Classic In the Clouds

by Amy Myers

  ‘Risk?’ she queried.

  I had to ask her, even though it might worry her. ‘Did you tell Mrs Carlyle where this shed of Alf’s was?’

  ‘Yes, I did. There seemed no harm. I mean, she’s Mrs Drake’s neighbour.’ She looked at me piteously.

  ‘Of course,’ I reassured her, ‘but don’t talk to anyone else, will you? Except me of course,’ I joked. ‘Can you tell me where it is?’

  She did, and I leapt into the Alfa. Shoreham is the next village to Eynsford, but the shed was not in the village itself; it was buried in the countryside just before one reaches it. I drove there immediately, and even though I had been given full directions and had a large-scale map it was hard to find. I only hoped that Connor Meyton had missed it on his cruise around the area. Or had he had precise knowledge of its whereabouts? Not a happy thought.

  Doris had told me to look for a track with a granite marker stone, but I had several false starts before I found the correct one. I drove along it, as it looked as though no one had been up here since the Romans colonized us. Fields, a few sheep, woodland, and a farm, then a stone building that could have been a cottage once, but was now a ruin. The building adjoining it, however, looked in better shape.

  From the track I could see only a solid wall facing me, so I left the Alfa and found a door on the far side. It was large enough to take a car, and it had a strong padlock on it. To my relief there was no sign that anyone had driven a car in or out recently or that the door had been forced.

  With only a meditating cow watching me, I took a deep breath and opened the door. As it creaked, I looked inside and the magic began.

  The De Dion Bouton, grey, polished, sublime. I felt a gulp in my throat, even moist eyes, as I gazed at it. It was a privilege to do so.

  Ridiculous. Grown men don’t cry. Not often anyway, but when faced with a sight as truly glorious as this, it was allowed.

  Despite the years that had passed, how could I doubt that this was one of the two cars that had driven from Peking through the wilds of Asia and through Europe to Paris in 1907 on one of the greatest motoring adventures of all time? I could see no number plates, but I didn’t need them to convince me. I forced myself to a rational appreciation, but it felt almost an impertinence to inspect this princess’s finer parts, grey artillery wheels, the adjustable jet carburettor, the remarkable De Dion suspension, the drip-feed lubrication system. I checked them almost in a dream and then stood back again to look at her.

  Magic.

  I’d seen her and somehow I had to force myself to close the doors on her beauty. I wasn’t here just to admire her, but to rejoice that she was still here. Doris had asked me to keep the key so that she could tell anyone who asked after it that she had no key, but that the police did. Sensible lady. I was still reeling from the privilege of having seen the De Dion, but I had to grapple with the unpleasant thought that Connor Meyton might know where she was and be making plans to elope with her.

  I reassured myself that there would be no point because without documentation of provenance the value would fall dramatically. Ransom? Again no point, because Victoria didn’t seem exactly devoted to the car. Perhaps Meyton simply wanted to be convinced, as I did, that the car actually existed and where it was. I doubted this, however.

  So what next for Jack Colby? The car was apparently safe, so my job for the Mad Major appeared to be concluded, even though I wasn’t going to tell him where the car was. However, my job for Dave still had question marks galore. I needed a consultation with him but events forestalled me. Dave was on voicemail, so I left a message asking him to ring, although with the weekend ahead, I didn’t know when that would be. Then Zoe called my mobile.

  ‘I’m only ringing because you ought to know,’ she whipped at me before I had a chance to welcome her back into the fold.

  It appeared that wasn’t on the cards, however. ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Know what?’

  ‘Connor Meyton came round here an hour or two ago and he and Dean went off somewhere in the car.’

  Sounded ominous. ‘The best of pals?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ Zoe said speedily, probably in case it reflected badly on Dean. Before I could ask her more the phone was put down.

  At least it wasn’t earth-shattering news. Or was it? It must have taken Zoe a lot to ring me, so she must have been more worried than she let me assume. It was probably nothing to do with the De Dion but was it just coincidence that it happened so soon after my visit?

  The question mark hung over me, overshadowing my evening with Helen – typical. We met at the Dering Arms again, but the more I tried to forget De Dions the more sinister the implications that crowded into my thoughts. Finally Helen gave up all attempts to have a normal conversation.

  ‘What’s bugging you, Jack? Something good on TV you regret missing?’

  I tried my best to reply in kind, but visions of that De Dion all alone in the countryside kept flashing through my head.

  I used the time-honoured words: ‘Just work.’

  ‘Police or Stanley Hopchurch work?’

  ‘Colby work.’

  ‘So it’s the De Dion. What about it?’

  ‘I know where it is. I can’t tell you, but I saw it today. I’m worried that it’s not safe.’

  She was very still. ‘Why?’

  ‘There’s no reason that it should not be safe and yet I don’t think it is.’

  ‘That sounds more to do with Alf than Stanley, and remember that I’m a friend of Doris’s. Does that help clear your conscience about putting me in the picture?’

  I thought about the possible threat to Doris and decided Helen was right. ‘I believe it is connected to Alf’s death but I can’t see how. He had been storing the car for Victoria Drake. It’s safe but in a place miles from anywhere with little security and a lot of people interested in it. True, only Victoria Drake and I currently have keys, but the locks look pretty flimsy. My key is Doris’s, which makes me feel responsible.’

  ‘Will it help you if you check on it again tonight?’

  I looked at this wondrous Solomon come to sort me out. I remembered Dean and Connor Meyton’s car trip. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then let’s go. Take a camera,’ Solomon suggested. ‘Then you’ll have some identification if the car goes AWOL. Victoria Drake might not have any tangible proof that it’s there, now that Alf is dead.’

  ‘There’s one in the car.’ I wavered, thinking how much I would like to stay here with her and then return to Frogs Hill with all its comforts and— No, I would not think of beds. ‘I could go tomorrow morning,’ I nevertheless said.

  ‘Tonight,’ she pronounced. ‘How far is it?’

  ‘Under an hour’s drive.’

  ‘Then let’s go right away. We could still be eating somewhere by eight thirty or so.’

  Perhaps it was because it was dark as we drove along the motorway but with Helen at my side I was full of foreboding, as if the ghost of Hamlet’s father were striding towards us along the hard shoulder.

  ‘We seem to be heading to Eynsford,’ Helen remarked as we turned off the motorway.

  ‘Shoreham.’

  ‘Good pubs there.’

  ‘And great cars to be seen not far away.’

  ‘Not an impostor then?’

  ‘No way. That car is the real thing.’

  A sigh of relief from Helen. I couldn’t believe it was going to be plain sailing from now on, but I tried to, for her sake. Connor Meyton was hanging around like an evil smell and yet there was nothing I could pin down about him. Irrational though it seemed as I hardly knew the man, I was convinced that something was going on. Dave had told me Meyton had first come to the attention of the Met working in a car gang in the south London area – with Mick Smith, I presumed. He wasn’t running it, but the Met reckoned he was aiming to do so. He was a fast learner, carving out his territory with four-by-fours, although not restricted to that. Classics to order were his ambition. He had disappeared from the Met’s eagle ey
es however and landed up in Dave’s neck of the police woods when an Aston Martin had disappeared from the Meopham area.

  I reasoned that if Doris stood in the way of this upwardly mobile classic gentleman, he was not going to let an old lady prevent him from getting to the car of his choice. In vain I reminded myself once again that no one, not Meyton nor the Morrises, would have anything to gain from kidnapping the car without proof of its provenance. The uneasy thought of Julian crossed my mind but I dismissed it as heebie-jeebies.

  The evening sun looked gorgeous as for the second time that day I turned my car into that elusive track. There was a silence between Helen and me. I was bent on reaching the De Dion as soon as possible and Helen – what was she thinking? No doubt that she could think of better ways to spend a summer evening than driving on wild-goose chases with a car sleuth.

  ‘This is a crazy way to spend an evening,’ I muttered.

  ‘I told you I like impossible challenges, so I like doing crazy. Are you sorry I came?’

  ‘No.’

  No doubt about that. Unless of course we ran into trouble, but there was no sign of anyone around. Only ourselves and the sinking sun. As we turned the last bend my tension level shot up. There were no visiting cars to be seen, thank heavens, and I slumped back in my seat, unable to believe how stupid I had been. I’m not used to making bears out of bushes and I’d made a prize fool of myself.

  And I still was. A lurch of my stomach told me that the doors could be wide open for all I knew, as they were on the far side.

  Fighting panic, I told Helen, ‘Prepare for one quick look at this beauty, and then we’ll go.’

  Relief again. When we reached the door, it was padlocked just as I’d left it. Full of joy, I unlocked it, and pulled the creaky door open so that Helen could get her first view of the De Dion Bouton. I was looking at her so that I could share her delight, and was unprepared for her stifled gasp.

  The shed was empty.

  Doris. The name pounded in my ears. Had she been attacked? This was my fault, no doubt about it. I must have been white with shock and worry because Helen had to calm me down. She put her arms round me and hugged me to her.

  ‘You said you had Doris’s key and that there are only two,’ she reminded me.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The padlock’s intact. It didn’t look as if it had been forced.’

  I looked at her. ‘Helen,’ I said, relief pouring out of me. ‘I’m going to kiss you. Any objection?’

  ‘None at all,’ she said politely.

  It was a poor apology of a kiss, thanks to these circumstances. ‘All the same, I’ll check on Doris.’

  Her phone rang for what seemed like forever. What the hell was I going to say? Did it matter? Just answer, answer.

  And eventually she did.

  ‘Hello?’ She was a phone screecher, but today she could screech all she liked.

  ‘Are you OK, Doris? No odd visitors?’

  ‘No. Of course I’m all right. Why shouldn’t I be?’

  ‘Because someone other than me got into the garage today.’

  ‘That would be Mrs Drake,’ Doris replied happily.

  ‘Are you sure?’ My brain didn’t seem to be functioning at full speed.

  ‘I had to ring her,’ Doris explained in surprise, ‘to tell her the police had my key. It was only right.’

  ‘But the car’s missing.’

  ‘She said she’d arranged for it to be picked up.’

  I switched off, weak with relief, and feeling more than a little stupid as I told Helen what had happened.

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Can we eat now?’

  ‘Let’s go,’ I said.

  But even as I drove, my brain was churning round. Who picked it up? Not Victoria. It wasn’t licensed – no plates. Drivable? A garage would do it. A garage such as King’s Restorations? Or Connor Meyton’s chums?

  The questions were back.

  EIGHT

  We parted in virtual silence that night, Helen and I. We both felt too flat to take matters any further – either on the De Dion front or privately. In the aftermath of anticlimax we had nothing to celebrate by dining in Shoreham so we headed for home. We had a nondescript meal in a nondescript pub en route, and then I drove her to where she had left her car. If ‘friendship’ was trembling on the brink of love neither of us was up to pushing it over – yet.

  ‘Stupid to feel so low,’ she remarked. ‘After all, the De Dion’s in the safe hands of its rightful owner, so what’s to worry about?’

  Quite a lot, I thought, but I told her I agreed with her, partly because I didn’t want to face the truth. We were back at Square One as regards the De Dion and the rally. The De Dion was ‘found’ but I still had a stake in its story because of Alf’s ‘accident’. A phone call to Victoria Drake first thing in the morning was therefore essential. I needed to know from her own lips that her car was safe – and come to that, Victoria herself was safe.

  When I did ring her it went straight to voicemail. It was going to be one of those days. Through the farmhouse window I saw Len arrive and stomp off into the Pits and knew I ought to be giving him moral and physical back-up. It was Saturday on a bank holiday weekend but Zoe’s absence meant he had to work overtime. I needed back-up myself, however, so today was not the time. Leave a message for Victoria? No, that would give her a chance to back away. Ring Pat? No. Ring Brenda? No, again. Victoria owned this car and I couldn’t spread the word that it had moved from its former home to anywhere else before I’d spoken to her. The one exception was Dave, and as it was Saturday, I was pleasantly surprised that he was available, at least on the phone.

  Dave is wonderfully laconic in the face of potential nightmares. ‘What’s the old bird done with it, then?’

  ‘Unlikely to be on a jaunt to the seaside.’

  ‘What’s biting you? Think she’s about to flog it?’

  Trust Dave to stick the knife in where it hurts. ‘Maybe. Should I carry on?’

  The pause was too long for my liking and the word ‘mortgage’ writ itself on my horizon. ‘Still think it’s linked to Alf King?’ he asked at last.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Carry on then. But keep in touch. The Serious Crime boys and girls are getting interested now.’

  The possibility of DCI Brandon breathing down my neck was all I needed. Luckily Helen rang and the day cheered up, even though she only wanted to know if I’d spoken to Victoria.

  ‘Voicemail,’ I told her. ‘Fancy a trip to Lamberhurst?’

  ‘Why not?’ she replied, to my surprise. I’d assumed she had plans for the weekend.

  An hour later her Fiat 500 arrived with a scrunch of the gravel. ‘My place or yours?’ she asked gravely, unfortunately with only the cars in mind. I had the Gordon-Keeble ready for take-off – a treat, for me at least.

  Len spotted our imminent departure and came out to see us off. A rare honour, but not without purpose. ‘Seen Zoe, have you, Jack?’

  ‘Yes,’ I admitted. ‘She’s lacking your care, Len. There’s a Riley over there missing your expertise.’

  ‘She’ll be back,’ he muttered darkly.

  I wished I had his confidence. Zoe’s stubbornness is only matched by Len’s. I comforted myself that Rob would be back in a few days. Then I came to my senses. Since when was Rob Lane a comfort?

  Helen broke the silence, but not until we were driving through Sissinghurst on the way to Shoulder Mutton Green. ‘Why aren’t we happier about Victoria moving the car, Jack?’

  I couldn’t pin this down. ‘Because it doesn’t feel right?’

  ‘Go on.’

  I struggled. ‘Victoria doesn’t appear to give a damn about the De Dion – but suddenly it has to be moved immediately.’

  ‘That’s surely understandable. We’ve been harassing her, Doris was worried about it.’ She changed tack. ‘Not enough, is it?’

  ‘Not quite. It’s possible the Morrises have been pestering her so much that she’s given in and broug
ht the kiddies’ inheritance nearer home. It could be good news, Helen.’ Theoretically perhaps, but in practice Victoria wouldn’t give way to an angry Rottweiler if it didn’t suit her.

  ‘What shall we do if she slams the door in our faces again?’

  ‘I’ll try making it an official visit.’ This line hadn’t worked before, but it was worth a go.

  ‘Official or not, she won’t be pleased that you borrowed Doris’s key.’

  ‘Tough. Legitimate police business because I had reason to suspect foul play.’

  All looked peaceful in Shoulder Mutton Green when we arrived. Nothing more sinister than families out with toddlers and pushchairs, a dog or two, a postman collecting from the box, traffic gearing up for weekend jaunts. I decided to park by the roadside where I had before, rather than in the Elmtree House drive. Helen and I then strolled back to the house trying to pretend this was a normal social call. It didn’t feel that way. The house appeared forbidding, with that empty look as though it were wondering when its owner would be back. Victoria’s car was on the driveway, however, which was a good sign. At least, I thought so, but it seemed not to be. The doorbell clanged in the house but there was no answer. We waited a few minutes and tried again. Same result.

  ‘Childe Roland to the dark tower came,’ Helen remarked. ‘Do you know that Browning poem?’

  I didn’t. ‘What did Childe Roland find in this dark tower?’

  ‘There was no reply when he blew his horn.’

  ‘What was he there for?’

  ‘That’s the mystery. No one knows. Just like now.’

  ‘Thanks, Helen,’ I said ruefully. ‘I can depress myself though. I don’t need Browning to do it for me.’

  ‘In the ballad on which he based the poem, his sister had been abducted by fairies.’

  ‘Even worse.’ I rang once again but there was still no sound within.

  It seemed to me the hunt for the De Dion Bouton was getting to be a farce, peopled by avaricious relatives, avid collectors, obstinate owners and mad majors. Then I remembered Alf. Nothing farcical about his death.

  ‘She could be at the shops or at Brenda’s,’ Helen said hopefully, ‘or even in the garden.’