Five gleaming automobiles were lined up in front of the showroom windows: a Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud, a Rolls Corniche, a 1950s Bentley, a Bristol, and a two-door Mercedes convertible. The leather interiors were as immaculate as the gleaming chrome, wooden dashboards, and large steering wheels, which by today’s standards were almost fragile-looking. Lorraine could see her distorted image reflected in the hubcaps. She looked squat.
“Hi, how can I help you?”
She turned to the equally polished salesman. His hair gleamed, as did his teeth, his deep tan, his eyes. He had the S & A logo on the pocket of his navy blazer and on his maroon tie. He smiled expectantly, one hand shifting his immaculate starched cuff closer to his wrist; he was all logoed out. She wondered why he hadn’t had S & A stamped on his forehead.
“Do you have an office? I’d like to discuss something with you.”
The teeth gleamed as his lips drew slightly apart in another fake smile. “Would you like to tell me what it’s about?”
“Sure, if you have an office. I am Mrs. Page, and you are?”
He stepped behind the counter. “Alan Hunter. I am the sales manager. How can I help you, Mrs. Page?”
He gave her a cool, studied appraisal. Even though his eyes didn’t seem to leave hers, she felt as if he were scrutinizing her from her worn shoes to her secondhand suit. “May I ask what you’re selling?”
She would have liked to hit him in the face. She used to love times like this, times when, confronted by a real smart-ass prick, you pulled out your badge and said in a low voice, “You want to check my ID, sonny?”
“I’m not selling and I’m not buying. I need to talk to you in private. What did you say your name was?”
Something in her voice unnerved him. He hesitated and repeated his name.
“Right, Mr. Hunter. I don’t want to waste any more time and I don’t want to discuss anything in this swimming pool of a lobby.” He touched the knot of his tie and gestured toward a glass-windowed door.
Lorraine walked across the reception area and paused when she saw a picture of Brad Thorburn. He was sitting on the wing of a racing car wearing a white racing-driver’s suit. One hand clasped a helmet, the other lifted a glass of champagne. To the right and left were more pictures of him posing at racetracks.
Hunter opened his office door, motioning her to enter ahead of him. “Are you with the police?”
She placed her purse on his empty polished mahogany desk and took out her cigarettes. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
Hunter did not demur and Lorraine surveyed the room. “You don’t appear to be very busy.”
“We are, I assure you. Most of our customers wait for us to deliver, few come to the building. We have hangars and workshops out at the rear of the showroom. Can I ask what you wanted to talk to me about? Is it traffic violations?”
Lorraine sat in the perfectly positioned chair, not too far away from the desk. “No. It’s not about traffic violations.”
“Is it connected with …” Hunter opened his desk drawer and withdrew a card. “A Lieutenant Josh Bean?”
“No, it isn’t.”
“He was here earlier, some kind of check on stolen vehicles.”
“That’s not my department. I’m investigating an insurance claim.” She took out Rosie’s pictures. “Do you recognize any of these men?”
Hunter leaned forward, sifting methodically through the photographs. He put seven aside. She watched as he glanced at the one of Steven Janklow. He frowned, hesitated a moment, and then looked up. “These seven men work here in various capacities.”
She tapped Steven Janklow’s picture. “How about him?”
Hunter picked up the photograph. “This could be Mr. Janklow. He’s one of the partners but it’s not a very good picture. I recognize the car more than the face. It’s one of ours—it’s actually owned by Brad Thorburn. Is it something to do with Mr. Thorburn?”
Lorraine nodded, looking around for an ashtray. As Hunter passed her a silver one with the S & A logo stamped into the center, she noticed his gold cufflinks, which also carried the insignia. She tapped the ash from her cigarette and eased out the picture of the woman driving the Mercedes. “Do you know her?”
He stuck out his bottom lip, shaking his head. “No. It could be Mrs. Thorburn, Mr. Thorburn’s mother, but I’m only guessing since I’ve never met her. But the car is the same. It belongs, as I said, to Mr. Thorburn. Has it been in an accident?”
“No.” Lorraine packed away the pictures. “Do you have a schedule of who was on or off duty over a period of time?”
He nodded, tapping his foot. She then pulled out Norman Hastings’s picture. “Do you recognize this man?”
Hunter sighed irritably. “His name was Norman Hastings. Is it his insurance? He was murdered, is that what this is about?”
Lorraine assented.
“Well, I’m sorry, but I never dealt with him. All I know is he was a pain in the butt. He bought a car from us, long time ago before I joined the company.” He leaned back, splaying out his hands affectedly. “If you buy one of our vehicles at the prices we ask, we have first-class mechanics and maintenance engineers at your service. We attempt to make sure no vehicle ever leaves here without its engine having been rechecked, rebuilt if necessary. Many purchasers have the cars customized to their own specifications. Every modification is made to ensure a trouble-free vehicle, but, that said, we’re not dealing in new cars. Some of these are twenty, even thirty years old, and sometimes there will be problems. But we give a six-month guarantee to every vehicle, and for the first six months we will pick up and redeliver should any mechanical fault occur.”
He laughed like an actor, his speech, even his own humor rehearsed. “We had someone here not long ago, I think he had a Bentley, and he called us out simply because he was unsure where he should put the gas!”
“Norman Hastings?” Lorraine said quietly.
“His car was a Morgan. He was on the phone almost every day wanting it picked up and tested. And then we discovered that the faults were self-inflicted because he was constantly taking the engine apart and rebuilding it—or that’s what Mr. Janklow said.”
“Is Mr. Janklow here today?”
“Yes.”
Lorraine asked if it was possible to find out who was on or off work at the time of Hastings’s murder and that included Mr. Janklow.
Hunter plucked at his lip. “Why would you want that for an insurance claim? Anyway, Mr. Janklow doesn’t work on any schedule system. He comes and goes when he likes.”
Lorraine asked if Janklow was around on the evening of June 20, the evening Holly was murdered, but Hunter shrugged his shoulders. He stared at a wall calendar. “I simply couldn’t tell you. All I know is he arrives and leaves when he feels like it.”
“Is there a place for parking workers’ cars?”
“Out back. It’s like an old aircraft hangar. There are always cars there—our own, some waiting for work to be done, others that have just been shipped in.”
Lorraine opened her notebook and reeled off details about the car each body had been found in but to little effect. Hunter could not recall any of them. He was becoming puzzled by the dates and lists of cars, and she knew she was running out of time. She played a wild card. “Not even, say, Norman Hastings’s blue sedan?”
“Ah, yes, he left that here on a number of occasions.”
Lorraine felt her heart jump, like a kick of pleasure at her own cleverness. “Would you just check the last time you saw it here.”
Hunter looked at his watch. He picked up the phone. “Sheena, can you please check the last time Norman Hastings came in and left his vehicle? Thank you.” He hung up. “The police asked this, and they’ve already gone over the hangars.”
Lorraine lit another cigarette and tossed the match into the ashtray. “Hastings sold his car, didn’t he? Quite a few years ago. Do you know if he purchased any other vintage car? Did he sell it via S and A?”
“Not
to my knowledge, but I didn’t have anything to do with him.”
“Did Mr. Thorburn also know Hastings?”
“I believe so.”
The phone rang and Hunter answered it. He drew a notepad toward him, said “yes” a few times, thanked the caller, and ripped off the page. “Hastings apparently had some arrangement to leave his car here—my secretary isn’t sure who he made it with or the last time he came.”
“So he parked his own car here and yet he hadn’t owned one of your vehicles recently?”
“Seems so.”
“Do you think the arrangement would have been made with Mr. Janklow?”
“I have no idea. My direct boss is Mr. Thorburn, not Mr. Janklow.”
“What do you think of him?” she asked nonchalantly.
“Brad? He’s great to work for. He’s firm, you know where you are with him, but he’s also fun, loves a good laugh.”
“I meant Steven Janklow.”
Hunter pursed his lips in distaste. “I have little to do with him so I can’t say what he’s like.”
“You could try.”
“I don’t see eye to eye with him, that’s all. He’s volatile. One day he’s friendly, the next he’ll cut you dead. He’s witty but it’s that put-down humor, that’s all.”
“Is he married?”
“No.”
“Is he homosexual?”
Hunter was surprised by the question. “I don’t know.”
“Do you think he could be? Or could he be something else?”
“Like normal?”
Lorraine stood up. “Fine, so you think he’s a nice, normal guy. I’m sorry, but my firm insists on me completing these amazing questionnaires. Insurance companies are gettin’ to be tougher than the police.”
“But I told you, he’s not that nice.”
Hunter gave her a hooded look and she smiled broadly. “How about not that normal either?” she said. She was beginning to like the Ivy League car salesman. She decided he was being honest with her and was green enough to have taken her at face value as an insurance claim officer. She looked through the white blinds to the parking lot.
“Is he suspected of something?” Hunter asked. “The police asked a lot of questions to some of the other staff, but they weren’t very interested in me. I wasn’t here the week of the Hastings murder.” He sounded disappointed.
Lorraine got out the photographs again. “What about taking another look at that photo of the blond woman? Can you tell me if it could be Janklow?”
Hunter looked at her, blushing, then picked up the photograph. He studied it and his voice went quiet. “I honestly don’t know, Mrs. Page, and I would hate to embarrass Mr. Thorburn. He’s a good friend.”
“Norman Hastings’s family cannot sell his car or claim any monies on his insurance until I have completed my questionnaire.”
“Is Mr. Janklow under suspicion?”
Lorraine ran her fingers through her hair. It was difficult to ask what she wanted to know without getting into trouble.
“There are rumors,” he said suddenly. She waited as Hunter determined whether or not to continue. “I don’t know if I should repeat them as they are just rumors.” He came to a decision. “He has some odd mannerisms and he can be affected. Nobody here knows much about his private life, just that a few years ago there was an inquiry. He was interviewed by the Vice Squad, arrested. Nothing came of it.”
There was a light tap on the door and a pretty girl peered in.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr. Hunter, but you have a customer waiting.”
Hunter introduced his secretary, Sheena. Lorraine asked if she and Sheena could have a quick chat and look at the hangar where the cars were kept. He said he had better ask his superior.
“I’ll wait here with Sheena then,” Lorraine said.
Sheena looked at Lorraine. “You wanna know about Norman Hastings? He used to come here quite a lot. He used to park his car out back—loved to look over the new arrivals. I had to check back this morning for the police. As far as I can tell from our records these were the dates when his car was left here. I gave the officers a copy, too.” She passed over a neatly typed list. “I was so shocked when I read about his murder. He was such a quiet, unassuming man, sort of like my dad.”
Sheena was young, with soft blond hair swept up with two pink combs, one of those “apple pie” types that were becoming extinct. Lorraine looked over the dates and then smiled warmly at her. “If I were to give you a list of other cars, could you see if they were parked out in the hangar at any time?”
Sheena bit her Up, patted one of her combs that didn’t need readjusting. “I’ve already got one list from the police but I told them it’s not a garage, we just let the workers park there and a few friends. Sometimes there’s no free space.”
“Could we take a look at the hangar?”
Sheena hesitated, looking from Lorraine to the showroom via the blinds.
“Only take a minute.”
Sheena nodded and opened the door, ushering Lorraine ahead of her, taking the left corridor away from the salesroom. She opened a door facing onto the back lot. There were two steps down and the heat hit them like a blast in the face.
Lorraine followed Sheena across a wide yard and her apple pie image dimmed slightly as she called out to various men working or passing in dirty overalls. Lorraine also noticed that the young girl had solid legs, showing rather a lot of just how solid as her skirt was very short. There were a number of outbuildings and Lorraine could see cars on ramps and mechanics working. The business seemed to be thriving. The aircraft-type hangar was boiling hot, and packed with rows of cars, parked fender to fender. Some had tarpaulins over them and seemed to have been left for a considerable time. Dust covered others waiting to be reconditioned and then came a large section of what looked like the workers’ cars. Sheena hurried through the sweltering hangar, heading toward a door marked OFFICES PRIVATE.
“Mr. Thorburn likes the employees’ vehicles out of sight, says it’s not a good advertisement. We park here and this is where Mr. Hastings’s car usually was, just for a few hours at a time, but he always left the keys. We have to leave the keys in case they need to be moved if a delivery arrives.”
They reached the back of the hangar and looked over three racing cars, all draped in protective silver covers. Sheena’s face was now shiny with sweat in the unrelenting heat. “These are Mr. Thorburn’s specials. He used to race a lot, but not so much nowadays. One of his wives created a stink about it …” Sheena opened a door at the back of the hangar into a corridor. It was air-conditioned, freezing cold compared with the hangar. They passed large offices with modern white blinds on the windows. One was Brad Thorburn’s, his name on a wood plaque cut into the door. They arrived at Sheena’s, where she took out a large log book to check the list of cars Lorraine had given her. “It’s the same list the police gave me. I told them there was just the one. Mr. Hastings’s.”
Sheena was not quite so forthcoming in the office section, constantly looking toward the door. The phone rang. She answered it, listened, and then said, “I’d better go. I’ve got to take the sales invoices to Mr. Hunter. Every week the top salesman gets a bonus.”
“Can I wait?”
“I’m not sure, er, well, I’ll tell Mr. Hunter you’re in here.” Sheena gathered up a file and walked out. She left the door ajar. As soon as she was halfway down the corridor, Lorraine closed the door, picked up the log book, and began to search through it. She was getting close, she knew it. She felt herself getting excited. She was sure Steven Janklow was connected to the case.
Rosie got out of the car, her dress sticking to her in the heat. A number of people had already taken a good look at her from the window of the tile showroom, noticing that she was parked in their lot but quite obviously not a customer. She walked around the car, fanning herself with her hand, and stood in the shade a moment. She was thirsty and Lorraine had been gone over an hour. Just as she thought she wo
uld go into S & A, a workman walked out of the building and headed toward her. “This is a private driveway, you want something?”
“No. My friend’s inside.” She pointed to the S & A building.
“Why don’t you wait over there? We’re expecting a delivery any minute. Go on, move.”
Rosie returned to the car. The seat scorched her backside and when she started up the engine it gave off even more hot air. W-rent W-rent Wreckers didn’t come with air-conditioning. She backed out and parked for a while in the street. Then she circled the block. She was heading past S & A when a white Mercedes passed her and drove into the front lot. Rosie watched Steven Janklow head around to the rear of the building and disappear before she could get her camera out. She dabbed her sweating face with a tissue. “Come on, for God’s sake, Lorraine, what are you doing in there?” she muttered. From where she was parked, she could see a sharply dressed salesman talking to two Japanese men. All three disappeared inside. Still no Lorraine.
Lorraine heard running footsteps, then the door opened and Sheena came back in. She was even shinier and more flushed. “Sorry, but I got held up. I haven’t been able to speak to Mr. Hunter yet—he’s still with a couple of clients and I think they want a test drive. I think you had better go and wait to speak to him because …” A voice from one of the other offices called out brightly, “Good morning, Mr. Janklow.”
Sheena pulled a face. “He’s here. You’d better leave or I’ll get into trouble, I’m sorry.”
Lorraine picked up her purse. “It’s okay. Thank you for your time.”
“I hope I was of some help. It was just so terrible, poor Mr. Hastings.”
“Did you see him when he was here the last time?”
“No, but when he came to see Mr. Janklow, he’d always stop in and leave me his car keys. I think he banked up the street, but his office isn’t far away. He was always worried about parking tickets. Funny, really, worrying about something as small as that and then … he gets killed.”
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