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

by Amy Myers

  My perspective on Arthur was changing. With age, his emotions towards his family and his business instincts might have fused to a point where he could not see that putting Glenn in charge was dangerous – especially with Mike’s death unsolved.

  As far as Old Herne’s was concerned, the reasons for the murder had now expanded from the impersonal business angle to the personal. The family trust and the rest of the family fortune could, from Glenn and Fenella’s viewpoint, be at risk. And then there was Ray Nelson, who had clearly loathed Mike, not to mention the sleeping dog, Peter, who, whether he knew about Mike’s parentage or not, could be sitting pretty for the biggest bone of his life if Old Herne’s continued and Glenn returned to the States. He could be planning to cut Jessica out by teeming up with Fenella. The various angles spun around in my head, but in their midst sat Arthur.

  Eventually, I abandoned the game of happy or unhappy families and cooked myself some spaghetti. This began with an uninspiring tomato sauce but, once it had captured my attention, I managed with the addition of a tin of anchovies, a half used jar of black olives, a few capers and some tinned tuna to make a passable puttanesca (Italian for slut – and that’s being polite).

  It wasn’t until late in the evening that I thought of Jessica. Arthur might be in the centre of the web but she could be trapped within it. I thought of the weekend just past, I thought of the next date we had arranged and I glowed. Unfortunately, one can’t glow for ever on a pleasant thought. Between now and the fulfilment of the glow Old Herne’s still loomed, and with Arthur in the firing line (and it seemed to me he almost certainly was) I couldn’t waste time. I could not question Brandon’s witnesses or lines of enquiry but I could try Dave Jennings, especially if I could persuade him that the Porsche might still be a part of the picture, however minor.

  On Wednesday morning I put this plan into practice and rang Dave. He wasn’t encouraging and only surrendered when I pointed out that the Porsche was still on his books because the thief hadn’t been tracked down. He said he might get back to me and, yes, Brandon was following up a family line. I’d reported the gist of my conversation with Arthur to him, but the news about Mike’s parentage had not overexcited him. That was natural enough, I supposed, as he works from forensic evidence not emotional.

  I had noticed yesterday that the Lagonda had a tyre that was looking past its prime, so I took her round from her barn-cum-garage and asked Len to check it.

  ‘Not looking good,’ he said, having scrutinized the whole car. Then he added, ‘Could be the end of it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I yelped, terrified at this verdict on my beloved classic. ‘It’s survived over seventy years so it can go on for ever.’

  Len straightened up. ‘I meant Old Herne’s. Not with a lightweight running it,’ he said dismissively.

  I struggled to restrain my wrath. ‘Lightweight? Not when you know her.’

  Silence. Then: ‘I meant this Glenn fellow.’

  I wondered uneasily why I had jumped so quickly to the conclusion that he was thinking of Jessica and why I felt the need to defend her.

  ‘Probably he is,’ I said, ‘but it’s early days.’

  ‘Moving too fast, Tim says. Wants to throw out all the Mike’s Track Day prizes and all the back issues of The Automobile. They’re gold dust. And that’s only the start.’

  I was appalled. ‘He can’t do that.’

  But we both knew he could. ‘Take everything for the Glory Boot?’ Len ventured.

  Such a simple thing to say, but again we both knew what that would involve. So far the Glory Boot had remained as my father had created it. Nothing added, nothing disposed of. I regarded myself only as custodian, but now Len was suggesting that I turn curator by adding to it. That meant commitment, and however minor a matter it might seem both Len and I knew it wasn’t minor at all.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ I told him.

  Len said no more, but I sensed I had failed him. The subject passed, but I knew I should at least check into it. I swayed this way and that. Should I talk Glenn out of it? Talk to Arthur? No, that one wouldn’t work. Accept these glories of the past myself? The Glory Boot was stuffed full at present which meant I would have to convert another outbuilding, and I hadn’t the cash. Did I want to take everything? No, but I couldn’t stand by and see all those glorious objects put on the scrap heap. Julian Carter’s museum was a possibility but he had more than enough of his own unsorted automobilia.1

  At the moment, a chat with Jessica seemed the most enjoyable next step, but when I called her she didn’t answer. Before I could decide on the next most enjoyable step the phone rang, but it wasn’t Jessica. It was Jenny Ansty.

  ‘How’s the Porsche?’ she asked in a voice heavy with meaning.

  ‘I’m sorry to say it’s doing well under its new owner.’

  ‘And he is?’

  ‘Confidential information.’

  ‘No it’s not,’ she assured me. ‘I was just testing. Everyone knows it’s Jason Pryde. Tell him I’ll be along to see him shortly.’

  ‘He’ll be terrified.’

  ‘Justifiably, but that’s not why I rang. I’ve seen Simon Marsh.’

  That was a step forward. ‘To chat to?’

  ‘No, and he didn’t see me. I recognized his car in Sevenoaks, and there he was at the wheel. Before I could blink, he’d gone.’

  Hopes raised were immediately dampened. ‘So you still don’t know where he lives or works?’ Of course she didn’t. Alex Shaw would be too careful for that.

  ‘No.’ She sounded irritatingly cheerful about it.

  ‘Thanks, Jenny.’

  ‘But before I blinked, I wrote down the number.’

  Dave decided to follow this one up himself as the Sussex Police were involved, so I would attack the problem from the other end by trying to contact Doubler. The Porsche theft might or might not be tied into Mike’s murder, but I don’t like loose ends. Dave kindly tied up a few of them for me, courtesy of Brandon I presumed. I didn’t ask as sometimes curiosity can kill of the best of relationships, let alone the wobbly ones.

  ‘Still nothing on the prints side,’ Dave told me, as I had expected, given that the Crossley was on public display.

  ‘Not even the axe?’ I asked.

  ‘No. Too many. DNA but no match.’

  More helpful. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes. Clothing fibres on the greatcoat. Only one match so far. Tim Jarvis’s overalls.’

  Bad news, but then Tim could well have worn that quite innocently. ‘And alibis?’

  ‘Not leading anywhere so far.’

  It was turning out to be an unproductive morning all round. I couldn’t face Old Herne’s, so I concentrated on Doubler and Alex Shaw. All I had to go on was Harry Prince and the Huptons connection. I would avoid Harry like the plague, especially as with my noble gesture to Arthur my mortgage payments were again under threat. Not that I regretted what I’d done. The trouble with barging into family problems other than with your own is that you can never tell which side anyone’s on because the goalposts move too quickly.

  Huptons is a souped-up garage as plump and gloating as Harry himself. I’d never had much to do with it since Huptons’ glossy image precludes them from cultivating the likes of me in my private capacity. In my professional one with the Kent Police Car Crime Unit they hold up their metaphorical hands in horror at the idea that they could possibly have any connection with whatever monstrous crime I was investigating. They are probably right, because they had never been proved wrong, although my natural inclination is to think that its sweet scent hides a stink beneath. Especially as the mere mention of Doubler’s name had produced him on my doorstep. Somewhere under this golden gloss there must be a touch of rust.

  An elegantly dressed young man swanned up to me to enquire my business when I arrived at Huptons on Thursday morning, so I explained courteously that I wished to meet Doubler.

  His expression did not change. ‘Who is this gentleman?’
he enquired equally politely.

  ‘Just give him my name.’

  ‘But we know no Mr Doubler.’ He looked hurt.

  ‘Can I take it Mr Prince won’t know him either?’

  His eyes flickered. ‘One moment, I’ll call Mr Harris.’

  Another excellently cut suit glided up to me in due course, inside which was a somewhat older gentleman who also informed me that Mr Doubler was unknown to him, though it was true that every so often various ladies and gentlemen mistakenly thought he was. ‘If this Mr Doubler should pass by, shall I give him your card?’

  ‘Please do and speedily.’ I handed over my personal rather than my Kent Police card.

  ‘And what should I say your business is about?’

  I took a random shot. ‘He left some of his property at my house. I’d like to return it.’

  ‘Shall I say of what this consists?’

  ‘A Remembrance Day poppy.’

  I noticed that the poppy made no impression on Mr Harris, but that didn’t mean it would not do so on Doubler. Although that poppy could simply have been stuffed into a coat pocket and emerged by accident, I didn’t associate Doubler with carelessness. I had stopped trying to interpret a possibly meaningless emblem, however, as I had more to think about. Such as if Doubler obliged me with a repeat visit, what exactly was I going to ask him? Plead with him to know more about the Porsche story? That would get me nowhere. Ask him about Alex Shaw? Same result. So what would get through to him?

  Nothing came to me, but as I drove home it occurred to me that Liz might have some ideas. Time for a coffee, anyway. The garden centre she runs at Piper’s Green is not gigantic but she knows what she is doing and the centre reflects it. This was evident from the number of people there even though it was midweek and Piper’s Green is hardly on the beaten track. I could see no sign of her in her office, but spotted her outside standing thoughtfully with a potted patio rose in her hands.

  ‘Bunch of lavender for the pretty lady?’ I called out.

  Taken by surprise, she dropped the rose. ‘Thanks, Jack,’ she said crossly.

  I scrabbled to pick up the remains while she watched.

  ‘Now you can buy me a coffee,’ she commanded after I had performed this task.

  Fine, just what I had in mind, and she led the way to the excellent cafe she and her devoted staff members run, and once settled at a table with refreshment, it was easy going. ‘What would you do with a poppy?’ I asked, too intent on my problem to make sense.

  ‘Stop it spreading its seeds around.’

  ‘An artificial one,’ I amended. ‘For a buttonhole,’ I added.

  ‘After Remembrance Sunday? Ours usually hang around the house until Colin throws them out.’

  ‘You don’t carry it around with you?’

  ‘Good grief, no. Jack, do you have anything more important to talk about?’

  ‘It may be important. Why would someone leave one in my house for me to find?’

  She sighed. ‘To irritate me. Cough it up, Jack. Tell me everything or get lost.’

  So I told her the story, excluding Doubler’s name which I deemed would be bad for her health.

  Liz is a good listener. ‘Perhaps this chap wanted to remind you of someone you have in common.’

  ‘We haven’t anyone in common except a crook, who’s very much alive, and a car.’

  Liz is quick on the uptake. ‘Ah. The Porsche. Is this about Jason?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘In that case the poppy’s probably something this mysterious visitor of yours wants you to follow up.’

  ‘I could have worked that out for myself. What kind of thing?’

  ‘No idea. Perhaps he thinks you’re such a smart ass you’ll work that out too.’

  ‘Too kind, Liz. Always such a flatterer.’ Change subject. ‘Are you still standing in as Jason’s singing partner? Or are all concerts off at present?’

  ‘Ongoing. I was meant to be at a rehearsal today, but he’s cancelled.’

  ‘Arthur not well?’

  ‘No. Urgent meeting at Old Herne’s.’

  I’d have thought little of this, if I hadn’t checked my iPhone before I left Liz. A text from Jessica awaited me. ‘Need U. Come OH asap.’

  And then a voice message from Arthur Howell. ‘Get up to Old Herne’s, Jack. Stand in for me, if you please. And hurry.’

  Old Herne’s was still standing. I half expected to find it on fire when I arrived with Len. Behind my Alfa Zoe’s old Fiesta was coughing and spluttering its way up the hill. Len has refused to drive in her car until she upgrades for a newer model, but her reply is that you could say that of him too, so it’s stand-off at present. I had briefly touched base at Frogs Hill before I set off and Len and Zoe had promptly downed tools and declared they were coming too. I assumed they must know what it was about, but it turned out that Len was on edge because Tim had been full of dire forebodings and might need support.

  ‘He said there’d be trouble,’ Len grunted.

  He must have meant big trouble to get Len and Zoe to leave the Pits with their Lea-Francis 1932 Ace of Spades to work on. It had been a long job, but then their jobs are always long. They love them so much.

  The large notice board at Old Herne’s gates proclaimed: ‘Closed for renovations’, but we took no notice as we sailed in, parked and then made our way to the sharp end of operations.

  ‘There’s Tim,’ Zoe exclaimed as we reached the clubhouse. We could see him standing outside Morgans, the nearer of the two hangars. Len and I were a step or so behind Zoe as we hurried over to him, but Zoe stopped abruptly when we got closer. Then we could see why Tim had taken no notice of our arrival. He was sobbing his heart out. In unspoken agreement it was Len who went to join Tim while Zoe and I hung back. We were near enough by that time to hear his choked voice though.

  ‘I’m going to be fired.’

  Len stepped up beside him, no need to say anything. These old friends did not need words, but after a moment or two Zoe and I joined them. We were both appalled.

  ‘They can’t do that, Tim,’ I said. ‘You’re an unpaid volunteer.’

  ‘Told me I wasn’t wanted. Keep away. Just because I protested when they said they’d be throwing out a lot of the junk in the hangars.’

  A long silence. Then Len asked, ‘Just you, Tim?’

  ‘Dunno. But the writing’s on the wall, Len. Anyone who knew Mike will be out, you mark my words.’

  Not, I decided, if I could do anything about it. I was going to insist on talking to Arthur over this to make him see sense. He’d told me he didn’t want Old Herne’s to close, but under this management the Old Herne’s he loved would in effect close. It was unlikely anything could yet have been signed over the trust, and the agreement would undoubtedly need redrafting if Glenn were to be trustee as well as manager. I had to make Arthur see what was being sacrificed: the Old Herne’s he loved, and Tim too. Surely Arthur wouldn’t agree to that? Not Tim of all people. Unwillingly, I remembered his DNA on the greatcoat and that he hadn’t been present at the discovery of Mike’s body, but there were other fibres on the coat and other people whose movements had to be accounted for. A terrible thought then came to me. Could Arthur possibly have sanctioned Tim’s removal because he thought he might have been Mike’s killer? I forced myself to examine this thesis objectively, but to my relief came up with the answer no – until a niggle reminded me I could be prejudiced.

  I left Zoe and Len with Tim while I went back to the clubhouse. However much I felt for Tim my priority today had to be the meeting. All seemed quiet from the outside, but directly I walked in the main door I could hear voices. Lots of them, angry ones. There was already a slanging match in progress, and I thought it might be wise to take a quick intelligence recce before I entered it. Hedda would be ideal, so I nipped into the bar.

  ‘What’s going on up there?’ I asked her.

  ‘Merry hell,’ she replied cheerfully. ‘My dad’s up there too.’

  ‘He�
�s not a shouter.’

  ‘No, but the rest are. Ray, Glenn, Fenella, Boadicea, Peter, the lot. Jess too.’

  ‘What are they arguing about?’

  She shot me a look. ‘Better find out yourself, boyo.’

  The door was open and no one noticed me enter. The assembly was too intent on what was going on. I could see Ray Nelson’s back, Peter next to Fenella on an uncomfortable looking sofa, Jason standing by the window with a slight smile on his face, Jessica and Boadicea both looking flushed and angry and Glenn sitting by himself on a managerial-type chair. Knives were obviously not only out but being flourished (metaphorically, at least).

  Then Ray’s voice rang out loud and clear over the general uproar. ‘I’ve had enough of this. He wasn’t even my bloody son, Arthur spawned him.’

  The noise stopped dead and I tried to gather my wits. This beggared belief. Surely Arthur could not have been expecting this? Mike’s parentage would be the last subject he would want discussed publicly. And worse, what if Glenn and Fenella still did not know the truth? There was nothing I could to help, however, and I awaited the repercussions with foreboding. When the silence was broken, it was by Glenn showing a chilling calmness.

  ‘You telling me that jerk was my brother, Ray?’

  Fenella’s face had abandoned inscrutability for sheer horror, and Peter put his arm round her. She didn’t seem even to notice. Looking at Peter, I wondered whether this revelation was news to him or not, as his face remained impassive.

  Glenn spotted me, but swept on after a dismissive glance. ‘That kind of explains the drain on the family fortunes. Blackmail, was it, Ray? A touch of your saying you got my wife in the family way, Arthur Howell, so how about you give me an easy ride for the rest of my life?’

  I was here as Arthur’s representative but I couldn’t speak for him. How on earth could Arthur not have told Glenn before this? All I could do now was play observer.