Honey, Cinnamon, Lemons Ch. 13-14

CHAPTER THIRTEEN. MONDAY. A newspaper story, an arrest, a package.

'Coffee in bed if you like! And here's your morning paper, freshly ironed! And your phone's been buzzing.'

'Thank you, Polly. I'll get up for coffee. Are you OK?'

'I'm right as ninepence! Whatever that is! I'll put the kettle on while you read the headlines.'

While she was busy in the kitchen he sat at the dining table, turned on his mobile, then looked at the front page of the Centre Presse.

'THE THREE 'STRIKES OF LIGHTNING' AT AUDRICOURT!'

He quickly leafed through the pages until he found coverage of the Montmorillon area. There were three large photos. The first showed the church tower and the cherry-picker. The second showed him and Paul holding up the cup with Sab looking on. The third was of the fucking fairies, but there was a neat hole right through her belly and his penis had disappeared. A smaller photo showed Gilou holding up his bloody knife over Daniel's body: the picture was obviously staged after the event, as Daniel was smiling drunkenly and the surrounding crowd were all grinning at the camera.

He struggled to understand the flowery newspaper prose. The three-hundred year old spire had been struck by lightning and had lost some slates, but fortunately no injuries had ensued and workers from the commune had made a prompt repair: the curé had dismissed suggestions that the strike had been the work of "the Good God."

The well-known, not to say infamous, statue in the chateau grounds of international music legend Paul Balls had apparently attracted a strike of lightning by way of a long bronze lance which projected three metres into the air above the conjoined figures, and a preliminary examination by an expert from Poitiers suggested that a plasma ball had melted the solid marble of the lady fairy's womb; the loss of the penis was not mentioned.

Paul Balls himself had won the village petanque competition in a bizarre way. He had been threatened by a drunken spectator wielding a knife and was saved from both injury and defeat by a well-aimed boule launched by his team-mate, the English Tommie Toumie, which boule had then rolled into a winning position and was declared valid by virtue of Article 19 of the international rules of Petanque; readers were directed to a text box at the bottom of the page, which explained the workings of the Article. The said Monsieur Twomie had almost immediately absented himself from the celebratory proceedings and in a surprise sequel was currently being sought by French and English police in connection with a strange death in an English cemetery two weeks ago, not to mention assault on the drunken spectator. The public was advised to watch out for Monsieur Toomie, but not to approach him other than returning any polite salutation, and to inform the police of any sightings. The drunken spectator had not received any significant injury, despite initial appearances to the contrary, which arose from his carrying at the time of the incident cans of tomatoes and beer, whose piercing by his own knife had given the impression of a gory outcome.

Tim heard the chink of coffee cups and slid the paper under the cushion of his chair just before Polly came in. She went back to the kitchen to warm the milk, and he checked his texts; Sab was there - 'Where ru Tim'. He turned off his phone.

'Oh dear. Someone looks like he's got a hangover. You're white as a sheet!'

'Well, yes, a bit hungover actually. You sure you're alright?'

'Happy as a sandboy. Whatever that is! You're a dark horse!'

'What do you mean?'

She wrapped her arms round his neck and placed her cheek against his. 'Don't be shy, silly. It was lovely.'

'No it wasn't. I mean, I don't know what you mean. Nothing happened.'

'Oh! I suppose I was dreaming then! James, don't pretend, it's not nice. Be nice to me, I don't like you like this.'

'Polly, I really think you did dream, you know. I didn't touch you.'

'Oh! And how did you know I was talking about touching then, if you didn't? I mean, I didn't say you did, so how do you know what to deny, if you didn't do it? I could have been talking about you flirting with me at dinner, getting me tipsy and dancing and stuff.'

'But I didn't flirt with you at dinner. We did dance, though.'

'Oh, bugger you, you've given me a headache now! I'm going for a walk. And don't follow me. I want to be on my own. I'm going to the lake—but I don't want you following me.'

She left the house by the back way. He went upstairs and collected a few hairs from her hairbrush, and a cotton bud from the bathroom cabinet. He watched her from the landing window as she flounced down the garden, turned left onto the back road, and took a path which led along the side of Madame Rousseau's house; she turned once and looked back at the house for a few seconds before disappearing behind a stone wall. His eye was caught by the bright red and blue of his shorts and t-shirt hanging on the clothes-line. Madame Rousseau's shutters were closed.

He swabbed the inside of his cheek as he went down to the kitchen, quickly wrapped the hairs and cheek sample in separate bits of clingfilm, then clattered down to the garden. He saw no neighbours or passers-by on the back road, so darted out and grabbed the clothes off the line. They felt dry and warm from the morning sun, but he laid them out on a flimsy airing contraption in the garden room just to make sure. He found Paul's dog-end in the little bin next to the washing machine.

He stepped out onto the patio beneath the vine and stood there fretting, looking at the sun-drenched garden, his hands loosely linked behind his back. There was a slight sound behind him and he wondered for a moment if Polly had somehow gone round the block and come back through the house; but surely she wouldn't have had time? Then his hands were grabbed and he felt cold metal on his wrists and heard the click of handcuffs.

'No noise! Inside!' A man's voice, speaking French.

Once inside, the gendarme showed himself, and his automatic weapon, to make it clear he meant business. He produced a second pair of cuffs and attached Tim to the clothes airer; it wouldn't properly immobilise him, but it would certainly prevent him from running off. 'We wait.' After a couple of minutes they were joined by a second officer, who quietly pulled over three plastic garden chairs from under the staircase; they all sat down to wait.

About twenty uncomfortable minutes later Tim heard the front door open and close, then voices from upstairs - Polly and another woman who sounded familiar. Two minutes later Victoria Linklater came down.

'Hello, Tim.' She came over and went to shake his hand in the polite French way, but had to make do with his wrist. 'If I ask him to take the cuffs off, do you promise to behave?'

'Yes, of course.'

'You didn't last time. You ran away to France after you promised not to leave the country.'

'I won't run any more. I've seen Polly and given her the paintings. Have you told her about me?'

'I told her you attacked a man with a bowling ball and you need to go with the French police for questioning. I need to talk to her properly though. You do realise that she may be suspected of helping you?'

'Helping me how?'

'Well, that's for you to tell me, isn't it? It does look a bit bad, you skipping the country straight after we talked to you. Then coming here to her. And her being who she is.'

'What do you mean?'

'She used to be in a relationship with the victim of a fatal assault near your home. Then you both left the country unexpectedly and now you meet up here. Oh, by the way, you're not under arrest under UK law, I'm simply an investigating officer and I need to talk to you and take you back to the UK. The French will keep you in custody for the time being, so I don't need to worry about you doing a runner again. Ask him to uncuff you.'

'Me ask him?'

'I don't speak French and I know you do. Go on, ask him nicely.'

He didn't know the French for handcuffs, or unlock, but his gestures and Vickie's smile and encouraging nod satisfied the gendarme.

'I'll come with you to their vehicle. They're going to take you to the gendarmerie in Montmorillon. I need to stay and talk to Polly, but I'll see you there later, maybe an hour or so, depends how we get on.'

The gendarmes took Tim out by the patio door and up the steps at the side of the house to a dark blue van. Vickie followed them and before Tim climbed in she surprised him by kissing him on both cheeks. 'Thank you very much for what you did for Lizzie.'

'I didn't do anything.'

'You saved her life.'

#

Vickie watched the van head north towards Montmorillon, aware of twitching net curtains in the house opposite and curious stares from passers-by, but was reluctant to go back into the house to face Polly. She felt quite sure now that Tim had killed Polly's ex-boyfriend, but she suspected that Polly didn't know, and had nothing to do with the event in the cemetery. And now she had to tell her that the ex was dead and that James was a murder suspect. And that "James" was Tim. She lit a cigarette and paced nervously.

A yellow post-van pulled up and the woman driver jumped out with a package for Polly's house; it wouldn't fit the mailbox slot, so she jangled the bell hanging by the front door, nodding to Vickie as she did. Polly appeared, thanked her, then looked at Vickie who said, 'Just having a fag, I'll pop in for a chat in a minute if that's OK.'

'Come in now, I'll get you an ash tray; I smoke sometimes.'

She put an old tuna-spread can on the dining table and popped off its plastic lid, revealing three or four half-smoked joints. They sat facing each other and Vickie finished off her cigarette. As she was stubbing it out Polly said, 'I can't believe that James would attack anyone. Mind you he is a bit of a dark horse. Hang on, I'll be right back.'

While she was out of the room Vickie quickly looked over the package, really a large bulky envelope, which Polly had left on the table. It was addressed to Ms Polly Tatt-Colley, and the wrapping had the sender stamped on it - Grise, Grise, Beauchamp, Friar Chambers, Reading. Obviously a firm of solicitors.

Polly returned with a packet of menthol cigarettes and Vickie passed her lighter, then said, 'I was there at the time, I saw what he did.'

'Was he provoked or something?'

'You could say that. There was a petanque competition and a drunk spectator ran towards James's team-mate with a knife. James stopped him by throwing a boule at him; it was his turn to throw and the man suddenly ran right on to the pitch, so I suppose he'll get off with a warning just to be more careful where he aims. The drunk wasn't seriously injured and everyone saw the funny side afterwards.'

'Funny side?'

'Well, he was carrying some cans of beer and tomatoes in a bag hanging round his neck and when he fell he accidentally stabbed two cans with his knife: for a minute it looked as if it was blood and guts all over the place. James left the scene after the prize-giving. His team had won the competition. It's in the paper.'

'I haven't read it yet. So, he hasn't done anything really awful? They'll let him go soon? Today?'

'I don't think so. The thing is, the English police need to talk to him as well. I mean, that's why I'm here; here's my details.'

Polly frowned as she studied Vickie's card. She looked at the package, just for something to do, then picked it up and squeezed and shook it; it felt and sounded like something heavyish inside a flat box.

'Why do you want to talk to him? It doesn't sound like a real crime. And it's not in England, anyway.'

Vickie was now sure that Polly knew nothing about the cemetery; if she did, she was a very good actress. She lit another cigarette, inhaled deeply, turned her face away to blow smoke, and said, 'A man was killed in Reading old cemetery a week last Wednesday. James might know something about it.'

Polly blinked and half opened her mouth, but said nothing.

Vickie took a deep breath. 'Polly, I hate to break it to you, but James is really called Tim. Tim Bloomfield. He says you are his granddaughter. He was seen going into the cemetery with a man on the day in question. We talked to him when we did a house-to-house looking for any info, stuff that neighbours might have seen. Soon after we left him he went to the station and travelled to France. He got the Eurostar to Brussels but fortunately for him he got off at Lille instead, so he wasn't in the train crash.'

'What train crash?'

'There was a Eurostar crash between Lille and Brussels. Haven't you heard?'

'No. I don't get the news here properly, it's all in French and I don't have a TV.'

'You were both lucky not to be involved, you both travelled on the same day. We know you were on the morning train, but Tim was on the train that crashed. My sister was on his train too, and they got talking. Lucky for her she spoke to me on the phone and told me about the nice man she was sitting next to, how he was doing a portrait of his granddaughter; I asked her to stick with him. If I hadn't phoned her she'd have been in the crash, but she got off at Lille to follow him. So I owe him one. Anyway, he went on to Poitiers, then Montmorillon the next day. He met a friend, who put him up for a few days until the petanque match, then he came here. I'm afraid his actions have aroused suspicion. Is all this new to you?'

Polly spoke with difficulty, 'I don't understand...any of it. Tim, my granddad, is someone else. And I don't even know where he is. And Tim wouldn't hurt anybody, he's gentle and loving; and I think James is, too.'

'I think they're one and the same person. Did you have a boyfriend called Kieran Corcoran?'

'What! Oh...yes; but we split up a couple of years ago. I found out he wasn't...a good...not good for me. Why?'

'He was found in the cemetery, lying on your grandmother's grave; he had been assaulted and unfortunately he had died of his injuries by the time he was found.'

'Oh god!' The colour drained from her face and she twisted her left fist into the her right palm. For a few moments she sat with her eyes closed tightly, then the blood suddenly rushed to her cheeks. 'What an arsehole! He threatened me!

'Who threatened you? James?'

'No, that bloody idiot. Bastard! He threatened us both. I told him he did karate.'

'Told who?'

'I told Kee that James did karate and there was nothing between us. Thought it'd put him off trying anything. If James hurt him it must have been to protect himself; and me. How was he...injured?'

'He was found lying on his back on your gran's grave. His head was damaged at the back where he hit the gravestone.'

'Well perhaps James pushed him and it was an accident.'

'Yes, but...his genitals were crushed, and his hand cut by a Stanley knife. Looked as if he was trying to defend himself from a slashing.'

Polly began to sob and Vickie went round to her; she placed her hands on her slumped shoulders and gently squeezed and massaged her, bent to rest her cheek against Polly's, tasted the tears and breathed her sour coffee breath.

Suddenly, Polly sat up straight, sniffed, and wiped her face with the back of her hand. 'Sorry; I'm tough as old boots, really. I just got a shock, that's all. Poor James, he must have been scared shitless to have a go at Kee. But he must be brave; you wouldn't think so, he's very gentle. Actually I can be very angry sometimes, really lose it. I must take after him—if he's my grandad. I'll see if there's any coffee left.'

Vickie followed Polly into the kitchen to keep her company. As Polly heated up the left-over coffee she said, 'You don't have to chaperone me, I won't break down or do anything silly. Do you think I'm involved?'

'No, I don't think you are. Are you?'

'No. I didn't know anything till you just told me; except for Kee behaving like a bastard. But if I'd been there and he was threatening, I'd have bloody defended us. I wouldn't have killed him though, not on purpose, and James would never have done that.'

When they sat down again, Polly picked up the package and said, 'Better see what this is. I haven't ordered anything lately.' She tore off the wrapping and opened the box inside. There was a letter and a sort of book made from A4 sheets bound together with a wire spiral, and a transparent plastic front sheet for protection. The first page had a title and an author - Whoremaster (56) by Jenny Tatt. Polly said 'Aaaaah' and the blood drained from her face. She turned to the second page and started to read.

Vickie gently slid the letter towards herself and read. 'Dear Ms Tatt-Colley. The enclosed document forms part of the legacy of Mrs Jennifer Violet Tatt deceased and was enveloped but apart from your name the address was not indicated and since we have now managed to ascertain your whereabouts we forward the document for your attention as it was apparently intended to be sent to you by Mrs Tatt prior to her death. On our receipt of your acknowledgement of your receipt of the document and confirmation of your current address we shall proceed with our duties of executorship of the late Mrs Tatt's will.' The unpunctuated legalese made Vickie wince.

Polly spent the next two hours reading the manuscript—at times her lips moved silently as she read—while Vickie sat with her and smoked. She tried without success to read the upside down text but all she could see was that it was mostly written in what looked like dialogue. She tried with more success to read Polly's mind by observing her face, which alternated between frowns, fond smiles, chuckles, lip-biting and soft tears which were mostly so light as to dry on her cheeks without falling but at one point flowed freely and dripped from her chin onto the paper. When she came to the end she sighed and said, 'I need to lie down for a bit.' She took the ash-tray and the manuscript and went upstairs. After a couple of minutes Vickie crept up as quietly as she could, treading on the edge of the steps to avoid creaking the old oak. She paused before three closed doors on the landing, then heard muffled sobbing behind one; she tapped and entered.

Polly was lying on her side on the bed, and as Vickie came in she sat up quickly and wiped her face with her hand. 'Sorry, you must think I'm a fool. But I'm OK, I'm a tough cookie really.'

Vickie thought for a moment, then said, 'Listen, I'll stay for a bit if you don't mind. You could perhaps do with a bit of company? We could talk, or I could just sit here? I'm a copper and used to listening to people; but I'll be off-duty—off the record. I won't talk unless you want to. I'll go, if you prefer.'

'Is James really Tim?'

'Yes.'

'How do you know?'

'I interviewed him at his flat, in his studio. Got all his particulars.'

Polly smiled. 'His studio; his painting room he called it. He's a good painter; he did two pictures of me. I only just met him recently, in the cemetery near gran's grave. She died two years ago and Tim was good to me - we used to chat, and he was such a gentleman. I mean, he was very sexy, but he was so gentle with me because I was quite young; I was only eighteen when we met; nearly nineteen though. But he was my grandad and when he found out he stopped chatting to protect me from corruption. But he wasn't corrupt, he was the most loving man I ever knew. And James was sweet, too, but very straight, you wouldn't catch him having a joint or cuddling me, he was old-fashioned, not like Tim.'

'Well, a good granddad wouldn't cuddle his granddaughter, I mean not in a sexy way, would he?'

'I s'pose not, Tim stopped when he found out, and James would hardly let me near him. He's very sexy though, but I wouldn't want to corrupt him now I know. It's hard to get my head round it.'