by Amy Myers
Already, it was ceasing to be such a beautiful morning. I knew Jessica was working this weekend and the prospect of seeing her was a big incentive, but there were a lot of minuses to face. Once Dave had officially notified the insurance people and the solicitors, I had rung to tell her I was coming, as there had been a snag. I’d expected to be told to deliver the Porsche either to Boadicea at High House or to Jason, but far from it. The instructions were to take to its garage at Old Herne’s, where someone would be waiting. Regardless of who this someone was, I knew I’d be treading on eggshells. Only six days had passed since Mike’s death, but something must surely have emerged about who had inherited the car if it was found.
When I rang to ask if there had been any developments on Mike’s case that I should know about, Brandon had been non-committal, save on one point. ‘Nothing on the prints on the Crossley – too many of them,’ he told me. ‘Nor on the floor. But the greatcoat has Jarvis’s DNA on it. We’re waiting for the lab on everything else.’
After the initial shock I realized that the greatcoat would almost certainly have had Tim’s DNA on it – and no doubt that of other volunteers too. As for the Porsche, Dave had told me that no prints of interest had shown up on it – only mine and Jenny Ansty’s.
‘The dealer wore gloves in summertime?’ I had asked smartly.
Smart answer back. ‘If he’s one of Doubler’s crew, he’s a pro.’
I had told Dave most of my conversation with Doubler and endured the inevitable grilling that followed. I’d be marked down as a double agent from now on – a difficult situation to be in, though I had pointed out that it could be useful too. Grudging assent from Dave, but I was a marked man.
‘No damage to the car though,’ I had pointed out. ‘That’s interesting too.’
‘Could be,’ Dave had replied, as if indulging a small child.
It was interesting to me at least. The Porsche wasn’t Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. It couldn’t have flown from Old Herne’s to Burwash, and clean though Doubler liked to maintain his hands it must have gone through at least two pairs of mucky ones before Mrs Ansty obliged with her cash. One pair to nick it, probably one to fix the plates and another to sweet-talk Jenny Ansty under the name of Simon Marsh.
On the latter front I had had a minor breakthrough. One of my contacts had rung me with a name. This contact believes in codes at all times and so when he mentioned Bernard it immediately rang up the name Alex Shaw in my mental data bank. Shaw was one of the suavest villains around, and thought to be one of Doubler’s closest allies – ‘thought’ because with Doubler nothing is known for certain. But Shaw was just the type to appeal to Burwash’s merry widow; apparently, he so subtly indicates he is from the upper echelons of society that Jenny would have trusted his patter – at first, anyway. The cash element should have made her blink. Anyway, this was a good lead.
Only, nothing looked exactly good as I drove up to Old Herne’s gates. Old Herne’s itself has some bushes but hardly any trees around its perimeter except on the northern side where High House stands. There woodland looks forbiddingly over to the club as though given the right circumstances those massive oaks would advance in an unstoppable phalanx to repel invaders.
There’s a legend about a ghost called Herne the Hunter who haunts Windsor Great Park and who brings trouble in his wake when he decides to walk. He’s said to have been a hunter who hung himself in the park centuries ago, but it’s more likely he dates back for many more centuries when he was not a hunter but a Celtic god. Old Herne’s Club derives its name from an old word for corner, but I did wonder if Herne the Hunter’s ghost occasionally travelled to Kent for a trip, having packed a whole load of trouble in his backpack. He might be here now. The sun had gone in, the clouds were gathering and those trees looked distinctly menacing. There were a lot of cars in the car park although I knew Old Herne’s was still officially closed.
Whether the hunter’s ghost was here or not, I ran into trouble right away. The ‘someone’ whom I’d been told would be meeting me at the control tower garage turned out to be a formidable line-up of ‘someones’ outside the clubhouse. The word had clearly got around quickly to produce this reception committee. No way could I drive past with a mere cheery wave. As I approached I could see Boadicea, Glenn, someone I didn’t recognize, Tim – and Jason. His biker jacket hung on him, his shoulders were hunched, and yet as he moved to welcome me he turned from a nondescript figure into a man of grace and charm.
Maybe Herne’s ghost was indeed here, because none of them looked happy, which set me back, as the discovery of the Porsche, albeit in these circumstances, was surely to be welcomed. Thrown off my stride, all I could say as I leapt out of the Porsche was a weak: ‘Here she is. Not a scratch on her.’
The only person to whom that brought cheer was Tim, who hurried over to touch the car with a loving hand as if to make sure it was real. He then prowled round it twice and dropped to the ground to check its underparts.
‘It really is Mike’s,’ I assured him. ‘The Frogs Hill garage plates are on it now, but you’ll need new ones of course, Tim.’ Not knowing who now owned it, Tim seemed the safest to address.
The stranger, a man in his fifties and formally dressed, cleared his throat. ‘Mr Pryde –’ he turned to Jason – ‘you can take the car if you wish. It is legally yours.’ By which I assumed he was the solicitor for Mike’s estate.
‘That is not yet certain.’ Boadicea, clad today in regal purple, shook with indignation. ‘My husband no longer possessed the Porsche – if this is the same car – when he died, so there was nothing to bequeath to Jason. Now it’s returned it’s mine, just as the insurance money would have been my husband’s and now mine.’
I’m no lawyer but this sounded dubious. I was right, for the solicitor prepared for battle. ‘The will and the law are quite clear, I’m afraid, Mrs Nelson. As I’ve explained to you, the car was merely stolen but legally still belonged to Mr Nelson when he died, and therefore now belongs to Mr Pryde.’
He glanced at Jason, who nodded, and then he continued with what sounded a well-rehearsed speech. ‘Mr Nelson wanted Mr Pryde to have the car because it was with his mother, Mr Nelson’s first wife, that he shared his early years of ownership of the car.’
Looking at the assembled faces, I could see the car was already a bone of contention because no one reacted – except Boadicea.
‘Nonsense,’ she said firmly. ‘That car was my husband’s only asset and, as I said, I need money. He would never have left me penniless. He was a man of honour. There must be another will somewhere. He was estranged from Jason and would have retracted the will you claim is valid.’
This was obviously not a new line because the solicitor merely replied wearily, ‘Then you must find it, Mrs Nelson. I do not have it, and nor did your late husband ever mention it to me. You’re free to drive the car away, Mr Pryde.’
Drive it away? The shock on Tim’s face was pitiful as Jason promptly came round to the driver’s door and opened it. ‘You’re not going to take it away from Old Herne’s, are you?’
‘Not far, Tim,’ Jason told him. ‘We don’t want it disappearing again, do we?’
The agony on Tim’s face was unbearable. ‘But it belongs here, at old Herne’s.’
‘Leave it with me,’ Jason replied ambiguously.
Boadicea had not given up on the solicitor, however. ‘I shall contest this. My husband could not bequeath the car to anyone once it had been stolen. So it is mine, but I shall look for that second will which undoubtedly exists.’
I thought she sounded less sure of herself now. No one replied and Jason started up the Porsche with that familiar confident roar of its engine. My part in its story was over. I had some sympathy for Terminator Boadicea. Mike had been broke, and if the house belonged not to him but to Ray Nelson the car would indeed be important to her without his salary coming in. The fact that Mike had bequeathed the Porsche to Jason in memory of his first wife must also be hard for Boadicea t
o take.
I’d arranged with Len and Zoe to pick me up when I was ready to leave, but I delayed calling them until I’d had a chance to talk to Jessica, who had already returned to the clubhouse. So I strolled over to the track to wait a while. The bandstand was still waiting to be dismantled and it was hard to remember last Sunday’s concert, with the air full of music and songs. Just their names – ‘Forever England’, ‘Yesterday is Tomorrow’ – conjured up the familiar rich soaring voice of first Miranda Pryde and then Jason.
The track, too, held memories of past Swooshes, not only for me, of course, but for all the veterans of the last world war who recalled the sound of the Spitfire Merlin engines. For Arthur Howell this track would always bring back memories of the day his Thunderbolt crash-landed. It was little wonder that he cherished his ride round it in the Morgan and Mike’s ceremonial drive in the Crossley.
What would happen to Old Herne’s under Glenn’s rule? He might be full of confidence about its future himself, but no one else seemed to be. I paid a reluctant farewell to the track and returned to the clubhouse. There was no sign of anyone outside so I went in cautiously, not wanting to precipitate myself into a lions’ den without prior warning.
No one seemed to be around – except for the lovely Hedda, who giggled when she saw me. ‘Looking for the gang? They’re getting ready for the next round.’
‘Upstairs?’ I asked.
‘Dunno. Retired to their corners, anyway.’
‘Jessica too?’
‘Last time I saw her she was calming my step-granny down.’
I pitied her that job. Boadicea didn’t look in any state to listen to reason.
I decided to wait awhile and track Tim down in the meantime. As I reached the control tower I could see the Morgan in solitary state through the glass and it looked even lonelier now that its companion had been found and driven away again. I was puzzled as to why Jason had taken it, but he obviously didn’t trust its being left here and perhaps he had good reason for that. I could see no sign of Tim in Thunderbolts, but as I turned back I saw him emerging from Morgans with Glenn. Tim still looked far from happy but gave me a nod as he scuttled past me as if to imply he had urgent business elsewhere.
Glenn, however, greeted me with benevolent affability, as though I were his favourite drinking chum. It was hard not to warm to him although I wouldn’t want to work with him and I pitied Jessica. J. Edgar Hoover probably presented a similar jolly face while he constantly denied the existence of organized crime in the US.
‘You stalking me?’ Glenn joked. ‘Dad said you’d be around a lot. You’ve sure made a good start with that Porsche.’
Like for like. ‘Thanks. Good to hear you’ll be around for a while too.’
‘Till we’ve sorted something out for this old heap of a business.’
Ominous. ‘Don’t sort it too much,’ I told him. ‘A heap of relics is what Old Herne’s is about.’
‘Old relics don’t bring in the dollars, Jack. Footfall does.’
‘Footfall needs carrots to tempt it.’
‘Good food. Good drink. Smarten the place up.’
I could hear alarm bells loud and clear. ‘Make sure you don’t throw the baby out with the bathwater.’
‘Baby? What baby?’
Language breakdown. ‘Don’t throw the car away because the number plate’s rusty.’
He eyed me narrowly – as in all the best thrillers – but that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to take Glenn very seriously indeed. ‘Nice way of putting it, Jack. Nope, just need to tidy the place up.’
In my view, non-tidiness was what gave Old Herne’s its special appeal, but I decided I had taken the battle far enough. It would be Tim’s and Jessica’s job to gallop up to the front line. My role had to be appeasement.
‘You’re taking over in tough circumstances,’ I said.
‘And how.’
They might be tough, but that might also be in his favour. Mike’s family, including Jason, would be focused on other matters than running Old Herne’s, so if Glenn’s aim was to ease out the old guard the timing would be good. Except for Jessica – and Peter Nelson. Peter had not made an appearance today, but that didn’t mean he was abandoning a claim on Old Herne’s. Biding his time? Jessica too, perhaps. She had only been here for two months and so with luck she might count as new not old guard in Glenn’s eyes. Whether she could be persuaded to adapt to any great new designs that Glenn (or Fenella) might come up with was another matter. I wondered if Glenn’s plan might be to run Old Herne’s for a year or so, getting Arthur to put money into it, then return to the States and persuade Arthur, who looked good for a long time yet, to break the trust and put Old Herne’s on the market with him as chief legatee under Arthur’s will.
‘What do you reckon, Jack? Does this place have a future?’ Glenn continued. His tone was casual, but the eyes were as sharp as a kestrel’s. There were several birds of prey that frequently visited Old Herne’s, but this one looked as if it could be dangerous when hungry. I thought of all Old Herne’s had to offer. I thought of all the magical places in the world that, like Old Herne’s, had become political battlegrounds, bringing so much destruction that the original attraction had been reduced to ruins. I couldn’t bear to see that happen to Old Herne’s, but I knew better than to ride my charger into battle before requested.
So all I remarked was: ‘I hope so.’
He pounced. ‘So what are you really here for?’ Luckily, before I could answer he continued, ‘Dad said you’re some kind of consultant on the classic car side, but what with the Porsche being back and Tim to advise me I guess you’ll be off pretty soon.’
And wouldn’t that be good, was the unspoken message. I put on a look of astonishment. ‘Not for a while. I’ll be liaising with your father on the car side of the business.’
He wasn’t going to fall for it. ‘And that’s all you’re here for?’
‘No.’
‘What else?’ A distinct edge in the amiable voice now.
‘Jessica Hart.’
The kestrel’s eyes relaxed. ‘Good-looking lady, that.’
I’d batted the ball back successfully but another one zinged along.
‘Give her a tip from me,’ he added. ‘Tell her to take it easy with Fenella.’
‘Not in my remit.’
‘Then here’s something that is.’ The kestrel circled for another attack. ‘Reckon the Porsche has anything to do with Mike’s death?’
Careful how you take this corner, I thought. ‘Hard to see how.’
‘Stuck for cash was Mike. Always wanting more.’
‘For the club or himself?’
‘Both. He did OK out of this place, drew a decent salary. Dad saw to that. Know how much that car was insured for?’
‘About three hundred thousand pounds?’ I’d upped my earlier estimate.
‘Not a bad guess. Three hundred and twenty thousand. I should know, because Dad paid the premiums although the loot was in Mike’s name.’
‘What?’ This one caught me off guard.
‘Dad reckoned the Porsche was an asset for the club, so he coughed up. I reckoned that that meant any insurance cash would come to Dad, but he said no. To Mike. So when Mike found himself short in the cash department, what better way to reap the rewards?’
I tried to restrain myself. ‘You’re suggesting Mike arranged to have the car stolen?’ I remembered that the same thought had occurred to me, but to have it aired as a distinct possibility was something I had to deal with.
‘Sure am. Reckon that wife of his pushed him to the edge. She’s a real piece of work.’
‘But the car’s now safe,’ I pointed out. ‘There is no insurance money.’
Then I remembered Doubler talking about the loss of a beautiful thing. Could Glenn conceivably be right? Had Mike asked Doubler to pinch the Porsche and ensure it wasn’t seen again? Thankfully, reason came to the rescue of my addled thinking. ‘You’re wrong,’ I said. ‘Mike could have sold
the Porsche for just as much as the insurance money any day.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Hearty laugh from my amiable friend. ‘And how do you think Dad would react to that? It would have been tantamount to saying that he didn’t look after his staff too well, plus that Old Herne’s was going bust because its manager had no faith in it.’
He could be right – save in one respect. ‘Perhaps you didn’t know Mike very well,’ I said. ‘He would never, never have sold that Porsche.’
‘You think Mike was some hero-type, you and Dad both,’ Glenn replied dispassionately. ‘All Mike wanted was money. Why do you reckon he hung on here with the place falling down all around him – for his wages, that’s all. In the words of Peanuts, Jack, Glenn couldn’t run a lemonade stand in a drought despite all the money Dad threw into it. Mike chucked money down the drain with his wonderful schemes that never came to anything. That’s why he wanted the insurance money – to chuck some more away. Dad had refused to pay out.’
I clung on to reason. ‘I still say he would never have deliberately had that car stolen.’
Glenn shrugged. ‘Think what you like. It’s my problem to make Old Herne’s tick. And Jason’s got the car.’
‘His stepmother doesn’t accept that.’
‘Too bad. I’d have said Anna Nelson was right in line for batting Mike to death herself if it hadn’t been for that will leaving it to Jason. Otherwise the Porsche would have been a nice little nest egg to comfort her.’
The gloves were off, and Mr Nice Guy seemed to have vanished. ‘But,’ I pointed out, ‘she didn’t know the car was going to Jason.’
Glenn laughed. ‘She knew all right.’
That changed the picture. ‘She knew? Are you sure? And what about this new will she thinks exists—?’
‘All baloney. Sure, she knew about Jason getting the car, but she didn’t know Mike was going to die on her. All that lovely insurance on the car would have been theirs, if Mike was still alive and you hadn’t found the car. Look at it this way, Jack. She was as mad as hell when Mike died. Wanted to take over the club herself so she could help herself to Mike’s salary. Now he’s dead she’s trying to make out the car belongs to her because it was stolen before Mike died. She wants it all ways. No chance, Anna baby.’