d like me to pop into the office and bring it back here?’

Office! Her front room, more like.

‘I’d like it even more if we could go to the pub after work
and you give me a lift back to the hotel. I’m sure Sid would appreciate being let off.’

‘I’m sure he wouldn’t. Watches you like a hawk, doesn’t he? He seems OK, but you never know with men that size,’ she added obscurely. ‘I’ll have to check the diary, of course – but it seems like a good idea to me.’

Cheered immensely, I was up the ladders like a monkey and painted with a will all day. Sid was mutinous when Paula announced she was leaving us on our own. She was quick to explain to him that she was responsible for drumming up new business and she trusted us to be as professional as she was. Both jaws set. To prevent an anticlimax, I nipped round and started the van for her. She hopped in and was away, leaving the rest of us debating which was worse, another day in the hot but increasingly milky sun, or a day zapping round in a van the cooling system of which was happier in winter. The answer was probably neither. The scaffolding platform was like a high-level sauna, as the day got progressively more humid.

‘What’s the forecast?’ I asked Meg over a mid-afternoon bottle of water.

‘Storms in France may drift north. May not.’

‘Wouldn’t bet on them staying put,’ I said.

‘What’ll you girls do if it does rain tomorrow?’ Sid asked.

Meg stared. ‘What all decorators do – work on an indoor project!’ She didn’t ask on which planet he’d spent his working life, but might just as well.

‘Is that where Paula’s gone? To find something for you to do tomorrow?’

Even Helen sighed. ‘She’s doing forward planning, isn’t
she? You don’t just turn up at this house and say, right, lady, we’ll do your hall now. You have to give estimates and negotiate dates and then when you’re ready and they’re ready you have to check they still want the same colours they originally chose. And then we start.’

None of us seemed to want to tell him that on a wet day we’d be busy at Fullers. Meg looked at her watch. Without another word, we resumed our stations and worked with a will. At least the women did. Sid pithered round down below – the sort of time-wasting that gets our profession a bad name.

Paula was back about five, up beside us checking on our progress, nodding as we outlined any problems that had made us take longer than expected. By the time she gathered us together as we cleared away the paint and brushes we could see that all was not well.

‘Helen – what you’ve done is meticulous. But when the sky’s this colour, and you’re doing bits you can only see from the ground if you lie flat on your back and use binoculars, you don’t have to do the Sistine Chapel act, you know.’

Helen produced a sly smile. ‘More like Angelica Kauffmann since I’m female.’

Paula snorted. ‘Been talking to Caffy, have you?’ She stopped short, flushing crimson.

‘Not,’ Helen replied, attacking her hands with white spirit, ‘since she went away. Oh, Paula – have you heard from her? Do you think she’s OK?’

I’ve no idea how many women from Kent have won Oscars, but Helen certainly deserved one. Her voice was near to breaking, her little mouth quivering. So why hadn’t Paula
told them who Sid was? They’d certainly known about me and Taz, and had, come to think of it, said suspiciously little – zilch, indeed – since his rapid departure. It was clear Paula and I needed a long talk, and not just about the internal dimensions of Fullers.

‘Now, Sid,’ Paula said, ‘I need a word before we go.’ She indicated that he was to step aside with her. He stepped.

Helen’s eyes rounded. ‘Looks like bollocking time,’ she whispered.

‘That’s what you get if you don’t pull your weight,’ Meg observed.

Sid seemed to be suffering a slow puncture. Quite a fast one, actually. You could see him shrinking. Paula could be quite caustic if necessary. Then it dawned on me that we weren’t alone. Van der Poele was exercising his dogs – on leads! Well, if Paula could put the fear of God into that
hard-headed
brute, no wonder Sid was stuttering an apology. Words like ‘earn your keep’ and ‘passengers’ echoed round.

At last Sid slunk to the cab to his utility truck. He stuck a humbled head out. ‘Will you be wanting a lift, Lucy?’

‘I think Paula wants to talk over a new job with me,’ I said. ‘But tomorrow morning – yes, please. Same time, same place.’

We prepared to pile into the Transit. One of us had to squat illegally in the back, of course. I’m sure van der Poele wouldn’t have turned a hair, but given Sid’s real job, he’d have to shove his oar in. I caught her eye. Almost imperceptibly, she nodded. But she made sure Sid gave both Meg and Helen a lift. They lived in the opposite direction from the one he’d offered to take me. Lots of smiles and waves,
including gracious ones to van der Poele, who responded with a sneer, and we went our separate ways, me in the driving seat to make sure the van started.

‘Daft bugger, to be idling when van der Poele’s watching,’ Paula observed. ‘Don’t think much of these undercover cops, and that’s the truth. That Taz of yours…’

‘Not mine. Why haven’t you told the others Sid isn’t kosher?’

Though I kept my eyes on the road, I could feel her eyes on me.

‘Did I need to?’

‘Suppose not. Just wondered.’

‘I don’t like him,’ she continued. ‘And I’m not sure how far I trust him.’

‘Or some of his colleagues,’ I agreed. I told her about the previous evening.

‘So why do you want the plan if the place is guarded and you can’t get in? Plus no transport. And don’t look at me like you want to look because the answer’s no. The van’s far too public to try and sneak in unnoticed.’

‘That’s the point,’ I said with as much conviction as if that had been part of my plan all along. To be honest, I was thinking on my bum. ‘We go all open and above board. You’ve got the contract to decorate Fullers. What more likely scenario than that you want to go and check out what we need to start work on a nasty rainy day like tomorrow’s going to be? And that I’d be with you?’

‘They’ll recognise you.’

‘Like this? With these shades?’ For good measure I pulled
my baseball cap back to front, so all my golly-locks were covered. ‘I looked quite chic last night,’ I said. ‘New top, new jeans. I go in with you in my painty T-shirt and dungarees and no one’ll give me a second glance. Specially if you fix them with your Medusa eye.’

‘It’s one thing putting up with you talking posh if you’re Caffy,’ she objected. ‘But not when you’re Lucy, if you don’t mind. OK. Pull over into that lay-by and put your overalls back on.’

‘But it’s miles yet. I shall melt!’

‘So what?’

I was getting out of the cab when she relented. ‘OK. Let’s grab something in that pub over there first. You can cast your eyes over these plans while it’s still light.’ She pointed upwards. ‘The way those clouds are building up it’ll be dark well before it’s officially dusk – or anything like it. And the murkier it is, to my mind, the better. I take it there’s a torch there?’

‘A whopper up in my eyrie.’

I parked up. Without hesitating, she pointed to a picnic table in the furthest corner of the garden and strode off to the bar, returning with two mineral waters topped with ice and lemon and dropping the bar menu on the plans beside me. ‘My treat,’ she said, offhand.

I knew better than to be effusive. ‘Thanks. How’s your maths, Paula?’ We both knew it was good enough for her to do all her working out without a calculator. Once a hapless client had tried to prove that she’d quoted for more wallpaper than was necessary. She was both faster and more accurate than the calculator she later kindly showed him how to use.
My ambition was to be as quick and accurate as she was. And certainly better than the average client. I set to, as well.

‘What have you found?’ she asked.

‘Nothing yet. But if you take that side and I take this, I reckon we should see how many feet we know we’ve got and how many we should have. I’m thinking some of these walls may be thick enough to hide – well, all sorts of things.’

‘You add, I’ll order. What do you fancy?’

After all the fancy fare at the hotel, courtesy the police, I was happy to read the menu from right to left. Paula was more than my boss, she was my friend, and I knew how little she took home, even though the firm was hers. She might be Business Woman of the Year in my book, but fat cat she certainly wasn’t.

She narrowed her eyes shrewdly when I asked for salad, but headed for the bar, leaving me with her mobile phone. Which rang almost on cue.

A possible job? We can all be Paula’s efficient secretary when called on, so I didn’t hesitate to answer. To hear a familiar voice.

‘That’s Caffy, isn’t it?’

‘Jan! How wonderful! But should you be talking to me?’

‘This hotel has a very big switchboard, love.’ It was a long time since anyone had called me that and sounded as if they meant it. ‘How are you getting on?’

I gave a brief account of my hotel holiday: my painting days wouldn’t rate anyone’s phone call, not at hotel rates to a mobile.

‘How are you finding the police?’

What could I say? ‘Someone seems to be taking me seriously,’ I managed, ‘given the cost of my accommodation. But Jan, your poor caravan –’

‘Tin and cardboard,’ she dismissed it. ‘But what about Fullers?’

‘Well boarded-up. But I shall know better tonight. Rain’s forecast, so we may be working on it tomorrow.’

There was a pause while I heard her muffled voice repeat what I’d said.

‘You don’t take any risks, do you hear?’ Todd’s voice came, like an anxious father’s.

‘Of course not,’ I said, grinning so he could hear the smile in my voice. ‘Don’t worry: Paula and the others will be there. And I’m afraid that if it doesn’t rain we shall still be at Crabton Manor.’

‘Have the police done anything about that yet?’

Or indeed about Granville’s car. They weren’t very informative, were they? ‘You know, I’ve been too busy painting to think about it. But now you come to mention it, no. Not that we’ve heard. We know they’ve got photos and the bit of rope that Paula gave them, and I’d trust Taz to have seen they went to someone reliable. Moffatt seemed terribly keen on sorting everything out at Fullers. But no one’s done a lot at Crabton. Mind you, van der Poele’s been in residence, so Sid, our undercover guy, hasn’t had time for a sneak round.’

‘Sneak round! They’ve surely got enough for a search warrant. I wonder what the hell’s going on.’

‘So do I. Todd, Paula’s just coming back, did Jan want to talk to her?’ I waved the phone at Paula, mouthing, ‘Jan Dawes for you,’ and took myself off to the loo so they could talk business if they wanted. I had a good scrub and returned to hear Paula’s laugh. They’d had a good long natter, then. No, I wouldn’t get wistful. Especially not when I saw how
Paula had interpreted my request for a salad. Greenery yes, but with a burger and chips on the side, as it were. She tucked into hers, passing me the phone.

‘No risks, remember,’ Todd repeated. ‘I’ve told Paula that we shall do a little stirring from this end. You know what worries me most? They tell you they’ve got all these agencies involved, but they don’t keep you informed about what’s going on. I thought the police prided themselves on their communication skills these days.’