by Amy Myers
‘You’re muzzy-headed.’
‘Yes, but I was coshed. I’d checked the front end and was leaning over into the rear seat. Then I was hit from behind. I was coshed,’ I repeated again to make my point.
Two brown eyes regarded me carefully. Hands on hips, gimlet-eyed, and ready to pounce, Zoe gives no quarter unless quarter is deserved. Thank heaven she decided it was on this occasion. ‘Who by?’
‘Daft question.’
‘Accepted. This Guy chap, maybe?’
‘Who knows – but I’m going to find out. I’m leaving—’
One slim brown hand pushed me back to the horizontal as I struggled to sit up. So far as I was concerned, the Formula 1 race was over and I was ready to depart even if a few cars were still doing a lap of honour in my head. ‘You’re here for at least another twenty-four hours, sweetheart, and no kidding. I checked with the gaolers outside.’
‘You’re not my next of kin.’
‘To them I’m your daughter.’
‘That does a lot for my self-esteem.’
Banter is all very well to pass the time, but the V12s in my head slowed sufficiently for me to think of the Lagonda, Polly lying outside the barn, and how I’d been coshed. My temperature gauge instantly shot up, and I grabbed at Zoe’s hand in case she thought she was leaving. She wasn’t. I needed her like I’d never done before.
‘Either I’m jumping ship now, or you have to be my co-pilot.’
‘What for?’ I felt her hand tighten in mine. Action, she was thinking. Action. She was right.
‘The Lagonda. Tell Bea we have to get it out of there faster than we reckoned. By fast I mean today, this morning, now.’
Zoe looked doubtful. ‘She’s got enough—’
‘Tell her if she wants to find out who killed her mother, the Lagonda must hold the clue. Now the crime scene’s lifted it won’t be long before someone else is nosing around: either my cosher or someone else. Get it out before it goes up in flames. Get it to Frogs Hill today.’ I was calculating rapidly that it would take some time before someone might get down there with a can or two of petrol. Night was more probable, when there would be little danger of interruption by farm workers or passers-by.
Once Zoe is convinced, she doesn’t waste time. ‘Drivable?’
‘Precious little hope. I know it’s a Sunday, but call Bea, tell her the need for speedy action and organize it.’
‘Use Charlie?’
‘Yes. And right now. Get hold of Len somehow, and join him at Greensand farm to move that car out.’
Our venerable ancient low-loader, affectionately called Charlie, is used for picking up classics that are either too spotless to risk getting mud on their paws on our less than perfect roads, or are such clapped-out wrecks that this is the only way the old codgers can be transported to car hospital – in the form of Frogs Hill Classic Car Restorations. Len loves Charlie and has a special rapport with him. He likes nothing better than charging along dusty old paths in Charlie like a knight of old on his way to rescue someone’s beautiful classic in distress. If King Arthur had had a garage at Camelot, Sir Leonard would be supping at the Round Table waiting for the next quest.
‘I’ll be with you,’ I said with some effort, ‘as soon as I’m out of here. Tell Len to take the long road home, and it needs a twenty-four-hour guard.’
We have good security at Frogs Hill, with burglar alarms galore and heavy locking devices. We’re deep in the countryside, however, so if the alarms went off tonight it was all too probable that no one would come to gallop to our rescue without special precautions. The ‘long road home’ was a security measure we’d set up but rarely used. It’s a pretty simple one, and cheap, but one that in my car detective work I’d sometimes found useful. The Kentish lanes are narrow and twisting, and are a confusing complex until you know them. There’s a particular combination of them round Piper’s Green and Frogs Hill that’s almost certain to throw off anyone in pursuit unless they know the area as well as we do, and even if they do they’re unlikely to be as aware of every twist and turn as we are. The long road was designed for cars, but at a pinch Charlie could use it.
The race in my head had slowed to the point where I reasoned that if my cosher was anyone local they’d know all too well where the Lagonda would be heading. But, at the very least, it would be safer at Frogs Hill than in that field barn.
I watched Zoe’s trim figure heading out of the ward with her usual terrier-like application now she had the scent of action in her nose. Cara, my true daughter, is in her twenties too, so Zoe could indeed qualify – odd, I’d never thought of her that way. The three of us – Len, my senior; Zoe, my junior; and me – make one of those triangles in which all three sides are equal. Age doesn’t come into it, only cars.
I fretted once Zoe had left, especially when an official ministering angel turned up and briskly informed me I was to be transferred to another ward. A male ward, she emphasized, as though I’d been about to molest all the old ladies around me. ‘How long?’ I asked. It came out as another croak.
She decided on a joke. ‘Oh, about another sixty years to go, I reckon.’
I tried a bit of banter too. ‘I feel fine,’ I lied, ‘so I’ll start them now. Can I go?’
‘Not till doctor says so. Tomorrow, probably.’ A bright smile full of promise.
‘And when does doctor come?’
Tomorrow, it transpired. Hospitals are hospitals, and so it was another night’s sleep for me right where I was. I tried to doze, I tried to ruminate. I trusted Len, and I needed to be in good shape once I did get back to Frogs Hill, so on the whole it seemed better to resist any macho impulse to rush out in my hospital pyjamas to hail a taxi to freedom. After all, I had one more card to play: Dave Jennings.
Gentle investigation every time I moved my head another inch, when a V12 started up inside it again, proved that my mobile had made it into the neat little locker at my side. Then I remembered no mobile calls in the hospital. Some hospitals have fancy machines for patients to phone from, but if this one had, somehow I’d been missed out on the fun. I’d have to get hold of a landline somehow, though. It took half the afternoon to accomplish it, and when I did, Dave was not on duty. I had his private number for emergencies, however, and this was one. He wasn’t so sure.
‘Your Zoe rang me too. The invisible Mason Trent after you, is he? Zoe said you were at death’s door, Jack. Aren’t you? I told Brandon you were attacked.’
We both knew that would go nowhere. ‘Car crime,’ I declared. ‘Your territory. Unknown person after Lagonda.’
He saw where I was going. ‘Can’t guard it, but it’s noted, Jack.’
I supposed that was something. If it was burned to bits or pinched, someone might get interested, especially if I were in it. Despite continuing to fret, I ate my healthy jacket potato, and even a rice pudding that evening. Then I conked out.
Next morning, being a bank holiday Monday, I was none too sure that any doctor would appear at all, but one did, and I was out of that bed and off immediately I had my marching orders. I took a taxi to Frogs Hill: an anxious journey since I’d heard no more from Zoe. The journey was punctuated only by the driver’s moans that his Audi would need to go in for repairs if it went over any more of these bumps in Frogs Hill Lane, but once he was paid off and departed, I breathed the fresh May air, full of the fragrance of trees and flowers, the hum of bees and the incomparable smell of petrol and garages, with great satisfaction. Home again.
To my relief, Len strolled out of the farmhouse. No bank holidays for him then, bless him. He nodded at me on his way to the Pits, as if I’d just got back from the pub. I stood there a moment, rocking slightly as it occurred to me I wasn’t quite so back to normal as I’d thought. He beckoned me towards the workshop, where the doors were closed, until they were dramatically opened from within, operated by Zoe. She was standing by the most glorious sight in the world. The Lagonda: blue, innocent, elegant and at present flying aloft on the lift.
‘You got it here. Well done.’
Len gave something that might be a smile. ‘Charlie did.’
‘Any trouble?’
‘Not a bit,’ Zoe assured me. ‘Bea thought you’d gone loopy after your bang on the head, but she was quite happy to go rushing around opening gates and so on.’
It was almost a let-down after my fears of conspiracies and arson attacks. ‘Did you tell her to cover the traces?’
‘She didn’t need telling. She locked the barn up, and we removed all signs of Charlie’s exit; he took a gate with him on the way out, but we’ve sorted that out too.’
‘Anyone hanging around?’
‘Passed a few people, but no one we recognized. Except for your Gorilla Guy, who wanted to know what the hell we were doing. Bea told him to mind his own business. He thought it was his business. Bea clarified the situation. Then Tomas turned up . . .’
‘He had the nerve to come to see Bea with a possible murder charge looming?’
‘Yup. He wasn’t pleased to see me, and Bea made it clear she didn’t much want to see him.’
‘What did he want? As if I can’t guess.’
‘He was all charm. Realized that it was difficult for Bea and said he would keep out of her way for the time being, as the law had made this ridiculous mistake. Of course, Guy’s workers would be in those fields all the time mowing and hoeing, so Tomas assured her he would be around if she needed him. You know, Jack –’ Zoe changed course – ‘I’m beginning to agree with you about this old banger.’ She looked aloft at the Lagonda, but in the overall interest I ignored the slur. ‘It’s interesting.’
‘Too kind of you,’ I commented.
‘Bea’s overrun with caring relatives and whatnot, so I’ve become a good Number Two to keep them at bay. Or not. Harry Prince dropped by to see her yesterday afternoon.’
That did my head no good at all as my blood pressure shot up. ‘Was Teresa with him?’
Zoe took my point. If his wife had gone with him it could have been a courtesy call. If not . . . it was business, however disguised. Harry was Harry. He didn’t poke his nose in unless there was an angle that suited him.
‘No,’ she said.
OK. So we knew where we were on that one. ‘What did he have to say apart from condolences?’
‘From the sound of it, he was just oily old Harry Prince, oozing about poor old Jack, and was the Lagonda safe? Anything he could do to help, anything at all?’
‘Like take it off her hands?’ Surely even Harry wouldn’t be that crass so soon.
Zoe grinned. ‘How about: and if you need any help clearing up the farm, I might be able to help you out on any old cars around. After all, what’s a pretty girl like you going to need an old wreck of a Lagonda for?’
I was lost in admiration for Harry’s cheek. Or was there more to it?
‘She turned him down.’ Zoe hesitated. ‘In case it’s relevant, he said that after Mike’s death there was a rumour flying around that Polly was worth more than a bob or two. Big money. It’s died down now.’
‘Any truth in it?’ I was interested that this rumour had come to me from two directions, first Peter Winter and now from Harry Prince. And if it had reached me, was it also reaching other people – such as Tomas or Andy Wells?
‘If so, Bea doesn’t know about it. The way she talks she’ll have to sell up to pay inheritance tax, but that wouldn’t be too heavy anyway.’
‘Polly had the money from Mike’s business.’
‘And was living on it, according to Bea. Picture framing and rent from Guy Williams didn’t take her very far.’
I’d store this snippet away under the ‘knowledge’ category, I decided. ‘Thanks, Zoe. Had a closer look at our beauty up there yet?’
‘No. Len nobly decided to wait for you.’
The man himself looked modest.
‘Let’s go,’ I said.
So what had Harry’s call on Bea really been for? I wondered. Just neighbourly concern? No way. It was the Lagonda. Len, Zoe and I stared up her underside contemplatively – especially Len. In anyone else but him I’d have thought it sacrilege. A Lagonda has her pride and, unless in dire straits, doesn’t need her innards and private parts exposed to gaze.
‘Raring to get started, Len?’ I called over to him cheerily.
A grunt was his only answer.
Together we gazed up at her, but nothing looked amiss other than the usual corroded exhaust system and brake lines. Len brought her safely to ground again, and then we considered the engine. It had presumably been unused for four years. If the engine had seized, of course, it would have to be disassembled so that Len could get to the pistons inside the engine block. That meant they’d have to be broken loose. Even if the engine hadn’t seized, it would probably have to be rebuilt.
Len caught my eye. ‘Tomorrow,’ he decreed.
‘Day after. There’s that rush job, remember?’
Len and Zoe had an urgent date with a Porsche 356, and urgent in this case meant by the end of the next day, so there was no chance of getting to the Lagonda earlier. The Porsche was needed for a continental show and had to leave on Wednesday. I had no great hopes of finding anything more on the Lagonda, so whatever it was that my assailant thought was so important wasn’t going to be obvious – even if it existed.
Len and Zoe reluctantly agreed that the Porsche had to come first, but that didn’t stop us on our preliminary lustful examination of the Lagonda.
‘Headlights?’ Zoe shot at me.
I did a few swift calculations on the bank balance and reckoned we could run to the real McCoy instead of these pre-war misfits. I handed over to Len the pleasurable task of consulting Brian Woollerton to see what he could dig out. I’d save my powder for the call about the Merc. Right now, there was something more important. I had a lady to attend to. I wondered where the number plates had got to, and, come to that, the tax disk. Why had Polly gone to the bother of taking them off?
Lady Lagonda’s paint wasn’t in too bad condition, and her interior would have to wait until the mechanical side was sorted. Certainly, the upholstery needed attention, once we’d sorted out the basics, and I’d have to report in to Bea at least on anything major that needed to be fixed.
I did remember the scrap of paper, however: the bill I had found in the car on that first occasion. The garage receipt was just a tankful of petrol, but it had been after I’d given the café bill to Polly that she had become so distracted, although perhaps that had been sheer coincidence. It was only for two coffees, and I couldn’t even remember where they’d been drunk. Then I recalled how a mere ‘scrap of paper’, as the Kaiser had called it, had set World War One ablaze, so I decided to tuck the two coffees away in the back of my mind.
TEN
Bea sounded delighted when I called late that Monday afternoon to say the Lagonda was safe, and so was I, and that I’d like to come over. Discounting the possibility that a visit from me would really make her day, I guessed there was some reason for her delight. Her ‘Do come, Jack. Straight away, if you like,’ had the flavour of an ulterior motive.
When I hared up to Greensand Farm in my daily driver, the Alfa Sportwagon, I could understand what it was, even without entering the house. Parked in the forecourt was a familiar Bentley, which I recognized from the day of the art show. Either Rupert or Lorna Stack – or both – were laying siege to poor old Bea.
Forewarned is forearmed. Bea came to the door with an agonized expression and a whispered: ‘Don’t leave me alone with them, Jack. Get rid of them if you can.’
I’m glad she added the rider, because it became patently clear that one Stack at least would not be budged until a time of her choosing. All beams and smiles as I was ushered into the conservatory, Lorna promptly broke off her diatribe to Rupert to greet me. ‘Why, darling, look. It’s Jack Colby. You came to our art show, didn’t you, Jack? You must be quite an ar
t lover.’ There was a little pause between the art and the lover, with a meaningful flutter of dark eyelashes.
Rupert politely stood up to shake hands. ‘Of course. We didn’t get a chance to talk much there, but Bea tells me you’re being a great standby for her.’
‘Not so much of a standby, as a falldown,’ I murmured conversationally.
‘I beg your pardon?’ He looked bemused.
‘Jack had an accident here on Saturday,’ Bea explained. ‘Hit his head and landed up in the hospital.’
‘Oh Jack.’ Lorna immediately leapt up to inspect the damage, which was now represented by a large plaster covering the wound and a shaved patch which had once been covered with hair. I felt her hand pressing my shoulder and her breath whispering past my ear. Another second and it would be in it. Sure enough, it was.
‘I’m planning to set a new hairstyle trend,’ I joked feebly, wondering where the vampire would attack next. My neck? Fortunately not, and having given me the message that she was available, Lorna sat down next to her husband, ‘forgetting’ to pull down that tight short skirt a modest inch further.
Having endured ordeal by Lorna, I chatted inanely while we all sized the situation up.
‘Andy tells me you’re checking over Polly’s old Lagonda for her,’ Rupert said, inadvertently launching the conversation in the right direction.
I gave Bea a slight nod as she turned to me. Better to get the news around that it was at Frogs Hill, rather than risk Bea being the next to be coshed if it was left in the barn.
‘I wanted it out of the way for the time being,’ Bea said brightly, ‘and, as I told Andy, rather than sell it I thought I’d get it restored.’
‘Darling, what a lovely idea,’ Lorna cooed. ‘A tribute to Polly. She loved it so much.’
Bea winced, and I winced for her.
‘Your father did too,’ Rupert added.
‘Darling,’ Lorna reproved him, ‘that’s rather tactless of you.’ A glance between husband and wife declared some kind of stakes were up for grabs here. ‘Bea went through a bad time when Mike died.’
