by Amy Myers
‘Deal, except that if it’s material to the murder I can’t guarantee the small print.’
He thought this through. ‘Fair enough,’ he said obligingly. ‘Keep me in the loop, though. Deal?’
I wasn’t going to get any further, so I gave him the registration and other information. ‘Deal on both counts.’
He promptly consulted his iPad. ‘Not listed.’
‘Could it have been through your hands on false plates?’
‘Nope.’
I decided not to enquire just how he could be sure of that. There’s such a thing as professional secrets.
‘If you haven’t seen it, is it possible it could have gone through other channels?’
He looked at me pityingly. ‘It could, my friend. But it wouldn’t. Might start out that way, but word would reach me. It ain’t come. OK?’
I had to stick with that. ‘OK.’
‘And one more thing,’ Richie added. ‘No dealing with my dad over this, eh? Dad and me don’t follow the same trades. Not even on the same page. He calls me every now and then and that’s the lot. Understand?’
I did. The soft voice didn’t fool me at all. The message came over loud and clear.
‘You’re no gardener, I take it.’
Richie chuckled. ‘Gardens don’t move. Cars do. He only wants one thing out of life does Dad. That garden of his at Staveley. He thinks it’s his, anyway. Met him, have you?’
‘I have. I don’t think we’ll become bosom friends.’
‘Not advisable. Might get on his wrong side. Or mine,’ he added amicably. ‘Remember that too. We’re only human, Dad and me. There’s only so much we’ll take.’
Could I trust him? (Well, within limits anyway.) Trust and car crime are uneasy bedfellows, but I reasoned that in this case he had nothing to gain by lying.
I’d done all I could on the Golf, short of personally checking every barn and garage in the country, so I turned back to the Packard. It had a story that might or might not have relevance to Moxton’s murder, but if it did, the key to it must surely lie with Tom and Moira Herrick. They proved elusive both by telephone and email so I risked turning up on the off chance on Friday morning, hoping they didn’t have the same intricate procedure for repelling invaders as Philip Moxton had used. Moira opened the door, and her face promptly dropped out of gear. She stared at me blankly, completely thrown. I couldn’t blame her. She was clad in jeans and smock and looked as though Packards were the last thing on her mind.
‘Tom’s out,’ she managed to say, her usual calm nowhere to be seen.
‘I was in the neighbourhood and wanted a brief word about the Packard, so I thought I’d try my luck.’ I endeavoured to sound disarming and not like a police bloodhound.
‘Oh.’ Her face moved back into gear, as miraculously Tom appeared behind her. He was doing a good impression of being heartily glad to see me.
‘Come in, come in,’ he cried.
So in I went, despite the stormy look that Moira was offering him – and me. Perhaps I was wrong about that, however. It was more glazed than stony as she led me into what Tom announced as his study.
Coffee was offered, a stroll round the garden, a chat, a chair – it appeared nothing was too much trouble, as Tom fussed around me.
I let them lead the conversation, but the word desultory would sum it up best, until I broke in at a time of my choosing.
‘I thought I’d pop in to tell you that I own the Packard now, at least temporarily.’
The look on their faces was a joy to behold. ‘Joan’s sold it to you?’ Moira asked incredulously.
‘Moira!’ Tom intervened sharply, but it was too late and they both knew it. Their relationship with the Moxtons was far closer than they’d claimed.
Moira burst into tears and fled the room. I felt somewhat guilty, although it seemed an extreme reaction for such a poised woman.
Tom attempted a comeback. ‘We saw the car at that open day at Staveley. Got to know the Moxtons there. Terrible news about the murder.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘And that’s the reason you’re going to tell me how you knew them, and how the Packard comes into it.’
He looked defeated, his fingers drumming on the arm of the chair. I could afford to wait while he thought up a story. He seemed genuine enough, but he was an actor after all and could be acting now. I ostentatiously looked round the room to give him time to dream up an explanation. There was a portrait of his father on the wall; Gavin Herrick had been a young man then, but had that same look of amusement that he could communicate so well on stage and screen. There was also one of his wife by the same artist judging by the style. It had a lightness of touch that conveyed a sparkling, lively woman, who had matured from the eager young bride in the wedding photo.
‘Is your mother still alive?’ I asked, as a run-up to nailing him on the Packard.
‘No, she died when I was fourteen.’
The interlude seemed to do the trick. ‘You say you own the Packard now?’ Tom said brightly.
‘Yes. Cleared by Philip Moxton’s solicitor.’
‘Why did you buy it?’ His tone changed to belligerence, which was interesting.
‘I didn’t. His sister Joan gave it to me.’
‘She did what?’ Tom managed – acting or not – to look both furious and nervous at the same time.
‘I’m far from eager to keep it. In fact,’ I lied, ‘the reason I came to see you today was to ask if you’d like it back. No charge. Expenses only.’
Tom gazed at me, then began to laugh hysterically, which brought Moira running back into the room. ‘He wants to hand it back to us, Moira. Joan gave it to him.’
Moira went very pale, but she was back in full control. ‘You must think this very strange, Jack.’
‘I do.’ I noted the friendly use of ‘Jack’. So they must think it was time for the truth – or part of it.
Tom gave her a kind of nod and she continued, ‘We realized right away it must have been Philip Moxton who commissioned you to find and buy the car. Only he would have …’
‘Wanted it to be an anonymous sale,’ Tom amplified for her when she hesitated.
‘Why?’
‘It was a sort of –’ his turn to hesitate, then he added lightly – ‘game.’
‘Who were the players?’ I asked. This had all the hallmarks of another fantasy being spun for me.
‘Tom’s father Gavin,’ Moira said bitterly. ‘And Philip.’
Tom broke in again. ‘It goes back further than Philip. His father Donald. He and Gavin were old mates.’
If Donald was anything like Philip in character, I couldn’t see the image of ‘old mates’ being applicable, but I murmured something appropriate. ‘So what was the game?’
They seemed at a loss for words, so I asked again.
‘It was to do with the Packard,’ Tom managed to say. ‘Whoever owned it was top dog.’
So far not much fun in this so-called game. ‘Then why didn’t one refuse to sell it to the other?’ I asked reasonably enough. ‘Or not sell it at all if this anonymous lark was the regular pattern?’
‘It wasn’t quite like that,’ Tom muttered. ‘Both Gavin and Donald went through hard times, lost track of each other and had to sell the car, but somehow or other the other one always got it back. That was the game. That’s what we called it …’ His voice trailed off, perhaps seeing my incredulous expression.
‘So why did you sell it to me if you knew Philip Moxton to be the anonymous purchaser and if you didn’t want him to have it?’
I wasn’t buying this rigmarole. At the back of my mind I remembered Philip’s obsession with security and his conviction that he was going to be murdered. Had I been the bait, and taken this couple right to him? Even if that was the case, however, Philip had agreed to take the risk.
Tom’s answer was speedy, too speedy perhaps. ‘Because,’ he told me, ‘we and our daughter Emma thought enough was more than enough after the recent death of my father.
We knew Philip would then be looking for the car. Donald Moxton died twenty or so years ago. It would be no use our giving the car to Philip – he had to obtain it for himself to play the game. We wanted him to have it and for that to be the end of it. Even my father agreed that before he died.’
Getting better, but I still was not convinced by this weird tale. The coincidence of the timing was too great between the Packard sale and Philip Moxton’s murder. They were both looking too bright-eyed and on edge for this to be a complete confession. More, perhaps, a try-on, or, if I were charitable, a partial truth.
I wasn’t here to be charitable. ‘And now?’
‘Philip is dead,’ Tom said flatly. ‘We don’t know how and can’t see how the Packard could have been involved. That’s why Joan gave the car to you. She has decided as we did that enough is enough. The game is over.’
Moira looked much brighter. ‘So you see that’s all there is to it,’ she informed me. ‘No way do we want the car back.’
Tom picked up somewhat more graciously. ‘Good of you to think of it though, Jack. Thanks.’
First the shock-horror of the car being handed over to me, now apparently all was well that ended well. If this was their farewell note, it failed. ‘What about Philip’s son, Barnabas?’ I asked. ‘Doesn’t he have a say in this? Do you know him?’
A pause. ‘We’ve met,’ Tom replied.
‘Wouldn’t he want the Packard?’
I fully intended to find this out direct from the horse’s mouth, but I was interested to hear the Herricks’ answer.
The pause was even longer this time. ‘I can’t answer for Barney,’ Tom said.
Throw the dice one more time. ‘One last question then. How can you be so sure this game of yours had nothing to do with Philip Moxton’s murder?’
Tom was eager to reply. ‘The Packard is not worth much by Moxton standards, so I hardly think it could have influenced his death. After all, his sister has given it to you, which surely suggests it’s unimportant. Just a family matter.’
He sat back with what seemed a huge sigh of relief and from the cool smile that played around Moira’s lips she shared it. Why?
I duly reported back on this so-called game to Brandon and Dave, but neither grew excited and I could see why. An old game, even if it was more feud than game, could hardly have led to a relentless tracking down of Moxton’s whereabouts in Monksford.
Both Brandon and Dave had told me to carry on the Packard line though, as well as the Golf. ‘The son’s a weird fish,’ Brandon told me, when I said I’d like to check the Packard out with him. ‘Not close to his father.’
‘Did the son mention anything about a game between the two families?’
‘No. Might do if questioned though. Want to meet him? Every reason to as you own it now.’
‘True.’ I’d been going to hunt down Barnabas anyway, but it was nice to have official blessing. ‘What about the divorced wife?’ I didn’t want her descending on me for damages if I got rid of the Packard.
‘Off the radar. Lives in France. There’s one woman you might think about though. Wendy Parks.’
My antennae shot up. ‘What’s she got to do with the Packard?’
‘Nothing so far as I know. But Geoffrey Green rang her at seven thirty on the evening he was killed.’
‘And she didn’t mention it to you?’
‘She said she didn’t take the call. She was out that evening. No message left.’
I hadn’t heard from her since our meeting, apart from her text, so this was news to me. Another question mark where Wendy was concerned. I was about to end the call when it occurred to me to ask: ‘What’s so weird about Moxton’s son?’
‘You’ll see.’
I saw.
Barnabas Moxton lived in Rye. Twenty-four Lowther Street didn’t sound like the palatial mansion where the son of Philip Moxton might be living. I made my way through the cobbled streets of the old town which is dramatically perched on top of a hill. Once a port, Rye is now a mile or so from the sea and below it stretches marshland, a paradise for wild life.
Number 24 proved to be one of a terrace of old cottages in a side lane off one of the main streets of the town, but it wasn’t merely a dwelling house. The ground floor was a small arts and crafts shop, with a window stuffed full of paintings, pots, and odds and ends. Some looked excellent quality and some were aimed at tourists alone. At first I assumed Barnabas was living over someone else’s shop, but finding no side entrance I went in to enquire. Barnabas answered charmingly to his name.
Weird? He was about thirty, blond, healthy-looking, and standing in his emporium packed with vases, cups, plates, mugs, books and pictures he looked rather like a Greek god who has unexpectedly found himself imprisoned in a cave. I explained who I was and why I was there, but after a careful glance at me he seemed more interested in some books he was rearranging on a table.
‘Are you the potter, Mr Moxton?’ I enquired, taken aback.
He blinked. ‘Everyone calls me Barney. And yes, I am the potter only I’m not very good at it, so I sell other people’s stuff too.’
This was disconcerting, because I could see his point when he waved a tentative hand towards a row of plates and vases. ‘What about the paintings?’ I asked.
‘I’m not too good at that either.’
‘What are you good at?’ I asked, amused.
‘Birds.’
I blinked. Anyone less likely to be an automatic switch-on for women once they had got past the initial Greek god image, I have yet to meet. Luckily I didn’t comment because he continued, ‘I’m a twitcher. Birdwatcher. I go birdwatching when I can and I paint them a bit too. The marshes are a superb sanctuary – I think there was even a redshank there the other day though that’s unlikely since they’re not normally seen in this part of England.’
Belatedly it dawned on me that most of the books, paintings and pots had a common theme. They pictured birds from fowls to falcons.
‘If I paint Rye on them, they sell,’ he told me ingenuously. ‘So I do all right. After all, they are authentic.’
‘But your father—’
‘I know what you’re thinking. That my father supports me, so it doesn’t matter if I don’t make a living. But he doesn’t – didn’t – and I do,’ he told me defiantly, then switched subjects. ‘You said it’s the car you’ve come about.’
I had, but I was still bemused by Barney Moxton. ‘Doesn’t your wife or partner object to the birdwatching? Or does she share it?’ This was a fishing expedition on my part, but that’s why I was here.
‘Partner. And I’m not sure if she objects. I’ve sort of mislaid her.’
I gazed at him wondering if he was for real. He grinned.
‘I’m not as daft as I sometimes sound,’ he assured me. ‘She comes and goes. She likes towns and I like the country. We’re not actually married. That would be difficult as a lot of my birdwatching is at night.’
‘I can understand that.’ An odd way to run a relationship, I thought, but who was I to talk? Louise had come – and gone – in my life. At least Barney’s lady came back.
‘I’m very sorry about your father,’ I told him.
‘So am I,’ he said seriously. ‘I loved him very much. It’s just that we didn’t get on. Will the police find out who killed him?’
‘I’m sure they will. Do you have any idea who might have done it?’
‘No, not yet. I have been thinking about it. I don’t think Aunt Joan would have killed him, would she? I’d hate to think that.’
‘It could have been someone who knew him as Geoffrey Green. Did you know about that alias he used?’
‘No. Did you?’
‘I didn’t, but I’ve seen where he lived as Geoffrey Green and could see how he must have enjoyed that.’
‘Good.’ He nodded slowly. ‘That’s nice to know, because I don’t think he enjoyed Staveley very much, not like Aunt Joan does. He’s left the gardens to her and the right to live in t
he house. Did you know that?’
‘No.’
‘He’s left me nearly everything else. It’s a responsibility, you know. But I think I’ll still do it.’
‘Do what?’ I asked, but a tourist had come in and Barney’s attention was now on selling her a pot and explaining that the bird painted on it was a greenfinch, not a goldfinch. I switched back to the car. ‘Your father bought a classic 1936 Packard through me before his death,’ I said when we were alone again. ‘He bequeathed it to your aunt and she’s given it to me outright. The solicitor okayed it. Is it OK with you?’
‘Oh yes. I heard about it.’ Barney didn’t seem very interested in it, but I felt I should make doubly sure.
‘I’m happy to give it to you,’ I offered.
‘I already have a car,’ he said simply.
‘Not a Packard, I imagine – not that it would be an ideal choice for someone living in Rye.’
‘My father wouldn’t have liked to hear you refer to a Packard. It was always the Packard. Like Sherlock Holmes, you know.’
I was bemused.
‘Irene Adler was always the woman,’ he explained. ‘Just one word can make a difference. But I don’t want the Packard, thank you.’
I tried a random shot. ‘The Packard? Because of the game?’
An instant shutter fell over his face. It had obviously rung a bell with him so there might be something to be gained in pursuing this line, despite its being an unlikely one. ‘The game your father apparently played with the Herrick family, beginning with Gavin and your grandfather Donald?’
‘That’s over,’ he said. The loquacious Barney had vanished and his lips were tightly closed. What did that tell me? I’m no psychologist but I do my best with what senses I’ve been given. They were telling me to go forward.
‘Not for me it isn’t,’ I told him. ‘I’m concerned because a journalist I know implied that the car had something to do with a bank robbery. Was it stolen in one?’
‘No.’ He was fidgeting with a couple of mugs on display.
I pressed on. ‘It couldn’t have been in a recent robbery. A Packard would stand out a mile.’
‘The game really is over,’ he said almost piteously.