by Amy Myers
I tried it on the Wednesday morning, and, glory be, it worked. ‘Thought I’d keep in touch, Connor,’ I said more cheerfully than I felt.
‘So glad you did.’
‘You heard about Victoria Drake’s murder?’
‘I did. You found the body. Why ring me?’
That struck a false note. ‘I had a glimpse of the De Dion. The real thing, Connor.’
‘A coincidence. So did I.’
‘Did you move it for her?’
‘It’s in a garage on the A21.’
‘Let’s hope it stays there.’
‘You’ll be the first to know if it doesn’t.’ He rang off.
Had I accomplished anything by making contact? I thought I had. If Connor Meyton had designs on the car Victoria’s death could have featured in them. I didn’t flatter myself that he would be put off by the fact that I was on his case, but just a whiff of police interest never does any harm.
It was beginning to worry me that I had not heard from Helen nor had she returned my calls. I couldn’t think of any reason she would be lying low so I put it down to her associating me with the shock she had received on Saturday. The bank holiday was now past and, remembering that Wednesday was one of her Treasure Island days, I decided to drive over to see if anything was amiss.
Someone was there, but her Fiat was not. Nevertheless the door was wide open and in the office I found Julian. Not exactly a substitute for Helen, and I expected to be given a brush-off. He seemed embarrassed rather than angry at my arrival, however.
‘I’m expecting someone,’ he muttered.
‘I’ll pop a donation in the box and make myself scarce then. Is Helen around?’
‘She took the afternoon off.’ He hesitated, as a familiar Volvo saloon drew up. ‘That’s Tom Morris and his son arriving.’
It was clear that they couldn’t be coming for a spot of sightseeing, but with Victoria’s murder less than a week earlier it must be important.
‘I suggested they needed to see the potential for the De Dion by appreciating what the rally is all about and what it supports,’ Julian added.
And maybe you could put in a bid for the De Dion while they’re here, I thought meanly. It also seemed very quick for the Morrises to be making plans for the De Dion. I wondered if Patricia knew they were here. ‘We’re up to nearly fifty entries so far,’ Julian added.
‘That’s good,’ I murmured. Indeed it was. There was a limit to the number of cars that could take part in a rally on the British roads and that seemed perilously close to it.
‘Terrible thing, this murder,’ he put in hastily, perhaps interpreting my expression correctly, ‘but the rally preparations have to go on. That’s why Tom decided he and Nick should come over now. Patricia didn’t feel up to it although she’ll be the official owner of the De Dion.’
Not if the Major has anything to do with it, I thought, wondering how much if anything Julian knew about his co-trustee’s involvement in the De Dion story. I could not probe further because Tom and Nick were approaching and Julian wanted me out quicker than one can say Gordon-Keeble. At least I thought so. In fact it was he who rushed outside to greet the visitors first, so I merely strolled after him and hung around.
‘Have you seen the car yet?’ Julian was wasting no time with trivialities.
‘Can’t rush things. I’m an executor and that gives me responsibilities to observe,’ Tom announced.
‘After the funeral we’ll get things moving with the solicitors,’ Nick put in. ‘It’s all been police, police, police so far.’
Julian managed a polite ‘of course’.
I wondered if they realized that the funeral could be much delayed given the circumstances of Victoria’s death.
‘Will you still be bringing the car over here?’ Julian enquired, taking me by surprise to say the least. What was all this about?
‘As soon as my co-executor gives his OK,’ Tom answered. ‘Your garage is secure, is it?’
‘As the Bank of England,’ Julian assured him – a not too happy comparison I thought in today’s economic times.
It was clear that having failed to persuade Victoria to take part in the rally or sell him the car, Julian thought he stood a better chance with the Morrises. He was probably right, but how far had he gone to achieve this? I baulked at the word ‘murder’ but it was right there on the cards.
I drove back to Frogs Hill, feeling that there was a V8 engine running away without my being in the driving seat. Tom’s mother-in-law is murdered and in a few days Tom is busy counting his banknotes from the sale of the car. Did Helen know about it, or had her fellow trustee ‘forgotten’ to clue her in? And where was the secure lock-up around Cobba House, and how did that affect matters if the car wasn’t yet his? Julian had shot off immediately the Morrises had left, possibly to avoid these very questions.
The rally, I reminded myself, was not my affair, but then I changed my mind. Anything to do with that De Dion was my affair. Not only was there Alf’s death to bear in mind, but now Victoria Drake’s.
When I reached Frogs Hill, I found a pot of gold at the end of my non-rainbow day. Helen’s afternoon off had included me. Her Fiat 500 was parked in the forecourt and I could see her in the Pits where Len seemed to be showing her around. Maybe he saw her as a replacement for Zoe, or, possibly, Helen was thinking in terms of our doing the restoration on the piles of dusty jewels in Pompeii and Herculaneum. That would be Len’s idea of heaven – save that he would need several lifetimes to finish it all.
Helen came straight out when she saw me. I put my arms round her and hugged her, to Len’s disapproval. He thinks romance might get in the way of the serious things of life, such as cars.
‘What’s up?’ I asked her.
Something was troubling her and it wasn’t the fact that she hadn’t seen me for four days. I took her into my garden where we could be alone in the sunshine, and produced a Pimms for her to induce her to stay for a while.
‘Now tell me,’ I suggested.
‘Something’s wrong, Jack. I don’t know what, but when I came back yesterday Julian and Stanley seemed to be acting very out of character. It must be Victoria’s death and the De Dion. Should I tackle them about it or just see what happens? Or do you know what’s up? They’ve been closeted together since I told them about her murder, but they clam up if I enter.’
I told her I had seen them both and that I too found it odd. I could not tell her about the Major’s claim to own the car, unfortunately. Not until the police knew about it anyway. And that would not be long now, once I rang either Dave or DCI Fielding.
‘I think they’re acting on their own accounts, not the trust’s,’ I told her.
‘Over the De Dion and the rally?’
‘Yes. Having the car in his own garage would be a good step forward for Julian.’
‘Is he doing that?’ Helen looked dismayed. ‘I didn’t know.’
Damn. I’d gone too far. Time to put the brakes on.
‘Probably because this is a private arrangement of his, not the trust’s.’
She dismissed this impatiently. ‘It’s too close for me not to know. It affects the rally. Jack, are you backing out of this mess now?’
‘I never reverse if I can go forward. Don’t like the bleeps going off.’
‘Good.’
We decided we’d take a walk, so we strolled down to the track running along the Greensand Ridge and walked towards Elvey Farm through the fields. Out here we felt miles away from the world of murder and intrigue and even cars were left behind. I entertained her with funny stories from my oil days – there were some – and that made her laugh.
Finally she sighed as we turned for home. ‘That’s better, Jack.’
‘Good. Would a drink and dinner at Frogs Hill make it better still?’
‘They would.’
‘And?’
‘I don’t eat much breakfast.’
I took her in my arms. ‘I do a particularly fine line in p
orridge.’
‘With a single red rose stuck in a vase at its side?’
‘Two if you like.’
The evening past and then the night . . . A night with Helen. I woke up once in the small hours and saw her hair spread on the pillow. I put out my hand and stroked it, but she woke up and smiled.
‘I’m reading my Browning now,’ I said. ‘Pippa passes.’
‘I’m right here.’
‘Then all’s right with the world.’ I reached out for her and indeed it was.
Full of renewed joy of life, I went out to the garden and plucked the rose. I would say I enjoyed the dabbling in the dew but the rose was a happier reminder. There was no red rose in flower but there was an orangey-yellow one almost the colour of her hair, and if I heard Louise sigh as I presented it to Helen it was only for a fleeting moment. Here wrapped in my towelling robe, handing her the marmalade at the breakfast table, life felt good. Not a word was spoken about murder or rallies or even cars. Instead we talked both of nothing and of us. Until the phone rang.
Not about a classic car restoration. Not a call from Dave Jennings. It was DCI Fielding.
‘Does the name Connor Meyton mean anything to you?’ she began without so much as a comment about the weather.
‘Yes.’ Caution needed. ‘Also to Dave Jennings,’ I added. ‘He’s a four-by-four nicker and seems to be dabbling in the classic car field. Territory formerly south London, now thought to be heading this way. He hasn’t yet demonstrated his true colours to us though.’
‘Wrong. Let me show them to you. Dave’s already here.’
‘The De Dion?’ I asked in dread. ‘Gone already?’
‘Nothing to do with the De Dion – as far as I know. But it could be to do with Alf King. It’s his garage at Eynsford. You should come.’
Zoe was my instant fear. ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked sharply.
But the DCI had been called away judging by the cracklings on the phone and the line went dead. Len saw me leave, but I didn’t stop to fill him in on this. It only takes one to panic. I explained my fear to Helen, leapt into the Alfa and drove straightaway to King’s Restorations. As I turned the corner into Lea Lane, something seemed to have happened to the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t see the garage. I saw fire engines, I saw smoke in the air and smelt the heavy scent of burnt-out wreckage. Zoe was all I could think about, though. Where was she? When had the fire broken out? Had she been here? Were others here?
I parked where I was in the lane and hotfooted it along to the fire scene, sick at the thought of what I might find. And then, blessed relief, I spotted Zoe, huddled in a blanket sitting by Dave’s car, and I rushed up to her.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked fatuously. Of course she wasn’t all right. She was no more all right than Helen and I had been when we found Victoria Drake’s body.
Zoe valiantly nodded.
‘Dean?’ I asked
‘He’s not here, so he’s OK too . . .’ Her voice trailed off and I didn’t want to press her. I kissed her cheek and went over to Dave who had already spotted my arrival.
Where the office and workshop had been was just a flattened area of dark burnt twisted shapes. Even Dr Who would have baulked at facing these nightmarish sights. Almost worse was the knowledge that this fire couldn’t have been accidental as Dave and the DCI were both here. It must be suspected arson.
‘Hi,’ Dave said. ‘Good old mess, isn’t it? Scenario: arson. Fire seat there.’ He pointed to where Alf’s office had been. ‘Then it spread to the workshop, paints and so forth, then everywhere else. Nero himself couldn’t have done a better job. Roads closed all around, only just opened up when you arrived.’
‘When did it happen?’ I asked, surveying the remains of Alf’s pride and joy.
‘Four, five o’clock this morning probably.’
‘So no one hurt.’ It seemed to me there were a lot of police around for ‘no one hurt’.
Dave grimaced. ‘I wouldn’t say that. Come and have a look. We can’t move him until we get clearance from the fire chief.’
Him? Dean? Perhaps Zoe had been wrong about his not being here.
Heat seemed to hit me from all directions as I scrambled into a scene suit. Dave cleared me at the cordon and we picked our way over to the rubble – some of it nearby was still smouldering – where the office would have been. Everything in it would be amongst these charred fragments now. Lying to one side was something worse, however. A blackened shape that could only be a corpse.
‘Who is it?’ I managed to ask. Then I remembered DCI Fielding’s phone call. ‘Not Connor Meyton, is it?’
‘Not yet known. Possible, but whoever torched the place thoughtfully provided a name for the poor guy lying there. The labs have to do their stuff first, but it might be Mick Smith, erstwhile of the south London car crime scene.’
‘And Meyton’s one-time partner in crime, I’m told.’
Dave grunted. ‘According to our chums in the Met he ran foul of Meyton. He was maybe shot elsewhere and his body dumped here for disposal.’
‘Can the lab tell that?’
‘Probably, but there’s not much left of him. And before you ask how we knew who he might be, there was a call to the Met telling them where to find him.’
‘Got the number the call came from?’
I recognized it as soon as Dave passed it over. I’d been ringing it. It was Meyton’s.
‘So Meyton’s involved somehow,’ Dave said, when I told him. ‘With the Drake murder too?’
‘I don’t know – yet.’ I had a foreboding about this. ‘Why bring the body to Eynsford if he was killed elsewhere?’
‘Probably as a warning. A “you’re next”.’
‘Me?’ A fatuous reply from me. Now I thought more about this. Connor Meyton couldn’t be that fond of me.
‘Not yet,’ Dave said comfortingly. ‘More likely Dean Warren. But don’t go out on a dark night without a tin hat.’
TEN
Zoe was in no state to drive and in any case her Fiesta, which had been on the forecourt, looked as if it might be permanently out of commission. That was one tiny silver lining in this ghastly affair, I supposed. She was very shaky and I took her to a pub after the police had finished questioning her. She ate virtually nothing of the pasta she ordered, but I think she felt a little better afterwards. I didn’t think she should be left alone in her flat when we arrived at Pluckley but she was insistent that she was fine.
‘What about Dean?’ I suggested cautiously. ‘Should I call him?’ He had not appeared at the fire scene and I knew the police had gone to his home. Whether he was there or not, I had no idea. I had driven over with police permission to break the news to Doris. As I expected, she had taken the news on the chin, but nevertheless I arranged for a neighbour to stay with her.
‘No. He’s disappeared.’ For a moment I thought I saw a glimpse of something resembling a tear in Zoe’s eye but if I did it was hastily despatched in favour of a good attempt at not caring. I was not sure what she meant by ‘disappeared’. Was the arsonist after him too? Was he dead? Had he scarpered? I couldn’t question her too hard however.
‘Any idea what this is all about, Zoe?’ I asked her gently. ‘Or do you want to leave it awhile?’
‘Leave it,’ she said promptly. ‘Just go, Jack. Go.’
I probably wouldn’t have obeyed except that the cavalry belatedly blundered in. Through the window I had seen a familiar Porsche. (A Boxster, naturally. Rob would have nothing less.) Zoe had seen him too, and reluctantly went to open the door. I followed her, ensuring I was out of the visitor’s sight line.
‘Hi,’ Rob greeted her, with his best ‘I know you’re thrilled to see me’ grin on. ‘Fancy a night out on the town?’
A split-second silence, as I materialized on the scene. ‘Not tonight, thanks, Rob,’ I told him graciously. ‘I’ll be off, but Zoe has had a nasty shock. She’ll explain what’s happened. Look after her, will you?’
‘I don’t need—�
�� the lady began to yell, but Rob, recovering from his own shock at this unexpectedly welcoming Jack Colby, marched right in and flung a possessive manly arm around her shoulders.
‘Sure, Jack.’
I felt somewhat guilty at abandoning her, but better the devil you know, I thought as I started up the Alfa. At least Zoe would have company – of a sort.
And so it seemed would I. No sooner had I collapsed into an armchair at home than my mobile rang. Pen Roxton. Of course I might have known she would be hot on the trail.
‘Heard about the fire at Alf King’s old place?’ she asked.
‘Yes. I’m just back from there.’
‘Good. We’re coming over,’ Pen blithely announced with the air of one doing me an enormous favour.
‘When, where and who’s we?’
‘Now. Frogs Hill and Bob Orton. I’m a mile or so away.’
The line went dead, and I groaned with self-pity. I could have done without this, even though it was good news in a way. Bob Orton had access to the crowd who knew Connor Meyton’s background and that of Mick Smith. Somehow they tied up with the fire at Alf’s garage and possibly therefore his death.
It wasn’t hard to see that this was Pen’s line too. I almost pitied Meyton with Pen on his trail, and I certainly pitied Orton in his glorious role as her stooge. I had little doubt that she was busy tying all this in with Victoria Drake – and how could I blame her? So was I. Pen could hardly not have known about her murder or that she was the owner of the De Dion, nor would the fact that I found Victoria’s body have escaped her. This had all appeared in the press reports. I wondered whom Pen had in her sights for her death. Me perhaps?
She and Bob turned up ten minutes later in Pen’s Toyota, which hadn’t seen a car wash for many a long year. Bob climbed out with all the swagger of one who thinks he was born to something rather better.
‘Nice place,’ he said appreciatively, having surveyed the Frogs Hill estate. Surprisingly I think he meant it. I’d put him down as a townie but now I wasn’t so sure. ‘Sorry to land on you like this, but you know Pen. I’ve heard about your Dad’s Glory Boot.’