Classic Cashes In

by Amy Myers

  I thought of all the things I could reply to that, the chief one being that after their death one has time to reflect. What reflections did Tom and Gwen have about their parents? The lives of the Herricks and Moxtons had collided, however, and whatever the effects on their families nothing could now be changed. ‘So the game continued?’ I asked.

  ‘No. Donald and Nancy broke up again two years later.’

  ‘With Gavin’s help?’

  ‘Yes,’ Emma replied stiffly. ‘Very much so, I’m told.’

  ‘And what then?’

  ‘My grandmother killed herself.’

  I was appalled, blaming myself for forcing the issue. ‘I’m so sorry, Emma.’

  She shrugged. ‘Well, I’ve told you now. You can see why everyone was so diffident about it.’

  ‘And that was in nineteen sixty-five?’

  ‘Yes. As a result of that, my grandfather gave the Packard to Donald and told him he never wanted to see him or the car again and he expected him to honour the shares in the will for the benefit of Nancy’s children, if not Gavin himself. That was supposed to be the end of the game.’

  ‘But it wasn’t?’

  ‘No. Gavin couldn’t leave it at that. He decided to nick the car back.’

  I groaned. ‘How on earth did he do that?’

  ‘One day Donald was visiting the original Randolphs Bank, by then Moxtons, and couldn’t resist taking the Packard. Gavin had found out about the trip and couldn’t resist temptation. He wanted to show Donald he still remembered the robbery and that he still held the whip hand over making his information public. My grandfather was a wonderful man,’ she added, ‘but he’d lost Nancy and he bore the grievance with him to his death. Donald felt pretty bitter too over Nancy, but he had a mean streak in him which Gavin lacked. Gavin had a weakness though – he hated losing a game. So he pinched the Packard while Donald was inside and left a note to boast about it. He knew Donald couldn’t report the theft for fear of Gavin speaking out about the robbery, so Gavin kept the car on display in front of his home. The upshot of that was that Donald arranged to have it pinched back. Gavin couldn’t object because the car was still registered, albeit in Donald’s name.’

  ‘Like two teenage kids again,’ I commented.

  ‘I agree. My parents and even Philip and Gwen thought it crazy, especially when Gavin pinched it back yet again at a particularly tough time for Donald. Donald decided he’d had enough. He couldn’t do anything very drastic because 1970 was the time he was making his bid for a seat on the London Clearing House. So he played a waiting game.’

  ‘What happened next?’ I have to admit I was now hooked.

  ‘He encouraged Philip to get to know Tom and particularly Gwen, while they were up at Oxford, ostensibly to end the game. Just before the younger ones went up, Joan and Gwen, in the autumn of 1972, Donald pinched the car again, but this time hid it so carefully that Gavin couldn’t whip it back. Gavin was furious and it was open warfare but they couldn’t go too far for fear of damaging their children’s prospects.

  ‘So,’ Emma continued, ‘that was when the four offspring got together and decided the game had to come to an end for good. They all knew about the robbery and agreed that when Donald and Gavin had both died, any money that could be said to have resulted from that robbery, which would now be invested in shares, would be split four ways. Donald wasn’t happy about the plan, but Philip was, so Donald kept brooding about it, keeping the car under lock and key. Then he played his trump card. Donald’s son Philip married Nancy’s daughter Gwen in the late seventies and the balloon went up. This time Donald stood firm. The car stayed where it was – with him.’

  I was beginning to dislike Donald Moxton, charmer or not.

  ‘Donald’s career,’ Emma continued, ‘was going from strength to strength and so was Philip’s after he joined Donald at Moxtons. Gavin was prospering too, so the row went quiet for a while. When Gwen gave birth to Barney everyone apparently agreed this was wonderful and it really did mark the end of the game. Unity at last, tra-la-la. Donald even gave Gavin the car to celebrate the occasion.

  ‘That lasted for another few years. Then Gwen divorced Philip or vice versa – I don’t know which. All I do know is that the settlement was a measly one either because Philip himself wasn’t earning that much or because he was successfully hiding his assets. Donald therefore agreed to contribute a little more to it provided the Packard was returned to him. Gavin refused so Donald refused the top-up. Gwen brought Barney up to appreciate economy while Philip resumed his meteoric rise in his career. On it went until Donald died in 1994.’

  ‘And?’ I asked, when Emma stopped.

  ‘Gavin played fair,’ she continued. ‘He gave the car to Philip as a reconciliation gesture.’

  ‘What was Philip’s response?’ I was ready to disbelieve anything now.

  ‘When Donald died, Philip announced he was going back on the 1970s’ agreement to split Donald’s share of the money four ways after Gavin too had died. There was no reason why he should, as special arrangements would have been made for Joan to have Staveley House and the gardens. Instead, Philip said he’d draw up his own will to leave all the cash from Donald to Barney who is half Herrick and half Moxton; Barney could then do what he liked with it. That worried Barney because he felt that the scales were tipped against the Herricks because of the arrangement Philip had made for Staveley, so he persuaded his father to give the Packard to Gavin Herrick straightaway.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘Yes, but now Gavin has died and you’ve come into the picture, Jack, by buying the car back for Philip. Cunning move.’

  ‘Thanks. Is there by any chance £30,000 in old banknotes hidden somewhere in the Packard?’

  ‘There is not,’ Emma assured me. ‘We’ve looked.’

  ‘So the car could be sold for charity once the case is over?’

  Emma looked aghast. ‘Philip’s murder? What’s that to do with the game? Or Wendy’s come to that. You can’t still think they’re connected?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘My parents thought we’d get rid of the game issue by telling you all this,’ Emma moaned. ‘I don’t see how they could possibly be connected.’

  I had to answer this. ‘Two reasons,’ I said sadly. ‘The first is that what you have told me is what you’ve been told and what your parents believe. The Game Book that Philip kept might tell a different story.’

  ‘My mother mentioned that. But what if it doesn’t, even if you do find it?’

  ‘It doesn’t alter the fact that Philip was about to leave all his cash to a foundation which was one more stage in the game. Therefore …’ No, I didn’t have to spell it out. Their stricken expressions told me I’d got the message over.

  To say I was in the doghouse was an understatement. Louise was struggling to be fair to both sides. I sympathized. I’d nothing against the Herricks (well, not much), but though Emma’s account of the game made sense I still had to find that link and the Packard would remain here at Frogs Hill in all its majesty to remind me of that. I felt sorry for it in fact. It was drizzling with rain when we arrived home and it was parked outside the Pits looking very forlorn. I offered it a silent apology as I drove it round to its barn garage. Zoe had done a good job on the wheel bearings so perhaps she was growing fond of it too.

  Dave Jennings had been trying to reach me while I’d been out, which jolted me back instantly to the Volkswagen and why it had been returned to Monksford? And why the railway station? It could be that it was a more neutral dumping ground than Geoffrey Green’s home, but it ran the risk of being noticed on its arrival, even though being a village there wasn’t CCTV coverage.

  So far so good, Sherlock, I reproached myself, but any Sherlock worth his salt would ask why go to so much trouble when the Golf was of so comparatively little value? And after that Sherlock would enquire why it wasn’t abandoned in the middle of the countryside?

  Time to tackle Richie, I decided. Dave first
, though. I managed to catch him just before he left for the day by which time he had already solved what he had called me for. It was clear I was not in his good books either.

  ‘Any good forensic on the Golf?’ I asked.

  ‘Go through Brandon,’ he growled.

  ‘Haven’t time.’

  ‘OK, if I must. But this didn’t come from me. In fact, it didn’t come at all. There were prints and DNA.’

  ‘Carson’s?’

  ‘No.’

  Of course not. It couldn’t be so simple. ‘Whose then?’

  ‘A match with a villain called Mike Parker. Thought to be one of Carson’s men.’

  ‘Thanks, Dave. I’ll ring him.’

  ‘If you must, but before you barge off on some crazy mission, hear this. Parker’s no longer with Carson.’

  ‘Where then?’

  ‘Last spotted on a mortuary slab in Calais ten days ago.’

  Great. Some days the winds don’t blow in the right direction. ‘How long had that Golf been in the station car park?’ I tried on him.

  ‘Reported seven days ago. Been there 48 hours.’

  After Parker’s death, though. ‘Well, well. Carson’s work?’ I asked.

  ‘The French are handling it. No link to Carson so far.’

  Time to update that, I thought, as I rang off. Carson wasn’t pleased to hear from me. Tough. ‘Meet you same place, same time tomorrow morning,’ he snapped. ‘But I heard you were incapacitated, Jack.’

  ‘I shall be capacitated again tomorrow morning. But I’m not waiting. It’s now, Richie.’

  ‘OK.’ Audible yawn. ‘Now.’

  I took his surrender gracefully. ‘I appreciate that, Richie. Volkswagen Golf. Geoffrey Green’s. I gave you the ID.’

  ‘I told you I’d deal with it. I did. It’s back with you.’

  ‘I know. Your chap’s prints were on it, when it was found in Monksford Station Yard.’

  ‘What chap would that be?’

  ‘An ex-one. Mike Parker. Very ex. Found dead. Before the car was back in Monksford. So, Richie, the theft of the car won’t be pursued. Two corpses in connection with theft are a different matter. Who pinched it and who drove it back, the latter so carefully as to avoid prints?’

  Richie sounded upset. ‘No prints, no pack drill, Jack. Do some thinking. Take warning when warning’s given. That Golf is nothing to do with me or my dad. Family’s family.’

  That was interesting. Why was John Carson still involved with this? ‘Why—’ I began, but Rickie forestalled me.

  ‘That car’s back where it came from. Nothing to do with any murder, see?’

  ‘No,’ I said honestly.

  ‘Got to go, Jack.’ The line went silent.

  I did think, but to no purpose, and as a result Louise was silent too. At last she asked, ‘Are you sorry we arranged that picnic? I thought it would be fun and clear the air.’

  I looked at her in amazement. I’d assumed she would realize what was bugging me, but she seemed just as uncertain of the ground under her feet as I was. We weren’t yet dovetailing our interpretations of each other’s moods. It was early days.

  ‘Just bringing the office home with me,’ I assured her.

  She cheered up. ‘That’s all right then.’

  ‘I’ll just pack up the office with this: what do the words “back where it came from” imply to you?’

  An eyebrow was raised. ‘In connection with what?’

  ‘That Volkswagen stolen from Philip Moxton and now found in Monksford station car park.’

  ‘Then it means it came from the car park,’ she answered patiently.

  I kissed her. ‘Bless you. We all thought it was pinched from Geoffrey Green’s home.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It was gone, but it wasn’t.’

  She giggled at this fatuous analysis. ‘That,’ she said gravely, as she departed to prepare supper, ‘is not the standard of detection I expect from you.’

  I could see why. I’d assumed that Brandon and Dave knew it had been in the garage. The keys had gone, and no car keys were found in the house. But if the Golf had been stolen at the station before Philip had arrived home that day, a whole different picture of his murder might emerge. True, he might have driven the Golf home and left it in the drive, but my money was on Richie’s gang pinching it from the station and Richie returning it there.

  Where did that lead me? Simple. How did Philip get home that evening? Did he ring the police and report the theft? No, I’d have heard if he had. He couldn’t report it because it would have opened up a can of worms over his identity to have the spotlight on Geoffrey Green’s car.

  That answered that. Next, what would Philip have done? It was so blindingly obvious now. He had rung Wendy, but she wasn’t there.

  Or was she? The horrible scenario played itself out for me. She had been there. She had driven up to the station to drive him home, they had quarrelled and she had killed him. Proof? Thankfully none. I had time to sleep on it.

  ‘Shall I start cooking supper?’ Louise called.

  I had heard her banging a few dishes around as an unsubtle hint that I should join her.

  ‘Yes, we should. Sorry to be so work-bound.’

  ‘Did I put my foot in it over the picnic, Jack? I thought it might help.’

  ‘I know, and no you didn’t. Your lovely feet are welcome anywhere.’

  ‘Did it help?’

  I considered this. When is the truth not the truth? Bigger brains than mine have battled with this problem over the centuries, from Greek philosophers and Pontius Pilate, progressing onwards to Francis Bacon. I seemed to recall he had excelled in Machiavellian politics in Good Queen Bess’s time and so it was an especially important quandary for him.

  I was no philosopher, but Louise needed reassurance. ‘I’m further along the road, much further.’

  She wasn’t fooled. ‘Which road, Jack? Are you stuck because the game isn’t taking you the way you hoped?’

  ‘It is, but I still have this nagging feeling that this missing Game Book may produce an entirely different picture than we’ve got already.’

  ‘So where is it?’

  I could see she was doing her best to be patient. She wanted supper and who could blame her? ‘If the Herricks don’t have it, and Timothy Mild says that he doesn’t, then Philip must have kept it. But where? He was a secretive man so it wouldn’t be at Staveley, we know it’s not at Monksford, so where?’

  ‘His safe? Bank vaults?’

  ‘It would have been found.’

  ‘Left with Wendy?’

  I stared at her, my new scenario very clear in my mind. ‘It could just be. Especially if she were putting pressure on Philip; that could have been part of it.’ The fact that she had probably been killed herself didn’t necessary rule this theory out; indeed it strengthened it, because the knowledge that she kept it could have led to her death. Then I realized it wouldn’t work. Brandon’s team would have found it. No, it was somewhere else. Somewhere accessible, but not too obvious.

  A howl from Louise. ‘You’ve defrosted prawns for supper. You know I don’t like seafood.’

  The love of my life looked as though she was about to throw the entire bowlful right over me. And then she did, in one swift moment.

  I carefully wiped the icy cold pink objects off my hair, and shoulders before kissing her. ‘Seafood,’ I said. ‘Seafood. That’s where Philip hid it. Wendy’s beach hut. Which he loved to visit.’

  There was only one snag. I didn’t know where it was.

  SIXTEEN

  I was free. I was a man again. I could drive. Sam West had gone into action right away when I had called him about the beach hut. He had no idea where it was either, but he had caught Wendy’s number 2 at the café and had been told the hut was at Highchurch Sands near Hythe, not far from Folkestone, and that there was a key kept at the café. Sam had arranged to pick it up and I could pick him up. So far so good and I was raring to go. So, I was told, was Timot
hy Mild who, when Sam rang him, demanded his right to be present if this Game Book was there. He was the game’s unofficial umpire. Forget the City, he too wanted a day at the seaside and he’d meet us there. Forget the City? He could afford to now that he had benefited from Philip Moxton’s death.

  Highchurch Sands has a fine stretch of coastline and, from my dim memories of it as a child, it is a paradise for youngsters. To my grown-up self, however, the church no longer looked as high up on the Downs as I recalled, and the sands were no longer sands. The beach was splendid but pebbly. As I drove through the village I could see it was now reduced to one or two shops and cafés. The promenade was lined with a row of villas in splendid Edwardian seaside style, noble white stone edifices with little balconies. It was off-season but these empty buildings still stared defiantly out at the sea before them. No wonder Napoleon and Hitler had quailed at the idea of invading along this coast. The message the row of villas conveyed was ‘don’t mess with us, however dismal we look today’.

  As Sam and I reached the beach, the huts looked like a small edition of the row of villas, although the huts were gaily painted in pinks, greens and yellows. The first one was even more striking in ostentatious red, white and blue, but that Sam assured me was not Wendy’s. Hers was number 24 according to the key tag. I couldn’t have envisaged Philip Moxton enjoying a restful day in that wooden Union Jack.

  Sam had been on the glum side as we drove here, and now that we had arrived and the cold breeze whipped at us, he grew even glummer. I told him to stay in the car but he refused. ‘It’s my fault,’ he said, clutching a bag containing what he described as ‘the essentials’, a Thermos and biscuits. ‘I should have thought of this long ago.’

  ‘Did Wendy talk about the hut to you?’

  ‘Yes she did, but she never mentioned Geoffrey coming here with her, or if she did I’d forgotten.’ A pause. ‘Was her death suicide or murder? Do you know?’