by Amy Myers
Guy looked nonplussed. ‘Could you describe your best friend if someone demanded an instant pen portrait?’
‘No,’ I admitted.
Guy grinned. ‘Come with me.’ He heaved himself to his feet, and I followed him into the main house and through to a conservatory where the lady I had seen him with at the art show was in the throes of going through cookery books and composing lists. I had a sudden image of myself and Polly in later years sitting occupied in such a companionable job and had to swallow hard.
‘Sarah, meet Jack Colby. Wants to know what Polly was like.’
If she thought this somewhat strange, she didn’t show it. Sarah was a warmer version of Guy, large, somewhat intimidating and ultimately friendly – I hoped.
‘So you’re the desperado who threatened Polly, the hero who came to Bea’s help, and the victim of a cosh on the head plus arson?’ she welcomed me.
‘That sums me up nicely,’ I agreed. I took the offered seat. ‘Do you feel up to talking about her?’
‘Yes, if it helps. Guy and I liked her. And Mike. Both of us,’ Sarah emphasized.
‘But, as a person, how would you describe her?’
Sarah considered. ‘I’d say she was rather lost, a bit sad.’
That startled me. ‘You mean after Mike’s death?’
‘No, all the time we knew her. She seemed to be desperately looking for something and never quite appreciating she had it, if only she’d stop and look around her.’
‘That’s interesting. She did love Mike though?’
‘Good grief, yes. No problem there. I remember her at school, though. She always wanted more. If we went on a school outing she couldn’t believe that wherever we went was a goal in itself. There had to be a follow-up – something secret, something exciting – and it seemed like that with Mike too. But the odd thing is that she didn’t approve of Tomas, who might have represented the same kind of excitement for Bea.’
Dead silence. Would she break it, or would Guy?
Guy did. He cleared his throat. ‘Don’t push it, Jack. Tomas was way out of order in going after Bea – I even had a word with him myself, and so did Polly – but he isn’t a bad chap, in his way. Hot tempered, perhaps, and arrogant, but which of us wasn’t at his age?’
I could think of quite a few who weren’t, but I refrained from doing so. Interesting that ‘the word’ had been reported to me as a flaming row.
‘He’s already made one attempt to see Bea, but luckily she wasn’t on her own,’ I warned him.
Sarah looked appalled, and even Guy looked thrown for a moment or two. Then he rallied. ‘He seems to be keeping to his bail conditions,’ he said. ‘And he’s working well. But you can depend on it he won’t be going within a mile of Bea from now on. Or Andy Wells. OK?’
I nodded. ‘But there’s a possible murder charge hanging over his head, so the police must have something on him.’
He snorted. ‘They arrested a suspect, that’s all. Something for the targets’ list. It’s up to them to find out who murdered Polly, not you, Jack.’
Was that a warning or a threat?
A lost sort of person, a happy person. How many other Pollys might there be? I’d keep on going. I wasn’t sure I was on the right track, but I’d wait until proved wrong. The arson attack had had one good effect: I felt so hopping mad at the world that I had no compunction in doing my Poirot act. It would only be a matter of time, I reasoned, before the new home of the Lagonda was discovered and whoever disliked it so much would be after it – and probably me – again. I needed to work fast.
Not that fast, as it turned out, because the Stacks weren’t in when I called. Not to be daunted, I presented myself un announced on their doorstep on Sunday morning.
‘How nice to see you, Jack.’ Lorna’s words belied her expression, which indicated that as I had so rudely rejected her earlier offers they were not going to be repeated, and that good though it might be to see me, the sooner she could slam the door in my face the better. ‘We’re just going to church. So sorry.’
Fortunately for me, Rupert appeared behind her and indicated that he at least would have time to see me. This could have had something to do with the fact that I’d said I was here on Bea’s behalf.
He looked concerned, and for once brushed his wife aside, ushered me into the manor house and led me down a stately corridor into what was clearly his office. Lorna, having made it clear she wasn’t wasting her valuable time on me, had left to go to church, and so fortunately we were alone together. That suited me. There was something about Rupert and Polly that I wasn’t getting. Was he friend? Customer? Lover? None of these, all of these?
‘I hear you lost cars the other evening, as well as the damage to the barn,’ Rupert said.
‘Unfortunately, yes. Including Bea’s Lagonda.’
‘Irreplaceable,’ he murmured.
‘Except at a price.’
‘But not that one. Mike and she loved it.’
‘Then why didn’t she still drive it?’
He looked at me in amazement. ‘She couldn’t bear to. She was sentimental about it.’
‘Polly struck me as tough, as well – somebody who would feel deeply but tackle the problem, not ignore it.’
‘But you, Jack, hardly knew her.’
Cue for question, especially with Lorna out of the room. ‘Of course. I realize that. Which is why it’s interesting to me to hear you talk about her. I get a better picture than if I talk to Bea, who sees her as a daughter would a mother.’
‘Why should I want to talk about her to you?’ His voice was mild, but it had steel in it, and I realized he would be a match for Lorna if pushed.
‘Bea wants me to look into her death.’
He regarded me thoughtfully, and I decided I wouldn’t like to be Lorna if he ever decided to take a stand against her flirtations, whether she carried them through or not. He was not quite the forbearing husband I had taken him for. ‘Why you?’ he shot at me.
I was ready for that. ‘You might well ask. Because her chum Zoe knows I’m a car detective, I suppose.’
He made up his mind. ‘Very well. I’ll tell you what I thought of Polly. Just this. She was the nearest thing to a friend I had. I’m well aware that my wife sometimes gets carried away and accuses Polly and me of having been lovers. We spent time together. We had to; she did a lot of my framing for me. That’s well known, and why not? Her service was far better and far cheaper than anything I would find in London. As for an affair, I’m a reasonably rich man, Mr Colby, and if I wanted an affair it wouldn’t be difficult. But with Polly? Never. Firstly, Mike had a keen eye for any man other than himself who paid her attention, and secondly, I prized her far too much as a friend and adviser. She had too good an eye for art to risk –’ he actually smiled – ‘Lorna’s wrath. Polly was all the things that Lorna isn’t. Steady, reliable, a good counsellor, she could step back and make judgements. Very useful for my work.’
‘So would you say she was cool-headed?’
‘Very. But not cool-hearted.’
I liked that. ‘Did she come up to London for your exhibitions?’
‘Nearly always. She was coming up for Giovanni’s exhibition at my gallery.’
I did a double take, which amused him. ‘Ah yes,’ he added, ‘you have a few of his early works, don’t you? If ever you decide to sell—’
‘Unlikely.’
‘Nevertheless, do come up to the exhibition. Come to the private view next Friday evening. Giovanni will be there. You’re welcome.’
That sounded like an offer I couldn’t refuse, and I didn’t. He said he’d send me an invitation. ‘Security,’ he murmured.
When I left, I discovered Lorna hadn’t gone to church after all. She was waiting for me, standing by her car, at the corner of the drive. She put her head through my open window and treated me to her no doubt expensive scent.
‘Darling Polly,’ she cooed. ‘So she snared you too. I’m sure Rupert has been treating you to th
e tale of what a sweetie she was. So she was to anyone who could advance the cause of Polly Davis. Which meant she wasn’t sweet to me. She used the same techniques as she did in her TV days to anyone who didn’t see her as an angel. You don’t get to be a TV presenter by being coy. Polly was devious, shallow and ruthless. And that was before Rupert began his blasted affair with her.’ She fixed me with a glacial eye. ‘And as for you, Jack—’
‘I wait breathlessly,’ I assured her.
‘You’re all beef and no balls.’
I returned to Frogs Hill not sure I had yet reached the heart of Polly. She was happy, she was sad, she was devious, she was straightforward, she was ruthless, she was a good chum. All possible, and had it helped me at all? Curiously enough, I thought it had. But even if Slugger Sam appeared with all fists flying at that very moment, I couldn’t have told him how or why I felt that way. Somewhere in-between all these various attitudes lay the kernel that would provide the key to Polly’s death.
FIFTEEN
When in a tizz, come to Liz – so she had idly joked once years ago, but on Monday morning it didn’t seem a bad idea. There’s something comforting about driving into a garden centre: plenty of parking space, the usual bags of soil piled up, the odd wheelbarrow and the promise of much more within – and we all know the verse that one is nearer to God in a garden than anywhere else on earth. Somewhere in the garden at Frogs Hill Dad even had a stone with that engraved on it – not that that had induced either of us to become Christopher Lloyds.
When I had reached home that Sunday evening, I’d felt frustrated and somewhat sorry for myself. By the following morning I felt worse. It was the first day of June, a month when most sensible people were out enjoying themselves – and I wouldn’t be. It was then that the idea of popping down to Liz’s garden centre came to me. Colin would be safely clad in his laboratory whites and poring over some inoffensive bug, and so Liz therefore might be relatively human. Busy perhaps, but equally perhaps not too busy to see me. I took the daily driver, my Alfa, not wishing to appear ostentatious (what me?), and as usual the sight of those bags of compost and the June roses and bedding plants all crying out to be bought cheered me up. There was an atmosphere about it that told me cars might come and cars might go, but gardens went on for ever.
Liz didn’t seem to share my sudden enthusiasm for the eternity of gardens. I found her busy pushing a trolley-load of grit at the rear of the centre where all the plants were on sale.
‘What do you want?’ she asked.
‘Your loving advice.’
A scornful glance. ‘Advice doesn’t make my tills ring.’
‘Suppose I buy you a coffee?’
‘And a bun?’
‘Done.’
Liz has a small coffee shop at one end of the wooden building that houses the usual tills, seeds and paraphernalia necessary to make gardens grow and thrive. The coffee shop tables are gaily covered with red check tablecloths, and adorned with good crockery and cutlery. Mrs Greeve was on duty that day, which was good news for those who liked cakes because she is a dab hand at making them. It’s not such good news for Liz, as Mrs Greeve is a talker par excellence, with the result that if you’re in the queue behind her chosen target listener, customer satisfaction is not high.
That morning Mrs Greeve was doomed to disappointment, as Liz put paid to her hopes by retiring with me to an outside table, where she couldn’t be either a listener or overheard, except to and by me. In her work clothes of jeans and a smock top, and with her short-cropped hair, she looked just as I remembered her nipping around her small garden in Pluckley where I often stayed with her.
No sentimentality was to be permitted, however. ‘Sorry to hear the bad news, Jack,’ she said briskly. ‘Any problems Colin could help with?’
‘Thanks,’ I said hastily. The idea of Colin enjoying my misfortune was not a pleasant one. ‘But I think I’ve got it sorted.’
‘All that and a bang on the head too. You seem to be pushing your nose in somewhere it’s not wanted.’
‘Me? Never.’
She looked at me in that cynical way that used to entrance me. Now it just amused me, but I suppose that was good therapy in itself.
‘Polly Davis,’ I continued, pretending to be deeply interested in my cheese scone in order to avoid the snort of disapproval. ‘I’ve had four different interpretations of the kind of woman she was. You said at the pub the other day that I should steer clear of her. Well, as you know, I never had the chance to steer in any direction – so tell me. Was she happy, was she sad, was she straightforward, was she devious? Did she like a quiet life, did she long for an adventurous one? Is it even fair to ask you?’
‘Even if I said no, you’d still ask.’ Liz thought for a moment or two while I attacked the froth of cappuccino liberally sprinkled with chocolate by Mrs Greeve. Eventually, Liz came up with: ‘I reckon she was all of those things, but none of them drove her.’
‘What did?’ Could I be getting to the core of it at last?
‘I didn’t know her well—’
‘Tell me what turned her on.’
‘Danger.’
Of all the things, this I could not have foreseen. ‘Danger from what?’ I repeated stupidly.
She considered this for so long that I had to grit my teeth with frustration. Liz would pounce if I tried to hurry her though. ‘The spice of life. The edge. The darkness – oh, for heaven’s sake, Jack, you must know what I mean.’
Must I? I thought about Polly – the one I’d met, not the one I’d been told about by various people including her daughter. What had attracted me? The cool, calm lady? The furious one? The controlled fury? All and none. Hopeless. One can’t define these things. All I remembered was Zoe telling me I had a nose for trouble. Could I smell Polly’s inclination towards danger? Is that what had drawn me to her? For chemistry read sex, but what are sex’s components?
‘Look at Mike,’ I heard Liz say, and I realized I must have missed a bit while I was musing. ‘Why should the TV presenter of a chatty art programme marry a second-hand car dealer?’
‘She had a classic car,’ I reminded her.
‘Whatever. He wasn’t exactly her type. Not what she was brought up to.’
‘But perhaps the danger lay in dodgy car deals, so that doesn’t seem to fit either, Polly.’
‘My name’s not Polly, it’s Liz.’ Her hand crashed on the table.
‘I’m sorry – blame the bang on the head.’ As contrition went it was feeble. Nevertheless, Liz looked mollified, although not completely.
I made it up to her by bringing her up to date. I could trust her. ‘I’ve been told there were rumours about missing millions after Mike died. Any chance he was money laundering and smuggling the loot overseas in the Lagonda? And that Polly knew nothing about it?’ I added hopefully. ‘Or would you come down on the side of her approving of it because of this love of danger that you perceived in her?’
‘I’m not coming down on any side, Jack. You asked my opinion of Polly. You’ve got it. Now get the hell out of here.’
‘Thanks, Liz. I mean it—’
‘And another thing, Jack. I am not, repeat not, Mother Earth for you to rest your head on my bosom any time you fancy you’re in trouble.’
I gave her a grin, aware that Mrs G. was listening with great interest to our raised voices. ‘This danger, Liz. Miss it yourself, do you?’
The remains of the bun that she threw at me told me I’d hit a nerve, and I laughed. Nevertheless, I went away in sober mood. Did love of danger explain just why the spark had ignited between Polly and me? If so, I was all the more determined to track down who had snuffed it out for us. Danger . . . Liz could be right. Bea wouldn’t have seen that side of Polly, nor would Peter Winter, nor Rupert – perhaps, it occurred to me, Lorna had picked it up, however. That might explain her impotent rage against Polly, even if misdirected as to its cause. It might also explain Guy’s protectiveness and the way Tomas had managed to rub her up the wrong w
ay. What else might it explain?
It could indicate she was involved in the money laundering – if there was any. That was an unpleasant thought.
I parked the Alfa back at Frogs Hill, but found the place deserted. This was hardly surprising, as both Zoe and Len were obviously installed at Andy Wells’ garage – unless, of course, they were at the rear of the farmhouse crawling over the Lagonda. I doubted that, but nevertheless that seemed a good place for me to go to meditate over what the hell was happening to me and mine. In the ‘mine’, I realized that I seemed to be including the Lagonda, not to mention her new owner, both of whom I had taken under my protective wing. I strolled round to have a look. From the outside the barn looked well and truly secure, with no sign of Zoe or Len. For a moment I had a sudden fright that the Lagonda might already have been pinched, despite the closed doors. As I had one of the three keys, I ran to the doors feeling stupid even for being concerned over it. Of course she was safe . . . or was she? I breathed again when I swung open the door and saw her there, a bit of ancient hay sticking to her windscreen like a raised eyebrow. My very own classic in the barn.
‘I have a song to sing, O . . .’ I used to trill in my youth, when I was briefly in a Gilbert and Sullivan choir. The Lagonda had a tale to tell-O, as well, only unfortunately she wasn’t as vocal as Jack Point. She had told me all she could, and now she seemed to be telling me it was up to me. Maybe it was, but how the hell could I delve back into her history without Mike and Polly’s input?
That raised eyebrow still seemed to be sending me a message. Those blasted small headlights were winking at me like flashes on a camera . . . Photographs. I clutched at that inspiration in triumph. That’s how I could view her history. All classic car owners take photos, and Mike and Polly had gone to hundreds of continental car shows. There would be dates, perhaps, and places, people. Bea must have some that would help rebuild the Lagonda’s past history. Four years ago, when Mike had died, digital pix weren’t so common, so with any luck there might be actual physical prints instead of my trying to beat a path into their computers, where most photos seem to prefer living nowadays.