Classic In the Clouds

by Amy Myers

  ‘It is not,’ she barked instantly.

  ‘Because you’ve sold your De Dion already?’ Checkmate, I thought, and this was confirmed by the fact that all three Morrises were tensely waiting for Victoria’s reply. Victoria ignored them, concentrating her attention on me.

  ‘You seem to be an intelligent man, Mr Colby, and so you will by now have checked the records and found no trace of a sale. I therefore confirm that I still have my De Dion. There is no proof that it was the one that drove in the rally of 1907.’

  ‘But, Gran,’ Nick shot back, ‘have you actually checked it out?’

  ‘More tea anyone?’ Brenda asked brightly, perhaps in the hope of saving her friend from any vultures that might be hanging around. Victoria was made of stern stuff, however.

  ‘I don’t need to check it out. Why should I? In fact, it belonged to my mother, and before I had it restored it was merely a wreck kept off the road. I believe she had inherited it from her own mother. It has no connection with France. None at all.’

  I mentally reeled at this revelation that she had lied over saying it belonged to her late husband. And why bring France into the matter? Because it was a French car? ‘Do you have any documents relating to its origin, Mrs Drake?’ I asked. ‘Did Mr King consider its previous history?’

  ‘I have no documents,’ Victoria said firmly. ‘He and I merely discussed the restoration. He carried it out, returned the car to me and there the matter rested. It could have nothing to do with his death.’

  The tone of her voice had finality in it, but she wasn’t going to get away with that. I would get no further on Alf’s death until I knew more about this De Dion. I did not believe her story, or rather I would qualify that to my not getting the full version. Judging by the way her daughter and son-in-law were shifting around, and her grandson fuming, they weren’t happy either. Brenda seemed the most composed person present.

  ‘What year is your De Dion?’ I asked politely.

  ‘It is an early one. I don’t know the exact date.’

  ‘May I see it?’ I asked brightly.

  ‘You may not.’

  It was time to play dirty. ‘I’m sure you’ve seen it,’ I said equally brightly to the Morrises. ‘Lucky people.’ Before Victoria could shoot too many daggers at me, I added, ‘If it were one of the two 1907 cars it would gain immense publicity at the rally and the value would shoot up.’

  ‘Why keep talking about this rally? What’s so special about it?’ Victoria asked irritably, though rather more peaceably than I had expected.

  ‘I explained that to you, Victoria,’ Brenda cut in quickly. ‘It’s a mock recreation of the Peking to Paris rally for charity, but it will be held in Kent and Sussex.’

  Victoria was not impressed. ‘I believe you did mention it. I fail to see what purpose my De Dion would serve, however, as it is not one of the original cars.’

  I was skating on thin ice. ‘Even so, if it’s roughly from the right period it would give a flavour of the original rally if it were on display. The money raised from it will go to good causes, some to local charities and some to opening a new classic car collection to the public, run by a charitable trust.’

  Brenda clasped her hands together. ‘That sounds lovely,’ she said hopefully.

  ‘Just think of how much the De Dion would be worth, Victoria,’ Tom said eagerly.

  Nick saw his opening. ‘I’ll drive it in the rally, Gran. You said it had been restored.’

  I almost applauded and Patricia gazed at him as if she’d given birth to an Einstein.

  Silence from Victoria herself, so I persevered. ‘The trustees are eager to hire the car for display, properly insured of course, to attract donations. A buyer might even emerge through it, if you are willing to loan it to the trust. As I said if it was one of the two real cars from 1907 the price would shoot up – way over a million, I’d say.’

  There’s something about the word million that catches the attention, even in these days when the number of millionaires has shot up dramatically. I could see I had all the Morrises’ full attention.

  ‘Even if it’s not the real car,’ I added, ‘it would still be worth a great deal.’

  The silence continued. Patricia, Tom, Nick and even Brenda were looking interested, to say the least. Victoria was not. Every one of her muscles seemed to be uniting in a show of implacability.

  ‘The car will not be displayed or take part in any rally of any kind,’ she decreed.

  ‘But—’ This was a mistake on Nick’s part. After so dogmatic a statement that word can only put people’s backs up and convince them that they are in the right. I mentally kicked myself for letting it get to this stage.

  ‘The answer is no, Mr Colby,’ Victoria broke in coolly, as protest burst forth from her family. ‘And,’ she added, ‘it will always be no. Whatever old wreck the trust finds to lure people to this rally, Mr Colby, it will not be my De Dion Bouton.’

  FIVE

  Woolwich is no longer the place that Henry VIII would have recognized in its shipbuilding days. Nor the one that Dad might have known post Second World War when it was still licking its wounds from the aircraft and Doodlebug raids and before the Royal Ordnance Factory came to the end of its glorious days there. Nevertheless the town still has the feel of history about it, and walking into the Red Bear pub was like stepping out of a time machine into a different age. I wasn’t alive in the 1960s but Dad would have recognized this sort of pub. By that I don’t mean the legendary glamorous swinging sixties, but the decade as the vast majority of people experienced it. Today the Red Bear had not opted for gastro food but remained a serious drinking facility, dark, small and smelling of beer and sweat. No longer smoke, but it was easy to imagine how once it would have been reeking of it.

  Today at least the occupancy was solely male apart from the barmaid and, hard times or not, there were plenty of customers. Even if Bob Orton had not waved at me from the bar, however, I would have picked him out as my target. He was a wiry man, with a lined, almost weather-beaten face in his late sixties or early seventies, but his dashing cap and silk scarf, plus a touch of arrogance, indicated he reckoned he was still a big player on life’s circuit. His eyes told me that too; they were sharp, which made him not only the good photographer I presumed he might still be, but a fitting soulmate for Pen Roxton.

  ‘What can I get you?’ he asked perfunctorily.

  ‘Let me.’

  The ritual completed with a whisky for him and a pint for me, we got down to business.

  ‘Pen Roxton,’ I said, opening the festivities.

  ‘Darling girl,’ he informed me. ‘Knew her father. She’s a chip off the old block.’

  ‘He must have been quite something. The chip alone is more than I can cope with.’ Nothing like badinage to get the conversation going.

  ‘Had your ups and downs with her, eh?’

  ‘Down mostly. Not that she can’t be a good sort on occasion.’

  ‘Know what you mean. So what can I do for you? She says you’re with the police.’

  ‘Right, but not on the De Dion Bouton story. She says she got that from you.’

  The whisky level went down. ‘The tale was going the rounds so I thought I’d make a bob or two.’

  ‘And I take it you know more than has appeared so far?’

  Oblique answer to this. ‘Photography is my thing. Did quite a bit on motor racing, and the rumour popped up now and then years ago. No big deal though.’

  ‘Was that in England or France?’

  He blinked. ‘France? No, right here in lovely old Britain.’

  ‘Was there any back-up to the rumour?’

  ‘Looked into it at the time, but didn’t get much further. Story was that the car was bought as a wreck by some Frenchie’s girlfriend as a present for him; he dropped her and she hung on to it. General feeling was it was in the south here.’ He held out his glass hopefully. ‘Heard about that rally coming up in August. That could flush it out if it’s still ar
ound, eh?’

  I agreed. ‘Do you still work as a photographer?’

  ‘Off and on.’

  So he didn’t. ‘Still around the car world, are you?’ I asked.

  ‘For this story, mate, yes. Pen does the story, I give her the leads. This pub and a few more I know give me all I need without moving my hind quarters overmuch.’

  I believed him. ‘Where cosier than a hotbed of crime?’ I joked.

  The sharp eyes flickered. ‘This one’s straight. That’s why I suggested it. You’re a spare-time cop, Pen says. That right?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘You’re checking out Alf King?’

  ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘No, but I know about a chap who did.’

  ‘Who might that be?’

  ‘The buzz is that he works with Mick Smith, or did. Don’t know Mick but I hear he runs a racket nicking cars to order. The name’s Connor Meyton. Know him?’

  ‘I met him once.’

  ‘My advice is leave it at that, Jack.’

  I drove back unimpressed. Pen’s contacts usually have more bite, although his grapevine could be useful. Bob was the sort who would turn up a jewel the minute after you’d written him off. At the moment I could do with a jewel or two, so I decided to keep in touch.

  When I returned to the Pits late in the afternoon, Zoe told me that according to Dean everything had gone quiet on the deal with Meyton to take over Alf’s business. Neither Dean nor Doris nor her solicitors had heard a dicky bird, and whether by chance or design Meyton’s phone was always on voicemail.

  I didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry. Zoe was in one of her truculent moods, so I left Dean out of it. ‘Is Doris upset?’ I asked her.

  ‘Dean says not. She didn’t take to Connor Meyton. I don’t think Dean minds too much either. He says Meyton’s too wily. Dean’s hoping Doris will let him run it on her behalf,’ Zoe added.

  ‘Alone?’ I was dubious about that.

  ‘He’d have an assistant.’

  ‘And who will that be? A babe in arms?’

  ‘No. Me,’ she shot back. At least she had the grace to look abashed as she said it.

  Incoherent with shock, I struggled for words. Zoe was part of Frogs Hill, she knew that. She was well paid and I’d thought she was happy. ‘But Len—’ I croaked. What on earth would he say? He’d given years of training to Zoe.

  ‘I’m only thinking about it,’ she said hastily.

  I hit on the first argument that came to mind. ‘Bad plan to work with someone you fancy.’

  A scathing look, but no reply.

  I wanted to shout, ‘Don’t leave us, Zoe!’ The words trembled on my lips, but I shouldn’t, couldn’t, say them. She had to make her own decision, but I hoped it would be on merit, not emotion.

  ‘There’s a Porsche 356 asking to be booked in,’ I said briskly, hoping to tempt her into remembering home blessings here at Frogs Hill. ‘Zoe has a special love of Porsches. Could you fit it in?’

  Her eyes lit up. ‘Can a Beetle crawl?’

  We were back to normal, and I think we were both relieved.

  I was so busy worrying about Zoe that I put aside Connor Meyton and De Dions until the next morning. I wanted to go over to Treasure Island to tell them I’d found the owner. Some days ago I had rung Helen to invite her to dinner but she had murmured some instant excuse about being already booked in a tone that told me she wasn’t. There the matter had rested, perhaps because I had seen my old flame Louise’s photo in the press a few times recently and had not yet hardened myself to the inevitability that it would always be this way, because Louise is an actor and a good one. If I was subconsciously drawing breath, however, I knew it was time to start living again.

  I thought I would drive over in my Lagonda, which spends most of her time with my Gordon-Keeble. Before the apparent anomaly of my owning two such classics is too glaring I should point out that tight for cash though I am, there’s no way I would part with either. It would be as bad as selling a mistress – not that I’d ever had such an arrangement, only a stormy marriage with a wife I’d have been glad to give away. That sounds harsh – but then only to those who hadn’t met Eva.

  Everything seemed to be humming in the Pits, and it seemed just another Tuesday at Frogs Hill – until I strolled round to the rear of the farmhouse to the barn-cum-garage where my two classics live. They’re guarded with a good security system, but somehow it had overlooked the fact that an intruder had opened the doors. The intruder emerged just as I was developing my bull charge for the defence. I froze. It was Connor Meyton in person.

  ‘Good morning, Jack.’

  I tried to control myself, because I needed to be foxlike, not bullish, to contend with this slippery eel.

  ‘Any particular reason you’re here, Mr Meyton?’

  ‘Oh, Connor, please.’ He grinned. ‘I couldn’t resist having a peek at the Gordon-Keeble.’

  ‘It’s more usual to ask the owner first.’

  He looked hurt. ‘Rang the bell, Jack. No reply.’

  I could have sworn he hadn’t but I let it go. At least the cavalry had arrived in time to prevent too much dirty work – I hoped.

  ‘Good alarm system you’ve got,’ he added.

  ‘Thanks for testing it. Seems I should be upgrading it though.’

  He seemed amused. ‘Don’t bother.’

  He was having a great time but just what was his game? Spying out good classics to pinch to order? Or was it just a threat not to get too close to his interests?

  ‘How’s the deal over King’s Restorations going?’ I asked.

  He didn’t seem fazed. ‘Not really my style. Still thinking about it.’

  ‘And Mrs King?’

  ‘So is Mrs King. All’s fair in business, Jack.’

  ‘Not everything.’

  He eyed me for a moment. ‘Still after the De Dion?’

  ‘Yes. And you? Someone was chatting to Alf about De Dions earlier this year. You?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ A pause. ‘Anything in Carter’s collection I’d like to see?’

  At least he wasn’t au fait with its nickname, which was a good sign. ‘See, perhaps,’ I replied. ‘More active involvement, no.’

  He laughed. ‘You’ve got style, Jack. Nice little girl you’ve got working in that old barn of yours.’

  The way he said it made my flesh creep. Was this camaraderie a ploy to get Zoe away from Frogs Hill or did he just know the way to get on my wick by the shortest possible route?

  I decided to postpone my trip to Burnt Barn Bottom and Treasure Island, because Connor wasn’t my only uninvited visitor that day. After he had finally left, I went back to the farmhouse for a phone session on behalf of the classic car business – and also to see whether any news had come in on the De Dion. I glanced through the window to see all three Morrises getting out of a Volvo saloon, which was so clapped out I thought they’d come for a restoration. My luck was out, however. Zoe came to greet them, dutifully conducted them to my door and bawled out ‘Jack!’ Then she left them – and me – to it. I was still fuming at the bombshell Zoe had thrown at me, not to mention the way Meyton had bypassed my security system, so I was hardly in a mood for chit chat. I pulled myself together when I realized that their arrival meant they must have a mission. It might even be a reprieve from Victoria, agreeing that the De Dion could be shown at the rally after all.

  Ever optimistic, I ushered them into the living room, which is a far more comfortable place for chatting than my cubbyhole office, but more formal than the kitchen to which most of my friends automatically gravitate.

  ‘Are you bearing good news from Mrs Drake?’ I asked cheerfully as I put a tray of coffee mugs down on the table.

  ‘No.’ Tom glared at me – and the instant coffee. ‘And knowing your mother, Pat, that’s that.’

  ‘Do you know why?’ I asked as Patricia cringed. ‘Could it be just the sheer effort of insurance, registration and so forth that’s putting h
er off?’

  ‘I wish it were so simple,’ Tom said savagely. He was strutting round my living room like a city banker with a bonus. He was clearly going through the stage of believing he was still a big business man, which was natural enough in his circumstances. The corollary to it was that he thought he was doing me a favour by his mere presence. That suited me. Being underestimated is an advantage if it comes to a sparring match.

  ‘She’s just a stubborn old witch,’ Nick contributed.

  ‘Nick!’ Patricia’s shocked plea was ignored.

  Tom took over Nick’s line. ‘She wants us all under her thumb. Anything we want she’ll block.’

  A family row was not going to help, and I hastily asked, ‘Could anything make her change her mind?’

  Patricia seized her chance. ‘Yes,’ she said eagerly. ‘My mother’s very fond of Nick, so if the rally organizers were to formally ask him to drive the De Dion in this rally that might work.’

  ‘That seems a good route,’ I agreed. So it would be if the De Dion was drivable. ‘But she still has the whip hand. For a start, do you know where the car is and what condition it’s in?’

  Mistake. I saw their expressions and realized why I was being honoured by a visit. ‘We have a few ideas about that,’ Tom told me loftily. ‘We thought you might care to follow them up.’

  There was a big snag here. ‘It’s Mrs Drake’s car, so I couldn’t do that.’

  ‘But you were hunting for it.’ Tom looked amazed.

  ‘Only to find the owner and if she doesn’t want it found, there’s nothing I can do.’

  ‘I’m her grandson,’ Nick yelled at me. ‘Mum’s going to inherit pretty soon.’

  ‘There’d be something in it for you,’ Tom assured me.

  Fellow conspirators with the Morrises? No way. I recovered my breath. It was one thing to scout around on my own initiative, but to be in cahoots with the owner’s daughter and her husband was quite another. If I found the car and if it could indeed be one of the 1907 rally De Dions, what then? Would the Morrises want me to put on a stripy jumper and play burglar? Or would they ask a pro such as Connor Meyton to do it for them? I could see murky roads ahead, all of them leading to the end of my career with the Kent Police Car Crime Unit.