Classic in the Barn

by Amy Myers

  Recent Titles by Amy Myers from Severn House

  The Jack Colby, Car Detective, Series

  CLASSIC IN THE BARN

  MURDER IN THE QUEEN’S BOUDOIR

  MURDER WITH MAJESTY

  THE WICKENHAM MURDERS

  MURDER IN FRIDAY STREET

  MURDER IN HELL’S CORNER

  MURDER AND THE GOLDEN GOBLET

  MURDER IN THE MIST

  MURDER TAKES THE STAGE

  MURDER ON THE OLD ROAD

  Writing as Harriet Hudson

  APPLEMERE SUMMER

  CATCHING THE SUNLIGHT

  QUINN

  SONGS OF SPRING

  THE STATIONMASTER’S DAUGHTER

  TOMORROW’S GARDEN

  TO MY OWN DESIRE

  THE WINDY HILL

  WINTER ROSES

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This first world edition published 2011

  in Great Britain and the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  Copyright © 2011 by Amy Myers.

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Myers, Amy, 1938-

  Classic in the barn.

  1. Murder – Investigation – England – Kent – Fiction.

  2. Antique and classic cars – Conservation and

  restoration – Fiction. 3. Lagonda automobile – Fiction.

  4. Automobile dealers – Fiction. 5. Kent (England) –

  Fiction. 6. Detective and mystery stories.

  1. Title

  823.9-14-dc22

  ISBN-13: 978-1-7801-0020-3 (ePub)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8018-5 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-340-3 (trade paper)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  For Jim

  car buff extraordinaire

  with love

  Author’s Note

  One thing is certain: this novel would not have been written if it hadn’t been for the full-hearted cooperation of my husband James Myers. It was his lifelong enthusiasm and knowledge of classic cars that brought Jack Colby, his team and Frogs Hill Restorations into being, and he has plotted their route with me every mile of the way.

  We are lucky enough to live near the North Downs not far from where this novel is set. Pluckley is a real and beautiful Kentish village, with the reputation of having a great many ghosts, but some other place names, including the village of Piper’s Green, are fictitious, as are Jack Colby’s home, business and cases. The cars, however, are very real and can be seen both in museums and at classic car meetings all over the country. I am particularly grateful to Tony Condon, a volunteer at the splendid Haynes Motor Museum in Sparkford, who showed and discussed with Jim and myself their magnificent 1937 drophead Lagonda and their 1965 Gordon Keeble with its memorable tortoise emblem. My thanks are, as always, due to my publishers Severn House and in particular to its publishing editor Amanda Stewart and to Rachel Simpson Hutchens, and to my friend and agent Dorothy Lumley of the Dorian Literary Agency; their expert hands on the steering wheel enabled Jack Colby to take the chequered flag in print.

  For more information on Jack Colby and his cases, he has own page on amymyers.net and his own blog at jackcolby.co.uk/classiccars.

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  THE CAR’S THE STAR

  ONE

  There had to be something weird going on. What sort of maniac leaves a classic Lagonda rotting in a barn in the middle of the Kent countryside?

  I clambered over the ditch and undergrowth bordering the public bridleway to see if I could get a closer look. The ragstone outbuilding was on the far side of a hedge about six foot high, so although I’m a reasonably tall man, I needed a gap to peer through. I found one by an oak tree – and caught my breath: there she was in all her glory, waiting like a beautiful woman crying out to be loved. I could almost hear her whispering to me:

  ‘Jack . . . Jack . . .’

  The voice of the siren was summoning me. Fanciful? Not really. Len and Zoe tell me I have a nose for such classic car treasures – as well as a nose for trouble. They have to work with me, so they should know! Trouble is, I also lack a nose for storing up money, which at that moment was not so much on my mind as eating it up. And here, with luck, might be salvation.

  This time it looked as if all three noses could be in cahoots, including the one I lacked. Either this car had been abandoned when the property changed hands and left to rot by the uncaring new owner – or, as I said, it was owned by someone very weird indeed. ‘By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes,’ I said softly to myself, every antenna on the alert. To the average person riding or walking along this remote track, it would be just another old wreck of a car mouldering its final days away. But in the classic car world, it’s a crime to see such prizes lost to the world through man’s neglect; it’s like storing a Leonardo in a damp cellar. And Leonardos, so nose number three reminded me, bring in large amounts of cash. If the owner could be persuaded to part with this one, my luck might be in.

  No question about it: I had to know more about that car. Like now. Len and Zoe jokingly call me the car detective, and right now my nose was twitching like a water-diviner’s dream. I had been walking along this bridleway to Charden, where the great Harry Prince lives. It was a Thursday and a bright May day, but I was in a far from happy mood. I’ll explain later, but for now let’s just say Harry Prince had seemed the only way out of my problem. The worst possible scenario. Now lovely, kind, fate had thrown out a glimmer of hope.

  This path is several miles from where I live, but I’d strolled along it several times before and could swear I’d never once seen the doors of that barn open. They looked in none too good shape, and we’d had a bad storm two nights ago; it could be that they’d blown apart then, revealing the Lagonda in all her nude decaying glory – the swine who owned her hadn’t even had the decency to put a tarpaulin over her.

  First, whose farm was this? No, make that second. First was to take a closer look at the object of my lust. Dad always told me I never know when to give up, and I guess he was right. I used to be a geologist for a big oil company before I came to my senses; there you learn not only to sniff oil, but also to have the determination to believe you’re right when every idiot in the business is telling you otherwise. It’s the same principle whet
her it’s oil or a dark-blue 1938 or ’39 V12 drophead coupé Lagonda with – if the sun would only stop getting in my eyes – what looked like tan leather upholstery. No number plate, and the headlights were surely wrong, but even so she was a beauty. I could only see a glimpse of the interior through the dust-covered windscreen, although the temptress was only a tantalizing six feet from me. I could imagine the purr of her engine though.

  This was a lady who needed someone at her wheel, not to die of old age alone and unloved in a field. Even a Kentish field. She needed a knight on a white charger to rescue her.

  OK, Jack, I told myself as I persuaded a thin part of the hedge to become a gap, a forty-eight-year-old classic-car sleuth in a silver Alfa Romeo Sportwagon (and with a Gordon Keeble at home under wraps) would do nicely as a knight to rescue a princess like this. Trouble ahead? I had left the oil business, but I still knew how to play tough-guy – and in any branch of the car business this can come in handy. Right now my accelerator pedal was saying:

  ‘Go.’

  Result: I turned off the competing tiny warning signal that was saying: ‘Stay right where you are,’and found myself on the other side of the hedge, only a few leaves and twigs the worse for wear.

  And there she was. My beauty.

  I managed to take my eyes off my quarry for long enough to look around me for spies. To my left, back the way I had come, was a large meadow; in front and to my right were apple trees, stretching as far as I could see. The pathway running along beside the hedge looked nicely deserted, at least as far as the bend some way ahead, and so I turned my attention to the lady in question, to explore the most beautiful body I’d seen in a long while.

  She was looking at me in appeal – or was that the headlights? They were post-war, and this was definitely a pre-war lady. Not a big blemish; only a purist would object to slightly undersized breasts on an otherwise perfect Venus. In all other respects she looked in grand nick. Uncared for, certainly, but not so decayed as I’d feared. For some reason, her nether regions were packed in hay, which must have tickled her blue paint here and there.

  I decided to have a squint. No number plates, but they might be lying around; was the chassis rusting away? So far as I could see, neither was the case, and nor was there any sign of a tax disc. The concrete floor was mucky, but the car wasn’t jacked up, so I had to lie on my stomach to peer underneath her. There I could see the underside of a lady who needed attention, although she certainly wasn’t rusting away.

  I scrambled up with the help of the driver’s door handle – and, glory be, it moved. The lady was unlocked and invitingly lay open before me. I had no choice. I slid on to the seat and had a few moments of make-believe vroom-vroom, gazing at that slinky bonnet spread out before me and wishing I could just drive her out here and now.

  Even I knew that wasn’t on the cards. I didn’t even know the owner’s name. I rummaged in the glove compartments, but they were empty of clues. No logbook either. My eye fell on some pieces of paper stuffed down in the door map-compartment, so I fished them out, hoping they might give me a clue to the reprobate who owned this vehicle.

  They didn’t. Merely a garage receipt, and one for a couple of cappuccinos dated way back. Could the car be stolen? It would explain the lack of number plates, but not what she was doing here. If stolen, she’d have rapidly sold on, so she was probably pukka – which meant I needed to meet the owner.

  Which was sooner than I’d have wished.

  ‘I don’t recall asking for an MOT.’

  A cool frosty voice from outside had me scrambling in disarray out of the car, still clutching the bits of paper. Cool frosty eyes met mine as she held out her hand for them. I meekly handed them over, feeling like a naughty schoolboy as I tried to regain as much sangfroid as I could. This wasn’t a lot, faced by the original model for Ice Queen. Moreover, she looked vaguely familiar, though I could have sworn we had never met. I’d have remembered.

  In her forties, slim, well-dressed in jacket, sweater and trousers, stylish haircut, boots, just what Vogue would recommend for a rural weekend. Her face didn’t look as if she was enjoying it much, however, although given encouragement I could see those frosty eyes dancing with the joys of life – and I bet I knew what one of those was.

  I apologized and grinned sheepishly, hoping that the eyes would relent, but there was no response. She simply unravelled the bits of paper, stared at them and scrunched them up. I had a feeling her mind was on something else. So was mine. Money.

  ‘Jack Colby,’ I continued desperately, seeing my hope of a warm discussion over the sale of an unwanted Lagonda disappearing fast. ‘I live at Frogs Hill Farm near the Piper’s Green to Egerton Road. I’m a classic car enthusiast, so—’

  ‘Hardly a reason for vandalizing mine, Mr Colby.’ The voice was even frostier than the eyes.

  ‘I wasn’t.’ It came out as a yelp. ‘I run –’ almost true – ‘Frogs Hill Classic Car Restorations from the farm,’ I continued, getting my sangfroid together again and foreseeing Len’s delight if I brought this beauty home to roost (the Lagonda, of course, not the lady, though that wouldn’t be a bad idea either). ‘We specialize in classics, of course. Stupid of me to jump the gun, but I wanted to be sure of what I was seeing, before I approached you with an offer to see if you’d be interested in letting me restore and sell it for you. On consignment, of course.’ That meant she’d get the cash only when I’d sold it.

  ‘It’s not for sale.’ The anger was vanishing from her voice, but there was no doubt she meant what she said. The odd thing was that she still seemed abstracted, concentrating now on the car rather than on what I was saying. She looked pale and not at all happy, I thought. Naturally, I supposed.

  ‘I could come back—’

  ‘It’s not for sale.’ She wasn’t distracted now, and her attention was fully on me. Anger flashed from her eyes, and there was a red flush on the pale cheeks. She even seemed to be trembling. She surely couldn’t be that furious? ‘Do you understand, Mr Colby? Not for sale.’

  I was so taken aback that I didn’t see her tame Rottweiler approach – this being in the form of Guy Williams, whom I knew by sight from a local pub. He was a fruit farmer, and I was probably on his land.

  ‘Trouble, Pol?’ he growled, his eyes narrowed, as in all the best thrillers. That might be stereotyping, but Guy Williams seemed to step right on to page one of the Heavies for Rent Directory. He wasn’t much taller than his wife – I presumed he had that honour – perhaps five eight, but his solid figure and square-jawed face made it seem as if he was dominating her. In corduroys and check lumber shirt, he looked what he was: a farmer doing his work and highly annoyed at strangers intruding on his patch.

  ‘Yes. Get rid of him, Guy.’

  I wasn’t too happy about this, not knowing whether ‘get rid of’ meant permanently or merely off her turf. ‘Sorry.’ I tried to look penitent again. ‘I inherited this passion for classics from my father, Tony Colby. Did you know him?’

  I’d caught him off guard for he looked somewhat less aggressive. ‘Yes. Car collector over Egerton way.’

  This was like calling the Tower of London an old prison, or St Paul’s a parish church. The Glory Boot, as the farmhouse extension holding Dad’s collection is called, has every sort of classic car book, sales brochures, technical manuals, badges, and even a copy of one of the Peking to Paris rally route maps of 1907. And it was the contents of the Glory Boot that the great Harry Prince particularly wanted to prise from my possession – as well the entire farm and business, which would mean rubbing my nose in the dirt even harder.

  ‘He was,’ I replied to Guy, ‘and unfortunately he passed the passion on to me. Hence my intrusion. Sorry again.’

  I wasn’t that sorry. I’d remembered where I’d seen Polly – where everybody had seen her. I’d only been back in Kent about three and a half years, but I’d heard about Mike and Polly Davis. They’d moved here twelve years ago, well after I had left on my travels in the oil busine
ss, and so I had never actually met them. Polly Davis was once better known as Polly Beaumont, a TV presenter and everyone’s luvvy. I hadn’t seen her on the screen since I came back to England, so she must have given it up when she and Mike moved here, or perhaps it gave her up because of advancing years. She looked all the better for them.

  When I returned to Kent, Polly was a recent widow. Mike, who had run a chiefly Internet car business, had been found dead in his car in a station car park. He’d had a heart attack. I’d been sorry to hear that, as Dad had had a soft spot for Mike. He’d referred to him as ‘an old rascal’, although Mike must have been about twenty years Dad’s junior. I think I’d even met Mike once; he’d been the affable sort, who’d pinch your last penny but then make sure you didn’t starve. Since Mike’s death, Guy might well have moved his heavy boots under the table, and maybe even married her, although she didn’t look that stupid. My guess was that she was still Mrs Davis.

  They were both surveying me, from the top of my crew-cut brown hair to my less than posh jeans and trainers. It was a question of which of us emerged from our corner for the next round first. I made it me, with one last try at saving the situation.

  ‘I’ve made a real pig’s-dinner of this, and I don’t wonder you’re annoyed, but could I call on you properly, appointment and all, Mrs – er – Davis, isn’t it?’ I threw in a smile in case it helped. I’d like to add that women have been known to swoon at my smile, but it wouldn’t be the truth. I have to work a lot harder than that, or so I’m told by those who should know. They must be right, because my smile at Polly seemed to have fallen short in the success stakes.

  ‘There would be no point. It’s not for sale,’ Polly replied, more patiently this time, which might be a good sign, although I could still see knuckles white with tension closed over those bits of paper.

  I could also see my only hope of staving Harry Prince off receding rapidly, especially as good old Guy decided to up the stakes. ‘The word’s no, Colby, no matter who your dad was.’ His fists were clenched, and I backed off. Lesson one in the oil trade: don’t do fists until you have the advantage of surprise. All the same, the whites of Guy’s eyes were getting unpleasantly close.