Classic in the Barn

by Amy Myers

  That took me aback, though I don’t know why, as stolen cars are often used for crimes, especially cloned ones. ‘Yup. I remember.’ It was at Talbot Place, a medium stately home with a fine collection of classic art. Not your Leonardos, but good: Watteau, Van Ruysdael, and many others, plus a first-class collection of old master drawings. If I remembered correctly, about half a dozen paintings and quite a few drawings had vanished in this theft.

  I was losing the plot. ‘The BMW’s only just been nicked.’

  Dave looked at me pityingly. ‘Not the BMW, our Merc. It’s turned up, abandoned four miles away. It was used for the getaway.’

  ‘Cloned?’

  ‘False plates, but the VIN number checked out. Keep this under wraps, Jack, till I give you the all-clear. It’s being crawled over by the Serious Organized Crime Agency. It had one of the nicked drawings still in it.’

  ‘Odd. They must have switched cars, but you’d think they’d have noticed something like that.’

  ‘That’s up to SOCA.’

  ‘And our lot?’ I enquired.

  ‘We need a line on the car gang and on Mason Trent or whatever he’s calling himself now.’

  ‘I’m not with you.’

  ‘That’s fair enough. I’ll fill you in. Our chum Mason Trent went behind bars for three years for cloning cars and theft. At roughly the same time a gent called Harry Smith went inside for art theft. The Met were pretty sure that the two were connected: Mason Trent cloned stolen cars with innocent identities and took commissions to supply them for getaway cars for the series of art thefts from stately homes; and Harry Smith was involved in the robberies themselves. After they went inside, the robberies continued, but not quite so many. Not until the last year, when they perked up again. Harry Smith was only one of at least three operatives, under a central godfather, who the Met think could be Mason Trent – who, coincidentally, has been out of jug for a year. He could be up to his old tricks and working with Pole again. Hence the eagerness to find Trent and, for good measure, his current cloning base.’

  ‘Done by tomorrow,’ I said sarcastically, but it wasn’t taken that way. Dave just nodded approval.

  It was my turn now. ‘Talking about organized car theft, did you ever meet Mike Davis?’

  Dave gave me what is known as a sideways glance. ‘His website was clean.’

  ‘One can have more than one site.’

  ‘Sure. But we never found any links back to Mike on the dodgy ones.’

  ‘Clever dealing?’

  ‘Maybe. Spent fuel now though. Andy Wells has taken over, and before you ask, he’s clean too, so far as we can see.’

  ‘One last question.’

  ‘Right, Columbo.’

  ‘Any reason to think Mike’s death was other than a straight heart attack?’

  He sighed. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I run a car crime unit, not a murder squad.’

  ‘Mike was a car dealer.’

  He grudgingly conceded the point. ‘I don’t remember anything on it. I’ll check.’

  ‘Thanks, Dave.’

  ‘Another for you, before you get too grateful. That other chum of yours.’

  ‘Which?’ I asked carefully.

  ‘Dan Burgess. Lay off him.’

  ‘So he’s got the Met eye on him too?’ As if Dave would come clean. He wouldn’t, so I helped him out. ‘Think he might be a classic car spotter?’

  ‘Possible.’

  I was about to say a classic car man wouldn’t sully his hands with dirty trade, but held back. What the hell did I know what Dan Burgess might or might not do in his spare time? Apart from paint ghastly daubs of people’s cars.

  Which, come to think of it, my suspicious mind kicked in, would be a splendid way of getting to know who had what. ‘Paint your car, mister? Bet you’ve got a treasure in that garage . . .’

  Having earned my bread and butter by contributing my tuppence of knowledge about Dan’s occupation to Dave’s store, which interested him quite a lot, I assured him of my undivided attention to tracking down Mason Trent and departed to put this unwillingly into practice. I had to find out about the cloning centre quickly, if I was to keep my job with Dave. Try Andy Wells? I’d been warned off. Try Harry Prince? I’d been warned off. See if Brian had anything yet? Don’t push your luck, I thought. But I had no choice. Brian it was.

  ‘Double dosh, Brian,’ I said cajolingly as I heard him breathing heavily at the other end of the line. I don’t know why. This one, after all, was straight car and maybe art theft, not murder.

  ‘Could go wrong,’ he said. I could hear him gulping. ‘You’ll be hearing from me. OK?’ If only I could rely on that, but I knew a put-off when I heard one.

  With this possible breathing space, I began to think again about Mike’s death. Heart problems cover a wide field, including the need for medication. At that insidious thought my heart sank. No one was going to know Mike’s medical details apart from Mike himself, his doctor, Polly – and possibly Bea. The doctor was not going to be helpful to Private Investigator Jack Colby, so it was going to have to be Bea.

  I invited her round that evening, cooked a thick tuna steak for each of us, made a salad, and fished some ice cream out of the freezer. She guessed what was coming next. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Now tell me what you want.’

  She listened to me in silence, and I couldn’t even begin to guess how much this was hurting her. ‘Is it possible, Bea?’ I finished. She was wearing a red dress, so if my psychological analysis of women was better than usual that might mean she was psyching herself up for an ordeal. Not me, personally, I hoped.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Dad was on something . . . It could have happened any moment.’

  ‘Suppose medication was withheld.’

  ‘Ask a doctor. I doubt if it would have had such a sudden result though.’

  ‘What about those pills that induce an attack, or whose symptoms are similar? Name like ten sixty-six, no, ten eighty.’

  ‘Dope in the cappuccino?’

  Bea was doing her best, but I could see it was time I stopped, and I told her so.

  ‘Don’t worry, Jack. I need to know what happened, and even this I can take if I have to. The trouble is that I can’t remember. I wasn’t here when he died. I was still at uni, on the point of graduating. Mum called me to tell me the news, and by the time I reached home all I could think of was how to deal with her, rather than how Dad actually died. We both knew he had problems, so we accepted a natural death without question.’

  ‘Polly never suspected anything was wrong?’

  ‘I think she’d have told me if so. She’d have needed to confide in someone, and I would have been the only one near enough. Telling Rupert, Peter or Guy might have begun unfounded rumours that could be taken as fact.’

  ‘So is it possible that seeing a bill for two cappuccinos set her thinking? After all, he could have paid for two coffees for himself. No,’ I corrected myself. ‘There were two people there, that’s what the bill said. Table 5, two persons, two times cappuccino. Some casual companion would have had no reason to hide the fact of their presence. First the date alarmed Polly, then she looked at the bill more carefully and put two and two together.’

  ‘And made five.’ Bea pulled a face, but I said nothing. ‘No, it couldn’t have been five,’ she continued, ‘if murder was the result, and the companion never came forward. Two and two make four. And that four could well have been the motive for Mum’s death. After she saw that receipt you found, she might have got in touch with whoever she thought—’ She broke off. ‘I can’t bear it, Jack. Get it over quickly.’

  I moved in to comfort her, aware that I was still finding it hard to think of her as Polly’s daughter. So I drew back. I’ve never been a baby snatcher, and I wasn’t going to start with Bea, especially at such a vulnerable time. Tough though it was to think in such terms, Tomas was far more her age group than I was. I watched her trying to control her emotions and persuaded her to ring Zoe to see if she cou
ld put her up for the night. Zoe was back in her own flat now, but luckily Rob wasn’t with her.

  As she drove away, I felt I was no further forward than I was before, except that Mike’s death being due to murder couldn’t be ruled out. Brandon wasn’t going to buy that theory though, and in his shoes I wouldn’t have either.

  SEVENTEEN

  Next morning, I had a rude awakening to reality as I looked down from the bedroom window on to the forecourt of my beautiful house and battered barn, and at the track leading up to them. In years to come the major highway that Frogs Hill Lane could by then be might have a subsection called Burnt Farm Corner. Not if I could help it. The Pits was going to be rebuilt quicker than the barn-raising in Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. And it wouldn’t have a canary-coloured horror in front of it, with Harry Prince patiently awaiting my appearance inside it. I don’t like my breakfast being ruined, so I went down right away.

  ‘Thought you’d flown the country, Jack.’

  ‘Just working for my living, Harry.’

  ‘That’s good,’ he said cheerily. ‘I popped along to remind you of my offer, in view of this . . .’ He waved a pudgy hand at the remains of the barn. ‘Must be hard to keep going, waiting for the insurance and so on. You can bank on me to be generous when we talk terms.’

  ‘If we talk terms, Harry,’ I answered equally cheerily, ‘we’ll go on market value, shall we? Much the best way all round.’ If was as far from the truth as when, so far as I was concerned, but there was no point getting on Harry’s wrong side, and I’d already had to turn down his offer of space as gracefully as I could.

  ‘Just selling me a couple of those Giovannis would set you up nicely. I could broker a deal—’

  ‘You’re a dealer in cars, Harry, not fine art.’

  He wasn’t offended. He even laughed. ‘Where fine art concerns cars, I reckon I know my market.’

  Did he indeed? I’d remember that in view of what Dave had told me. ‘Mike Davis, Harry,’ I said, anxious to change the subject in case I was forced to tell him point-blank that those Giovannis weren’t coming his way.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Any gossip at the time of his death that it was no accident?’

  The pause was a shade too long. ‘Suicide, you mean? No way.’

  ‘Come off it, Harry. Murder. Like Polly’s.’

  He emerged from the canary-coloured monster a trifle shakily and came right up to me to convey his message.

  ‘Remember I told you to watch a few Ps and Qs? You’ve forgotten to watch, Jack.’

  ‘Sometimes the Qs get a mite too interesting.’

  ‘But the answer could be a lot hotter,’ Harry said grimly.

  ‘So there was gossip.’

  Harry was white-faced now. ‘Never reached Polly, I’ll swear. Quiet corners only, and it died out. Leave it that way, Jack. I beg of you.’

  I was shaken and dropped my guard, because he seemed genuinely worried. ‘How can I?’

  ‘Easily. What’s the point of raking up Mike’s death all over again?’

  ‘There’s a point if it’s linked to Polly’s.’ I’d gone further than I meant to.

  ‘Then I’d be very careful indeed, Jack.’ There was no sign of a grin on his jovial face now. He was sweating with something that looked fear, not the last of the summer sun. ‘Look,’ he almost bleated, ‘why would anyone have wanted to murder Mike? He was a greedy conniving rogue, but murder? No.’

  The pot calling the kettle black? ‘That’s why, Harry. Mike was a rogue.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have double-crossed anyone.’ He was getting defensive.

  ‘There are rumours he left a stash of cash behind that Polly either didn’t know about or didn’t care to use.’

  ‘Rumours,’ he said uneasily, ‘don’t mean a thing.’

  Not in my experience. ‘Try this one, Harry,’ I said without much hope. ‘Car cloning.’

  ‘What about it?’ He looked very cautious, which was interesting. After all, everyone who has a TV knows about car cloning.

  Where to go from there? I spoke without thinking twice. ‘Heard of a chap called Mason Trent?’

  This time I thought he’d pass out. When he recovered enough breath to speak, he was already running for his car. ‘Get lost, Jack. You’re not bad, but you’re mad, and you’re bloody dangerous to know.’

  It was a good morning, as soon as Harry Prince had rushed for his canary monster and accelerated down Frogs Hill Lane. By good, I mean that not only did no one cosh me, but also that I had a call from Brian Woollerton. Not only had I not expected to hear from him at all, but it was also actually in the time limit I had mistakenly promised Dave.

  I hardly recognized Brian’s hoarse and nervous whisper. ‘Barton Lamb, village off the A12, and you didn’t hear it from me.’ The phone was slammed down, but I didn’t care. Brian had come up trumps.

  Dave heard the news in minutes, as I risked Brian or his informant having pulled a fast one on me. I didn’t have to wait long before he rang back with an invitation to join his team on the raid, but I turned it down as he had a better job for me. I could now collect Peter Winter’s stolen Merc from a pound in south London and drive it back to him, with the proviso that I didn’t mention where it had been found or why it was there. The fewer people who knew about a case in which Mason Trent was concerned the better, he told me. No problem. This job was much more to my taste, since I could take the glory and press Peter some more over Mike Davis.

  I didn’t warn him, and Peter goggled in amazement as early on Thursday evening I drew up in the Merc with a flourish at his door, complete with trade plates since his own were missing, having arranged with Zoe to drive over and pick me up. He recovered his savoir faire quickly and drove the Merc immediately into his garage as though the next car thief were lurking up in the nearest tree, checking the security three times and double-locking the garage doors. I told him as much of the story as Dave had permitted me to tell, and that didn’t include ruining his day with stories about the nefarious purpose to which his beloved car had been put.

  ‘Come in and have a drink,’ he said, beaming. ‘My wife’s abroad, so it’s a good opportunity to talk.’

  I graciously accepted, as Zoe would be arriving shortly to drive me back. I was wondering how and when to broach the subject of Mike’s death, when he gave me the perfect opportunity.

  ‘Incidentally,’ he said, ‘I’ve been thinking further about the money Mike was rumoured to have had.’

  This sounded good, and I put the matter of his possible murder on one side. ‘So have I,’ I said encouragingly.

  ‘If there’s anything to the story – and, of course, with stories of buried treasure there rarely is – have you given any consideration to where it might be?’

  ‘Not in the bank, that’s for sure. Not a British one, anyway.’ I wasn’t going to mention the Lagonda pocket. The Lagonda was a goner to anyone but Bea, Zoe, Len, Dave and myself. ‘Bea would have found the loot if it was in the house.’

  ‘I believe it would still be in England. Mike wasn’t the type to invest in foreign banks. He was more the money under the mattress type. So I wondered if you’d searched the barn.’

  For a moment I thought he meant mine, but then I realized he was back to Polly’s barn again. ‘Not specifically. But there was no sign of anything other than the car itself. Anyway, the police would have searched.’

  ‘That’s true, of course. All the same, I can’t help feeling it’s close at hand. Much as I dislike thinking of Mike as a casual crook, it would explain why someone would want Polly out of the way.’

  My cue. ‘Could it also imply that his death wasn’t a natural one?’

  This was clearly a shock to him. ‘Surely there’s no evidence to suggest that?’

  ‘Some, and it might help explain Polly’s death.’

  He looked very distressed. ‘I certainly never conceived the notion at the time, and nor did Polly.’

  ‘But then it also didn
’t enter your head that he was a crook.’

  ‘That’s true, but murder . . .’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Who? Some gangster?’

  The easiest answer was yes.

  On the drive home, I thought over what he’d said. That barn . . . I knew I shouldn’t put Bea through any more traumas, but I had at least to ring her to put her in the picture. There was a short pause as Bea took in what I proposed – even if not why I had this sudden desire to visit the barn – but she had no problem with my doing so. I even mentioned buried treasure to her, which greatly amused her.

  ‘Dad? If he’d ever had two pennies to rub together, we’d have known about it, or at least Mum would. He’d have boasted to the skies about it, so it’s unlikely there’s anything to be found in the barn.’

  ‘Someone thought there was,’ I pointed out. ‘They broke in.’

  ‘For the Lagonda – no, you’re right. It was afterwards. That’s strange. Anyway, search all you like for the missing millions. I’ll keep the line clear for the good news.’

  It wasn’t so good when I got there. The barn door was open, and Tomas Kasek was already inside. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ I roared.

  He flushed. ‘Beatrice said—’

  ‘No, she didn’t. She’s not given anyone but me permission to be here, and certainly not you. Get out.’

  ‘Mr Williams said—’

  ‘And he didn’t either. What are you looking for, exactly?’

  His mouth was set obstinately, and he was clearly weighing up the odds of punching me – or, a nastier thought, stabbing me. But he couldn’t take the risk. On the one hand, I might be a lot older than him, but on the other, I was taller, sturdier and trained. I told him this, but he barely flinched.

  ‘You touch me, and I say you attack me. Mr Williams believe me, not you.’

  I had two options. I could turn the little pipsqueak round in an armlock and make him sorry he’d left home, or I could be sensible. With Bea in mind, I tried the latter for once. It was quite an effort. He’s just the sort of cocky type I dislike.

  ‘I’m actually on your side, Tomas.’ I didn’t coo, but I didn’t do too badly at neutrality. ‘At least I am if you’re innocent of Polly Davis’s murder. I’m trying to find out who really did kill Polly and why. Mr Williams thinks you’re innocent and, believe it or not, I think so too – probably,’ I added.