by Amy Myers
‘Does she have any kind of a case?’
‘Leave that to the attorneys.’
‘What’s Jason making of all this?’ I asked curiously.
‘No idea. He’s busy setting up house with Dad.’
‘Jason’s going to live with Arthur?’ I asked incredulously.
‘Other way round. Dad’s moving for a few weeks into Jason’s house – Friars Leas, way over on these hills somewhere. It has first-class security, Jason sees to that.’
‘Are you staying there too?’
‘Fenella and I, we got ourselves a rental home outside Faversham. Nice little place. Reckon we’d best lock our cars up safely, now we know what goes on round here.’ Another guffaw ensued as we parted.
On my way to find Jessica, I distilled my impressions of Glenn. If Mike’s murder had been motivated by Old Herne’s then Glenn stood right in line for motive, and so did Fenella if they had the protection of the family fortune in mind. To have the club continue under Mike would be the surest way to tie up yet more of it, with the likelihood of losing the lot. If Arthur dissolved the trust and sold the place, there would be a great deal more cash coming Glenn’s way and in the meantime Glenn could ensure that Old Herne’s continued existence would be in accordance with his and Fenella’s interests.
‘Jack! I thought you’d left.’ A look of sheer pleasure crossed Jessica’s face as I reached the clubhouse – which put one on mine as well.
‘With you around? No way.’ I kissed her – with the promise of a real kiss later. ‘How are things?’
‘Dire,’ she pronounced. ‘Let’s go walkies.’
‘In the fields again?’
‘No time. Just outside. Once round the track will do.’
So over we went and even this short walk helped. ‘Is the aftermath of the murder getting too much for you or is Glenn winding you up?’ I asked.
‘I try to separate the two. Leaving Mike aside, it’s not Glenn – try Fenella. She’s the self-appointed re-designer. I’ve seen some of her stuff – door knobs carefully hidden, toilet signs so discreet you crawl along the corridors pushing every door in sight. Water taps cunningly designed not to provide water if they can possible hide it from you. Everything so tastefully decorated it looks like nondescript porridge.’
‘Does Glenn go along with her ideas?’
‘And more. The bar refurnished with neat little tables and spindly chairs.’
I was horrified. ‘He’s leaving the leather sofas, I hope?’
‘To the scrap heap they go. Too shabby.’
‘The plush curtains?’ I asked hollowly.
‘Nice oatmeal coloured blinds.’
‘I don’t want to hear any more.’
‘Wish I could say the same. She’s going after the hangars next, although Glenn’s more involved there. Complete redesign. Display cases, neat little walkways and labels …’
I groaned. ‘Does Tim know?’
‘Yes. And worse – only, Tim doesn’t know this, or I hope he doesn’t. The volunteers are to be edged out. The old guard will be changing.’
This was even more appalling. ‘Surely Arthur can’t know about this? Old Herne’s isn’t a lap-dancing club – it’s a testament to the past, so it has to live that way.’
‘Arthur’s in shock, Jack. That’s why Glenn and Fenella are moving so fast. Do the damage first and it can’t be repaired. That’s the strategy.’
‘Talking of which, there’s no sign of Peter today. Has he abandoned the ship of politics?’
‘I wish,’ she said fervently. ‘We’re not exactly pals, so my guess is that he’s waiting to see my next move. If I left, then Glenn couldn’t cope alone. Full stop. Which leaves a clear path for Peter. With Arthur so set on this new plan, he’ll get nowhere, though, so he’ll cosy up to Arthur but not take part in the infighting. Well, not obviously, anyway. Behind the scenes is a different matter.’
‘Is that Fenella’s strategy too?’
She was impressed. ‘You’re right, Jack. Answer: I don’t know. Her eggs are firmly in Glenn’s basket at present, but if he and Arthur fall out I wouldn’t like to predict what would happen next. I suspect Fenella has her eyes on becoming a London celeb designer and needs a power position to work from. I wouldn’t like to be in her father’s shoes.’
‘Or yours,’ I pointed out.
‘I’m needed, Jack. For the moment, anyway.’
‘Does that suit you?’
‘Only for the moment.’
‘But the first victim would be you.’
‘I can already feel the dagger scratching at my back,’ she said ruefully.
‘Where do you stand on Glenn, Jessica?’ I had to ask, mindful of the fact that she had a stake in Old Herne’s future.
She didn’t answer immediately, but then said carefully, ‘I’m still stunned. I need to see how it will work. If it’s the only way— I need to talk to Arthur, though, and I can’t get to him yet. You’ve heard about the move?’
‘Yes. Did Arthur want to go there or was he pushed?’
She looked surprised. ‘He wanted to go, probably because of the fuss over the club. He doesn’t want to be closely involved. Glenn suspects foul play, though. He thinks Jason is up to mischief.’
‘And is he?’
‘What kind of mischief could that be?’ she countered.
I shot off an arrow into the blue. ‘Could he have plans for running the club himself?’
‘Why would he? He does well with Pryde of the Past, and he inherited all the copyrights in his grandmother’s music, which still brings in a pile of cash, and anyway can you see Jason running anything, let alone Old Herne’s?’
‘He might want to try, though. Perhaps with you as manager?’
I wondered if this had already occurred to her, but she replied, ‘You’re way off, Jack. He’s a musician first and last.’
‘Does Pryde of the Past have a manager?’
‘Yes, but,’ she admitted, ‘Jason does most of it himself.’
She made a face as she realized she had scored an own goal.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said comfortingly, ‘he can’t both be on tour and run Old Herne’s.’
‘I’m not planning to spend my entire life as a number two, Jack,’ she said forcefully.
‘You’re always number one with me.’ But even as I said this, Louise tiptoed into my mind. I told her to get out of it again. She had abandoned my life, and so she should have the decency to leave my mind alone.
But what I said pleased Jessica anyway, so I tucked her arm into mine, felt her relax and made hopeful plans for the evening. I’d be glad to get away from Old Herne’s. Its politics were beginning to cloud the central picture, even though they could be germane to my case. Mike had been savagely murdered, and yet the wolves were howling on their own behalves. Jessica could be excused on that front as a newcomer to the scene, but with the others in whose hands Old Herne’s might lie, I could see its magic fading, gone, along with Mike. Was that inevitable with his death? No, but I could see no sign of a miracle on the horizon. What I could see was that Mike’s death and Old Herne’s were almost certainly connected. There were more vested interests here than in Grand Prix Formula I.
EIGHT
Another beautiful morning – after a beautiful night. I’m not sure beautiful is spot on as a description. Exciting, memorable and definitely soon-to-be-repeatable would be preferable. Beautiful is too transitory as an adjective. Jessica was a multifaceted lover, confident, warm, generous – all of those. Oh yes, I was hooked. No doubt about that. I’d woken up with a curious feeling that I had only rarely had before – that love was hovering not too far away and that I had only to reach out a hand and it would join me. Almost literally, as I was alone in the bed. I thought she had departed for work without a word to me – but then I remembered it was Sunday. When I ran downstairs, she was in the kitchen with breakfast laid for two.
‘Tea? Coffee?’ were her first mundane words to me, but the accompanyin
g warm smile and lift of the face made it clear that these items, important though they were, weren’t at the top of her agenda. A shared night of pleasure is a joy that communicates itself without words.
I murmured something about needing to kiss her without coming to difficult decisions about tea and coffee, and she obediently folded herself into my arms.
‘Coffee,’ I eventually answered.
‘I’m a tea person.’
‘Then we complement each other admirably.’
‘I remember,’ she told me solemnly, which led to another kiss, and that meant it was some time before we actually tucked into breakfast and then – reluctantly – the matter of Old Herne’s.
The more I sifted away, the more golden nuggets I might pick up. My conscience told me it was unfair to cross-question her further but I calmed it down on the grounds that Jessica seemed eager to discuss it. Talking can help. She agreed with me that the club was more likely to have motivated Mike’s murder than the car, with the caveat that Old Herne’s couldn’t be divorced from family issues.
‘Are you sure Arthur doesn’t know about Glenn’s makeover plans?’ I asked.
‘Pretty sure. Or if Glenn has told him, it hasn’t sunk in.’
‘Shouldn’t you push for a talk with him then?’
She hesitated. ‘Not politic at present.’
Was being politic the point? I wondered. ‘Have you told Glenn how you feel?’
‘No.’ She must have seen my look of surprise and struggled to explain. ‘I suppose I must still be dealing with Mike’s death, Jack. I didn’t know him very long but to me he was Old Herne’s. I can’t believe he’s not still at the helm. Glenn’s plans are too much to cope with even though I know I should try. There are the Nelsons to be taken into account too.’
Any doubts I might have had about Jessica were thankfully laid to rest. Her heart was in Old Herne’s. ‘Who owns High House?’ I asked.
‘Pass. I hope Boadicea does or she’ll be left with nothing.’
I should pay the Nelsons a visit, I realized. Arthur had assured me that his own family was not above suspicion where Mike’s murder was concerned, and therefore nor should the Nelsons be. They were all strong characters with their own plans and convictions, and Mike’s killer was more likely than not to be amongst those closest to him.
Sunday and the night that followed were just as glorious as Saturday night, but Monday morning reared its depressing head all too quickly. On the pretext of needing help over the V5 registration document required for the change of ownership of the Porsche, I arranged to call in later that morning at High House. I do sometimes get landed with helping out over such matters when stolen cars are returned to their owners. Before High House, however, I drove Jessica back to Old Herne’s where her own car was still parked.
‘Thanks for this,’ she said as we drew up. ‘You’ve no idea what a difference it makes, arriving here with someone. In the last week I’ve had to summon up courage to come at all and every time I’ve done it I seem to be driving through the gates of hell. You make it seem normal, Jack.’
It wasn’t the greatest compliment I’ve ever been paid in the circumstances but I took it as one. Before leaving, I had introduced her to the Pits where she had been suitably impressed even though she claimed she wasn’t a ‘car person’ at heart. I’d also shown her the Glory Boot, which had greatly pleased her, ‘car person’ or not. She must have seen a fellow ‘saver’ behind it, and I hoped that as the Glory Boot and Morgans Hangar have a lot in common over their approach to collections, the visit might have helped in a small way towards explaining where the true value of Old Herne’s lay.
As I left the club I began to think that her ‘normal’ was more of a compliment than I had thought. From a platform of ‘normal’ one could feel able to tackle anything the day had to offer. Such as the Nelsons.
When I arrived at High House I thanked my lucky stars that Ray answered the door, not Boadicea. ‘Come in,’ he said from his wheelchair, in a tone so unwelcoming it surprised me. True, he must still be in shock over his son’s death, but I reckoned I should count as one of the good guys because I had returned the Porsche to his grandson.
High House was an anomaly, situated as it was on the crest of the Downs. Red-brick, mid-Victorian, staid and smug, it was guarded by evergreen trees, which were designed as shelter from the winds but seemed vaguely repellent to more sociable visitors. Inside, the house looked comfortable rather than smart and was surprisingly large.
I followed Ray along to the end of the original building and through a door into a modern extension, obviously his domain. The living room to which he escorted me was curiously impersonal. The few photos that were on display were all of himself and Miranda, not of their children, and included one of their wedding. No flowing white dresses then, as it was wartime, but a severe looking suit for Miranda and an army uniform for Ray, as they must come under the auspices of the forces’ entertainment arm, ENSA. Two eager faces looked out towards a future that would not include war or foreign dominance, and indeed the Second World War’s end must then have been in sight.
As at our earlier meeting, he seemed less on the ball than Arthur, although sharp enough to watch me with great suspicion. When I again expressed sympathy for Mike’s loss, he just stared at me. ‘You must find the police investigation exhausting as well as painful,’ I added.
‘In and out, in and out. Treat the place like a hotel,’ he muttered. This I doubted, as I had seen Brandon’s team at work many times. ‘Accident, I told them that,’ he ranted on. ‘Accident.’
‘It’s hard to see how that could have happened,’ I murmured.
‘Nonsense. That Crossley – handbrake wasn’t on – rolled forwards, knocked him over and he fell on the axe. I told them that. Murder,’ he snorted. ‘Too many of those TV thrillers around if you ask me. No one goes round murdering folks just like that.’
There was no answer to this, as it was not just improbable but impossible, given the medical evidence. Instead I said, ‘I’m told your younger son lives in New Zealand.’
‘Said he’d fly over when we’re allowed to have a funeral. What he thinks he can do, I’ve no idea. Damn stupid. What about this Porsche then?’
‘I wondered whether Mrs Nelson or you would have Mike’s registration document and service book for the Porsche. The new owner,’ I added diplomatically, ‘will need them.’
‘She’s dead.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Such was the sombreness of this house I wondered if Boadicea was indeed lying lifeless upstairs.
‘My wife. She died in 1991.’
‘I meant your son’s widow.’
‘Oh her. She’s still here, worse luck. Means more people traipsing in and out. Never know who they are. Now, if Miranda were here, she’d know where the stuff you’re after was,’ he assured me. ‘My Miranda. That’s her.’ He looked over at the wedding photo.
‘I heard her sing once at a local charity show, probably after she gave up singing professionally.’
‘After we gave up singing,’ he corrected me. ‘All this pop rubbish, Rolling Stones, Beatles, Beach Boys – Ray, she said, it’s time we faced facts. We’re the old brigade. They don’t want us no more. They will, I told her.’
I could see tears in Ray’s eyes. He was indeed living in the past.
‘They will,’ he repeated. ‘And now she’s not here no more and that pipsqueak Jason thinks he can sing her songs better than her.’
‘Your grandson’s very good,’ I told him. ‘Aren’t you proud of him for bringing Miranda’s songs back to life?’
His face came alive. ‘Proud? After he swindled me out of the copyright?’
‘Who?’ I was thrown for a moment.
‘Young Jason. Worked on my Miranda and got her to leave her copyrights in the songs to him. What about me, eh? All I got was the recordings to live on. Fat pension that is.’
I decided to ignore this and change tack. ‘It’s good news that the Porsche h
as been found, considering how much it meant to Mike. Will Jason agree to its being shown at Old Herne’s again, do you think? It doesn’t seem the same place without it.’ I stopped, aware that again Ray was staring at me with a blank face. Was he ‘with’ me, or in some place of his own?
‘Mike raced it,’ he said at last.
‘It must have meant a lot to him, especially as he left it to Jason in memory of his first wife.’
I’d hoped this might draw him out, but received another blank look.
‘His good luck symbol, he called it, and look where it got him,’ he continued. ‘Bought it in 1965. Had it since he was twenty.’
‘A generous gift from you both.’
‘Both?’
‘You and your late wife.’ Silence, so I continued, ‘And a very valuable car now. The theft was rough on the lady who bought it, but I expect Jason will compensate her.’ Nothing like a provocative statement for breaking silences.
Ray still made no comment, so my less than subtle hint on Jenny’s behalf fell on deaf ears.
And then the door opened. ‘I thought I heard voices in here.’
It was Boadicea, but not in warpaint. Indeed, she looked haggard with grief and her voice lacked its usual vigour. I leapt up and gave her my armchair, pulling forward a dining chair for myself. ‘I’m here about the Porsche,’ I told her.
She glared at me. ‘Isn’t that Jason’s affair?’
‘Probably, but if so he’ll need the former registration document under Mike’s ownership.’ True enough. ‘I think it was two years old when Mike first had it in 1965. I hate to trouble you at a time like this, Mrs Nelson, but might the original logbook, the current registration document and service book be amongst Mike’s papers?’
‘I doubt it. All the insurance papers were dealt with by Arthur. Mike made that quite clear. It would all have gone to Arthur.’ She didn’t sound too antagonistic.
‘Are you sure they’re not here? Could you look? The service book at least might be around.’