by Amy Myers
‘Sorry, Jack.’ Brandon looked over at me as his driver turned the car into the Plumshaw Road. Behind us came another police car with Judy and uniformed PCs. I was also aware that behind that was a familiar Vauxhall. Pen was on the story, but she wasn’t going to get this one. ‘He was a friend, wasn’t he?’ Brandon continued.
‘Yes.’ How was I going to break this news to Len and Zoe?
Martin made it easy for us, once we drew up at the garage. He took one look at the police car, saw me getting out, saw the back-up car arrive, and looked undecided whether to run or stay. To do him justice he stayed. ‘Come in,’ he said courteously to Brandon and myself, ushering us into the cramped garage office. Judy followed us in. Pen didn’t make it in time. The doors were closed on her. At least I had had no accusations of Judas from Martin, for which I was grateful,
‘A few questions—’ Brandon began.
‘I’d no choice,’ Martin interrupted. ‘He was blackmailing me, taking me for all I’d got, which is precious little. One house mortgaged up to crisis point, one business rapidly failing, one marriage already failed. Not much of a life history, is it?’
Brandon looked startled. ‘Hugh Compton blackmailed you?’
Martin did an about turn. ‘Good grief, no. Andrew Lee.’
‘He was blackmailing you over Compton’s death?’ Brandon asked sharply.
Martin looked really worried for the first time. ‘No. Nothing to do with Compton’s death. He knew I’d burnt the Hop and Harry down.’
‘Steady,’ Brandon warned him. ‘You’re admitting arson?’
‘Might as well. It was the only way – or so I thought – to get Compton to sell the land. I even failed at that. He still doesn’t want to sell. You have to admire the old man,’ he added bitterly. ‘But then blasted Andrew started on me.’
‘Hang on,’ I managed to say, not to Brandon’s pleasure since I’d been told to keep my mouth shut. ‘Why did you want the Comptons to sell up? Your garage would do well with the new development.’
‘No way. I’ve only got a lease on the land. It’s up next year and George says he won’t renew. Wants to knock it down for the access route with the Comptons playing up over the Hop and Harry. But he would get me the first offer of the new garage in the development – if it went ahead.’
As I’d thought. Martin stood no chance now and I was right, because Brandon stopped him at this point to caution him. ‘You may want your solicitor present before you say more.’
‘No I don’t,’ Martin retorted. ‘I just want to get it over. I knew Andrew was doing a final sort out at the Hop and Harry so I went over to give him the payment he was demanding. He’d boasted about having proof that it was me fired the place. When I handed over the money that I’d only just managed to scrape together he said he was putting the price up next time. I tried to appeal to him as one future beneficiary of the development to another, but he just sneered at me, taunted me for being a loser and doubled the price. I just snapped. Left him where he was and got out quickly.’
‘You’ve left some of the story out, Mr Fisher,’ Brandon said, as Martin seemed to have finished. ‘Andrew Lee was blackmailing you over the fire perhaps, but also over Hugh Compton’s death, wasn’t he? Had he seen you loading the body into your van?’
‘No. No. I wouldn’t kill him, not Hugh,’ Martin said vehemently.
‘You said you’d burnt down the pub, because it stood in the way of the new development. So did Hugh Compton.’
‘That’s different. I couldn’t stab anyone, but I’ve always had strong hands. You know that, Jack.’
I did and shivered. I had seen those hands pulling apart the rear axle of a tractor.
Martin turned to me as we left the office, a look of desperation in his eyes. ‘That Alfa Romeo, Jack. That’s why I’d never have killed Hugh Compton. You can understand that. I misled you. He had offered me the chance of restoring it if he could get his father to agree. I wanted to do it, but I reckoned that Frogs Hill would be better. I knew I wasn’t good enough for that car. The story of my life. Make sure you restore it, Jack. Do it for me.’
The Alfa Romeo. It all came back to that, although its mystery still eluded me. Despite Martin’s denials, Brandon remained convinced that he had the link between the two murders. The problem was that though he had found forensic evidence to link Martin with the death of Andrew Lee he could find none to link him to Hugh Compton’s murder.
‘I’ll find it,’ he told me matter-of-factly. ‘And thanks for your help. Put in a bill.’
I was being paid off but to me the job was only half done – not that I had a problem with being paid anything at all. I had thought I was doing it for free. But I did have a problem with the ‘get lost’ factor. Hunting for Hugh Compton’s murderer had led only to the arrest of a friend on another charge.
Days passed slowly. Len and Zoe had been as struck dumb as I was at Martin’s arrest and the news that he had now been charged. All three of us have a simple faith that no one who loves classic cars can be that bad at heart. I managed to persuade them that Martin wasn’t that bad at heart, only deeply distressed, but they didn’t buy it. I didn’t myself either.
I continued to feel despondent about it, especially because I knew what they did not: that Brandon was hunting down every stick and stone in Plumshaw to prove Martin was guilty of Hugh Compton’s murder too.
And then, on Wednesday, five days after Martin’s arrest, Giovanni blew into town.
Up the lane came the unmistakable sound of the Ferrari Daytona; it was driven by its lawful owner, both now free of police custody. As it came through the gates, Giovanni looked strained but very happy as he shouted out to us: ‘Hey, everyone. I free again!’
It was a brave attempt and I rushed for the champagne. Even Len had a sip or two, regardless of any effects this might have on the final stages of the Lanchester’s restoration. I’d known Giovanni’s release was imminent but didn’t know when, so this was a welcome surprise.
‘Where’s Maria?’ I suddenly thought to ask. ‘At La Casa?’
‘In Plumshaw,’ he told us blithely.
I goggled at him. ‘What’s she doing there?’ I had a vision of her on a one-woman hunt for the murderer I was still convinced existed there.
‘We stay at the hotel.’ He looked very pleased with himself. ‘I come here to invite you all to a party.’
‘You did say Plumshaw?’ I asked faintly. ‘The Larches Hotel, I presume?’
‘Si.’
‘But a party, Giovanni? With all that’s happened? Is that wise?’ Giovanni now knew all about the reason for his release and about the fake murder plot. At first, so Brandon had told me, he had treated it as a big joke himself. Then he had realized what the joke had meant for him and cried. Then he had said briskly, ‘So now I am free. That is good. Thank you.’
It wasn’t like Giovanni to harbour grudges, but to throw his new-found freedom in the Comptons’ faces looked perilously close to that.
‘You come, Jack. I owe you my freedom. You bring Louise, you bring everyone, all these nice people.’ He waved his arms at Len and Zoe.
‘When is it?’ I asked.
‘On Saturday.’
‘Evening?’
‘No, no. All day. We start when we get up, we finish when we go to bed. Very late.’
I had to say it. ‘But, Giovanni, have you given any thought to the Comptons?’
‘Yes,’ he answered me. ‘I invite them all. I tell the police I do not wish to bring charges or for them to do so. I wish to show that I forgive Mr Peter Compton and his family.’
I believed him. The trouble was, would the Comptons? Would they see any reason to forgive him yet, while Hugh’s murder was still unsolved? However sure Brandon was that Martin had committed both murders, I was equally convinced he hadn’t. I had known Martin a long time and lying wasn’t one of his fortes. He was the sort of person who would tell a customer exactly whether there was any hope for his car before setting to work o
n it and refuse to touch it if it was hopeless. Nor did he baulk at telling someone they’d bought a pup instead of a bargain.
I had another worry too. It bothered me that no one had even glimpsed Hugh Compton while he was living in that chalet. It was a busy car park and he could have left the chalet during Saturday night as well as the night before and walked along that footpath to the manor. Brandon had no line yet on where he had actually been killed. There were no traces of blood in the chalet and he had not been killed by the pond. The chances of his being already dead when he left the chalet were therefore very small and it was much more likely that the poor man walked to his doom in the woods, although so far no trace had been found there. However he would have been walking across Compton fields and according to the Ordnance Survey map there was no public footpath there. That didn’t rule out his being attacked by someone from the village, but it made it far less likely. His route could have taken him round the back of the manor past Plumshaw Cottage and across the woods to the pond – or Puddledock Cottage.
This added up to the probability that he was killed either by someone who was very familiar with the Comptons, such as Nan or Jamie, or by one of the Comptons themselves.
And Giovanni was going to invite them all to a party to forgive them for the ‘joke’ they played on him.
I’d passed by The Larches Hotel many times without giving it much thought. Now I examined it in a new light as Louise and I arrived for Giovanni’s party, opting for a twelve o’clock arrival. The hotel blended rather well with old Plumshaw, I thought, with its red brick facade, gables and well-proportioned windows. It wasn’t too ostentatious and, apart from those Huggy and Puggy monstrosities in the children’s play area, it clashed with neither old nor new Plumshaw. It was essentially a bed and breakfast establishment and I doubted whether it was doing particularly well. Nevertheless, since his release Giovanni had not only contrived to have them serve three meals a day to himself, Maria and Ricardo – for yes, we were to be blessed with his presence of course – but had informed the hotel that Umberto would be arriving to provide a banquet for all his many guests all day long.
The married couple who owned it had apparently surrendered like lambs. Fortunately The Larches possessed a large conservatory at its rear as well as a breakfast room and a visitors’ lounge. It also had a very nice garden, an oasis in the wilderness that would doubtless arrive beyond its red brick walls if the development plan went through.
I had mentioned my misgivings over this party to Brandon but he didn’t pick up on it. The attitude seemed to be that if there was a murderer around, I could cope with it. ‘Give the station a call if you need back-up,’ was his parting offer.
At first all seemed well. The buffet lunch was superb, the Comptons had turned out in force and it seemed that their object too was peace. A guarded one, but nevertheless peace. Did that mean that they too had decided to overlook the fact that no one had yet been charged for Hugh’s murder? It appeared so, for on the other hand none of Giovanni’s clan mentioned the fact that he had been falsely accused in a fake murder plot. There was no sign of Peter Compton himself here, and I wondered whether that was significant.
‘Unfinished business, would you say?’ Louise whispered to me, eyeing the panna cottas with great interest.
‘If you want one have it now,’ I advised her. ‘There could be storm clouds ahead.’ I had just spotted what she had not. Jamie Makepeace was joining the party, not it seemed to attack Bronte, but to support a triumphant George Makepeace.
The buzz of conversation stopped. George brought an old-fashioned megaphone with him and was preparing to use it.
‘Listen to that,’ he boomed. ‘Now what you got to say?’
Almost simultaneously the racket began. Over the top of the far garden wall I could see what the noise had made all too clear. A JCB was at work. What on earth was it demolishing? I wondered. This didn’t bode well, with George preening himself.
‘It’s the start,’ he continued. ‘I’m knocking down that old scrapyard of mine, ready for the houses.’
The stunned silence seemed to displease him.
‘Needn’t worry, folks. It’s all right and legal. You’re going to get a hundred and fifty houses there, with or without the Hop and Harry land. Planning application will be approved. Oppose it all you like, but it will go through.’
Hazel found her voice first. ‘You’ve no access road.’
‘Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that, Mrs Compton. We’ve got that sorted,’ he roared back. ‘No thanks to you though. I’ve bought up Martin Fisher’s lease, so we’ll have that. Didn’t he tell you?’
He looked round with a pleased smile. ‘Just the beginning, folks.’
Money has no conscience, many friends, and all too few enemies, I thought, watching the Comptons’ reactions. Bronte simply marched up to George, ignoring Jamie, and grabbed the megaphone.
‘My grandfather,’ she shouted over the din, ‘wants us all to go to the barn to look at the Alfa Romeo. Let’s go now.’
Giovanni didn’t look too happy about this, but I grabbed the opportunity. It wasn’t making much of a statement to walk out on George, but it was worth it. We made a solid phalanx of old Plumshavians, formed of the Italian brigade and assorted friends. Jamie did his best to tag along with Bronte but she firmly removed his hand from her arm. I couldn’t even guess at what would await us once we reached the barn, but it couldn’t be worse than this. I walked with Louise and fumed when Ricardo chose to walk on her other side. I felt her pinch my arm reassuringly and I cheered up.
The barn symbolized this whole case, and perhaps Peter was aware of it. He was patiently sitting outside the barn as we arrived. Mr Pickwick, to my relief, had returned. He stood up to greet Giovanni very courteously. ‘Signor Donati, welcome back.’
‘Grazie.’ Giovanni was cautious and no wonder.
‘I hope, Signor Donati, that you will still wish to paint the Alfa Romeo.’
Was this another fake plot, I wondered. What on earth could be behind it? Was it a straight offer? Maria looked ready to explode. Ricardo looked out of his depth and the rest of the Comptons flabbergasted.
Giovanni was in no doubt however. ‘No. Grazie.’
‘Is that because you no longer own it?’ Peter looked tired and genuinely sad at this outcome to what – unbelievably in the circumstances – seemed to have been some kind of offer of amends.
Whether it was or not, Giovanni for once seemed wrong-footed. ‘I never wished to own it. I do not wish to own it now; I only wished to paint it.’
‘Then why not do so?’ Peter asked.
Giovanni spread his hands in a gesture of despair. ‘Because this is now dark for me. Not light, as once it was. It brought death.’
‘It’s a car, Giovanni,’ Louise said gently.
‘Cars are feelings, cars are emotions, otherwise why do I paint them?’ Giovanni replied vehemently. ‘And this one is surrounded by hate. There has been enough.’
Peter sighed. ‘Let us look at it together, Signor Donati, and see if you feel differently.’
Giovanni was clearly unwilling, but to my relief I could see Maria urging him inside. I followed the group into the barn and watched Peter and Giovanni as they stood side by side by the Alfa Romeo.
It was still in the same place, but it looked completely different. It was clean for a start, its black paint glowing for the first time in all those years, its chrome radiator grille gleaming with pride. It seemed to be saying: I’m ready. I am here. I heard Giovanni gasp. Even Ricardo looked impressed.
They were all silent until at last Peter spoke.
‘We must talk of Floria,’ Peter said at last. ‘It’s time, Signor Donati. Your grandfather betrayed her to the Fascists, but—’
‘No,’ Giovanni said flatly but without rancour. ‘You betrayed her. That is what Giulio believed, what Enrico confirmed. You could not bear to see her with Giulio. Perhaps you thought you were betraying Giulio, not Flori
a, but the result is the same. They were both lost.’
Peter must have been prepared for this. ‘That is not the case, Signor. I loved Floria, and could never have risked betraying her. Giulio did that, and that is the reason that two weeks later, having heard about Floria and knowing the truth, I put your grandfather in a position of danger on our raid, knowing he would most certainly be captured by the Fascists.’
Giovanni went very white. ‘You admit that? Because you did not succeed the first time you do it that way?’
‘Enough,’ Hazel said angrily. ‘This will lead nowhere. It is seventy years ago. No one can know the truth now.’
I did not believe that. There was an answer somewhere, even though I believed both these stories.
Which meant what? Either there had been no betrayal and these were misconceptions, or a third party had been involved. Enrico? Surely not, but if it wasn’t him then … Slowly I began to realize who that third party must have been. I must have exclaimed out loud, because the attention of the group was suddenly on me.
‘The truth will be known,’ I said firmly in answer to Hazel. ‘It can’t lie buried for ever. Barriers have to be knocked down, just like that JCB is doing. The rubble has to be cleared, and there it lies. The solid unadorned ground.’
Hazel looked at me, with a face full of fear. She too had realized. ‘Not Hugh too?’ she asked me almost pleadingly.
‘It’s the only explanation. The true explanation.’ Did the truth connect with Hugh’s murder, or was it a story that had died long ago? But Giovanni’s family had not forgotten, and nor had Peter’s. Such stories do not die.
No more was said. I had time to reflect as Louise and I returned with Giovanni and his family to The Larches. I thought the Comptons would not come with us, but they did, including Peter. They drove ahead of us in the Land Rover, perhaps to annoy George Makepeace even more. Louise looked at me anxiously as we walked along, but I could not even begin to tell her where I was on this case. I wasn’t even sure myself, but I remembered that there hadn’t been much blood found on Hugh’s clothes. I’d assumed that was because of his immersion in the water, but I might have been wrong. I remembered that he had seemed to have dressed in a hurry – in the clothes he had been wearing when he was in the barn with Giovanni. I put this information together with all I had learned since.