Guilty Pleasures by Judith Cutler Page B

quickly. ‘Something splendid, like Bossingham Hall?’
    Purple to the ears, Robin shook his head. ‘A rather dark Edwardian pile. Detached, about an acre of ground. But nothing special.’
    My phone rang. I’d have switched it to voicemail, but since it was Griff I took the call.
    â€˜Evelina,’ he began, ‘I’ve got an old friend here who’d like to meet you. I’ve asked him to supper, so you’d better tell young Will Kinnersley straightaway that you’ve had to cancel his invitation. I’m terribly sorry, but he’ll have to come tomorrow instead.’
    â€˜I quite understand,’ I said carefully. ‘I’ll be home as soon as I can be. Tell your guest to hang on.’
    He cut the call without saying anything else.
    â€˜Someone’s got Griff!’ I yelled, grabbing my bag and haring out of the room.
    My father flapped a hand. ‘Aren’t you going to hunt for goodies today, Lina?’
    Robin twigged, at least. ‘Police?’
    Diving down the hall, I flung him my keys. ‘Drive while I call them.’
    He did.
    I did what Griff had said. I called Will. He would trust my hunch; someone in a control room almost certainly wouldn’t.
    He picked up first ring.
    â€˜Get your mates out to Bredeham,’ I said, just like that. ‘Griff’s just phoned – coded message. Trouble. I’m on my way there now, but it’ll take half an hour.’
    â€˜I’m in bloody Abergavenny, Lina.’
    â€˜Your mates aren’t. And they’ll shift faster if you tell them than if someone like me dials nine nine nine.’
    Robin drove well, better than I would have done. Faster. Probably more safely. And he might have been multitasking: his lips moved as if he was praying. Or he might just have been cursing the slow-joes who seemed to drop speed every time they approached a double white line, and to accelerate hard when the road was clear.
    Griff didn’t pick up when I tried to tell him I was coming. I left what I hoped was a careful message on his voicemail. Careful and cheery. Just as if nothing was wrong.
    I’d expected to find half a dozen police cars crammed into the village street and the place bristling with armed police officers. Maybe a negotiator trying to get Griff away from a gunman.
    â€˜All very quiet here,’ Robin observed, ‘after your panic. Are you sure you called this one right?’
    â€˜I’d have heard from Will if I hadn’t. Wouldn’t I?’ I called Will again as Robin looked for somewhere to park. Actually, there were far more vehicles around the place than there usually were, but all pretty ordinary.
    â€˜DCI Webb said she’d deal,’ he said. ‘So she may have gone for a different approach from blues and twos and razzmatazz. Try parking in your yard: see what happens.’
    â€˜Can’t. Some bugger in a black Volvo’s right across the gates.’
    â€˜Well then.’
    â€˜But it could be the guy who’s got Griff.’
    â€˜Give me the registration number . . . One of ours, Lina,’ he said, after a pause that seemed to last for ever. ‘So approach with care but friendliness.’
    Robin’s eyebrows danced. ‘Interesting turn of phrase, this policeman of yours. Do you want me to come with you? A dog collar works wonders.’
    It certainly had an interesting effect on the surly driver playing FreeCell on his phone. ‘I thought the old guy was going to be OK,’ he gasped, switching off in mid-game.
    Going to be? I choked back a sob.
    Robin was calmer. ‘I hope and pray he is. Can you tell us what’s going on?’
    â€˜Better leave that to the DCI. There she is.’ He pointed down the street.
    DCI Freya Webb and I had met when one of her officers had turned out badly, though we’d had nothing to do with each other since. She greeted me with a cautious hug, her flame-coloured hair