by Amy Myers
As if I would have. I don’t think I was capable of ‘heavy’ that day, particularly where Bea was concerned. ‘Tell me, Zoe. She’s your chum, but if I’m to help I need to be sure I know where I am.’
She looked amused. ‘Where’s your nose, Jack? You boast that you can tell if a classic’s good or not, regardless of the paint job.’
‘But Bea—’
‘She’s a classic, Jack. Like that blessed Lagonda, she needs to be on the road again. OK?’
Standing there with spanner in hand, orange spiked hair standing up fiercely in defence of her friend, Zoe was in fighting mode, and I told her so. ‘You’ll make a great foot-soldier for the team, Zoe.’
That sounded patronizing, but it wasn’t meant that way. Zoe and I knew where we were, from long experience. ‘Go for the flag, Jack. We’ll win,’ was all she said.
When I reached the farm on that Wednesday morning, Bea was in businesslike form. ‘I can’t face Mum’s sanctum yet, so you’ll have to make do with the conservatory.’
The interior of the farmhouse was a surprise to me as we walked through. With Polly’s cool, calm approach to life, I had somehow expected a cross between minimalist and showcase for art and antiques. I was wrong. This was a home, not a museum. Bookcases, threadbare but good carpets, a mix of old and new furniture, and walls displaying a higgledy-piggledy collection of paintings and photographs.
Bea must have noticed my surprise and divined the possible cause. ‘Mum didn’t touch a thing in this house after Dad died, except to clear out his personal belongings. She wasn’t into shrines, but the rooms themselves are the same, down to Dad’s beer mat collection and his precious photos of greyhounds, racing and rescued. He was an East Ender, and his grandparents and their kids were blitzed out of their house in 1940. Everything that got rescued eventually made its way down here with Dad and Mum.’
The farmhouse was larger than it looked, and my heart went out to Bea, who seemed to be wandering forlornly through it. Even though it had been her home for so long, it was no longer, and to have it thrust upon her so tragically must be an added burden. It would doubtless now be hers if she was an only child, and the responsibility for it, after her probably snug little flat in Canterbury, couldn’t have been easy to contemplate. Not that she’d have had much time for that.
‘Is Zoe staying on with you for a while?’
She pulled a face. ‘I hope so. All the world and his wife in the way of obscure relations are threatening to descend on me.’
‘Could you cope with that?’
‘No way. That’s why I want Zoe here, so that I don’t have to have everyone else.’
‘Company can help.’
‘Too much of it can hide the problem. Not a help.’
I switched tack as we sat down in the comfortable conservatory. It looked out on the garden – which looked as if it had been Polly’s pride and joy, but I didn’t say so. Bea sat with her back to it, which might be confirmation enough. ‘Any news of Tomas?’
‘Not yet. He’d be right here if he’d been released, so I think they must have kept him in all night.’
‘I’d like to know what evidence they have to do so.’ I could try Dave Jennings on this in due course, but it would be useful to know now.
‘I’ll ask Guy. He may have heard.’
‘Look, do you still want me to go ahead with this? If so, I’ll do it.’
‘Yes, but I’ll cope with Guy. You’re not his favourite person.’
There was no doubt that she was committed to this course, for tears filled her eyes, so it was going to be tough. On us both, I thought, but on her mostly.
‘Did Polly own a gun?’ I asked, getting down to the nitty gritty. ‘Do you mind my calling her Polly?’
She shook her head. ‘I like it. It makes life seem more normal. Mum hated shooting. Dad used to go sometimes, but only to be chummy with the local nobs, as he called them. The hoity-toity “let’s go out and bag some game” gang, Dad used to joke. Never brought any booty home because Mum wouldn’t stand for it. They’d argue like crazy. Just to provoke her, he would say there was no difference between shooting-parties and butchers, and they’d be off again.’
‘Happy marriage though?’
‘Are you joking? Of course it was. They were joined at the hip, were Mum and Dad. I couldn’t fight my way in most of the time.’
‘That figures. Was it an only marriage for both of them?’
‘Yes. Dad was five years older than Mum, but he used to say that he was waiting for her to catch up.’
How could I put this? ‘So after his death . . .’
‘A string of lovers?’ Bea picked up immediately. ‘I’ve heard the odd rumour. Nonsense, all of them.’
I could hardly ask Bea whether sex and love might be two different things in Polly’s case, and she didn’t volunteer any more on this subject. Which meant I had no choice but to make the running.
‘At that art show, Lorna Stack was crying to all and sundry that Polly was after her husband. Rupert . . . ?’
‘Yes. Henpecked little Rupert. Lorna does that for show. She bowls men over like skittles and doesn’t stop to pick up the pieces. She enjoys shifting the focus to poor old Rupert. Mum was used to it.’
‘She was threatening to kill her if she got too near Rupert again. Is that par for the course?’
Bea looked uneasy. ‘Not usually.’
Right. Progress at last, I thought. ‘Was Rupert Polly’s type?’
‘No. Rupert wouldn’t have the guts to have an affair anyway,’ Bea replied simply. ‘Not with Lorna following his every move. As a couple, they were friends both of Mum and Dad, but I don’t think that close. Rupert runs this arty-farty gallery in London, Mum used to do most of his framing, and Lorna added two to two and made ten as usual. After Dad’s death, she took a fancy to Guy, but I’m pretty sure he would have declined the honour though. He might have hoped Mum would look his way. As if. Lorna did her best to skittle Dad over too.’
‘Did she succeed?’
‘I doubt it, though I might have been too young to realize if anything was going on. I was away a lot at college that last year or so and only had time to think about the Great Me, not my parents. Dad used to laugh at Lorna and talk about her tarty line, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t fall for a quick one. The odds are against it though. They really are. What with cars and Mum, he had his hands too full. Lorna wouldn’t have liked being turned down.’
That applied to me too. ‘Enough to take revenge?’
‘Lorna wouldn’t do it herself. Might hire a hit man, but it’s unlikely four years later.’
‘They had a big row at the show.’
‘I heard about it.’
Cooperative as Bea was, I felt I might not be getting the whole truth here, probably because she didn’t know it. I’d no option but to let it go. ‘How did Polly come to framing after her TV career? A big switch, wasn’t it?’
‘Not really. She’d always painted a lot of her own stuff. She just expanded it sideways into framing. Said she was never going to be a Leonardo, so why not frame them instead? It was something to do after Dad died. She used to spend all her time helping Dad when he was alive, and a lot of the time they were doing car shows here, there and everywhere, either in the UK or somewhere else in Europe.’
‘She helped him in the classic car business?’
‘Right. She didn’t want to go back into TV. Too proud. Said she didn’t want to join the ladder downwards as her looks went.’
She’d had no need to fear that, so far as I could see.
‘Anyway,’ Bea continued, ‘she was used to working at home with Dad, so the framing was only a short step away. Maybe Rupert suggested it. He gave her plenty of work.’
‘Or Dan Burgess?’
Bea grinned. ‘No way. Don’t see Mr Heart-throb soiling his hands with his own framing.’
‘Heart-throb . . . Polly was keen on him?’
‘I think she liked him; no sex though.
He was a protégé of Dad’s, really. Like Andy Wells.’
‘Would either of them have any reason to hate Polly enough to want her out of the way?’
Bea lifted her hands helplessly. ‘Not to my knowledge, but I suppose it’s possible. She never talked business to me. Not Dad’s, anyway. I have a feeling she didn’t like Andy much.’
‘He seems amiable enough.’
‘I expect Jack the Ripper did on his good days.’
Bea was trying to be upbeat, but failed miserably.
‘Coffee,’ I said briskly. ‘I’ll do it.’
I went into Polly’s kitchen to leave Bea to cry for a bit unhindered. The kitchen was easy – I found some instant, a fridge with milk, and two mugs and a kettle. No doubt Polly did things more elegantly, although how would I know? The lady had been a mystery. All I knew was that I hadn’t been mistaken that there had been a future with a golden sunrise, and that someone had taken it away. For me, and for Bea, I was going to find out who – unless the police preceded me, in which case I’d be cheering from the public gallery when he was found guilty. He – or she. Guns aren’t choosy as to who pulls their triggers.
Len and Zoe seemed concerned about me. For a start they left me alone without the usual banter, which allowed me to mooch in and out of the Pits where they were working on a Triumph Stag. The clincher was that not a word was spoken about Polly, although I knew the village was full of the story. Postman Bill Paget had come into the local pub, the Half Moon, where I’d made the mistake of going in for a late lunch, and despite my no doubt stony face he’d insisted on telling me – and no doubt the press – the current gossip. It wasn’t much different, I imagined, from what they’d been chewing over on Tuesday night too. This ranged from suicide to ‘it was one of them pickers’ (which wouldn’t go down well with Guy the Gorilla Williams) and to a theoretical serial sex attacker, who might or might not have been the no-doubt harmless walker who’d dropped in for a pint the day before yesterday. Alternatively, the said serial murderer might have been the someone in Mrs Pope’s general stores who had looked at her oddly, news that had already been imparted to the nation via press and TV.
Bill had left the pub with a cheery wave, leaving me all the more depressed.
Finally, by the end of the day, I could stand no more and rang Dave Jennings. I needed to get the suicide option sorted once and for all, and I was fairly sure that he either knew about the case or could find out for me. It turned out to be the latter, but Dave is a good sort, and he did indeed ring me back, as he’d promised. He is the opposite of me in some ways, and we coincide in others. We’re both determined individuals once our engines are revving, but Dave is more organized and methodical than I am. That’s good news for the Kent Police Car Crime Unit.
‘No gun yet, Jack,’ Dave told me. ‘Nothing interesting in the way of prints anywhere in or on the car or barn except – sorry, mate – yours, and a few of the lady’s. No DNA results yet, of course.’
‘Professional job then?’
‘Tired of detecting cars, Jack? Switching to CID?’
‘Nope. All yours, Dave. I’m only nosing into this case to avoid being part of it.’ I hesitated. ‘Am I off the hook, or are your lips sealed?’
‘Temporarily off, it seems. They’ve arrested that Polish chap and given him pre-charge bail.’
Mingled relief and compassion for Bea. True, she didn’t exactly seem committed to Tomas, but we had only been talking theoretically then. She might well find it hard to come to terms with the fact that he was definitely in the frame, especially if he was back in this area. There’d be more interviews for her, more statements and undoubtedly more heartbreak.
‘Between us and this open phone line, Jack,’ Dave continued, ‘Brandon implied they could have a strong case. Not only has the guy been making no secret of his threats to the victim, but he also seems to have a keen interest in cars, old and new. He’s also got a brother in Poland whose name keeps popping up on the international buzz line. May be a receiver, and so his kid brother Tomas could well be a spotter.’
Highly possible, I supposed. Organized car crime depends on a freelance team staking out potential prey.
‘Ever heard of a chap called Trent?’ Dave rattled on. ‘Mason Trent?’
It rang a faint bell, but I couldn’t place him. ‘Tell me.’
‘Nasty piece of work. Used to be in the car cloning business big time, working with a chap you wouldn’t want to run into on a dark night, Barry Pole of Baypole Cars. That was clean, but he also ran a car theft gang. Mason Trent did time, but Pole carried on. Keeps his head down, but he’s around. Mason Trent came out a year ago, then fell off the radar, and it’s he the Met’s interested in. The word is he’s back in the cloning business, but he changes name and premises so often it’s like the crazy mirror show at the fair. Now you see him, now you don’t. Know what I mean?’
I did. Mason Trent wasn’t the only one in that game. ‘What interest do you have in him?’
‘Name’s in Kasek’s mobile, that’s all. Still, Andy Wells is in it too, and so’s the local pub.’
‘No proof of murder then.’
‘True, but if a villain says he’s going to steal a car and then the car disappears, you’d be the first to say check him out seriously. That’s what Brandon’s doing. But the Trent mobile number’s dead. Anyway, it’s my guess that possible spotting is not all Brandon has on Kasek.’
‘But your lips are sealed?’ I asked when he stopped.
‘They only open on cars for you, Jack. Talking of which . . .’
He went on to tell me I could now move on Peter Winter’s missing Mercedes S500, which would normally have had me growling in anticipation of another mortgage payment or two being covered. My heart wasn’t in the Merc today, however, despite it meaning money at the end of the trail. I went through the motions of discussing the case with Dave – which chiefly came down to my putting out feelers. It was routine stuff. The probable fate of Winter’s Merc was that it had been stolen, cloned with an innocent identity and shipped on either abroad or to a series of dealers in the UK. If the former, it was possible that Dave’s team had missed it and it was gone for good. If the latter, I supposed there was a faint chance it was still around, though it seemed pretty unlikely, and the hidden message of what Dave was telling me was to go through the motions of trying to find it to satisfy the insurance company and, if he was still interested, the rightful owner.
I couldn’t afford not to take the case. Harry Prince would soon come sniffing around if I missed a repayment date. I sometimes think he has a direct line to my bank and imagine him rubbing his fat little paws together in glee at the first hint I’m on the ropes. I had news for him this time. I was still in the ring, merely reeling from the shock and grieving over Polly’s death. It seemed strange, even to me, that a woman I had only met on a couple of occasions could affect me so, but she had and did. I would find her murderer for my own sake, as well as for Bea’s.
Then I realized I was missing a trick. I’d had the impression that Peter Winter had known them only as a couple, rather than having been close to Polly recently, but nevertheless it was odds-on that anything he thought would help find her killer he would want to share with me. Suddenly, the stolen Merc was the most interesting car in the world.
‘You want me in on this right away? I can ring Peter now.’
‘Yup. I take it you know him then?’
‘I met him once.’ But that was going to be quickly remedied. I had to bear in mind, however, that even if he could point me in the right direction where Polly was concerned, the police seemed already to have made up their minds who was guilty. Tomas was the obvious suspect, and who was I to say the police were wrong? I’d no evidence either way, and the fact that my nose was telling me something different was hardly going to weigh heavily on DI Brandon’s mind.
And what was it that my nose was imparting to me? Almost with a sinking heart, I had a stupid feeling that somehow Polly’s death was
tied up with the Lagonda. How could that be? I argued. Apart from the fact that the Lagonda had been in the barn while Polly’s body had lain outside, there seemed nothing to connect them, and it was probably pure coincidence that she had been there when she’d met her death.
Or was it? I remembered the way she had suddenly appeared on that first occasion when we had met – with Guy Williams suspiciously popping up shortly afterwards. I’d assumed they’d been together, perhaps walking from his farm back to hers, or perhaps it had been their rendezvous point for either business or pleasure. But that didn’t add up. If the Lagonda caused her so much grief she’d have avoided the barn, not sought it out.
Had Polly perhaps been considering selling the Lagonda to him? I thought this over carefully, but although it coincided with my preference I had to rule it out. Polly had been white-hot with fury at my even looking at her precious car. That suggested a strong emotional attachment, which in turn suggested that she would not have sold it to anyone. After all, if Guy Williams had made an offer for it, she would not have been quite so vehement about my also being interested in it, as the mere idea of selling would not have been repugnant to her. She could hardly have taken against me so strongly on personal grounds that selling it to me, as opposed to Guy, was ruled out. No, she hadn’t wanted anyone touching that car. Her own daughter hadn’t known she still had it.
Nevertheless, the idea that her murder had anything to do with that beauty of a Lagonda was a far cry from a tenable theory, or so I told my nose. My nose patiently pointed out again that that was where she had been killed. What had she been doing there? I came back to the only answer there seemed to be: to meet someone or to look for something. But what about her appointment with me? Had she forgotten it? Or had she been dead some time? I forced myself to think about that. I hadn’t touched her body. Concentrate on the blood, I told myself. My forensic knowledge is limited to cars, but having seen her body my layman’s guess was that the blood had clotted, but she hadn’t been dead that long. That tallied with my eleven o’clock appointment with her: a time she’d suggested, not me. I’d seen that as a subtle indication that business might extend to lunch. Instead I’d seen her dead body in all its stark goriness. So for some reason she had gone to the barn earlier that morning. Why? On a whim or to meet someone? Either way, the Lagonda might have played its part.
