Classic Cashes In

by Amy Myers

  A pause. Then: ‘Find out the price. Tell me. Ring the seller. Go to see it, and buy it, whatever state it’s in. If it’s not currently registered or if they want to keep the plates, use your garage plates to bring it straight here. Don’t stop for formalities.’

  He really was eager. First find your Packard, I thought as I meditated on Zoe’s ‘kind’ suggestion about Harry Prince. The classic car world is a close one which is good – usually – but on the outskirts of this tight-knit circle wolves prowl hopefully around, and Harry is one of them. So definitely not Harry for this job. Then, watching Len and Zoe at work, I had another idea.

  Another prowling wolf, less ferocious although even more irritating than Harry, is Zoe’s parasite – sorry, partner – Rob Lane. Rob has many infuriating qualities, but he’s not a crook and brought up amidst the moneyed upper classes as he was, he knows that one does not split on a chum. I am not one of his chums, but I am his partner’s boss, and therefore his meal ticket, so the same code – albeit warily – is applied to me.

  ‘Is Rob around?’ I asked Zoe.

  ‘Working at Favvers.’

  Working? Rob? I wisely didn’t comment, but drove my Alfa straight over to his parents’ gigantic farm near Faversham (Favvers for short). Rob was there, true enough, but working? He was sipping coffee and watching cricket on the office TV. That’s my lad. Or rather Zoe’s lad, luckily.

  ‘Been to any good car shows recently, Rob?’ I asked him cheerily.

  ‘No.’ Silence as he watched another few balls. Then he gave me a break. ‘Why?’

  ‘Looking for a 1936 Packard that’s said to be up for sale round these parts. Confidential job.’

  ‘Ah.’ Rob looked wise.

  ‘Thought you might know. Probably a private seller.’

  My thinking went this way. Rob moved in the higher echelons of Kent society, thanks to his parents. When William the Conqueror invaded England in 1066 he was famously visited by a contingent from Kent intent on keeping its own economy intact, and I bet Rob’s forebears were leading it.

  Therefore, as Packards were in their day a status symbol and as Rob and his father like classic cars, they might well know who owned the Packard I was after. There couldn’t be that many in Kent.

  ‘Who’s after it?’ he asked.

  ‘Me, Or rather Frogs Hill. As I said, it’s hush-hush, but we’ve got a customer.’

  ‘Fair enough, Jack. Commission?’ Rob is sharp when it comes to cash.

  I swallowed. ‘A sweetener for you.’

  I hadn’t checked expenses with Philip Moxton but my guess was that this would prove no problem.

  ‘Done. Leave it to me,’ said Mr Rob Fixer grandly.

  I gave him the details of the Packard I was after. ‘I need a price first,’ I explained.

  His eyes flickered. It’s his way of trying to look intelligent which in many ways he is, otherwise Zoe would not fancy him. To me his sex appeal looked non-existent, but then how would I know? Zoe can go into raptures over a Ford Edsel on occasion, so there’s no judging what she sees in him.

  I wasn’t certain I was following the right course in handing Rob the job on a plate, but it was worth a go. Zoe and Len were still engrossed in the Sunbeam Alpine overhaul when I returned to Frogs Hill, so I faced up to my responsibilities as a businessman and took the accounts – seriously behind – into the farmhouse garden to work on. This took a fair time and I didn’t finish until the early evening.

  If you’re happy, a summer’s evening can be blissful in late summer; if you’re not it’s the saddest time of day as the sun remembers it’s nearly time to depart. It has one last burst with the flower scents strong, birds saying goodbye to their latest broods, and nature at the peak of its fulfilment – which is what makes one sad if one isn’t fulfilling anything. Frogs Hill is a refuge, a place of healing, but it’s incomplete without someone with whom to share it. Ladies had come and gone at various times in my life, kicking off years ago with my divorce after an early ill-fated and brief marriage.

  There’s only one lady (apart from my daughter who lives in Suffolk) with whom I had wanted to share Frogs Hill since that time, and that is Louise, who had sailed into harbour only to disappear on the dawn tide. Recently my hopes had been revived, but having succumbed to the temptation to track her down I discovered that she was by then filming in Australia. The mobile number I had for her no longer worked. Emails remained unanswered. The sun was definitely sinking on that false hope.

  Only twenty-four hours after I had seen Rob the phone rang. He sounded highly pleased with himself – but then he always does, so I didn’t get too hopeful.

  ‘Found it,’ he chortled. ‘It’s for sale – private, not a dealer.’

  ‘Terrific, Rob.’ For once I meant it.

  ‘Told them it was for Frogs Hill, as you said, Jack. They asked who the customer was.’

  As I’d guessed. ‘And you said …?’

  ‘Not etiquette for you to reveal it.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I meant that too. ‘Sheer genius on your part.’

  ‘I know.’

  Modesty is not his strong point. ‘What’s the price?’

  ‘Thirty-five thousand.’

  That sounded roughly in the right area although on the high side. ‘Who’s the seller?’

  He gave me the address, which was near the village of Frittenhurst, not that far away. ‘It belonged to Gavin Herrick, the actor. Died recently. Remember him?’

  I did. He must have been a fair age because I remembered seeing him in TV and films years back and not that long ago I’d seen him in a cameo part. His suave style and figure carried him through despite his age.

  ‘Gavin was a pal of my grandfather,’ Rob added. ‘Well over ninety when he died. Family wants to get rid of the car. I spoke to the son, Tom Herrick.’ He paused. ‘Had a bit of trouble though.’

  There had to be a downside. ‘In what way?’

  ‘They were still very curious about this customer of yours. The son’s wife – she’s a cool one – said they didn’t want to sell it to just anybody. The car had to have a good home.’

  I’d met this attitude amongst classic car owners occasionally, but this one was unusual as it was coming not from the owner but from the next generation. Normally that means the inheritor is determined either never to sell it at all or to offload it on the first good offer.

  ‘They’re looking forward to meeting the customer,’ Rob continued. ‘Is that on?’

  ‘Certainly. The customer is Jack Colby.’

  ‘Over to you, Jack. But bear in mind my reputation is at stake. This sweetener is going to have to be good.’

  His reputation? As a country lounge lizard? I managed to keep a serious note in my voice when I replied, ‘Naturally, Rob. You deserve it.’

  ‘I know I do.’

  I thought this Packard story over carefully, wondering whether my imagination had been overworking. What it told me was that I was not getting the full story. Having come to the conclusion that it was on the right lines, I decided to ignore instructions and visit Philip Moxton unannounced. Caught off guard, he might be more forthcoming, and after all, surely not every casual visitor would be shot on sight.

  I took the Alfa this time instead of the Gordon-Keeble. My daily driver would make it look less like a state visit on my part and more of a ‘just passing by’. The gate was again unlocked, but I did notice that mysteriously it seemed to lock itself judging by the sharp click as I shut it. Odd. Those windows still glared at me but again no armed guard leapt out.

  Someone else did though. A middle-aged man with a scruffy beard, working clothes and suspicious eyes. He was carrying a mug, and looked mightily surprised to see me. He didn’t offer me a coffee, but he did study me, my car and then me again with great care.

  ‘Morning,’ I greeted him guardedly.

  ‘Morning,’ he growled, turning his attention to the coffee, although as I climbed into the Alfa I felt his eyes returning to me. No shotgun took ou
t my tyres as I drove off, so either I must have passed muster or there was a booby trap ahead.

  This time I saw a gardener or two in the park, but the car park was empty of human life. Only a line of cars suggested that staff or anyone else was around. Although there was no apparent booby trap, I still had the uncomfortable feeling that there was something wrong about this set-up. Nevertheless I reached the house in one piece and rang the bell.

  I thought at first no one would answer it, but then the heavy door was dragged open.

  It wasn’t Philip Moxton on the other side.

  It was a woman in carpet slippers with a pair of rose nippers in her hand. Offensive weapon? She was clad in smock and jeans, and looked about sixty or so. The housekeeper? No, she looked more like a gardener on the wrong side of the front door.

  ‘Could I have a word with Mr Moxton?’

  ‘Who?’ she barked.

  That took me by surprise. Maybe she was deaf. ‘Philip Moxton,’ I shouted.

  ‘No need to yell. And no you can’t.’

  ‘Is he out?’

  ‘I’ve never heard of him, whoever he is.’

  She really could not have heard. I tried again. ‘He owns Staveley House. He lives here. Philip Moxton?’

  That did it. She glared at me. ‘I own this house, thank you very much.’

  Just my luck to run into the mad woman of Staveley House. ‘Where is he then? In London?’

  ‘Get out,’ she boomed. ‘I’ve never heard of this Moxton person.’ And then she slammed the door in my face.

  Rebuffed to say the least, I drove back to the gate where thankfully the bearded man was now sitting on the dilapidated bench sipping whatever was inside the mug. He was eyeing me rather triumphantly, I thought, while he played his role as village yokel. And role it was, I was sure of that.

  ‘Can you tell me when Mr Moxton will be returning?’ I had his mobile number to ring but I was feeling obstinate.

  ‘Wrong house, sir. Never heard of him.’

  ‘But I visited him here only two days ago.’

  ‘Not here. I’d have seen you. These big houses all look alike, don’t they?’

  ‘This is Staveley House, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Then it belongs to Mr Moxton whether he’s here or not.’

  ‘No, sir, it doesn’t and he don’t live here.’

  ‘Who was it answered the door to me? A lady about sixty, likes gardening.’

  ‘That would be Miss Janes. She owns this place. Staveley House. It’s hers.’

  TWO

  Now you see him, now you don’t … Was this a joke? Optical illusion? Were there two Staveley Houses? Out of the question. Philip Moxton was a high-powered billionaire banking executive and not the kind of man to plan elaborate hoaxes. Nor would he employ eccentric house- or gate-keepers. I supposed this Miss Janes might be an eccentric relation but that didn’t fit in with the gatekeeper’s statement that she was the owner. True, Moxton claimed to be afraid of being murdered, but that wouldn’t extend to repelling all legitimate callers. Tax avoidance measure? My take on Philip Moxton was that if he was worried about unexpected guests he’d have a secure gate and security system with guards, not one crusty old gent at an unlocked gate.

  ‘How’s the job looking?’ Zoe asked me when I reached Frogs Hill. She’d actually left the Pits to question me.

  ‘Very murky. The gentleman was not only not in but not known.’

  Zoe frowned. ‘Rob says he’s an odd bloke.’

  ‘Does he know Philip Moxton or just know of him?’

  ‘Both. By repute and met him once. So go steady.’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’

  She glared at me and stalked back to the Pits. Which left me to ponder on my next step. One thing was clear. I wasn’t going to put so much as a finger into this potential lions’ den until I had investigated further.

  I wandered round to the rear of the farmhouse to the barn-cum-garage in which my Lagonda and the Gordon-Keeble live. The Lagonda is a 1938 model redolent of the heady days before the Second World War removed them; although, even then, if one were lucky enough to get petrol, a Lagonda symbolized a kind of hope. The Gordon-Keeble was a sporting symbol of a different age, the 1960s – not of Carnaby Street and the Beatles but the years that held a firm assurance that Britain was heading somewhere good. Nothing that the succeeding decades have thrown at us has dented that image for me.

  The Lagonda lifts my heart, the Gordon-Keeble is my faithful friend. They are comfortingly reliable. Any problem they present can be worked on and fixed. I wasn’t so sure that Philip Moxton’s job would fall under this category.

  OK, I silently addressed them both. Where now? This job was already presenting the unexpected – never a good sign. I like challenges, but this one had all the hallmarks of being one that might escape out of my control. Brake failure! Time to grab the steering wheel, I told myself, so I took a deep breath and returned to my landline to begin.

  Philip Moxton had given me his mobile number, which surely wouldn’t be something that a banking magnate would normally hand out to a temporary employee. Experimentally I tried his landline first. Even if he was in London for the day, he’d be home by now.

  At least the call was answered. ‘Wrong number,’ snapped the voice that had greeted me this afternoon – if greet was the right word for our encounter.

  ‘Nevertheless would you tell Mr Moxton …’ but I was speaking to a dialling tone.

  I had half expected that reply, and it goaded me on. Now for the mobile number. I fully expected it to be on voicemail, but it wasn’t. I was pleasantly surprised to hear Philip Moxton’s voice, albeit with a mere ‘Yes?’

  ‘Jack Colby,’ I replied.

  Immediately the tone of voice changed. ‘You have found it? You have a price?’

  ‘I do. Thirty-five thousand.’

  I decided I would get the business done first, rather than tackle the question of his vanishing act. There was such a silence at the end of the line that I hastened to say, ‘It looks a reasonably good deal depending on the condition. You may be in luck.’

  ‘May I?’ he asked oddly. ‘Is this a private seller or dealer?’

  ‘Private. It’s over the market price, but I can negotiate—’

  ‘Private,’ he repeated. ‘And thirty-five thousand pounds. Thank you, Mr Colby. Accept the offer, provisional on speedy viewing to check it is the car I require, make the appointment, notify me, do what you need to in the way of formalities, put the Packard on your garage plates if you wish, but buy it, whatever the apparent drawbacks. Make a cash deposit of fifteen hundred pounds, express the rest of the money to the seller, pick the car up, notify me on this number and drive it straight to me. And –’ he must have heard my intake of breath – ‘you must naturally be concerned about your account. I shall transfer the entire amount of money to you now, plus a commission element which I trust will cover your fee.’

  This time I recovered my breath, though to little avail. ‘But—’

  ‘The money will be in your Frogs Hill account at nine a.m. tomorrow, Friday, Mr Colby, if you’ll send me the details. And, just one more matter, I believe it possible the seller will guess who this customer of yours is. Is there any way of avoiding that?’

  ‘Only by inventing a fictional customer, which I dislike doing, or better by continuing to insist I cannot reveal it.’

  ‘Which will provide them with the information they seek,’ he murmured. ‘I understand. However I am prepared to take the risk, despite its dangers.’

  He began to bid me farewell, but it was my turn for ‘just one more thing’. Two in fact. ‘First,’ I asked him, ‘suppose this car isn’t the one you owned?’

  ‘I’m a wealthy man, Mr Colby. I will email you tonight the chassis and engine numbers of the Packard I require. It’s unlikely that anyone would go to the length of falsifying the numbers in order to kid me this is the car I am after, so the information I am sending you should be su
fficient. And your second question?’

  Now for it. ‘You say drive the car to you. Where would that be?’

  ‘To Staveley House of course.’ He sounded surprised.

  ‘But today I was passing nearby and thought I’d call on you to give you the news in person. I was given short shrift by the lady who opened the door who claimed she had never heard of you.’

  ‘A security matter, Mr Colby,’ he replied dismissively, ‘to avoid nuisance and other unwelcome callers. That is a necessary step in my position, both on the telephone and in person. Provided you call this mobile number there will be no problem.’

  Put that way, it was reasonable enough, I supposed. I’ve never been a billionaire banking tyro so I wouldn’t know. Nevertheless I still had a feeling that I was treading on quicksand. It had not escaped my notice that while being concerned about his own anonymity in the matter, he had not questioned me on the name of the seller. However, so far everything was perfectly legal, albeit unusual, so who was I to turn down what promised to be a generous payment for very little work?

  It was indeed generous. Fifty per cent commission on thirty-five thousand was something to be welcomed – although I had to remember that Philip Moxton had probably not made his millions by being overgenerous without reason. The money had arrived as promised, but the owners could not see me on the Friday, a fact that Philip Moxton greeted with impatience. Saturday morning therefore found me and my £1,500 cash deposit driving over to Frittenhurst to meet this Packard. The village is not far from Headcorn and buried amid former hop gardens, now redundant and turned over to fruit or other crops. It still possesses a church although no longer a pub or even a shop. Oast House, the Herrick home, where once the hops had been dried, was in a prosperous area and looked as if its owner was reasonably prosperous too. It was nowhere near the size of Staveley House but converted oast houses aren’t bought cheaply. They aren’t large in themselves, however, and this one had a sizeable red-brick extension that blended in well with the oast itself. I could see this was in spectacular condition, built with Kentish ragstone and flint with its distinctive conical roof, cowl and the Kentish rampant horse figure on the vane.