by Amy Myers
Zoe and Len had taken it for granted we were all travelling here together, which was flattering. I wasn’t surprised, of course, that Len was attending the funeral – only by the fact that he wasn’t surprised that I was. Maybe it was my imagination, but that did not look good. Did he too think something was amiss with the ‘accident’?
It wasn’t my imagination. He climbed out of the Alfa when we parked in Eynsford, and caught me off guard by planting himself in front of me with folded arms.
‘Alf wasn’t the sort to leave that nut loose.’
‘It can happen,’ I said cautiously.
‘Not to Alf. That’s why you’ve come here.’
It wasn’t a question, and there should be no hedging. ‘It’s a possibility.’
Len looked at me scathingly. ‘There’s proof and there’s knowing. Knowing’s all I need. Just find the bastard, eh?’
Zoe and I watched as he stalked off ahead to St Martin’s church. In his funereal dark clothes, he looked an unfamiliar figure to the one we’re used to, clad in ancient overalls with smudges of oil everywhere, but just as in the Pits, I knew he meant business.
‘He’s not going to let it go, Jack,’ Zoe observed. ‘Can you do anything?’
‘My damnedest OK?’
‘It’ll do.’
Eynsford represents many different ages in its origins and architecture. In Dad’s Glory Boot is an old calendar from the Fifties displaying what was then a quintessential English village beauty spot: Eynsford’s small stone bridge over the River Darent, the green swathe of grass bordering it, the picturesque Plough pub and a row of old cottages beyond it – oh, and for car lovers, a splendid 1953 Humber Imperial. All that can still be seen (except the Humber perhaps), and when you add a ruined Norman castle and a Roman villa within walking distance – what more could one ask?
And yet in this tranquil place violent death had come to Alf King. He worked in a small complex of buildings along Lea Lane, off the main street that runs through the village. His restoration business, like Frogs Hill, wasn’t the sort that demanded a main road presence. A killer bent on murder would be unlikely to drop in on the off chance of finding a car up on the lift and Alf there alone. Had someone loosened the nut just to the point where the next person to put pressure on it would bring the whole lot tumbling on top of himself, including the car that Alf was proposing to work on? That someone would have to know exactly what they were doing in order not to go a step too far and bring it down prematurely or not at all.
I recalled Len telling me that Alf had a youngish lad working for him – so how could a potential killer be certain that it wouldn’t be him who was the victim, not Alf? Unless of course, it was the apprentice who loosened the nut, or that the apprentice had been the intended victim. I stopped myself. This was sheer fantasy at the moment. Then I remembered Dave’s new kid on the crime-scene block whose existence was as yet hearsay and whose name was unknown. That was stretching fantasy even further, based on the insubstantial notion that Alf might have got in the way of somebody’s plans for increasing the Kent car crime rate. No one else would surely have any other reason to kill Alf – and no casual thief was going to dream up such a scheme for murder.
As we crossed the road and went into the church, I thought about Len’s ‘knowing’ and ‘proving’. Proving was the police’s job, but if they had nothing to go on, it would be my job at least to ‘know’.
St Martin’s was crowded, as the full car park had suggested. Alf was obviously a popular local man as well as having a lot of grateful customers. Somewhere in the midst of this crowd, was there a ‘new kid’? If so, I wouldn’t be able to pick him out amongst the mass of men present. No disrespect to Zoe, but there tend to be fewer women mechanics than male, and the male car restoration community seemed to be present in force. Unfortunately it included Harry Prince, I noted. More happily, I glimpsed Helen Palmer and wondered what brought her here.
Alf’s family had chosen to hold the after-service gathering at his home, an old farmhouse deep in the countryside on the far side of Eynsford, beyond the hamlet of Lullingstone. That too has a castle much loved by Queen Anne who frequently descended on the family for visits. Her former bathhouse by the river can still be seen, though I wouldn’t fancy it myself.
It was warm and dry enough for us all to gather in Alf’s garden; the numbers had decreased as not everyone at the service had chosen to drive on to the crematorium let alone return to Eynsford for the gathering (such as the ‘lady’ in the silver VW Polo who had practically run me down in her haste to depart from the village car park).
After the cremation, while we looked at the floral tributes to Alf, I had noticed a couple of sturdy guys who seemed to be watching rather than grieving. It’s a fine distinction but that’s the impression I received, despite its summoning up images from James Bond films. They hadn’t come back to the house, either. Alf’s family had laid on a combined late lunch and tea buffet with sandwiches, cakes, coffee and tea, with I think some alcohol around for those who wished to seek it out. Tea and coffee seemed much more appropriate, however, and I think Alf would have approved.
I doubt if he would have approved of Harry Prince though, as he rolled up to me carrying a scone and a mug of tea just to keep him going until his next blowout. As I’ve said earlier, Harry is already the opulent owner of several local garages and is bent on adding Frogs Hill Classic Car Restorations to his empire. Not to mention my farmhouse – and in particular the Glory Boot. He’s had his eye on that for many a long year, but is happy to take the rest of the ‘estate’ with it. He awaits my mortgage payment day as figuratively as I do in practice. One hint that I am in default and he’ll be in with an offer within minutes.
‘Good to see you, Jack. Sad day, eh?’
It was, and we talked soberly for a few minutes about Alfred King. I wasn’t that surprised Harry was here, because he has a finger in more pies than Little Jack Horner, and Alf could well have been another candidate for Harry’s Christmas wish list. Not now. Alf was the business. His death saddened me all over again. Quite apart from his loss to his family, which judging by today’s gathering was immense, but with him went all that knowledge. Gone – and a good man too. The classic car business can’t afford that kind of loss.
That over, Harry eyed me speculatively. ‘Rumours flying around, Jack.’
‘About Alf?’ I asked innocently. Any dirty work and Harry could well know of it or at least the reason for it. He’s not the sort to get too far into the deep end himself.
His eyes sharpened. ‘Should there be?’
‘About buying the goodwill,’ I said blandly.
He smirked. ‘Waiting for Frogs Hill, Jack. I reckon it could be any time now.’
He was right and wrong. My finances were indeed on a knife-edge sharper than a chef’s, but not in a million years would I sell to Harry. Not that he’s all bad. Very few folks are, and Harry has occasionally done me a good turn – albeit probably in his own interests.
‘The buzz is you’re looking for a De Dion.’
Harry’s turn to look innocent and mine to be surprised at the speed he’d heard about it. On second thoughts, it was hardly surprising, I realized. ‘Chinese whispers, Harry, that’s all.’
‘You don’t stand a chance, Jack. The story about that De Dion has been going the rounds for months, and it’s gathering speed.’
‘Must be fire to the smoke, eh?’
He smirked. ‘You don’t stand a chance.’
‘For once, Harry, I probably agree with you. Even the weirdest tittle-tattle sometimes turns out to be fact. Thought I’d poke around.’
‘Taking part in this rally to raise money for Carter’s old crocks?’
‘Aren’t you?’ I countered sweetly.
‘Not my style. I’ll put a quid in the box. Not –’ he tapped me playfully on the shoulder – ‘that that’s going to go far in buying that De Dion.’
‘Every little helps.’ As he seemed about to leave me, I added
casually, ‘How do you know it’s for sale?’
He dropped the scone, which fell to the grass unheeded. ‘Just a turn of speech, Jack.’
‘Here’s one for you, then. Heard anything about a new crowd around, specializing in four-by-fours?’
Harry struggled to regain his poise (but not the scone). ‘Jack, Jack,’ he said, forcing a laugh, ‘forget it. And you know me. Fountain of good advice.’
‘What’s the water quality like today?’
‘You will have your joke, Jack. Well, here’s something for you, but it’s no joke. Did you see a couple of chaps at the graveside – standing back a bit?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then forget them – and quick. And anyone you saw them talking to. They’re out of your league. Leave this one to Dave Jennings.’
‘How can I do that?’ I enquired plaintively. ‘Me, with a mortgage to pay. Just a hint, Harry?’
Harry looked mutinous, then undecided, but finally hurled at me: ‘Connor Meyton.’
I said he was a good guy sometimes. The name meant nothing to me, but I stowed it away for future reference.
After Harry had scuttled away, I decided to pick my own companion this time. So I walked over to Helen Palmer, who looked as pleased to see me as Harry, although I hoped for different reasons. She was clad in a grey jacket and skirt which made the red in her hair stand out like a Pre-Raphaelite’s dream. Now was not the place to tell her that, but I hoped it would come.
‘How did you know Alf?’ I asked, after we had greeted each other.
‘He was a friend of my father’s – he restored one of his cars.’
‘One of?’ I enquired politely.
She grinned. ‘I suppose that does sound somewhat lofty. He’s a retired policeman with a Fiesta and an old Karmann Ghia. Satisfied?’
‘Eminently. I like Karmann Ghias. Did Alf do work for Treasure Island too?’
She looked taken aback. ‘I think Julian and Stanley knew him slightly, but so far as I know he wasn’t their main car restorer. They use Parr & Son in Canterbury. Anyway, restoration hasn’t been at the top of the trust’s priorities so far. Getting it at least in better shape in time for the August rally is. After that, we can think about the Pompeii and Herculaneum disasters.’
I blinked. ‘Archaeological digs?’ I ventured.
‘Ah. None of us mentioned the sheds?’
‘I’d have remembered.’
‘Pompeii and Herculaneum are our names for them, just as Julian and Stanley have adopted the village nickname of Treasure Island. They do tend to gloss over their existence, however. They’re so called because they contain unknown buried treasures – in the car field, of course.’
‘Ready and waiting with my spade,’ I said hopefully. This sounded good.
‘I only work there part-time so I’ll give you a ring when I can fix a time for you to see them. It’s best to come when Julian and Stanley aren’t around. The Major is sensitive on the subject and Julian pretends it doesn’t exist.’
Even more interesting, but Helen was clearly eager to change the subject. ‘How are you doing on the De Dion Bouton front?’
‘Still digging. I’m trying to keep enquiries low-key as requested, but I’ve had to put it out to contacts who’ll broadcast it to friends of friends quicker than Facebook.’
She studied me for a moment and smiled. ‘I like your profile.’
‘I’m not on Facebook.’
‘I didn’t mean Facebook.’ She didn’t say it as a come-on and I didn’t take it that way. ‘I watched you in church and talking to that – er – plump man over there.’ She indicated Harry, who was deep in conversation with a slightly built man of middle height, who looked fairly nondescript – and yet Harry seemed nervous from the way he was shifting from foot to foot.
‘You’re looking worried,’ Helen added, jerking me back to giving her my full attention. ‘Thinking about Alf? I hope so. I was very fond of him.’
‘His death is very tough for my chief mechanic, Len – over there.’ I pointed him out to her. ‘He was close to him, which means that I take his death personally too, although I hardly knew him.’
Helen stared down at her mug of tea. ‘Doris – his widow – doesn’t believe it was an accident,’ she said. ‘I spent yesterday afternoon with her and she was quite sure about it.’
So that story would be spreading shortly if not already. Helen was unlikely to be the only person besides the police to whom Doris King had voiced her suspicions. No need for me to keep it too far under wraps, then. ‘Does she have any evidence?’ I asked.
‘Best to talk to Dean Warren – he worked with Alf. He’s here somewhere. Mid twenties, tallish, darkish, Latin-lover type.’
‘Wouldn’t he have told Doris or the police if he knew anything definite?’
‘Perhaps he has. Alf thought the world of Dean. I only met him a couple of times, but I wasn’t that struck. I—’
‘Didn’t like his profile,’ I finished for her.
‘Quite. Now,’ she said in revenge, ‘about this De Dion Bouton. What do you honestly think the chances of finding it are?’
‘Slightly worse than nil.’
‘I’d agree, only the rumour doesn’t seem to be going away. The Mad Major—’ She caught herself with a quick look at me. ‘Stanley mentioned it at New Year but the story seems to have hotted up because he then heard that it might be for sale, which is when Julian really picked up on the story.’ She paused. ‘Why are you here, Jack? Because of Len?’
‘Because of Alf’s death.’
She gave me a straight look. ‘Officially? I heard you work for the Kent Police.’
‘Car crime,’ I said. ‘Not officially on suspicious deaths.’
‘Semi-officially then,’ she supplied and I didn’t quarrel with it. ‘Doris would like to know that.’
‘She will – if there’s anything to tell her. Otherwise it could do more harm than good.’
She nodded. ‘Understood. Talking about doing good, though, I’d better do my social duty over there on Doris’s behalf.’ She indicated an elderly woman in her mid-to-late sixties, whom I remembered seeing in the church because she had been sitting next to the woman who nearly ran me over in the car park. She looked pleasant enough, with a touch of the Miss Marple about her with her grey hair, pink complexion and rounded figure. The shrewd eyes, as we approached, suggested that she might also have some of Miss Marple’s intelligence and common sense too. The table she was sitting at was full of teacups and goodies, and she looked at it rather wistfully as if she would really prefer to repel intruders and get on with the cakes.
Helen however was the kind of person who could unfreeze even the coldest shoulder with ease and banish diffidence with a single smile. She certainly banished Brenda Carlyle’s, as ‘Miss Marple’ turned out to be named, and we were quickly ensconced at the table with our own ration of cakes.
‘Mrs King tells me you knew Alf,’ Helen said. ‘Was he a close friend?’
‘Not really. My friend knew him better, but she had to leave right after the service. He did some work on an old car of hers.’
‘Do you like classic cars yourself?’ I asked.
‘Oh yes – well, I’m not knowledgeable about them, but I like the stories behind them. I have a little house in France and my neighbour talks about cars to me, about how people loved them. It seems so sad that they get sold to strangers when they die. My husband had an old Morris Minor and he loved it so much, but I had to get rid of it when he died.’
‘You’ll have to come to see our museum, when it’s open,’ Helen said. ‘That’s centred on classic cars and the stories behind them. We’re holding a rally in August to raise funds for it.’
‘I heard about that from the parish council,’ Brenda said. ‘The route is running near where I live.’
‘Come and watch it if you can. There’s a faint possibility we might have one of the actual De Dion Boutons that ran in the 1907 rally.’
‘Really?’
Brenda looked startled. ‘But that’s surely very unlikely. They’d be in museums like the other two cars. Where is it?’
‘No idea. Just a rumour doing the rounds,’ I told her.
‘We doubt if it will come to anything, but you never know. I like impossible challenges,’ Helen said cheerfully.
We left Brenda to her cakes, and moved back into the main gathering. ‘Is that what attracts you to work for the trust?’ I asked Helen. ‘Or is that because you’re a car buff yourself? Or both, come to that.’
‘The first, I think,’ Helen said frankly. ‘I like cars – and I like the stories behind them. But mainly I enjoy tackling difficult projects. Part-time at least. The rest of the time I do something sane and ordinary – I’m a freelance accountant.’
‘Is that enjoyable too?’
‘Yes. I enjoy tying up the loose ends and getting things right – and then I go to Treasure Island and go berserk trying in vain to move impossible obstacles.’
‘Or not so impossible.’
‘I like your confidence. Are you as certain about investigating Alf’s death?’
‘More.’ Was I? If determination equalled success, then I was.
‘You need to speak to Doris. Have you met her yet?’
I hadn’t. I could see her sitting at a table on the far side of the garden with two couples and various teenage children coming and going. Her family, I guessed. She was looking confused and in any case this was not the time or place to bombard her with questions about Alf. I asked Helen to mention I would get in touch some other time.
Meanwhile I decided that Dean Warren would be a more fitting target to tackle first, and I went in search of someone who fitted Helen’s description of him.
It wasn’t hard.
Zoe was with him. In fact she was so close to him she could have been welded to him. It took me aback because I’d never seen her in a clinch before – and this was as close to one as the circumstances would permit. Dean was indeed a Latin-lover type, and looked completely at home with a girl looking adoringly at him. I took against him immediately although I might have been prejudiced. Zoe had already proved how bad a romantic picker of men she can be, and here she was heading for the same situation. I tried to tell myself I should not judge by appearances, but failed.