by Amy Myers
‘The coincidence of your being here and the Auburn being found where you used to work is unfortunate.’
Not so friendly. ‘Aren’t many car parks like Gladden round these parts.’
I pounced. ‘So you recommend it to people? Did anyone ask if you knew of one?’
‘Not that I recall,’ he said speedily. ‘What’s it to you anyway? The blasted car’s been found.’
‘The police haven’t dropped the case just because it’s back where it belongs.’
He took that on board. ‘Word gets around in this place,’ he said uneasily.
‘Why should it? There’s a car park here and transport laid on. Why should anyone be interested in one several miles away in Charing? Look, Ken –’ I dropped out of the sparring match – ‘do you recall mentioning Gladden to anyone – innocently of course?’
He looked relieved that he didn’t seem personally in the frame. He was, in fact, but he needn’t know that for the moment.
‘Look, mate, I’ve been working here best part of a year,’ he told me virtuously. ‘How can I remember who I’ve chatted to? Anyone who’s local is going to know about Gladden anyway, aren’t they? And anyone who isn’t has their own transport, like you said.’
That sounded reasonable enough, I conceded. Then I had some inspiration. ‘What about Mr Biddington? He’s the car adviser on the film. Did you talk about Gladden with him?’
‘No reason to. He’s local.’ Ken pondered. ‘He was in here a couple of weeks back with that Joan Burton. Nice piece of flesh that.’ He leered. ‘Something to get your arms round . . .’
‘Nigel Biddington,’ I reminded him as he went off into a lustful dream. ‘And Gladden.’
‘That’s right, mate.’ Ken looked pleased. ‘He was talking about getting cars for Friday. I might have said there used to be some nice ones parked in Gladden on my watch. Expensive little estate that.’
I wouldn’t claim total victory over this one. Nigel could easily have mentioned the car park to anyone he came across if the subject came up. It didn’t even mean he was involved in any dirty work. After all, why on earth would he want to pinch the Auburn, thus giving himself a headache in his role as car adviser? Theoretically it was possible he might have a lucrative deal signed up with another Auburn owner to hire his car in the event of Bill’s not being available but it was highly unlikely in practice. Nor did Bill’s reaction to my suggestion of replicas imply Nigel would have an easy passage on that route.
No, not a victory, but one small step forward.
Saturday. Car Day. Why did I wake up with dread in my heart rather than a sense of anticipation at the prospect of seeing thirty classic cars or so gathered together, looking their best with their polish and glitter on, and surrounded by ladies and gents in elegant thirties’ gear? I tracked the answer down to the fact that I didn’t know what to expect. Furtive figures in homburg hats pulled down to hide their faces, exchanging bundles of pound notes for some scam to do with classic cars? Or that a hawk-eyed Jack Colby would stroll around and deduce what Angie’s worry over cars had been, simply by studying the assembled cars and owners? For example: My dear Watson, it is surely obvious that the lady had noted that a crank handle for a 1935 Auburn would not be a very useful accessory. I’m no Sherlock, alas. I do believe you can tell a lot about the owners from the cars they drive, but I wouldn’t bank on its counting as hard evidence in a court of law. Or did I expect to be able to clap my hands on Nigel Biddington with a triumphant ‘son, you’re nicked’? So far he appeared a perfectly innocent citizen, and I was forced in fairness to consider that he could be. On the other hand, he was in such a good position to be the organizer of some sort of classic car scam.
When I arrived at Syndale Manor at 5.30 a.m., it was hard to believe that a murderer was probably skulking here and that I had a job to do – catching a car thief at the very least. The early dawn in summer is a beautiful time. Birds are boasting of their good parenting in song, the flowers are unfurling their petals for a beauty contest, blades of grass are shaking off the dew and all in all the day seems full of promise.
What the day was promising me was still to come.
For this special day, I decided on a special car. I was wary of taking my Gordon-Keeble any great distance for fear it might meet with another accident, and in any case its heavy clutch would be tough going with my body still aching from its encounter with the heavies. That meant it was hats off to the Lagonda for this summer’s day outing. At my suggestion, Zoe and Len had been roped in by Nigel to be ready to provide emergency help for any cars in need – and to watch out for spies, as Len put it. They were like kids at the seaside at the prospect of a drive in the Lagonda. Len was in the passenger seat and Zoe curled up in the rear seat. All we needed was a picnic basket strapped to the back and off we would motor into the idyllic summer sunshine depicted in Dad’s Glory Boot collection of old railway posters.
It wasn’t quite the idyllic scene I’d hoped for when we arrived. It boded well, but it was still damp and a bit chilly. Moreover there were nowhere near thirty classic cars drawn up in the compound allotted to them. True it was only five thirty in the morning but so far a mere dozen or so had arrived. I parked in the general car park, clambered out of the Lagonda – with some difficulty owing to my bruises – and saw Nigel in a floppy canvas sun-hat checking off cars at the entrance to the classics compound. I’d hoped that I could sneak my Lagonda in to join the other classics, but it was three years too young for a 1935 film. Nigel was looking worried, probably at the poor showing so far. I’d gathered that the cars were needed for two scenes. In the afternoon they were going to shoot a day for night scene of the cars looking lonely in the dark while the Jubilee ball was in progress in the bright lights of the Manor. This morning they would be allotted to costumed extras and shot in a series of scenes of cars arriving for the ball. The cinematographer and Nigel would be arranging them. The four star cars would also be taking part.
‘Hi.’ Nigel gave me a cursory look, as I walked over to him, and then he gave me a closer one. ‘I heard about what happened to you. You look awful.’
‘Thanks,’ I said drily.
He grinned. ‘My pleasure. Thanks for bringing your team over.’ A pause. ‘What do you plan to do today?’ Was his question just a little too casual?
I had my answer ready. ‘The police want me to make sure the thief doesn’t have a second go at the Auburn.’
Nigel didn’t buy it. ‘Fairly unlikely, isn’t it?’
‘Very. But we detectives like nothing better than watching cars that don’t get pinched.’
He looked at me doubtfully, trying to make sense of this. ‘What were you doing in that car park to be beaten up like this? You’d already found the Auburn.’
‘True, but with my job I have to keep a broad spectrum,’ I said grandly and deliberately vaguely. ‘Like you, I presume.’ A good idea to pretend we were co-fighters against crime. ‘Whoever took the Auburn,’ I continued, ‘either had local knowledge or heard about the car park from someone at the studios. You know Ken Merton used to work at Gladden car park?’
‘So? Security’s his job, not theft.’
If only life were that simple, I marvelled. ‘Anyone could have asked him about local car parks.’
Nigel eyed me as though I were the idiot I sounded. ‘And anyone could have driven around the area and found it for themselves.’
‘That’s true.’ I tried to look crestfallen. From what I’d seen neither the cast nor crew had spare time on their hands to cruise around looking for opportunities. If they did, I reasoned, they’d be hunting for big Maidstone or Ashford multi-storey car parks, not ones that primarily served a smallish housing estate. I’d stick with someone having heard of it at the studios or who knew about it through living locally.
Like Nigel, I thought wistfully. I remembered Joan Burton lived locally and could well know about Gladden, and the ‘female driver’ angle popped into my head again. I pushed it right out. She ha
d no reason to start a dirty tricks campaign or steal the Auburn and certainly I didn’t see her as a murderer.
A 1934 Adler Trumpf Junior trundled in, with an elderly driver obviously relieved to have survived ordeal by Kentish lanes, and Zoe took over the marshalling duties.
‘That Adler is a beauty,’ I said admiringly to Nigel. ‘From an agency?’
‘Yup. Most of these are.’
‘I’ve seen that one before.’ I pointed to a 1935 Jensen-Ford Shooting Brake.
‘Quite possible. It’s reasonably local.’
‘One of your clients?’
‘Yes. John Pursey. He was bursting to get in on the film act, although he didn’t like the news about the Auburn’s disappearance. He’ll be keeping an eye on it. By the way, I spotted your Lagonda coming in. Want to drive the charmer on film today?’
‘Can’t, alas. It’s a 1938.’
‘Might be possible. Insured are you?’ When I nodded, he grinned. ‘Hang around hopefully and I’ll see if it thrills the great DOP’s eyes. If so, he might use it. Louise told me there’s a sort of valediction scene set in 1938.’
‘Terrific.’
Fame at last. With this tempting prospect before me, I cheered up. Nigel was a good sort in my book – temporarily at least.
For the next hour or two I absorbed everything that was going on around me, starting off with the mouth-watering array of delectable classic cars ranging from the early to mid 1930s. It was exciting to see it all come to life, like the mythical village in Scotland immortalized in Brigadoon, shaking off the sleep of a hundred years and emerging out of the mist into glorious technicolor. I saw Chris wandering by as a stiff von Ribbentrop; Joan bustling past in her black outfit; elegantly clad extras strolling around in midnight blue or black dress coats and dinner jackets; chauffeurs with polished boots and caps chatting with women in close-fitting evening gowns and brocade wraps, all picking their way to the Manor forecourt. I saw Graham, currently an exquisitely tailored Prince of Wales, having a quick canoodle with a chauffeur, and Lord Charing arguing with Bill over something I could not hear. He must have seen me, because he came over when Bill had finished with him.
‘I told Angie that line wasn’t going to work,’ Brian grumbled. ‘Now even Bill wants me to keep it. I ask you. How can I say to Julia, “Come along and see me sometime, darling”? I’d sound like bloody Mae West. Bill just says try it.’
‘Bill usually sees things straight,’ I said sympathetically.
‘Maybe. Trouble is Angie always had to know best, because she couldn’t forget she was once a humble background performer like the rest of us. Once an extra, always an extra deep down.’
‘That’s not the image of Angie that came over to me,’ I said.
‘Of course not. But scratch the surface and there she was, quivering. You ask Tom.’
He wandered off, and I set off to admire a late arrival in the classic car line-up: a Delage cabriolet.
But then I saw her. The vision – the nightmare. The inimitable Pen, busy chatting up Joan and Chris at one of the tables in the catering field. She was wearing jeans, a tank top and a flowering hat. A typical Pen outfit. I strode over to her in the hope of minimizing damage.
‘Morning, Pen,’ I said dangerously.
She glanced up, nose twitching. ‘Sweet of you, but no need to join us, Jack.’
‘Thanks, I will,’ I returned, sitting down at the fourth seat. ‘My job is to look out for suspicious characters. How did you get in?’
Joan and Chris looked mystified, so I introduced them. ‘Meet the Lady of the Kentish Graphic, Pen Roxton. You can congratulate her on her shrewd vitriol.’
Pen just laughed, looking as though butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. It probably wouldn’t. She is the original ice queen when at work. As I had no doubt she was now.
‘Bill Wade said I could sit in on the filming,’ she stated.
‘Did he know who you were?’
‘Friend of his wife.’
‘Were you?’
‘Saw her once. Last week, I think. Nipped in to see whether there was any mileage in the Auburn theft. Told to see her, but she was arguing with that chap over there.’ She waved a hand towards Nigel Biddington. ‘I tried, but I couldn’t hear much of it. They stopped when I came in.’ She sounded aggrieved. ‘Something about thirty, that’s all.’
‘Pieces of silver?’ I asked sweetly. ‘You’d know about that.’
‘They must have been talking about the cars coming today,’ Chris ventured as a pointless peace offering. ‘Thirty’s the magic number, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I said, storing the information about Angie away. It might be interesting if Pen could be relied on – and she could. It wasn’t the facts that were the problem – it was what she did with them.
‘Probably nothing,’ Joan said. ‘Angie often rowed with Nigel. I heard them too.’
I was about to enquire further when Pen barged in with all guns blazing.
‘Then I went to see Bill. I asked him about Margot Croft.’ Pen said blithely. ‘He clammed up.’
‘I’m not surprised.’ Joan looked aghast. ‘What did you ask him?’
‘Whether Margot had killed herself in the Auburn – nice story if she did, with it going missing now and all that.’
All three of us sat stunned. Especially me. This was going it a bit, even for Pen. None of the reports I’d read of Margot’s death mentioned the Auburn. ‘Very tactful,’ I replied at last. ‘Did Bill reply, or did he get you thrown out?’
‘He’s a gent. Unlike you, Jack. Knows how to behave. He told me she killed herself in her own car, a Lancia.’
‘Happy now?’ I asked ironically.
‘Not yet.’ She grinned and I groaned.
‘So what comes next? Whatever it is, I doubt if it will win you a free seat at the Dark Harvest premiere.’
‘Maybe it’s more fun not to have one.’ Pen turned purposefully to Joan and Chris. ‘You said you were around for Running Tides. You must have been extras, like Angie. And Tom Hopkins was there too. She sacked him last week, didn’t she? Why? Knew too much, did he? Did Brian Tegg? Or that wimp Graham East? You knew Angie when she was an extra. Extras always fancy bigger parts. Wanted to play Ramble herself, did she?’
‘Yes, but not—’ Joan yelped, but Pen swept on.
‘Jealous of Margot Croft, was she?’
‘That’s enough,’ Chris shouted. ‘Pure nonsense and it’s not true. It’s not. Margot was a star, a real star and Angie was a beginner. She couldn’t—’
Pen shrugged him off like an annoying ant. ‘Star? Because she slept with the producer, or in her case director, maybe both, to get the part?’
Joan rose trembling to her feet. ‘I will not listen to this. I will not. Come on, Chris.’
Chris needed no urging after this attack on Margot’s integrity, and followed her, leaving me poleaxed with a complacent Pen. ‘Touched a nerve, didn’t I? I’ve got a theory, Jack,’ she said confidentially, although that isn’t a word that sits easily with Pen.
I struggled to keep listening, on the basis that I have – odd though it might seem – respect for Pen in some ways. I like the way she pulls no punches; I hate the way she prepares them. On one level she’s trustworthy, but on all the others, put on your hard hats because concrete rain’s going to fall.
I put on the hard hat this time. ‘What is this theory, Pen? Tell me the worst.’
‘Bill Wade killed Angie.’
‘What?’ This was worse than even I could take, much worse. ‘You can’t go with that.’
‘I can go with what I like,’ she said with dignity. ‘I put two and two together.’
‘And made forty-nine,’ I whipped back. ‘What on earth makes you think Bill would kill Angie? He adored her.’
‘Granted. At one time. Suppose dear Angie was involved in Margot Croft’s death? Plenty of extras have it in for the stars, especially if they’re turned down for the big parts. And I bet that’s what happened. A
ngie thought her career path should go straight up, but she wasn’t good enough.’
I was hypnotized by the ludicrousness of Pen’s suggestion that Bill had murdered his wife. ‘Where does Bill come in?’
Pen gripped me by my bad arm, the darling. ‘Revenge is a dish best served cold, you know.’
‘And what does that sinister remark mean?’
‘Dark Harvest, the Auburn and Angie Wade. They all add up to Bill Wade’s revenge.’
‘For what, for heaven’s sake?’
Pen was on a roll now. ‘He discovered the truth about little Angie and Margot Croft. Suppose Margot did die in the Auburn? He might even have moved the body himself. He might have felt responsible in some way. Or maybe, yes, this is better, suppose he just found out recently?’
‘Found out what?’ I hissed, conscious that others were in earshot.
‘That Angie murdered Margot Croft.’
I was no longer mesmerized. Voice and brain got together at last. ‘Do you have one scrap of evidence, be it hearsay, third party, a loose thread – or better, DNA – to back this up?’
‘No.’ Pen grinned. ‘But I will. It will make a damn good story.’
‘Pen,’ I said through clenched teeth, ‘you print anything like that and I’ll personally see every libel lawyer in town will be at your throat. Get lost.’
TEN
Pen did get lost – or at any rate appeared to do so. I saw her marching to the car park, so I hoped for the best. Her daft ‘theories’ dreamed up out of nowhere could do real damage if spread around and I was glad that Chris and Joan had left by the time she really got into her stride. Should I even waste time in considering what Pen had so cheerfully suggested? Reluctantly I supposed I should, but first they needed digesting. Pen could whistle down the wind for a while.
Luckily Nigel appeared and asked me to move the Lagonda out of the general parking area to a position nearer the compound. Zoe would guide me there. Would she indeed, I thought. Zoe was clearly rising in the ranks from park attendant to film crew. The Lagonda couldn’t be in the compound itself because that was where the overall shots of the Jubilee guests’ cars were to be filmed. The idea was to indicate that all nations were together – temporarily. ‘One of Bill’s crazier ideas,’ Nigel said vaguely.