Classic In the Pits--A Jack Colby classic car mystery

by Amy Myers

  I took her in my arms, her trembling body against mine, and felt her relax. I found myself kissing her automatically, took command of the situation and then lost it again – as one does. It was Jessica who broke away.

  ‘Later,’ she murmured, but I knew she meant it.

  ‘Not much later, please.’

  I supposed she was right even though I’d been thinking along different lines. Impractical even for a sunny June day I supposed. Sex in a secluded glade dappled with sunlight, sex in a meadow, sex amongst the sandy dunes or deserted beaches, but in the middle of a cultivated field, somewhat muddy from recent rain, it isn’t quite the same. I tried to convince myself it wasn’t, anyway.

  ‘So tell me,’ I said firmly – anything to get my mind off its current preoccupation. ‘What are you going to do in the battle between the Nelsons and Howells? Accept what Arthur offers?’

  ‘Probably, if only to give me thinking time.’

  ‘That seems an indecisive role for you.’

  ‘Only because of Mike, Jack.’

  I understood and liked – loved? – her for it. The real Jessica, I thought.

  ‘His death has changed everything,’ she continued. ‘I can’t understand who would want to kill him.’

  ‘The answer starts with why,’ I said soberly.

  ‘Because of Old Herne’s?’

  ‘It could well be. It seems likely it was someone he knew.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Because it wasn’t a planned murder? The use of the fire tender and that axe and all that blood—’

  ‘You saw it?’ I interrupted. She hadn’t been there when I arrived.

  ‘I was at the back of the concert crowd, so not far from Thunderbolts Hangar when the first cries went up. I rushed in – and saw him. I knew I was going to be sick, so I ran outside again. I couldn’t take it … I told the police all this,’ she added, perhaps reading my expression correctly.

  One part of me stowed the information away together with the fact that theoretically she had reason to want Mike out of the way. Conscience-stricken at even thinking of this, the other part away of me won and I gave her a cuddle of sympathy.

  Nevertheless, it had to be said. ‘From the Old Herne’s viewpoint there are several people who might have wanted Mike out of the way.’

  ‘Me?’ she asked sharply.

  ‘Theoretically yes, but dismissed.’ Another quick cuddle – partly of relief that she herself had broached the matter.

  ‘Then dismiss Arthur too, even though Mike was busy ruining Old Herne’s.’

  ‘Considering he’s ninety I feel we can do that,’ I said gravely. ‘Also Ray Nelson for the same reason.’ I felt we were skating on delicate ice, though, bearing in mind that Ray, Peter, Boadicea, Glenn and Fenella only seemed to have been in the bar for part of the interval between Mike shutting the doors to the public and the time his body was discovered.

  ‘There’s Glenn,’ Jessica said firmly. ‘He resented the fact that Mike was losing his father money and saw himself as number one. Which he now is.’

  ‘Early days, but yes.’

  ‘And Fenella.’

  ‘Again, early days, but in theory yes. Improbable but possible. And what about Peter? He sees himself as Mike’s natural successor.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And Boadicea?’

  Jessica made a face. ‘She would be losing her meal ticket. That’s why she must have made that stupid claim to take over.’

  ‘Jason?’

  ‘Jason?’ Jessica stopped in her tracks. ‘You can’t be serious. Look at him. Anyway, he says he was at the track with Arthur before the concert. Do you see him murdering anyone, let alone his father?’

  ‘I don’t see him at all. He’s an imponderable. That’s why I can’t ignore him. He’s close to Arthur, and there was a rift between him and Mike.’

  She still wouldn’t have it, and perhaps she was right. But even so there would be crowds at the track, and how does one define ‘with’ in such crowds?

  We both fell silent as we turned back towards Old Herne’s and what had been a theoretical exercise became all too real again.

  ‘There’s another theoretical possibility,’ I said unwillingly. ‘People who weren’t at the lunch and might have thought Arthur would change his mind about closing it down if Mike were out of the way.’

  I didn’t have to name names. Jessica had a clear mind. ‘You mean volunteers and staff.’

  Unwilling though I was to think in such terms, I did indeed mean people like Tim – and theoretically Jessica. Tim said he’d been at the track with Arthur. But for how long?

  It was early evening before I reached Frogs Hill. Our discussion had brought murder back to the forefront of our minds, and Jessica’s ‘later’ was, by mutual unspoken assent, gently laid aside as regards ratification. Nevertheless, I had discovered she lived in Bearsted, a village on the outskirts of Maidstone, and that she had an ex-husband somewhere and a daughter at university. She in turn had discovered about my Spanish werewolf ex-wife Eva, now safely living in Spain, I hoped, and also (rather reluctantly) I told her about Louise. I also explained I had a daughter Cara, living in Suffolk with her farming partner Harry, who divided her time between freelance journalism and running a farm shop for Harry. My past, I told her, was a locked door, except that Cara had a permanent key.

  Frogs Hill was deserted. The Pits’ doors were long shut and Len and Zoe gone for the day. There was a message on the landline from Dave changing the pick-up time to nine thirty on the morrow. Even the pleasure of possibly being able to drive Mike’s Porsche home didn’t cheer me this evening though as I went into the front drawing-room to open the windows for some fresh air before night closed in.

  And then I heard it. It was coming up Frogs Hill Lane, just the faintest sound. Someone whistling. So what, I told myself uneasily. Even in these days men sometimes whistled at work.

  But who would be walking along the lane at this time of night? Country walkers do so by day, but this was early evening, and besides, country walkers don’t usually send a shiver up my spine – and this whistling did. I could hear it getting nearer. Dog roses bloomed in the banks each side of the lane and the air was full of the sweet smells of June evenings, but the whistling still came on, nearer and nearer.

  I identified the tune – it was ‘Mack the Knife’, the creepiest sound of all in the still evening silence, and then I knew who the whistler must be. You don’t find him, he finds you.

  It was Doubler.

  SIX

  Isummoned up what sangfroid I had left and walked out to meet my foe, feeling as if I were in Hollywood’s version of the Wild West. This was real, however, and this was now; it was not the OK Corral, though it might seem like it. Overstating the case? Not where Doubler was concerned.

  The gates were still open and I stood by them, waiting. The whistling had stopped at the final bend in the lane before the entrance to Frogs Hill and so at any moment he would be marching through the gates. He’d have heard my footsteps crunching on the gravel forecourt, so he would know I was here.

  And then in the fading light I saw him.

  First impression: what was I worried about? He was slight, shortish and thin-faced. I was over six foot, solidly built and definitely looked pugnacious (I hoped).

  Second impression: I should run like hell. This was one creepy guy and not just by reputation. He looked it. The face was reptilian, and so was the way he walked. He didn’t exactly slither, it was more of an inexorable glide; he turned slightly from side to side as he did so, as though distributing his venom from an invisible spray can. This was a man who walked with a purpose and he was coming my way.

  By superhuman effort, I stayed where I was. ‘I thought I heard someone out here.’ I tried to make it sound offhand but I could hear the croak in my voice.

  He came through the gates – and I took an involuntary step backwards. He was invading my space – and then I realized he wasn’t. It had only felt like it. He wa
s three feet or so away, although it seemed a whole lot closer.

  ‘Doubler’s the name,’ he told me, sounding so matter of fact that I was almost fooled.

  I nodded. ‘Jack Colby.’ My voice sounded almost normal.

  ‘Heard about your place here.’ His eyes roved over the Pits, whose security lights were now flashing again like crazy. I didn’t blame them. So were my internal signals.

  ‘And I’ve heard about you.’ I tried to sound nonchalant.

  ‘Have you now. You surprise me. I could do with a drink.’

  ‘Pub?’ Images flashed through my mind of what might happen if I allowed him inside the farmhouse: dagger in the back; a sharp snap of the neck; those hands round my neck … car detective found murdered in his own kitchen … found hung from a tree in his own garden …

  ‘A nice mug of tea is what I fancy.’

  ‘OK.’ I tried to take comfort from this and from his reputation of not carrying weapons. Unless he’d made an exception … Mike had died and possibly at the hands of the Porsche thief, who could well have been Doubler. Should it be the Pits or the farmhouse? The Pits has a small cordoned-off kitchen area for Len and Zoe’s use, but then he would see what was inside the Pits, putting our cars at risk. I took the gamble. ‘Come into the farmhouse – more comfortable there.’

  A nod and I could see he knew exactly what my reasoning was. He followed me in like any normal visitor. He sat at my kitchen table just as if he were one of my chums; and yet somehow his presence turned the usual friendly warmth of my kitchen to something quite different. The atmosphere was heavy and almost menacing, as though I were the alien here, not Doubler.

  ‘I heard you’d been asking about me, Mr Colby,’ Doubler began conversationally.

  ‘Not spot on, Mr Doubler.’ Two could play at politeness. ‘I was asking around about Mike Nelson’s Porsche on behalf of the Car Crime Unit and your name came up.’

  ‘Good blokes at the Unit,’ he said approvingly. ‘I’d be sorry to put any of them down.’

  Swift move called for. After the split second it took me to take in what he’d said, I played my queen on this open chessboard. ‘For your own sake that would surely be a bad move.’

  Doubler considered this and let it pass. ‘Heard you’ve found the article in question.’

  ‘That was quick,’ I said with genuine admiration. ‘It’s only just been located, but it’s not verified yet. That being so, what I can do for you?’ Or would he do for me? I dismissed this unwelcome thought.

  ‘Not bad tea, this.’ A pause, then he looked most serious. ‘Sometimes in life, Jack, you takes a wrong turning, as you might say. One sees a thing of beauty, breathtaking beauty, and thinks to yourself: no, that thing is far too beautiful to be lost to the world.’

  I blenched, hoping I didn’t come under his category of breathtaking beauty.

  He noticed, but continued: ‘So I relents. I, as you may have heard, Jack, have a soft heart. There aren’t too many beautiful things out there in this mucky old world of ours and I like them to be preserved.’

  Time to make another stand. ‘I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’

  ‘And that, Jack my friend, is how it’s going to remain. Get it?’

  I did. Gone was soft-hearted Doubler. Here were the cold hooded eyes, the calculating look. Just for an instant he deliberately let me see the killer in him. If I was at risk, he would strike now, and I watched his hand on the mug like a hawk. It didn’t move. The moment passed, but I’d lock my windows very tightly tonight.

  ‘Very nice tea this,’ he added approvingly.

  I informed him it came from Pluckley, not far from Frogs Hill and the village considered to host more ghosts than any other in Kent.

  He listened carefully before commenting. ‘So, Jack, it’s like this. I’m like one of them ghosts. You haven’t seen me and I’ve never been to this place. Not a whisper, not a word or you’ll be one of them. Got it?’

  ‘Wrong. The police are following the Porsche story up and I’m involved. So might you be. I might stop, but the police won’t.’ All my fingers were mentally crossed – or would be when they had stopped trembling.

  ‘Just leave them to me, Jack.’

  I couldn’t let it go at that. ‘If I can.’

  A vision of Brandon and Dave’s faces if they thought I was trading with Doubler floated before me, and momentarily I forgot the more immediate threat. ‘There’s Mike Nelson’s murder to consider,’ I continued. ‘The car might be connected to that. Somebody wanted that car so badly they hired you to pinch it.’

  He actually grinned. ‘You disappoint me, Jack, you really do. I don’t go pinching anything. I arrange things for people – weddings, funerals. I’m what you’d call a consultant.’

  ‘Including Mike Nelson’s death?’

  The cold eye treatment again. ‘That’s what I came here for. To remind you I don’t touch murder.’ A long pause. ‘Unless I’ve no choice.’

  He stood up. Any minute now … I could feel my heart pounding as he put his mug down, carefully placing it on the coaster, and put his hand into his pocket. ‘I’ll just use your toilet, Jack, and then I’ll be going. It’s a long walk back.’

  ‘Can’t afford a car?’ I quipped, weak with relief when all he produced from the pocket was a torch.

  ‘You will have your little joke, Jack. Just remember I don’t do jokes. I do like walking. I can think better that way. The car’s at Piper’s Green.’

  What, I wondered, was I going to find when Doubler had gone? A Medici-like contraption on the lavatory to plunge a dagger into me? Electrified wash taps? Poison in the soap?

  He left Frogs Hill quietly enough, and I heard him whistling all the way down Frogs Hill Lane until the sound faded. Only it wasn’t ‘Mack the Knife’ any more. It was ‘John Brown’s Body’. Oh great! I found no poisoned soap left behind however, nor daggers, only an artificial poppy probably left over from last Remembrance Sunday. Odd, because Doubler did nothing by chance.

  ‘You what, Jack? This a joke?’

  I’ve never seen Len look scared before, but at my mentioning – for my own safety as much as anything – that Doubler had been at Frogs Hill the evening before he went white with shock.

  ‘Didn’t let him into the Pits, did you?’ he threw at me.

  ‘No way.’ Thank heavens I hadn’t. Len would have spent several months checking every nut and bolt in the place for sabotage.

  Even Zoe looked perturbed. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Jack.’

  ‘I’m not doing anything with Doubler. He came here uninvited.’

  ‘What for?’ they demanded in unison.

  ‘I wish I knew. He was undoubtedly involved in the Porsche theft, but that doesn’t automatically make him an active participant in Mike’s murder.’

  ‘I don’t follow,’ Zoe said aggressively.

  I tried to reason it out. ‘Involvement in the murder as well as the theft would imply some kind of insurance scam but then the car wouldn’t have been found again. It would have been out of the country quicker than a Sunbeam Tiger on the loose. Instead it turns up in Sussex, probably bought in the marketplace.’

  ‘That’s not like Doubler,’ Len commented.

  ‘That seems to be his line too.’

  Silence. ‘Well, at least the Porsche is safe,’ Zoe said practically.

  It was, so why had Doubler come to see me, as he must have heard that the car had been found? Was it to dissociate himself from the Porsche – or to warn me off? I couldn’t see why he would have materialized in person for a mere stolen car, even that Porsche, but nor would he have done so if it was involved in Mike’s murder. His talk of not destroying a beautiful object didn’t make sense if it was Mike’s car he was talking about, because there was no way Doubler would have returned it to its rightful owner, even if he had gone dewy-eyed over its beauty. Nor would anyone in their right senses, let alone Mike, destroy that Porsche for an insurance scam when it could have been sold
for its full insurance value.

  ‘Doubler’s trouble, Jack,’ Len warned.

  ‘I know that. I’m not planning on doing business with him.’

  I got my comeuppance for sarcasm. Two backs were turned to me as they bent over the Wolseley Hornet twin carburettors that had to be synchronized during their tuning of this beguiling car. I left them to it, having heard the toot of Dave’s horn, and I went outside to join him. He duly drove in with a flourish in his police BMW and wound down the window to yell greetings at me. Time to meet Mrs Ansty – and the Porsche.

  ‘Good to have a day out now and then,’ he added as I joined him in the car.

  ‘Great. Especially as you’re paying me for the honour.’

  ‘Delighted,’ he replied wryly. ‘We’re meeting the Sussex lads HQ at Burwash Forstal, where the unlucky owner lives.’

  ‘How did she take the news?’

  ‘Badly, I’m told.’

  ‘How old’s this Mrs Ansty? Youngish blonde, trendy? It has to be someone with a real eye for Porsches.’

  ‘Oldish blonde. Mid sixties.’

  ‘Buying that Porsche?’ I was flabbergasted. ‘Who is she? A relative of Bill Gates?’

  ‘School dinner lady, just retired.’

  ‘You are joking, Dave?’

  ‘I take my work seriously.’ He grinned at me. ‘It’s true.’

  ‘Then how, when, why and where?’

  ‘That,’ Dave said, as we negotiated a difficult turn at Biddenden, ‘we shall discover.’

  Burwash and its satellite hamlets Burwash Common, Burwash Weald and Burwash Forstal are not far inside the Sussex border if one is travelling from Kent and so I knew the area well. Even so, when Dave turned off into Appleoak Lane I was in new territory. Ahead of us were the rolling hills that had so attracted Kipling at the turn of last century. I mention him because he lived at Bateman’s on the far side of Burwash in a similar lane to this one. It now belongs to the National Trust and I know it well. I’ve a great affection for Bateman’s – especially for the honour awarded to Kipling’s splendid Rolls-Royce Phantom I displayed in its own garage in the gardens, glass-fronted like the one at Old Herne’s. I drool over that car quite frequently.