by Amy Myers
‘That old heap? What makes you think I nicked it?’ He was still doing a good job of looking amazed rather than defensive.
‘Because it’s here.’
‘So what? I don’t own the road, so why pick on me?’
He was defensive now, perhaps realizing he’d gone too far in his over hasty acceptance of my appearance on his doorstep. All to the good. Except that I was none too sure where to go from here. There was no sign yet – naturally enough – of Dave’s team, let alone any sign that he’d been in touch with the local police or Brandon.
Should I go or stay? Go! ‘Look after Melody for half an hour or so, Daisy,’ I called out to her. I turned back to Frank Watson (as I thought of him). ‘Here or inside?’ I enquired.
He said nothing, but ushered me inside to his living room, which helpfully overlooked the street. ‘You can keep an eye out for the rozzers from here.’ Deadpan. No glimmer of a grin now. ‘It’s only about this car,’ he continued. ‘Don’t know nothing about the other stuff, so you can forget it.’
‘Difficult.’
‘They’ll never prove it now. You know that. Wanted for questioning, that’s all it will be.’
‘So why bother to change your name?’
‘New life, Mr Colby. That’s why. When Neil died, I didn’t fancy South America no more. I’m a Man of Kent, through and through. I married again, and stayed here. You’d be surprised how easy it is to disappear.’
Not for this guy, I thought. He was a chameleon. How far should I go in pushing him? If I went much further, tempting though it was, Brandon would have me on toast for breakfast. And yet the question of Joannie Wilson hovered so temptingly. Was she the bride that matched the ‘married again’ and was Number Two the current wife? Or was the current wife Number Three? I resisted asking him – as I did its companion questions, such as: ‘What about the money?’; ‘You do know your old mates are eager to know what happened to it?’; ‘How does a rose taupe Morris Minor fit in?’; and ‘Do you attend all the anniversary parties?’
The words trembled on my lips, but they stayed there, which was probably just as well. Instead I asked him to talk about Neil, interrupted by his wife, who popped her head round the door to ask if I wanted coffee, which I politely declined with thanks. Not Joannie Wilson, I thought. She looked a pleasant woman of about the same age as her husband, but this lady could never have been the firecracker that Joannie apparently was. I wondered what she knew about Frank’s previous history.
After Frank had chatted about Neil and his university course to the point where I was silently screaming in frustration, I was at last able to steer the conversation to the Charros. I thought he would baulk at the subject, but after a moment’s hesitation, he said, ‘My boy’s death was down to that louse Carlos Mendez. Neil gave up a real good chance of getting somewhere with a biology degree, but he’d always wanted to make music number one, so he threw the course up. Daft, I told him, but he wouldn’t have it. So when Carlos walked out on them he reckoned he was finished.’
‘He seems to have had a good relationship with Jonathan,’ I ventured.
‘He did. That was half the trouble. Jonathan had great plans for himself – but Neil wouldn’t fit into that arty crafty stuff. That made him feel worse, a complete washout.’
‘Did Jonathan feel guilty because his own plans couldn’t include Neil?’
‘Maybe.’ His tone said subject closed. Perhaps he had seen what I had – a police car drawing up outside. ‘That car – you’re not serious about it, are you? It’s been parked there for days.’
‘It’s a special car.’
‘But …’ Frank put two and two together and made an uncomfortable four, and his eyes bulged, as they say. ‘You mean they’ll nab me on car theft? Typical!’
We went to the door together as two young PCs, directed by Daisy, marched up the path. Frank turned to me as he opened the door. ‘You want my advice, Colby?’ He didn’t stop for an answer. ‘Don’t open up no boxes until you’re bloody sure what’s inside.’
And then the PCs’ inquisition began: ‘Is that car yours, sir?’
‘No. Come in.’ Then an aside to me: ‘Not you, Mr Colby.’
I wasn’t surprised. He wasn’t going to risk my input in case the name Frank Watson came up.
Daisy was hopping up and down in frustration when I joined her. ‘What’s going on, Jack? Just like you said, I can’t take Melody home. Can’t you tell them all this evidence and stuff is bunk? She’s already been done and dusted.’
‘No.’ I tried to explain. ‘This is officially a new crime.’
Daisy fixed me with a beady eye. ‘So then they’ll bring her back and she’ll be nicked again.’
I skirted round this. ‘Is there any damage this time?’
‘No, and she’s mine. Look at that lump of mud in the back seat! That man in there who pinched her is a vandal. I’m having that mud out for a start.’
Before I could stop her, she’d wrenched the passenger door open, knelt on the seat and made a dive at the rear seat, seizing the largest lump – not that it was very large.
I grabbed it from her. ‘It’s not just mud, it’s chalky,’ I told her. ‘It could be important.’
That made Daisy shake with laughter. ‘You mean it’s a clue?’ she asked in sepulchral tones. ‘You’re having me on.’
I probably was, but the unexpected thought occurred to me that it might indeed be a clue. It wasn’t a large lump, just a clod of earth that might have fallen off something such as stone or garden produce or boots.
One of the constables emerged from the house, no doubt to see what was going on with Melody. Not entirely to my surprise he told me that their briefing from Dave was to stick to the car and nothing else until further orders. Frank was unlikely to do another runner now – especially as Melody had been found. What plans had he had that involved her? I wondered. Had he stolen her or had a third party done so at his request? And why? That little question asked it all.
‘This might be relevant, when Dave gets here,’ I told the PC, handing him the mud lump. ‘It was on the rear seat.’ He looked at it (and then at me) in bewilderment. ‘Only a lump of mud,’ he said, carefully replacing it inside the car.
Daisy let out a peal of laughter. ‘No crown jewels stuck in the middle?’ she mocked. ‘Officer, you disappoint me.’
He went red, poor chap, and muttered something I couldn’t catch to her.
‘Daisy,’ I said threateningly.
‘Sorry.’ She grinned. ‘When do I get my car back this time, please, officer?’
The constable knew where he was now. ‘We’ll be in touch,’ he said grandly, and noted Daisy’s details yet again.
It took time for her to recover her spirits on the way home. ‘Kids’ stuff,’ she remarked to me finally.
‘What is?’
‘This police work. Examining lumps of mud. Why don’t they just arrest that guy? Then I can have Melody back.’
As we turned into Frogs Hill Lane, my initial jubilation over finding Frank Watson subsided rapidly. The case would be in Brandon’s hands now. Fortunately, Daisy was so set on regaining Melody that she hadn’t asked me a single question about the ‘guy’ who’d pinched it. If he had, of course. Innocent until proved guilty. But there was not a thing I could do to further the case now – and that was a position I did not like.
Cara came out to meet me, and shock was written all over her face as she saw Daisy. The Volvo was still in the forecourt, of course, but now Cara had seen its driver a whole different complexion was apparently put on the situation. For me to be with Daisy on a Saturday afternoon, seemingly enjoying a carefree trip out, implied that this golden girl was more than the client I’d assured Cara she was.
With great delight, Daisy greeted her as an old friend. ‘Hi, Cara.’
Cara was clearly not delighted, something that Daisy cottoned on to right away and decided to play up. ‘We had a great time, didn’t we, Jackie boy?’ she continued. ‘Won’t
forget our clubbing last night. Good thing we got out before the cops arrived. Hear about that, did you? Hi Zoe, hi Len.’ Daisy waved at the Pits where Len and Zoe were still slaving away on Frazer-Nash. Daisy, was bent on mischief however.
‘Nice place Jack’s got here, hasn’t he, Cara? Len and Zoe think the world of him. Seen his Lagonda, have you? Jackie boy and I have had some great times in it.’ She then proceeded to rush over to hug and kiss Len and Zoe. Zoe objected strongly, Len looked rather pleased.
‘Cara,’ I squeaked, in the hope of putting matters right.
‘Don’t bother, Dad,’ Cara said stiffly. ‘I quite understand I’ll be in the way. I can find somewhere else to stay while I’m looking after Eva.’
Daisy had started back to us by then and was all innocence. ‘Hey, I’m not chucking you out, am I? Jackie wouldn’t like that at all.’ She fluttered her eyelashes at me so provocatively that I thought even Cara wouldn’t be taken in. I opened my mouth to demolish Daisy but once again I was too late.
‘I’ll leave, Jack. I don’t like playing gooseberry,’ Cara informed me in clipped tones.
‘Enough,’ I barked. ‘Cara, you’re not an unwanted third. Daisy, it’s time to quit. Go.’
‘Oh, Jackie.’ The corners of her mouth turned down so charmingly I could almost believe she was serious.
‘Go.’
I took her over to the old crock with a firm hand clamped on her arm. ‘Just what do you think you’re playing at, Daisy?’
‘You deserved it,’ she said mutinously, ‘for letting them take Melody away again.’
I sighed. ‘She’ll be back. She’s not been nabbed by a bunch of gangsters, she’s with the police.’
‘And what if one of them pinches her? It’s been known.’
‘Daisy, just go.’
‘So much,’ Cara said as Daisy did indeed drive off, ‘for the Jack who was so heartbroken over Louise.’
I groaned. ‘Do I look like a middle-aged git to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you really think I’d fall for a twenty year old?’
‘Seems you have.’
‘She was stringing you along and getting back at me. She’s a client and far from amused at the way I’m handling her case.’
‘You seem to me to be handling it all too well.’
I looked at my daughter, appalled. For an awful second, I thought Eva was back with me again, storming through my life with her green jealous eyes.
Luckily, she wasn’t. Cara crumpled and burst into tears. ‘I’m sorry,’ she wept. ‘I thought I’d lost my dad again.’
I felt choked. I tried to speak and failed. Tried again. Finally, I managed something inadequate. ‘Never that, Cara. Never.’
That would have to do, and she must have understood because she pulled herself together. ‘It’s all this stuff over Eva. It goes on and on.’
‘There’s cautious good news. My lead might be working out.’
‘Really? Is there evidence backing this lead?’
‘Too soon to say. I don’t know what the forensic position is, only that motive sticks out like a mile and the even better news is that the whole story is beginning to dovetail.’
‘Then why didn’t you look full of the joys of spring when you returned – just like your little Daisy?’
‘Because—’ I stopped.
‘Don’t tell me. It’s because you don’t like the ending.’ While I considered this, she added, ‘That’s the only thing I remember from the time before Eva took me away.’
‘You were only three.’
‘That’s why I don’t remember more. But this part I do. The nursery rhyme. Humpty Dumpty who fell off a wall. It frightened me, and you said you didn’t like the ending either.’
‘All the King’s horses and all the king’s men,’ I began.
‘Couldn’t put Humpty together again,’ she finished for me.
I gave some thought to this. ‘Cara, you’re a clever lady. I’ve been trying to put Humpty together again, and today I thought I had all the pieces to nail Carlos’s death down, but I haven’t.’
‘What’s missing?’
‘That’s the trouble. I don’t know.’
‘Probably,’ Cara said brightly, ‘Humpty’s like a boiled egg. You have to smash a bit off the top before you can get to the goodies inside.’
‘I’ll consider that solution,’ I told her gravely. ‘Meanwhile, you’re a smashing daughter.’
‘So now be a smashing dad and make us a cup of tea.’
I mused about Humpty-Dumpty for a while as Cara went off to the supermarket. Smash the top off – but of what? The case against Frank Watson or the Carlos case, plus Ambrose? The first would be all too easy. Frank hated Carlos for taking Neil away from him, but how did Ambrose, and, worse, Melody, fit in? Did Ambrose know Frank had killed Carlos? No, that didn’t fit the egg. Ambrose had been in no state to bear witness against Frank or anybody. Frank, just like Tony Wilson and Vic Trent, seemed to have a modest lifestyle, which didn’t suggest that any of them were living off the fat of the land. But then Frank or either of the other two, I reasoned, could have squandered the takings of that robbery in the meantime. Or perhaps Joannie had run off with the lot. None of the gold had shown up on the market, but that might simply be because the valuable objects had been smelted down if they were gold or sold direct to unknown buyers. And of course there were the Charros to consider. Carlos unexpectedly returned to their midst and old scores, including Frank Watson’s, could have been resurrected. OK, Humpty – but where did Ambrose fit in?
To my horror I could see Len and Zoe still in the Pits, although it was nearly seven o’clock, so I went over to urge them to return to their homes for what remained of the weekend. I knew this well-intentioned errand was doomed, however, when I saw them both still poring over the Frazer-Nash. Whatever the problem was there, I was sure that Len would be on to it much quicker than I could sort out a solution to my conundrum.
Maybe I should take my cue from them, I thought, watching them at work on the ignition system. The engine was the focal point. So what, I wondered, was the central point of the case I was trying to solve, assuming that Carlos, Ambrose and Frank Watson were all involved. It had to be the shoot-out in 1978. No doubt about that. They had all vanished by the time the police arrived, although granted many others had too.
The next seemingly unassailable fact was that the Crowshaw Collection was in Joannie’s car and she had scooted off with the lot. The presumption was that she’d scooted with Frank, and so could I really be sure that the present Mrs Frank was not Joannie? Personalities can change with age. I kicked myself for not paying closer attention to her. Frank had seemed eager to give me the impression that his second marriage had been after Neil’s death in the early nineties – and so he would if in fact that bride had been Joannie. After all, what else could have happened to her? She went off alone? Possible, but she would be stuck with a lot of very valuable objects for disposal. There were flaws in this thesis though. Betty Wilson might conceivably not recognize Frank at those parties, but she would certainly not overlook Joannie. Easy enough for her to stay at home, of course, but even so I felt this piece of Humpty was not fitting easily.
So, consider Carlos, I thought. He had disappeared from the May Tree by the time the police reached it – but he was only twenty or so, rather young to take on a lady like Joannie, even if she had been flirting with him. Ambrose had been chatting her up at the bar, and both he and Carlos could have arranged to meet Joannie after she had left with the Crowshaw Collection – or at least thought they were going to meet her, according to plan. Joannie might have had different ideas.
Nevertheless, I toyed with the idea that it was not Frank but Ambrose whom Carlos had expected to meet at Allington Lock. Would that work? I had been told that he had rung Josie, but suppose he had in fact rung Wychwood to speak to Ambrose – not knowing that he was in the state he was or that Josie was in residence? Could Ambrose have been the person
from whom Carlos was hopeful of getting money, regardless of the fact that Ambrose hardly looked flush with it – certainly not enough to keep Carlos in the style to which he thought he should be accustomed? Take it a step further: why should he have expected Ambrose to help him unless he had something to hide? I was back to blackmail. But who was Carlos blackmailing or had done so in the past – Frank or Ambrose?
I tried not to go too quickly so that I could take it step by step but it was hard not to rev up with such a straight road ahead: could Carlos have seen or discovered that it was Ambrose not Frank who had taken the Crowshaw Collection and run off with Joannie?
That balloon burst. All very neat but the engine didn’t start. Why on earth would Ambrose steal the collection – or Joannie? He had a good reputation and he was an archaeologist given to digging hoards out of the ground not helping himself to the spoils of a robbery. And as for Joannie – Ambrose had adored his wife, and Joannie sounded an unlikely replacement for Muriel.
Moreover, Joannie had clearly not settled down with Ambrose. He had continued living at Wychwood and patronizing the May Tree. It was theoretically possible he had helped Joannie dispose of the gold in consideration for cash, but that just did not tie in with his reputation as an archaeologist.
Back to the problem’s engine again. Why wouldn’t it fire? Should I look again at Carlos himself? Was he capable of running off with Joannie and pinching the loot? Yes, yes, yes. Capable at any rate, I still wasn’t so sure about his being Joannie’s chosen soulmate number two though. Ambrose or Frank were much better candidates for that. Should I run this by Betty Wilson again?
It was then I realized what was worrying me. I’d been staring at the engine too long and failed to see the missing nut. Correction: I had seen it but not this angle. Back to the anniversary lunches and Betty Wilson. Betty had been seen with Frank Watson during the 1978 shoot-out. Both she and Belinda had denied meeting him during the Charros era, but suppose one or both had lied? If Frank Watson had been present at all those lunches as Neil’s father, something would have clicked. Someone – which in effect meant everyone – would have known exactly who Stephen Frank was.