Classic Calls the Shots

by Amy Myers

  ‘Of course I do. I sleep badly, Mr Colby, and sometimes sit in here during the night not bothering to go to bed. It was about two o’clock in the morning. I have a chiming clock – a Thomas Tompion. Such a comforting sound at night. It had just struck two. I was dozing, and the engine woke me up. It is quite unmistakable. I looked down into the road and was not surprised to see I was right about its being an Auburn. A speedster. Cream,’ she added meaningfully. ‘A left-hand drive, I believe, as I had no clear view of the driver. I remember my father telling me about the car, when he worked in America in the 1930s. He was full of praise, stating that it symbolized the resurgence of America from the depression. Later he bought an old one himself.’

  I found this hard to credit despite the specific information she had. ‘You’re sure you weren’t still dozing?’

  Wrong step. ‘I may be old, Mr Colby, and I may be inexact on some memories but on cars I am never mistaken. My father taught me well, and my late husband ran a garage.’

  I felt duly abashed, and once she observed this she continued happily, ‘It was a moonlit night on a well-lit road, you see. Thankfully our taxes still seem to cover street lighting. I saw the car passed twice. This road comes to a dead end, with only a turning circle, and thus the car had had to return. It frequently happens that drivers lose their way and take this road by mistake. I mentioned it to my godson Peter, that’s dear Rob’s father, who was most interested. I had heard that there was an Auburn somewhere in Kent and there could scarcely be two. Rob is so knowledgeable.’

  Dear Rob, who could confuse a Mini with a Maserati without blenching, smiled demurely.

  I ate my way through several biscuits and a mug of coffee supplied by the blonde and we talked cars. I also heard more about Dear Peter and Dear Rob. Memory is an odd thing. On cars Clarissa was crystal clear, on everyday living she faltered. As I left, she said brightly, ‘Give my regards to your dear wife. Mary, isn’t it?’

  I agreed that it was.

  ‘I thought so,’ Clarissa said complacently. ‘It was a woman driving the Auburn. Perhaps it was her?’

  It was Thursday morning, and I had three and a half days left before the Auburn had to be at Syndale Manor, plus several nights if needed. I wondered if Bill Wade would notice if the Auburn wasn’t there. His insistence on it might have been a knee-jerk reaction. There were formalities with any death, let alone one in these circumstances, and they might well take all the stamina that Bill possessed. Nevertheless Monday was a date I could not miss. Was I any further along having heard Clarissa’s story? A woman at the wheel? I could hardly take that seriously when she herself said she had no clear view of the driver, especially as she had lost the plot by that point of the conversation. Where did it leave me though? Only that the thief of whichever sex had been making for Ashford, or the nearby turn-off to Canterbury, or even Dover, and had taken the wrong road.

  Rob drove me back to Frogs Hill, and disappeared with my thanks and a flourish of his pudgy hand. I retreated to make some routine follow-up phone calls. Unfortunately no news is not always good news. Harry Prince had nothing to offer, nor did my London contact. All he did tell me was that there was a lot of movement in what he tactfully termed ‘the trade’, especially in Kent thanks to its proximity to the Channel and eager buyers in Holland and Belgium. That fitted in with an offhand remark from Dave that his unit was increasingly bugged by insurance investigators. That shook me. Perhaps I was wrong, and the Auburn had been a victim of a straight theft after all.

  Great. Back to the starting grid.

  I went round to the barn-cum-garage where I keep my Lagonda and Gordon-Keeble, a sight that always cheers me up. The Gordon-Keeble has only recently recovered from an accident in the cause of British justice. That it recovered at all is thanks to Len’s painstaking care in making good the damage. Specialists in fibreglass bodywork had to be called in for serious consultations over their patient. Under its postoperative care in the Pits, however, its metallic maroon finish now glows out to the world again. Every time I slither into the driving seat of this car it feels like coming home. Like the Glory Boot, it welcomes me with its own special smell.

  It needed a run so I decided to take it over to the studios to see if Ken Merton was anywhere around. It was a gorgeous day and the Gordon-Keeble purred its majestic way through the back lanes with its usual spirited oomph. Once the Lenham Heath road, which the Auburn must have taken last Thursday night, was the main route to London, but it was hard to imagine that stage coaches, wagons and horses once filled it.

  When I reached the studios, there was no sign of Ken. This was a crime scene indeed, and the outer cordon was in front of the security barriers. I cursed, but at least the Gordon-Keeble sounded pleased that we’d come out. Its V8 rumbling burble was music to my ears as I drove my stately way back to Frogs Hill. Where I hit pay dirt. There was a car outside that I recognized. If I was right, it meant that dreams sometimes come true. Louise was somewhere around.

  I found her in the Pits, examining the inside of a gearbox at Len’s side. She had a smudge of black on her right hand which suggested she had been given a practical role in the proceedings, voluntarily or not. She looked up and grinned.

  ‘Have you joined the payroll?’ I joked. It was a feeble effort, because it was the first time I’d seen her on home turf and for a moment she seemed a stranger.

  ‘Considering any offers – but I’d hate to sabotage your business. I don’t know a gearbox from an axle.’

  Len was looking protective and didn’t want to let her go before he had explained every single cog and shaft to her, so I suggested I made coffee all round in the farmhouse. Len, as I predicted, couldn’t bear to be parted from the smell of the Pits, and said that, thanks, he’d take his in here. Louise thankfully got the right message, as did Zoe. Louise sat at my kitchen table looking completely at home. In jeans, white blouse and overshirt she looked a far cry from the famous film star image beloved of the press.

  ‘Am I holding up your search?’ she asked. ‘I had to get away from the hotel – it was beginning to get to me and the press have winkled out where we’re staying.’ This was at the Buckhurst Hotel, which was hidden deep on the Downs towards Faversham further east than the Manor.

  ‘You’re not holding up anything. The search is stalled, with only one slight lead. How’s Bill?’

  ‘Not good. He’s staying with Roger and Maisie – they live at Headcorn, which is handier than his own home and he gets company.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem very likely that the film will begin again on Monday.’

  ‘You underestimate Bill. The film will go on, even though he adored Angie and even though the police are daft enough to think of him as a suspect.’

  ‘Men have killed adored wives before now,’ I pointed out. ‘There was an implication that the gun was his.’

  ‘It wasn’t. The police found it safe and sound at his home. Anyway, Angie knew how well off she was. She wouldn’t step out of line one inch, because Bill gave her all she needed. Devotion, money – and power. That sounds tough on her but that’s how it was. I can’t spin you a yarn about how wonderful she was, Jack. She was fine on a good day, but from my angle she was far from fine.’

  I had to say it. ‘Because of the issues between you.’

  She looked me straight in the eye. ‘Yes, but without reason. Bill and I got on well but no sex.’

  I decided not to comment. ‘Could Tom have been involved? He had plenty of reason to dislike Angie.’

  ‘Don’t go there, Jack. You’ve met him. You can tell he wouldn’t harm a fly even though he seems to be suspect number one for the police. I suppose that’s with reason, as she did get him sacked twice. Of course he’s old-fashioned but nothing wrong with that if Bill wants it that way. We all understand his boards. Tom pours love into the sketches and there’s mutual dependence between him and Bill. She didn’t like that either.’

  I remembered uneasily that Tom could not be found when Jane had paged him o
n Tuesday morning.

  ‘Where did the so-called “old gang” as a whole stand over Angie?’ Tom was part of it, after all.

  ‘The Running Tides group? No love lost there either, even though Angie herself was an extra. I suppose she might have felt that the others were closer to Bill than she was. And closer to Margot Croft. But I don’t believe any of this has any relevance, Jack. That’s the past. The trouble is in the here and now.’

  ‘OK. What about Eleanor Richey and the other stars? Did they hit it off with Angie?’

  ‘Eleanor and Angie were on good terms. Eleanor drove the Auburn after all, and Justin seemed to get on with her. But then he gets on with everyone. The others weren’t obviously antagonistic. I can’t see why any of them would want to kill her though.’

  ‘To stop her wrecking the film?’

  She stared at me. ‘Not sufficient. I know that means we’re back to—’

  ‘Tom,’ I supplied for her.

  ‘And me?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘I don’t see you in that role.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  A silence fell between us for a moment.

  ‘Jack, I should come clean,’ she admitted. ‘There was more trouble in the here and now. Angie was busy meddling with the scripts of more characters than mine and Brian’s. There were others. I heard rumblings.’

  ‘Do you think the film will settle down after all this?’

  ‘Too soon to say how it will be affected. The shooting goes on. It’s fair to say that any actor with a bit or small part gets used to having their parts chopped down or even out. It goes with the territory. It’s an up and down life and that’s why our home lives and private relationships can be so up and down. Joan’s been through a sticky divorce, Chris Frant’s wife left him a year ago and Graham – who’s gay – is having partner trouble. Brian has a disabled wife. Perhaps that’s why they stick together, but Angie might have seen it as a conspiracy against her. They stick together because they need support.’

  ‘Do you, Louise?’ I said quietly.

  She looked up at me. ‘Not me, Jack. Born under the original wandering star, that’s me. That’s inside me just as much as each of the parts I play. It drives me on. But some actors never get that chance, because fate intervenes or the parts aren’t there, or they run up against other difficulties. I’ve been lucky though. I’ve been given the opportunity to wander from part to part and so I have to use it.’

  ‘Not tempted to put roots down?’

  ‘Of course.’ She looked round my kitchen and out at what she could see of my garden through the windows. ‘I’m no gardener,’ she said regretfully.

  I gave her space. ‘Nor me. I attack it with a mower periodically but otherwise my garden and I have a live and let live arrangement. I let it live until the bushes start advancing through the doors. At the moment the roses are saving me from shame.’

  She hesitated. ‘I am sometimes tempted.’

  I couldn’t stop myself. ‘By Nigel Biddington?’

  ‘No. He’s a friend.’

  ‘How do you define that?’

  ‘Someone I wouldn’t go to bed with.’ A smile. ‘Inquisition over?’

  I nodded, dizzy with relief.

  ‘Then may I see the Glory Boot that Len told me about?’ she asked.

  ‘You can.’ I led her past the comfy sofas and bookshelves in the living room, through the boot room and into the Glory Boot itself. She walked in, looked around and said spontaneously:

  ‘Oh I like this.’

  ‘Even though cars aren’t your thing?’ I asked doubtfully.

  ‘Yes and no. I know nothing about car mechanics and technology but I like old cars in context. Is that too stupidly romantic for you?’

  ‘Nothing about cars is stupid. Nor over romantic. But define that for me, please.’

  ‘The way they fit into history. The cars, the picnic baskets, the celebs of the thirties and forties in their jalopies, the cars they chose, the way they reflect the way of life they trundled through as youngsters.’

  ‘The owners or the cars?’

  ‘Oh, the cars. They were young once too. That’s why it’s surely good to treasure them in their old age.’

  Somehow I found her in my arms and I was kissing her. Hard. Unplanned, heading I knew not where. My arms were round her and I wanted her more than anyone or anything in the world. What’s more, she wanted me, even though she at last pulled back.

  ‘Where are we driving to, Jack?’

  ‘You know.’ A gentle kiss this time.

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Here?’

  We settled for the comfort of upstairs.

  Two hours later I floated down to somewhere near earth again, but what we said to each other isn’t part of the Auburn’s story. Only of ours, and that would run and run.

  Twenty-four hours to go. Less. The Auburn swam back into my consciousness early on the Sunday morning, as I watched my Louise drive out, back to the secure hotel on the Downs. We’d had two whole days and three nights together. In theory anyway. On the Friday, Louise had to drive back to the hotel where Bill had indefatigably insisted on blocking and discussing scenes for the forthcoming week at Syndale Manor. I had thrown myself into checking cast lists, who was and who was not present before and after the disappearance of the Auburn and when Angie died. All three relevant days had required full crew and cast plus a selection of extras. As a result of this spadework, therefore, I was little further forward.

  I’d also popped into Liz Potter’s garden centre in Piper’s Green where the two ladies of Garden Easy would meet me. Yes, they said, they did work for Oxley, and no they had not been there on the Wednesday morning that Angie died. They had a regular slot with Mrs Wade to work in the garden but that was not one of their days. On Wednesdays they were employed at Hampton Court. That meant if Angie was summoned to the garden, it was not by either of them. If she went down there on the spur of the moment, her killer could not have foreseen that and it must have been an opportunist murder – not possible because of the gun. So she was summoned there – but by whom?

  I couldn’t be sure that Clarissa had not been dreaming with her story about seeing the Auburn, but on the other hand I still had no other line to consider. I needed to haul my brain back from where it was dreaming with Louise and refocus it on the car.

  I focused. Lack of information from outside sources reconfirmed my conviction that whoever had pinched the Auburn was employed at the studios and would therefore need to show up for filming at six a.m. on the Friday morning. Where did that leave me? If he or she was working alone, then he or she had to get from wherever the Auburn was now residing back to the studios or to be picked up by the shuttle bus.

  So far, so good. Or bad, depending on how one looked at it.

  Therefore the thief either walked back to the hotel after hiding the car or walked directly to the studios. Or, I realized glumly, he could have had his own car waiting for him near the hiding place. Or he took public transport. It would have been a tad memorable if he arrived at the studios by bike. Given the clocking-in time, buses were out and trains barely possible. Cars might draw attention if they were left unattended in a country lane while they awaited their owner. A handy empty barn? Unlikely for a non-local cast or crew member.

  I sat down with the ordnance survey maps of the area and drew a neat circle in the area that public transport was available – namely the Ashford to London route. Rural stations on that route included Lenham and Harrietsham from where the walk to the studios would easily be possible. Even Headcorn might be conceivable, though X would arrive at the studios somewhat sleepy from the long walk.

  The Lenham and Harrietsham line also stopped at Charing, however. Near to where Clarissa had seen the car. I was trying not to rush to conclusions, but honour demanded that I found Bill his Auburn in less than twenty-four hours. And then there was Louise. There was a seventeenth-century Kentish poet with the romantic name of Lovelace who
wrote: ‘I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honour more.’ That sentiment strikes a trifle strange to modern ears, but it galvanized me. Auburn or bust.

  I rang Len at home, which was normally off bounds, but that was immaterial. Len sounded thrilled in fact; perhaps he thought I was summoning him over to the Pits. He certainly seemed to lose interest when I mentioned the Auburn, but for once I didn’t care.

  ‘Where would you a hide a car in a hurry, Len? Any car, not just an Auburn?’

  A grunt came back. ‘Cows.’ Or that’s what it sounded like.

  ‘Sorry?’

  Another grunt. ‘With cars. Other cars.’

  ‘Yes, but this is an Auburn, Len. It would stand out like a Bugatti in a boot sale.’

  ‘Wraps,’ he said.

  ‘Which scene?’ I got muddled with film jargon.

  ‘Covers,’ he yelled. ‘Under covers.’

  Even I got to the next step. ‘Private car parks.’

  ‘Worth a go,’ he said, and put the phone down.

  I rushed over to my maps again. Suppose Clarissa had been right on target. If the thief had mistaken the turning, it would suggest he was heading either for a house or road nearby, or for the main turning for Canterbury. From the latter he was less likely to get back to the studios in time without a taxi, which would be traceable. From Charing it would be only three miles or so to walk back to the studios. I could remember no suitable car park in Charing village, so I thought again about the estate where Clarissa lived. They were town houses, with no sign of their having their own garages. Residents needed somewhere to park, as would the shoppers. I began to feel sick again but with excitement this time. I remembered that breakfast with Louise had been a long time ago and forced myself to make a sandwich and eat it (ghastly though it tasted). Then I leapt into the Alfa and drove like a knight of old determined to win his spurs.

  Coming from the Pluckley road, I had to turn right into the Gladden estate. Instead I turned before that into an inconspicuous entrance marked P which led – to my great pleasure – into a small underground car park. For a nervous thief coming from Lenham, turning into the estate would be a natural mistake to make.