Classic Cashes In

by Amy Myers

  I drove into the yard area where a tall hearty-looking man in his sixties came out to meet me and slightly behind him – both literally and with her welcome – came (presumably) his wife, Moira. I remembered now why the name Tom Herrick had rung a bell – of course, I’d seen his face on television many a time, not in leading parts, but as back-up in practically every crime series on TV. His father Gavin had been one up in the acting stakes.

  No sign of the Packard yet, and after we had introduced ourselves, Moira asked me in for coffee, so perhaps it wasn’t such a cool welcome as I had thought.

  ‘He’ll want to see the old heap first, Moira,’ Tom joked. Not a very sensible way of talking about a car that he hoped to sell. He didn’t seem anxious about the sale – indeed it was almost as though he thought the sale was a foregone conclusion.

  A cool smile from his wife. ‘Of course. Stupid of me.’

  ‘I’ll bring the lady out for you,’ Tom said, walking over to the garage and opening it up.

  And there she was. Straight out of The Ladykillers, save that as Philip had predicted this beauty was painted a buttery cream, not the original black. Even from the rear this looked authentic, however, with its glorious chrome bumpers and hubcaps, narrow wheels and the distinctive revolutionary spare tyre compartment tucked under the luggage boot.

  ‘Looks great already,’ I told Moira as he backed it out.

  Tom pulled up in front of us and climbed out. ‘Not a bad old lady, is she?’ He patted the bonnet.

  This grand old lady wasn’t in the peak of condition but he was right. She might need repainting and some restoration but she oozed charisma in bucketfuls. Her solid, ancient, stylish lines were inviting me inside to relax in comfort. From the few rides I’d had in a Packard that applied to the driver too. Letting out that seemingly effortless clutch, one could go to the ends of the earth in her, a home from home. This was the 1935 model, the 120, that took the market by storm by being so good and so reasonably priced. That hadn’t stopped it from being a status symbol as well.

  ‘Want a spin?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Let’s all go,’ Moira said surprisingly. She didn’t look like a car person. ‘It would be a tribute to Gavin. My father-in-law died recently, which is why we’re selling the car.’

  So there seemed no mystery about that. Perhaps I had been imagining there was something odd about this deal – although it was true she seemed somewhat overearnest in her determination to convey this message.

  ‘That would be great.’ Philip Moxton had said a test drive wasn’t necessary, but how could I turn down such an offer? ‘It was Gavin’s own car?’ I asked.

  ‘Very much so,’ Tom told me. ‘Had it for yonks, from a boy.’

  That didn’t seem to fit too well with what I’d been told by Philip. Odd. ‘This particular Packard?’ I asked. ‘Or Packards generally?’

  ‘Packards in general, I suppose. I don’t know when my father first bought this one.’

  Did I sense a slight hesitation in that reply? ‘Is the original logbook still in it?’

  ‘No, alas.’ He grinned at me affably. ‘An actor’s life is not always a happy one financially speaking, and there was a period when my father had to let the car go. Fortunately he was able to buy it back again later, but the logbook had vanished. And the original number plates too.’

  So that answered my question – or did it? ‘It was the same car though?’ Without waiting for his affirmation, I carried on, also affably. ‘Mind if I check the chassis and engine numbers? Just a formality, but I don’t want to be sued by my customer.’

  ‘Sure. Go ahead.’

  I did and made a careful note but I already knew they tallied.

  The spin took us along lanes past fields and woods on either side. The fields are large and open in this part of Kent and I could almost imagine I was driving through the prairies of the USA. Perhaps the Packard thought it was too for its straight-eight engine purred happily along. She handled well, despite the steering being on the heavy side for modern taste. Nevertheless she obligingly negotiated the many sharp corners unfazed. The Ladykillers gang had chosen well. Next time I robbed a bank, this Packard would be my accomplice.

  ‘What makes you a Packard enthusiast, Mr Colby?’ Moira asked politely as we drew up at Oast House again.

  ‘A paying customer,’ I parried, ‘although I do admire them. Who wouldn’t? Thanks for the ride. I’m prepared to meet your price on it.’

  ‘Are you indeed?’ murmured Mrs Cool. Was there a slight note of sarcasm in her voice?

  ‘Of course.’ I tried to sound cool myself. ‘It’s just what my customer wants.’

  A silence, then: ‘So how about that coffee now, Moira?’ Tom asked jovially. ‘We can sort things out more comfortably in the house.’

  As we walked inside the former oast house, there was an image flicking through my mind that I couldn’t quite grasp. As we all sat down in their delightful circular living room (once the room where the fires to dry the hops were burning) I pinned this image down. It seemed as if I were in a scene from a thirties play, not by Noel Coward but … yes, J.B. Priestley. Dangerous Corner, one of those time-slip plays. Well into the plot, it takes an apparently insignificant point in the conversation, which results in the story being led in one direction. At that story’s denouement, it reverts to the same ‘insignificant’ point and then explores what would have happened if the point hadn’t occurred.

  I wasn’t in a time slip (I hoped) but I did have a feeling that this might be a dangerous corner with more outcomes than the one I had envisaged of simply taking the car to Philip Moxton and gratefully pocketing my commission. And yet on the face of it everything here seemed perfectly normal. Frogs Hill had bought cars before on behalf of clients even for one or two who chose to remain anonymous to the seller, so this deal was all straightforward, I told myself. Tom and Moira Herrick seemed hesitant about accepting the £1,500 cash deposit, but that too could be a natural response.

  ‘Please take it,’ I urged them. ‘My client would not be happy if I didn’t secure the sale. I’ll send the rest of the money as soon as I get back.’

  ‘Splendid,’ Tom boomed. (Wasn’t he straight out of a thirties play?) ‘Let’s say Tuesday then, this being a bank holiday weekend. We’ll be around all day and have the old lady and all the paperwork waiting for you. All right with you, Moira?’

  ‘Of course,’ she murmured. ‘Gavin would have wanted the car to go to an appreciative owner.’

  ‘I’ll ring you to check the money’s come through. I’ll send it by BACS.’

  Delighted murmurs greeted this. As I rose to go (after the excellent coffee) a photo of Gavin Herrick caught my eye, amid the many photos of Tom and Moira at various stages of their marriage and of a glamorous young woman who was probably their daughter. The photo of Gavin had been taken on his wedding day with his bride.

  ‘Dad with my mother, Nancy,’ Tom confirmed.

  ‘Is she still living?’ I asked politely.

  Tom shook his head and Moira answered for him. ‘She died young, but that –’ she indicated a picture of Tom and a woman with a young child – ‘is Tom with his sister, Gwen. She’s two years younger than Tom.’

  Just a normal family and the usual photographs. And yet not so normal, I reflected, with Gavin Herrick as part of it. He had been a great actor and Tom too was on the stage. Was there an element of role-playing here that I wasn’t picking up?

  We talked for a few minutes more and parted on good terms. As I drove off, however, I briefly looked back. Standing by the Packard were Moira and Tom clasped in each other’s arms. In joy? Relief at the sale? Or just sad to see it go? Which of these, I wondered – or none of them?

  ‘I do not like this delay. You’re sure there will be no trickery?’ Philip asked sharply when I rang him (on his mobile of course) to tell him the news that I couldn’t pick the car up immediately.

  His response puzzled me. ‘I can’t see why there should be.’

  �
��No undue interest in the identity of your customer?’

  I remembered Moira’s comment about the appreciative owner, but there had been nothing to indicate that his anonymity had been a serious issue. ‘No,’ I replied.

  A silence. ‘Pick the car up on Tuesday as early as you can then. Have you left it to them to confirm the arrival of the money?’

  ‘No. I’ll be ringing them. I like to keep control in such situations.’

  ‘Excellent. You should have had a career in banking, Mr Colby.’

  ‘I’ll stick to cars,’ I joked. ‘They’re less risky. Despite dangerous corners,’ I added without thinking.

  A pause. ‘We all have dangerous corners in our lives, Mr Colby. They are unavoidable. What matters is how we take them.’

  I wondered how he had tackled his and what they were. I hadn’t forgotten his calm certainty that someone was out to murder him. My so far brief scanning of the web had revealed that Philip Moxton was the son of Donald and Elsie Moxton, that he was born in 1951 in Kent, and that he was currently chair of Moxton Private Banking. He was divorced, with one son, Barnabas, born 1981. I had toyed with the idea that the gorgon who guarded Staveley House was his ex-wife, but somehow that didn’t fit.

  ‘You’ll drive the Packard to me straightaway?’ he continued.

  ‘To Staveley House?’ I asked innocently.

  ‘Of course. That is my home.’ A pause. ‘I await your call, Mr Colby. On Tuesday.’

  I logged into my account on the Tuesday morning on tenterhooks. The money had arrived on Friday and it had now left, so the game was under way. All I had to do was ring the Herricks to check that it had arrived safely. I felt as nervous as though it had been my own car at stake, not one for a client, as I rang the Herricks’ number. All was well, they told me, and I could pick up the car when I liked. I suggested right now. It’s not often I earn £17,500 in commission (less a sweetener for Rob) for very little work, and I wanted to draw a line under this one.

  I was full of the joys of summer as Zoe and I set off for Frittenhurst. She had leapt at the chance of coming with me to drive my Alfa back while I collected the glorious Packard. Philip Moxton had told me to take a taxi and he’d pay on delivery, but Zoe would have none of that.

  ‘I’m that taxi. I want to be in on this deal,’ she had declared. ‘Anyway, Rob wants to know how it works out.’

  Oh well. If Rob wanted her to come with me, I had no option. Not that I wanted one. Zoe is a great companion. Her red hair – no longer in the spikes she favoured a year or two back – brown eyes and lively face gave her a style all her own. One which she doesn’t change for Rob, so perhaps there’s more to Rob than I give him credit for.

  ‘If you’re going to get a custard pie in your face,’ she informed me as she fastened her seat belt, ‘I want to chuck one back.’

  ‘Have you brought one?’ I asked. I wouldn’t put it past her.

  ‘No, but I’ve got a stale doughnut.’

  ‘That’ll do.’

  ‘Sure there’s nothing weird about this deal?’ she asked belatedly, as the Oast House cowl hove into sight and we turned into the driveway.

  ‘No, I’m not sure.’

  ‘Good,’ she said happily. ‘I bet Len five quid there was something fishy about it. He said no. Maybe American car geeks are always weird. I told him this Moxton man wasn’t American but he stuck to his point. So I pointed out that all British ones are too. He denied it. Apparently Frogs Hill had a Studebaker Champion in once and he didn’t take to the owner.’

  It was a damp dull morning, but even so I could see as we drove up that the Packard looked great. I even heard Zoe catch her breath as we saw it waiting for us. It looked splendid sitting by itself in the large yard, exuding all the confidence and style of a bygone age.

  ‘Phew. Is this a film set?’ she breathed. ‘Does Marlene Dietrich step out of this beast?’

  ‘I doubt it, but it’s for real.’ It looked so stagey sitting there that I could hardly believe it myself, but here were the Herricks coming out to greet us so it was for real.

  Moira was actually smiling. ‘We’ve polished her up specially for you.’

  ‘Doesn’t she look grand?’ Tom contributed.

  I agreed. I almost had a lump in my throat, as I concluded the formalities with Tom. He wanted to keep the plates so I fixed my Frogs Hill plates on, a few more words passed between us, and then I climbed into the Packard.

  Zoe immediately bounded up to me, clearly thinking she was getting the rough end of the deal by taking the Alfa back. ‘Where are you taking it?’ she hissed.

  ‘Straight to her new owner as ordered.’

  ‘I’ll follow in the Alfa. Then I can run you back to Frogs Hill.’

  ‘The new owner –’ no names as the Herricks were waiting to see us off – ‘says he’ll get a taxi for me.’

  ‘I told you – I am that taxi.’ Zoe would brook no argument. She would be trailing me all the way to Staveley House. No problem. After all, I was driving this magnificent creature.

  The gate was actually already open at Staveley House when I swept up with the Alfa tailing me. The lodge keeper – or hit man? – was watching impassively today as though he had nothing else to do in his job than wave me on. I couldn’t resist stopping the Packard though. I wound down the window and shouted:

  ‘Here to see the owner of Staveley House, Mr Philip Moxton.’

  Not a quiver on his face. ‘OK to drive on.’ He didn’t even query Zoe’s arrival. Our earlier encounter might never have happened.

  No car park for me this time. It was straight to the house, where I could see Philip Moxton waiting outside. There was someone with him, a man of medium height and exquisite tailoring. He was perhaps in his early fifties, but Philip made no effort to include him in this joyful arrival scene. Zoe was still on my tail but she did have the courtesy to park modestly some way away in order not to mar this wonderful moment.

  The look on Philip’s face when he saw the Packard was a delight. He loved this car, that was for sure. He must do, because as I pulled up he ran over to caress the Goddess of Speed ornament on its bonnet. Perhaps he didn’t believe it was real either. The other man stayed where he was, either out of tact or lack of interest.

  ‘You’ve checked the engine and chassis numbers?’ Philip demanded.

  ‘I have.’ (I’d already told him that on the phone.) ‘They tally.’

  ‘But no logbook.’

  I’d told him that too. ‘Only for the last twenty years.’ I handed over the paperwork.

  He nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I understand. I’ll register it immediately.’

  ‘Do you want a drive in it while my plates are still on it? You’ll have to wait until it’s registered otherwise.’

  He smiled. ‘Thank you, Mr Colby. I can wait.’

  I was staggered. He could wait? After all this rush to buy it? No doubt that he loved it though. His eyes were devouring it, and I could have sworn there were tears in them. And yet he could wait before driving it?

  Curious people, these bank managers.

  And that was that – at least for a few days. I remembered his fear of being murdered, which made it all the odder that he didn’t want to rush to drive it. There was nothing I could do about that, however, and nothing more that he wanted of me. I therefore dismissed the job from my mind, rejoicing that at least the mortgage was no problem for a month or two.

  And then later that week, everything shifted gear. On Friday evening I was wondering whether to give Helen a ring. She was an ex-girlfriend whom I still met every so often. It seemed a waste of a fine evening to do nothing. Len and Zoe had left for the day and I didn’t fancy TV or working in the garden. I was about to ring her when the doorbell rang.

  Frogs Hill is out in the wilds which means that unexpected visitors are rare and so a touch of caution is advisable. I peered through the curtains to see a car parked outside. It was a Vauxhall and I didn’t recognize it. It was so battered that no respectable armed
gangster would look twice at it, however, so I reckoned it was safe to open the door.

  I groaned. I was wrong. It wasn’t safe at all.

  ‘That’s not much of a welcome, Jack.’

  It was Pen Roxton, nose quivering. Whatever she wanted, it wasn’t going to be anything to help me. She’s the sharpest journalist I know, and the quivering nose meant she was after a story.

  THREE

  I was so appalled that I automatically stood barring the doorway. In fact, this is much the best course of action where Pen is concerned. She must be in her mid-forties, she’s sharp-faced, sharp-witted and sharp-edged. I hadn’t seen her for some time, not since a memorable occasion when our paths had crossed and she had to retreat defeated. Now like the Terminator she was back, and from the look on her face with a mission just as portentous.

  ‘I’ll come in,’ she told me. (That’s Pen for you.) ‘Won’t keep you long.’

  ‘Good.’ Not that I believed her.

  She marched past me as I stood aside, still somewhat dazed. She made straight for the farmhouse kitchen, appraised her surroundings and announced that coffee would be welcome. ‘I never drink alcohol on a job,’ she informed me virtuously, taking a seat at the table.

  I surrendered, made the coffee, produced some passable biscuits and sat down with her, wondering what the ‘job’ was and how I came into it. I hoped she would take the point that as I had not made any coffee for myself, I must have other plans.

  She didn’t. She didn’t waste time though. ‘About this Packard,’ she said.

  Whoops. On guard, I warned myself. ‘Which Packard?’ Not a brilliant comeback of mine, and it didn’t stall her for a moment.

  ‘The one you were driving on the Headcorn road.’

  ‘Well spotted. I was delivering it to a customer. Why do you ask?’

  ‘It was a mid-1930s model, wasn’t it?’ Pen is reasonably good on classic cars. Or thinks she is.

  ‘It was.’

  ‘Any story there?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’ I was doing better now. ‘It’s not my favourite classic but the one you saw me in was a magnificent example, so I can understand its appeal.’ Why, I wondered, had she picked on this particular car? She must have seen me in dozens of different cars over the years. Moreover it would have been hard to see me at the wheel of the Packard, given its relatively small windows. That made me wonder whether Rob had been chatting.