by Amy Myers
Brandon seemed inclined to dismiss this but I wasn’t sure he’d be right to do so. ‘It could be relevant,’ I told him.
‘Why?’
I summed up what I knew and told him about my visits to Staveley House, but somehow that didn’t quite convey my own feelings about it. I ended up with a lame ‘The car was very important to him.’
‘A car doesn’t get you murdered,’ he commented, but I could see Brandon was already reconsidering this statement, perhaps in view of a couple of cases where a car had played a very big part in the case.
‘Not usually,’ he amended. ‘We’ll search the house again to see if anything ties in with Philip Moxton. We’ve already identified the victim as Geoffrey Green so assuming you’re right, do you have any clues on why an active billionaire should be living a double life as a semi-recluse?’
‘He was afraid someone was out to murder him.’
Brandon isn’t one to faint with shock either, and I’d never seen him look so thrown off course from his usual imperturbability. ‘Rightly?’ he asked.
‘It’s possible. Moxtons Bank is going global, so it’s rumoured – could have been something to do with that.’
‘If this is Moxton. The cleaner says this man’s Green, the neighbours say it’s Green and he’s been here for some years, so that would seem to do away with a sudden desire to escape business worries. Is Philip Moxton married?’
‘Divorced with a son, according to a biog I read, but it was coy on details. There’s a woman living at Staveley House, but she didn’t strike me as a second wife, an ex-wife or a lover.’
‘Whether she is or not, the neighbours say the only woman they ever saw here was the cleaner, and very occasionally someone from the village. You’re sure about this identification?’ he pressed me again.
‘Try the landline at his official home, Staveley House.’ I gave him the contact details. ‘Ask for Philip Moxton. Don’t say who you are. You’ll get a strange reaction.’
Brandon glared at me. He dislikes acting on suggestions immediately. He likes to digest them first, but today he needed to know quickly because if I was right even I could see a whole raft of problems lying ahead for him. He punched in the number. It took a time, but it was answered.
‘Never heard of him,’ screeched that inimitable voice loud and clear.
‘I understand Mr Moxton owns Staveley—’
‘I own Staveley House.’
Brandon rang off. I’d expected him to follow this up by announcing his official status, but he didn’t. Instead he said, ‘I could still think you’re barking up the wrong tree with Philip Moxton, Jack, and that was just a screaming woman at the end of the line who’s never heard of him.’
‘True,’ I agreed. ‘So here’s the number for you to try Philip Moxton’s mobile if you can find it.’
A startled look. ‘Inside,’ Brandon barked, not only to me but the nearest and dearest in his team. If it was Moxton’s body there would be a fair chance that his mobile would be in Number 28, I reasoned, as we all trooped in in our scene shoes. Brandon keyed in the number on his mobile while we all held our breath. Especially me. Luck was on my side, because Philip hadn’t switched the mobile off. We all heard it ringing in a drawer in the living room.
One of the forensic team fished it out and answered it just to double check. ‘OK,’ Brandon said briefly. It was promptly bagged to be checked for calls and DNA. ‘A billionaire banker,’ he commented. ‘A double life was his idea of security. Pity it didn’t work.’
He looked unusually dejected and I almost felt sorry for him. ‘You could try the bank, Moxtons,’ I suggested. ‘Ask for his PA, just to triple check.’
‘We will. I’ll tackle that maniac woman at Staveley House later.’
He indicated he still wanted me around, so I returned to the incident van to wait, but it didn’t take long before he joined me. ‘Moxton is not in the office today. He’s at home. Wouldn’t give home address, until I forced the issue. You were right. Staveley House of which he is the owner. I did get that much, but I’ve no doubt that alarm bells are ringing amongst the banking powers that be. And others.’
I knew Brandon would be in a tight spot. When the news broke, he would have every tabloid in the UK chasing after him and if this story about going global was true half of the world banking press too. Nor would he and the Kent Police be handling this by themselves. If there was any sign that organized crime might be involved in Moxton’s murder then the National Crime Agency would be on the case, even if it wasn’t the Met. And perhaps those secret operatives my father used to refer to as ‘the men in hats’, would be on the scene as well. All Brandon could be certain about at present was that one person – Jack Colby – claimed it was Philip Moxton, although only one or two items of evidence suggested he may be right.
‘We’ll put a press blackout on it for present. This is the murder of a man found dead in Monksford.’ A pause. ‘You said Moxton was expecting to be murdered, Jack? Afraid?’
‘More accepting the situation, I think, if that’s possible. He was matter of fact about it.’
‘Did he happen to mention whether he expected the murder to be of Philip Moxton – or of Geoffrey Green?’
I’d been released after that punchline. It’s not often that I get floored in one by Brandon, and I couldn’t hold it against him, as my revelation had undoubtedly floored him. Killed as Moxton or Green? The former was more likely but the possibility of the other couldn’t be excluded.
‘Don’t go anywhere for the next week or two, Jack,’ Brandon had formally instructed me.
My first thought had been that I was indeed a suspect again, but again he surprised me. ‘I could need your help.’
‘For the Volkswagen Golf theft or the Packard job?’
‘The cars,’ Brandon said, ‘seem to be the least of my problems, but I’ll talk it over with Dave Jennings.’
‘I’ll get on to the Volkswagen if he okays it. It seems unlikely as a motivation for planned murder. It wouldn’t fetch too much for the thief as a stolen car – maybe four thousand – but it would depend on how much four thousand meant to the thief.’
Silence from Brandon. Then: ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
For some reason I had felt reluctant to bring the Packard into it, perhaps out of a perverse affection for it, but I had to disgorge my growing suspicion. ‘What about the Packard? Surely it’s more than coincidence that that odd story was followed so quickly by Moxton’s murder? There’s something weird about the seller knowing the buyer and probably vice versa, but wanting to pretend they didn’t.’
Brandon had done me the courtesy of thinking this through. ‘If this Moxton identification is confirmed, I’ll call you in officially, on the off chance it may have something to do with the murder though I can’t see how. Until then ask as many car questions as you wish, but not in my way and not on my time. I’ll clear that with Dave.’
Point taken. ‘Does that apply to Monksford village and those people who occasionally called on Green?’
He eyed me keenly. ‘Don’t build your hopes on that. They were probably only reclaiming catalogues put through the door. As for the village, the news will have spread by now that Geoffrey Green is dead and we’ll be making our own enquiries there. If you want to stop off there to admire the scenery or chat about cars, I can’t stop you, but keep me in the loop.’
I got the message. ‘And don’t put in a bill.’
The centre of Monksford is pleasant without overdoing the picturesque. It has developed over the years with a Victorian gable or two imposing itself on the red-brick cottages from earlier centuries, which makes it a comfortable sort of village. Perhaps that was why Philip Moxton had chosen to live here. It was large enough to be anonymous without being forbidding. The road wound its way through the centre rather than dissecting it, with the result that each turn brought a new perspective to it. Its independent shops had largely vanished, but I could see a butcher’s shop which looked well patroniz
ed, a baker’s and an all-purpose shop with a post office facility advertised outside. The Norman church was set back from the road, but was close enough to be an integral part of the village; it was reached by a pathway and with a largish house at the far end that might be or once have been the vicarage.
Right by the road was the George and Dragon pub, which looked interesting so I went in for a drink. Conversation immediately stopped while I was silently assessed – but I seemed to pass muster.
‘Morning. Police, are you?’ asked one regular – judging by the proprietary elbow on the bar.
‘No, but there’s been a bit of an incident on the estate.’
‘Oh yeah?’
It was obvious they all knew from their lack of follow-up. ‘I’ve just come from there. I was asked to call in.’ (There was nothing confidential about that. Half the residents of Spinners Drive had been watching at their doors or windows.)
I was the centre of attention. ‘Why’s that then?’
‘I hunt down stolen cars for them and a Volkswagen was stolen.’ True enough but the ensuing silence told me that pursuing stolen cars was not a popular trade round here.
‘Who was this Green fellow?’ someone else asked.
I didn’t have to answer this because a new arrival was only too happy to take over. ‘My missus cleans for him. One of those chaps who lives here but don’t mix. Londoner. Reckons he’s one of us because he lives in the country. Real shock it was for my missus to find him like that. Not fair. Blood everywhere.’
He gave the impression that Geoffrey Green himself was to blame for mischoosing his place and time of death, much as I sympathized with his wife for having been the one to find him.
‘Are you a neighbour of his?’ I asked.
‘Other side of the village, but I knew the bloke. Did odd jobs for him. Nothing much,’ he added hastily, perhaps in case this turned him into a suspect. And perhaps it did – I wondered whether he liked Volkswagen Golfs.
I chatted over my drink for five minutes and then departed because I wasn’t going to get any further here. As I came out of the pub, I realized that the establishment I’d taken to be a baker’s shop was in fact a cake shop, incorporating a café that served light lunches. My kind of place for information, I thought, even though I wasn’t hungry. Lunch would take time to reach me and while I was waiting I might gather more local gossip here than in the pub.
There were only three people running it, a young girl selling the cakes, a waitress and a somewhat older woman in the kitchen who, from the glimpses I had of her as she emerged every now and then, looked middle aged. If it wasn’t my imagination, however, her mind seemed elsewhere, and serving lunch seemed to be an ordeal for her. The waitress brought the menu to me and I chose fish pie. I was in luck because several new customers arrived, which meant my meal was delivered by the woman in the kitchen. Now I could see her properly she looked in her mid-to-late forties, an attractive brunette without being overtly sexy.
I gambled. ‘You must have known Geoffrey Green well,’ I said to her.
She instantly stopped her retreat to the kitchen and stared at me suspiciously. ‘Are you from the police or press?’
‘No. Classic cars are my line. Stolen ones. Hunting them down, that is,’ I added. ‘Don’t want you to get the wrong impression.’
She didn’t laugh. She looked worried in fact. ‘So you do work for the police then?’
‘Sometimes. That’s for the Car Crime Unit though.’ I didn’t want to provide any more information, so I turned my attention to the fish pie. Luckily she wasn’t deterred.
‘So who’s had a classic car pinched round here?’ she asked sharply.
‘No one. You’ve obviously heard about Geoffrey Green’s death. His car was stolen. Not a classic but the police thought I might be able to help. Did you know him well?’
‘He was a nice man and came in sometimes for lunch.’
‘I met him a few times myself. I thought he worked in London though?’
‘Did he?’ She was definitely stonewalling. ‘He didn’t come in very often so I wouldn’t know.’
The fish pie was very good, but I sensed her eye on me after she returned to the kitchen. I was right because when I paid the bill she told me her name was Wendy and asked me for my phone number. She’d call me, because her brother liked cars (she said).
When I drove back through the estate to see what was happening at Number 28, it was obvious the crime scene was still in progress. The incident vans were still there, although there wasn’t much sign of action save for one PC guarding the scene.
‘Is DCI Brandon here?’ I asked him, after parking the car.
Luckily he recognized me so he told me the DCI had been summoned back to HQ and that after the body had been taken away all work on the case had been suspended. This didn’t look good. It confirmed that Geoffrey Green was indeed Philip Moxton but also indicated that there would be more fingers in this pie than those of the Kent Police.
It looked to me as though the kettle was coming to boiling point and this was confirmed when I spoke to Brandon on my mobile.
‘We’re waiting for the Met,’ he told me. ‘Everything’s on hold meanwhile. Even Downing Street is involved so we’re in for a summit. Hold any horses you have, Jack.’ A pause. ‘Or keep them at a quiet trot.’
FIVE
Against the odds, Wendy did ring me, and surprisingly early in the morning for social calls – nine o’clock sharp. I asked if she’d talked to the police but she didn’t stop to answer. Tuesday was her day off, she told me, so could she get the hell out of Monksford and come to Frogs Hill please? I was only too happy to agree.
She had seemed a pleasant woman – attractive too – but I didn’t flatter myself I was her target, except perhaps as a bolt-hole and substitute confessional. Otherwise I could see no reason for her picking on a stranger to visit if, as seemed probable, her relationship with Geoffrey Green had been a personal one.
Only ten minutes later I had a call from DCI Brandon. Didn’t anyone love me for myself, not just as an ally when the going got tough? I braced myself, although what he had to say was hardly a surprise.
‘You were right, Jack. It’s Philip Moxton.’
‘That’s bad,’ I said sincerely. Having it confirmed by Brandon himself somehow made it worse. I’d met Philip, liked him, worked for him and now I was going to be caught up in finding his murderer, whether Brandon remembered I was on his payroll or not. If he didn’t – well, I wasn’t going to let Philip down if I could contribute anything to the case.
‘Too right. I’m having to work with the Met now, only it seems it’s rather more than that.’
As I’d thought. Really bad. ‘Where are you based?’
‘The Met has moved in on us at Charing.’
Charing Police HQ is overcrowded as it is, and it’s hardly fit for its own purpose, let alone the Met’s, so Brandon indeed had my sympathy.
‘You’re back on my payroll – temporarily,’ he added.
‘Understood,’ I replied, mentally reviewing my bank balance.
‘Did you glean anything from the village?’
‘I’ve one lead. You probably have it too. Wendy Parks who runs the café. She’s decided to spend her day off with me. Her idea.’
‘Yes, she’s on our witness list. Grass doesn’t grow under your feet. I suppose that’s no bad thing for a classic car buff like you.’
The first joke I’d ever heard Brandon crack. We were really getting matey now. Then the joking finished.
‘I’ve given you a clean slate so that the Met shouldn’t need to grill you to cinders. You’re just a car expert employed by me. And another thing, Geoffrey Green’s murder has already crept into the press, but we don’t want any mention of Moxton yet or that it might be linked to his bank. You said there were rumours around that it was going global – too right. They’re in the midst of negotiating a European merger. Moxton was against it, Timothy Mild, the CEO, was pushing it.’
‘Met him?’ Brandon shot at me.
‘No. Seen him, yes. He was twice at Staveley House with Philip Moxton when I was there. I gather it’s big, this merger?’
‘Very and you told me Moxton was scared of being murdered.’
Just as I finished talking to Brandon, Wendy drove into the forecourt in an ageing Audi, and her arrival was an uncomfortable nudge that I needed to get on with Geoffrey Green’s missing Volkswagen. What, I wondered, did Brandon expect of me on this front, now I was officially his ‘car expert’?
‘Found you first time.’ Wendy grinned. ‘Admittedly, satnav helped, but your instructions were pretty good.’
She looked with interest at the Pits, which today – unusually – looked the epitome of an efficient busy garage. Even Len seemed as if he was actually in a hurry, rather than his usual tortoise-like approach. In his book of fables the hare never wins. Today he and Zoe were both in the Pits doing a double act on the Riley, Len busy replacing the drive shaft and Zoe working on the exhausts.
‘Am I intruding?’ Wendy asked me uncertainly. ‘You all look so busy here.’
‘You’re doing us all a favour,’ I assured her. ‘They like nothing better than keeping me away from the sharp end of operations. Let’s go into the farmhouse and I’ll do the honours with coffee.’
Once I’d produced my best instant and she’d been duly polite about it, we ground to a halt. I was leaving the running to her, but she seemed reluctant to open up. Perhaps she was regretting having come.
‘What’s this about, Wendy?’ I asked at last and she flushed.
‘It doesn’t seem so easy to tell you now.’
‘Then let’s go for a walk and you can pick your moment.’
She jumped at this idea, fished out some trainers from her car boot and off we set. The footpath I chose leads eventually to Piper’s Green, our nearest village, but it passes some good views on the countryside on the way – and they provide an escape route for the tongue-tied. The Greensand Way ridge must have heard a lot of confidential confessions over the years.