‘Freya – Mrs Kipling – told us that they’d heard Antiques Roadshow was coming to a venue in Sussex and they decided to take it there, to see if the painting beneath, which looked old to them, might be of any value.’
‘Did you believe her?’ Grace looked at both detectives in turn.
‘Yes,’ Wilde said.
Potting nodded. ‘I did, chief. She’s a nice lady, I didn’t get any sense of criminal activity. She is what it says on the tin.’
‘Best before?’ Wilde quipped.
42
Wednesday, 23 October
Shortly after 5 p.m., Archie Goff was as usual eating his evening meal perched on the toilet. Chicken tagliatelle – well, some chewy lumps of protein that might once have had some brief and horrible existence in a battery farm, interred beneath slimy tendrils of pasta – with steamed jam sponge and fast-congealing custard for dessert. The television was on in the background, and his cellmate, the Home Secretary, was in a gloomy mood, prodding his plastic fork around the vegetarian moussaka in his foil tray.
‘You all right, mate?’ Archie asked. ‘You don’t look too happy.’
‘Not had the best of days. My wife’s filing for divorce, and I met my brief earlier who didn’t have good news. Reckons I’ll be lucky if I get only ten years.’
‘Shit. Bummer about the missus – you love her?’
He shrugged, raised a hand and wiggled it in the air. ‘It’s the kids. Hate the idea of being one of those dads that gets to see them once every four weeks or whatever shit it is.’
‘Can’t the Home Secretary pull any strings?’
He gave a wan smile. ‘Very funny.’
At that moment, one of the duty officers on their wing, a broad-shouldered woman with short, spiky hair, appeared in their doorway. She wore the same deadpan expression as always, and whenever she spoke to any of the prisoners, her voice was neither pleasant nor unpleasant, but faintly, nobody-home, robotic. ‘Mr Goff,’ she said. ‘You’re being released on bail. You will be free to leave after 7 a.m. tomorrow. The possessions you had with you at the time of your arrest will be handed to you then.’
Archie Goff looked at her in shocked surprise. ‘Beg pardon?’
‘You didn’t hear what I said?’
‘Well, yeah, but like – I dunno anyone who has fifty K. That was my bail.’
‘Must be a secret admirer then,’ she said, her expression easing into a faint smile before she turned and walked off.
‘You lucky bastard,’ his cellmate said.
Archie frowned.
‘Maybe your missus found the dough?’
Archie said nothing, thinking. He finished his food, then hurried out in search of a free phone to use. They were all occupied, but after a few minutes’ wait, one of his fellow prisoners hung up and walked away. Using up a credit, he dialled Isabella.
No, she said, she hadn’t come up with the money, but she was beyond delighted he would be home tomorrow.
He walked away from the booth, then leaned against a wall, thinking. Happy but worried. Most times in the past when he’d been arrested, he’d been released on police bail by the Magistrates’ Court. But this time the beaks had referred him to the Crown Court. He understood why: it was because the last time he’d been inside, at Ford open prison, he’d absconded.
Fifty grand. That was big money. Big money for someone to put up to have him released. And other than Isabella, who the hell cared enough about him to put up that kind of money?
He tried to think, going back in his mind through his list of contacts. Who was wealthy enough to stump up that kind of money to get an old lag freed? But equally, and more importantly, why?
43
Thursday, 24 October
It was sunny at 9.30 a.m, as Archie Goff walked, less jauntily than he might ordinarily, out through the ancient dark red prison gates between the portcullis-like twin flint towers, and into freedom. Well, a kind of freedom anyway. He’d been informed that the conditions of his bail were that he signed on at Brighton police station three times a week between the hours of 10 a.m. and 1 p.m., and he was not to seek any form of international travel document. Yeah, like he was about to jump on a jet and large it in Jamaica, he thought.
Well clear of the prison’s grim Victorian walls, he stopped and stood still, in his baggy jeans, Seagulls sweatshirt, lightweight bomber jacket and trainers. He rummaged in the carrier bag containing the meagre possessions he’d had with him when he’d been fished out of the swimming pool of the Frys’ country mansion one long month ago. He strapped on his Seiko watch, the St Christopher’s necklace Isabella had given him, which he slipped over his neck, and the copper bracelet for his arthritis. Next he retrieved his wallet containing his driving licence, Co-op credit card and £35 in cash, all of which had survived his immersion thanks to them being in a zipped plastic pouch.
Looking around warily at the line of parked cars and the handful of people who looked like they were waiting for other prisoners being released today, and with his well-honed skill, he single-handedly rolled himself a cigarette and lit it, inhaling gratefully. It tasted sweet and good. He’d been able to get a few inside but not many. At least he could now enjoy a smoke without fear of being caught and having privileges taken, having started the habit again while on remand.
There didn’t appear to be anyone waiting for him. Isabella had told him last night that much though she would have loved to have met him, she had a meeting in Cambridge today, but was preparing a special welcome-home meal of his favourite food. Something to look forward to, but he looked forward even more to holding her in his arms. He shrugged. Fine, it was a sunny morning, he’d enjoy the walk through Lewes, catch a train the short distance to Brighton, and then bus home.
But just as he set off down the long, sloping driveway, past the line of parked cars, an elderly, large maroon Jaguar saloon, badly in need of a respray, drove in and flashed its twin headlights at him, then pulled up a short distance ahead.
As he walked up to the car, frowning, wondering if this was the guardian angel who’d stumped up the bail security, he immediately recognized the man behind the wheel. The mop of grey, curly hair, the bulbous, drinker’s nose, the ruddy, veined face, wearing an open-neck checked shirt and a paisley cravat. Leaning across the passenger seat, Ricky Sharp pushed open the door.
Archie lowered himself in and down onto the worn leather seat, placing his carrier bag between his knees, pulled the door shut and fumbled with his seat belt, finally clicking it home. The interior of the car smelled musty, as if it had been parked in a dank garage or barn for years. Part of the dashboard wood veneer was peeling away, and the panel of the passenger door had come unstuck, as had some of the roof lining.
‘This is a surprise to see you, Ricky,’ he said. ‘I was expecting a limo.’
‘Yeah? Well this is a long-wheelbase – prefer to sit in the back?’
‘Nah, I’m fine.’
Ricky Sharp looked even older and more flaccid and booze-sodden close up than he remembered. ‘Good to see you too, matey boy. They upgrade you to a nice room in there? A suite, with a sea view and Jacuzzi? Stamp your loyalty card? They oughta look after their regular guests properly, right – know what I’m saying?’
‘Yeah, well they could start by putting a seat on the toilets. Make it a nicer dining experience. How you doing?’
‘All right, I’ve gone legit – used cars now.’
Archie eyed the tatty interior of the Jaguar. ‘Good luck with that one.’
Sharp began turning the car round, spinning the thin steering wheel with meaty, liver-spotted hands, his fingers bedecked with large rings. ‘Like her? Could do you a good price – you know, mates’ rates?’