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

by Amy Myers

  The hamlet of Burwash Forstal was not far from Burwash village, and Broome Cottage was one of a small nest of houses. It was an attractive white-painted stone detached house with a garden at the front and no doubt at the rear as well, giving the picturesque impression, as so many cottages do, that it was sheltered from the storms of life. Its garage was independent of the house but our quarry was not in it. The Porsche was parked outside the front door, looking out of place but magnificent ‘eye candy’, as they say.

  It was Mike’s. No doubt about that, and with its stylish headlights pointing towards us as we approached it looked almost indignant at its current residence. There it was, its silver paint gleaming, looking as spic and span as the day it left the Stuttgart factory in 1963.

  Further along the lane I could see not only the Sussex police car but also a parked low-loader, so any hopes that I would be driving the Porsche back to its Kentish home myself receded. By the side of the Porsche stood a truculent-looking lady, arms folded aggressively across her chest and ready, it seemed, to defend her rights against all comers. She had her eye on the driver of the low-loader, who was walking along to join us together with the Sussex reinforcements. These consisted of a rather nice looking chap in his thirties, who introduced himself as DI Maine, and a constable, PC Middlemas. They told us they had arrived fifteen minutes earlier, had been routed by the dinner lady and were regrouping for another assault. The low-loader driver took a closer look at the opposition and wisely returned to his cab to rejoin his companion and admire the distant hills.

  ‘Leave this to me,’ Dave said grandly. Being a family man, he reckons he has a way with elderly ladies.

  Not that this one looked elderly. Medium height, medium build, but there was nothing else medium about her. She had blonde hair, was neatly clad in the kind of clothes magazines deem suitable for ‘country living’, and had eyes flashing fury at us like warning lights at a level crossing. Hers were going to take longer to clear, I reckoned.

  She stood her ground as Dave and I approached.

  ‘Detective Superintendent Jennings,’ I introduced the party. ‘Kent Car Crime Unit. Detective Inspector Maine, Police Constable Middlemas, Sussex Police. I’m Jack Colby, working with them on this case.’

  ‘This case,’ Mrs Ansty repeated with scorn. ‘I’ve been informed you all believe that this car has been stolen and that you insist it still belongs to the previous owner. Well, have I got news for you. It’s mine.’

  Constable Middlemas was already checking the plates and inside of the car, so I tackled the chassis number and engine, which of course didn’t tally with Mike’s. A number punch had been at work, falsifying enough numbers to ensure it went through the registration process safely. Why, it occurred to me, had the ‘dealer’ – presumably from Doubler’s set-up – not shipped it abroad where the registration process could be simpler? However, this was certainly Mike’s car. Naturally enough there was no service book in the door pouch to prove provenance, but the engine and the roll bar welded to the body channels put it beyond doubt. All we needed now was the fake documents that Mrs Ansty must be holding. I nodded to Dave to say I was satisfied and she interpreted this correctly.

  ‘Come inside,’ she said wearily. ‘I’ve got all the paperwork laid out for you including the bill of sale to prove I bought it from a dealer and therefore that means the car belongs to me. Nevertheless –’ the hint of a smile – ‘I suppose I could run to some coffee for you.’ She might be calmer now but she showed every sign of being a hurricane when roused.

  Three of us went in, leaving the constable to watch for any last minute rescue attempts by persons unknown hiding in the undergrowth. A sense of fair play made me think we were somewhat crowding her inside this small house, but I need not have worried. Three hulking policemen were nothing to her. She dominated the small room to which she led us. Coffee preparations accounted for one table, a desk was laid out with the papers, and chairs were dotted around for convenience. She had been fully prepared.

  ‘There it all is,’ she indicated. ‘Take your pick.’

  She busied herself with coffee while we did just that. Dave and DI Maine began to go through them but I was more interested in the lady herself. Why had she chosen this car to buy? For a retired school dinner lady it seemed a mismatch, to say the least.

  ‘I’m told the person you think owns the car has died, and so I’m doubly sorry for his family,’ Mrs Ansty told me, and she was clearly sincere. ‘But I do have rights, I’m sure of that. I bought it in good faith from a dealer and it’s an expensive car, so you can’t expect me to hand it over just like that. I tried to ring the dealer to tell him I was having trouble but there was no reply.’

  Dave looked up at this and cleared his throat. ‘The problem is, Mrs Ansty, that this dealer of yours, Samuel Palmer, he doesn’t exist.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ she said happily. ‘Of course he does. I bought it from him – well, from his partner, which is the same thing. The partner is Samuel Palmer, but it was Simon Marsh who made all the arrangements. He assured me the car was a bargain.’ For the first time a note of doubt flashed across her face as she looked from one to the other of us.

  ‘Did you go to the office to see the car?’ Simon Marsh’s ‘office’, Dave had told me, was said to be in south London, and, guess what, that didn’t exist either.

  ‘No. It was such a way to go that Simon said he’d drive it over here for me to see.’ More doubt on her face. ‘I’d not long moved here, so I was all too glad to accept. I’m retired now and it was a new life, so I wanted a new car.’

  ‘The firm of Palmer and Marsh truly does not exist,’ DI Maine assured her. ‘We’ve checked it out.’

  ‘But Simon Marsh does because I’ve met him,’ she said obstinately. ‘He had all the paperwork from the last owner – a gentleman in Spain, I believe. Anyway, as you see, it’s now been registered with Swansea and they didn’t find anything wrong with the documentation.’

  ‘They wouldn’t.’ I tried to break this to her gently. ‘For them it was a first registration, so if the foreign paperwork all added up and the engine and chassis numbers had been altered so that they didn’t show up on their records, no alarm bells would go off. But the Porsche Club 356 Register whom you contacted is a different matter,’ I explained. ‘They know the engine and chassis numbers of every 356 ever built and every series. Yours didn’t fit in the engine sequence numbers so it was an instant giveaway. Did you register it yourself with Swansea?’

  ‘Well no, Simon said he’d do it for me, because he had all the previous owner’s paperwork, but the registration document came straight to me from the DVLA. All in order,’ she said crossly. ‘I spent a lot of money on this car.’

  My heart bled for her. Simon Marsh had done the registration? How generous of him. ‘How much did he charge you for the car?’

  ‘Twenty thousand pounds.’ She looked at our astounded faces, slightly puzzled. ‘That’s a lot, isn’t it?’

  She must have been thinking that our astonishment was because she had paid too much, poor woman. Considering the insurance on this car must be for at least a quarter of a million pounds and probably much more, she had a bargain – or would have done if it had been a legitimate sale. Even without Mike’s car’s provenance, any Porsche 356, with that Carrera engine, would be insured for way over the twenty thousand she’d paid.

  The formalities took some time to sort out, and Jennifer Ansty grew quieter and quieter, answering questions briefly and not volunteering any more information. When DCI Maine told her they’d have to take the car back with them, she seemed past raising any objection, which suggested she was licking her wounds with a vengeance. If this car had anything to do with Mike’s death, now was the time to find out, by stepping in both as counsellor and investigator.

  So I made a start. ‘If you’re going back to Heathfield, Dave, could you pick me up later from the Bear pub in Burwash village? I’ll get a bite to eat there.’

  A nudge is all Dav
e needs, luckily – he guessed what my plan was. Burwash village was easily within walking distance and the Bear is a favourite pub of mine. Kindly Dave might be, as well as understanding Mrs Ansty’s devastation, he would also realize I might get nuggets of information on my own that wouldn’t be revealed to a threesome. It was midday when they left so the timing was perfect for me to invite her to lunch.

  ‘We’ll be off then,’ Dave said in an artificially jolly way that should not have deceived a mouse chasing a lump of cheese, but Jennifer Ansty was past noticing. She was too busy watching her beloved car vanish on to the low-loader.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said forlornly. ‘I paid for it, it’s mine and it’s registered.’

  ‘Talk about it over lunch?’ I suggested. ‘Come to the Bear with me.’

  ‘I haven’t got a car,’ she whipped back smartly. Then she relented. ‘I suppose the walk will do me good.’

  It took fifteen minutes or so to reach the Bear, and as she stepped out smartly beside me chatting generally about life in Burwash, I wondered again why on earth she had chosen this Porsche. Generalizations are notoriously dangerous, but the Porsche never seemed to me a very feminine car and Jenny, as she had asked me to call her, was a very feminine lady.

  ‘The police told me you worked at a school before you retired,’ I said.

  ‘Yes. The Sandborne Academy for Girls, near Sherborne in Dorset.’

  I’d heard of it and was impressed. ‘You were the chef?’ I asked politely.

  ‘Dinner Lady Supreme,’ she rejoined, more cheerfully now we were on safer ground. ‘Choose it, cook it, serve it. With help,’ she added, actually managing a laugh.

  ‘Most people retire to Sherborne,’ I pointed out. ‘You seem to be doing things the other way round.’

  She didn’t answer and it wasn’t until we arrived at the pub that she relaxed a little. Indeed, she walked into it with the air of knowing it well, greeting all the staff by name before we went into the rear garden to choose a table with a view. ‘Are you a regular here?’ I asked.

  ‘They know me quite well. I used to stay here before I moved to Burwash, when my uncle was alive. When he died I inherited the cottage, but I rented it out until this year.’

  ‘So that’s why you moved east. Unusual though.’

  ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘That was the point.’

  ‘Point of what?’

  ‘Buying the Porsche. I expect you’ve been wondering.’

  ‘I was. It’s an outstanding car but not one I’d have thought would be your first choice.’

  ‘Because it’s old?’

  ‘No. There are plenty of classics around that would suit you if that were the reason. An Austin-Healey for example. You have to really know cars to love Porsche 356s and know them even better to pick one with a Carrera engine. Most people admire them from afar, but to love them enough to buy them? That’s really something. Would it surprise you to know that the car you’ve briefly possessed could be worth over three hundred thousand pounds?’

  She blinked. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘It’s true, but then you’re not a car enthusiast or you’d know that.’

  She was highly indignant. ‘How can you possibly judge?’

  I sighed. ‘The price and set-up alone should have been decidedly suspicious to anyone, not just a car buff.’

  ‘They weren’t to me,’ she said obstinately. ‘Simon did all the business side. I’d been introduced to him, after all.’

  Well, of course, I thought. To a woman like this an introduction would make all the difference between trustworthiness and mistrust.

  ‘Where did all the negotiations take place?’ I asked.

  ‘At a hotel where I met him – at a Women’s Institute meeting.’

  ‘He belonged to the WI?’

  This earned me a scathing look. ‘He was another member’s brother, so he said. We talked about cars – I needed one and he told me about the Porsche. A real bargain he told me. He didn’t live far from me and the office was miles away so he said he would drive it over for me to have a look. No obligation.’

  ‘And you bought it on the spot?’

  More indignation. ‘I’m not that daft. Of course I didn’t. I had to arrange the money.’

  Even so, a Porsche? I thought. Something didn’t fit. This was a lady who knew her own mind. She might have fallen for a confidence trickster but she wouldn’t pass over what to her was a small fortune for a car she didn’t fall for hook line and sinker, with or without the careful checks on the car and its seller. And I could not imagine this woman as part of a master gang under Doubler’s rule.

  ‘Anyway, why shouldn’t I?’ she finished, avoiding my eye. ‘Don’t you make instant judgements sometimes?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Experience.’

  ‘Of what? Women or cars?’

  There was a definite flirty note in her voice, but not, I thought thankfully, personal, given the age gap, so it was safe for me to reply, ‘Both.’

  She considered this. ‘You’re right and you’re wrong. I did want the Porsche. Loved it at first sight, but if I’d been ten years older – even five – I wouldn’t have bought it.’

  ‘Too powerful?’

  She swept this aside. ‘Wrong image.’

  ‘Image of what?’ I asked curiously.

  ‘It’s quite simple, Jack. I’ve been a widow for five years. Sherborne is not the world. I wasn’t ready for retiring from the world, only from the school. I wanted a new life, as I told those policemen.’

  ‘And you thought you would find it in Burwash?’

  ‘Yes. I moved three months ago. I’ve now unpacked all the boxes and I’m ready for the new world. By which,’ she added, ‘I mean men.’

  I reeled at this matter of fact statement. ‘Another husband?’

  ‘No. I’d prefer to phrase it as “choice of male companionship”.’

  ‘The merry widow?’ I was still absorbing this angle.

  ‘Exactly, and what better for that role than that Porsche – which, as you said, is a man’s car, rather than a woman’s. But,’ she said darkly, ‘now that’s been stolen from me. Do I get compensation?’

  ‘Not unless the owners are generous.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that.’

  ‘No need to be stuffy. It was Mike Nelson’s, wasn’t it? That poor man who’s just been murdered.’

  I said nothing, which gave her my answer.

  ‘It’s obvious, I suppose,’ she continued, ‘but I really thought I’d bought it legally. And,’ she added warningly, ‘you can tell the family and their solicitors that I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Quite a lady,’ I told Dave when he eventually arrived. Jenny had returned to Broome Cottage and left me contemplating the Downs. Her ‘merry widow’ explanation of the car added up, I conceded, and this Simon Marsh sounded just right for a Doubler associate. And yet it was still an odd story and did not tie in with Mike’s death.

  ‘Bought it from a man she’d met in a hotel bar,’ Dave said in disgust. ‘Wouldn’t believe women could be so daft, would you?’

  ‘Not just women,’ I pointed out. ‘And it’s not always straightforward.’

  He looked at me with interest. ‘In this case?’

  ‘Probably OK. She’s seems bright enough.’

  ‘Did she tell you she paid cash?’

  I groaned. I don’t often miss a trick but he’d caught me on this one. At least it pleased Dave, and he’d milk this one for all it was worth. He was grinning like a Cheshire Cat that had no intention of disappearing.

  ‘Did she, or rather Mr Non-Upright Citizen – who doubtless is not called Simon Marsh – give a reason for wanting cash?’ I asked.

  ‘Two. He and his partners were apparently sole traders and had been rooked too many times by accepting dodgy cheques and, as she admittedly rather shamefacedly, he had told her they would have to add VAT to the bill if it
wasn’t cash.’

  Unlike magpies, one reason is OK, but it’s two that usually bring sorrow. There is no VAT on second-hand goods. So that was it. Jenny had indeed been hoodwinked.

  ‘Cheer up,’ Dave said. ‘I’m taking you to Heathfield.’

  ‘For what?’ I asked suspiciously.

  ‘That’s where the police pound is. You can drive the Porsche back to its home when they’ve finished with it. Won’t be long.’

  The day looked a whole lot brighter ‘Thanks, Dave.’

  ‘Not at all. Saves us money. Anyway, I bet you packed your Frogs Hill plates in that bag of yours.’

  ‘As it happens, I did. Only reason I came,’ I joked. I should have known better.

  He had the last laugh. ‘No need to put it on your bill then.’

  SEVEN

  Oh what a beautiful morning. Or so it seemed as the Porsche and I sang a sort of duet as I drove it along the A20 on its way back to its rightful home. What could possibly go wrong while Porsche 356s remained to cheer the darkest hour and the sun shone approvingly down on us as the Carrera engine purred? Answer: I was well aware that quite a lot could go wrong, beginning with the fact that the ‘rightful home’ had a question mark attached to it, now that Mike had died. For this brief interval, however, I decided to put the gruesome horror of his murder out of my mind while I and this magical car were the cynosure of all eyes this Saturday morning as we sped along.

  As I turned off the A20 to drive up Stede Hill on the way to Old Herne’s, uncomfortable reality began to kick in once more. I plunged into the familiar maze of lanes, wishing I could see my way forward over my mission for Arthur Howell as clearly as I knew this route – and aware that I was driving a possible key element in it. Work out why, and I would be well on my way. But the key remained elusive. The trees overhanging the lanes seemed as though they were gloating over me, delighted that they could remove the sunlight from my path.