by Amy Myers
He flushed. ‘Sorry, Bea.’ He sank back into his usual anonymity.
Bea was made of sterling stuff, luckily. ‘No problem, Rupert. All I can grasp, Lorna, is Mum’s death. Everything else sort of floats by me. The solicitors and police seem to be doing everything in the background of my mind. It’s as much as I can do to remember to eat and drink now and then. So talk all you want about Dad and cars. It won’t bother me.’
It was a long speech for Bea, and she looked a lonely and defiant figure as she sat on the sofa in her summery top and skirt, which were made for happier times than she was going through now. Polly would have been proud of her.
‘You knew Mike well, then?’ I asked the Stacks.
‘Oh yes,’ Lorna told me, heavy with emphasis that she had known him very well. Perhaps I was imagining too much here, and in any case, predator though she was, that had no bearing on Polly’s death.
Or did it? I thought of her genuine rage with Polly at the art show – there was hatred there, I thought. Was that for some reason that I hadn’t yet fathomed out, or was it because she really thought Rupert had something going with Polly? Or did it go back further? Had Mike been a magnet for Lorna – and had Polly then broken up the affair or possibility of having one? Even if she had, it was a long way from that to Lorna wielding a gun and shooting her, although I wouldn’t yet rule it out. For my money, that was more likely as a possibility than Tomas deciding to take the quick way to a fortune. There was no fortune, according to Zoe, but to a young man in Tomas’s position the farm might look like one, especially if it was the way to establish himself in lovely old Britain.
‘Mike and Polly were good friends of ours.’ Rupert gave a nervous glance at his wife, obviously well used to mopping up such situations. ‘We arrived in Piper’s Green within a year or two of them, and Lorna and I bought our first Bentley from them. We hit it off. Mike was certainly a rough diamond, but a splendid friend, even if he didn’t know a Bacon from a Bellini.’
‘Polly and I shared a love of art, so we got on very well.’ Lorna had clearly decided to go into feminine modest mode and didn’t even bat an eyelid at this lie, although she knew all too well that I could have overheard her row with Polly.
With Bea present, I couldn’t lead the conversation the way I’d like to, but the telephone intervened, and for five minutes I was blessedly alone with the couple from hell. Good friends with Mike and Polly, eh? It seemed to me that the Davises had had a lot of good friends – except when it had counted, perhaps.
Nothing like a cliché to redirect conversational traffic. ‘Dreadful thing, this murder,’ I said.
‘We’re not over the shock yet,’ Lorna promptly agreed. ‘We were so relieved that the police found the killer so soon, though I hear he’s out on bail. That’s terrible. Poor, poor little Bea.’
‘She’ll get over him,’ Rupert opined. ‘It’s his being out on the streets I don’t like.’
Lorna shivered. ‘Shocking. Bea will need protection.’
I’d had enough. ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘She’s surely safe. Why should Tomas Kasek kill her?’
Two pairs of hurt eyes fixed on me, although Lorna’s managed to look triumphant as well. ‘That’s very cynical, Jack.’
‘Rational,’ I replied. ‘Do you really think Kasek killed Polly?’
Rupert looked surprised. ‘Who else would want to?’
The female of the species was getting the message that I wasn’t going to fall for her. ‘Guy Williams thinks you would, Jack. After all, you have succeeded in getting that car you were so keen on . . .’
Rupert looked bewildered at his wife’s sudden thrust. ‘Hope the restoration goes well, Jack.’
‘So do I,’ I said meaninglessly, and then, hearing Bea returning, began to talk cars. When my long and deliberately boring monologue on every classic I’d ever owned showed no signs of stopping, eventually Lorna unilaterally made signs that departure was essential.
‘Thanks, Jack,’ Bea said wearily after she closed the front door.
‘I’ll push off too. You need a break.’
‘Don’t I just. But I’m not going to get it. I’m glad Zoe’s coming later. I just don’t want to be got at by anyone else.’
It seemed Bea was doomed, however. Zoe was late, I had to leave and, as I opened the door of my Alfa, an Aston Martin swept in. Good old Andy Wells had turned up again. I watched as he cast a casual look at me and went up to the door. Whatever he said to Bea, she seemed willing enough to let him in, and the door closed behind them. I waited in case it opened again and there was a frantic signal for help from Bea, but none came, so I decided to leave. And then I saw Andy had a passenger sitting in the Aston. Well, well.
It was Slugger Sam, so nicknamed because of his strange reluctance to leave the pub at closing hours and his eagerness to take a swing at anyone. If one wanted a film extra to play the heavy, he would be your man. Now what was a nice guy like Sam doing with Andy Wells?
Like Schulz’s Charlie Brown I could only cope with one worry at a time. Top of the next day’s list for worrying was a feeling that I was merely floating over the core of the mystery of Polly’s death, and the appearance of Slugger Sam on yesterday’s scene had added one more dimension to it. Who was he working for and why? Slugger hadn’t been around that long. He was born locally, but had only returned to this area a year or so ago, and even then he tended to disappear at intervals. So now he was back – with Andy Wells. Was it Slugger who had coshed me as a polite warning? Like DI Brandon, bless his iron heart, I couldn’t see the wood for the trees. Andy, Guy, Dan Burgess, Harry Prince, Tomas and Slugger Sam made a fine array of the latter, but I couldn’t see the whole picture.
Much as I would have liked the situation to be cut and dried, with Polly’s death firmly marked down to Tomas, I had to admit that I couldn’t see that scenario working. Polly had apparently gone down to the barn early that morning with a mission. What was it? To see Tomas, when she had already given him his comeuppance so far as Bea was concerned? No way. An equal mystery was what the police still had on Tomas that was keeping him in the frame. It was probably something to do with the car spotting, and the Lagonda had been one of his targets. There was only one way to find out: tackle it head on with Guy Williams.
I reckoned I had one ace in my hand: possession of the Lagonda. Whether or not it was connected to Polly’s death, it was at least a temporary passport to my poking around on Polly and Bea’s behalf. Today Len and Zoe would be heads down over the Porsche 356, so I decided not to interrupt them by prowling around the Lagonda and distracting their attention. There was nothing obviously amiss with the Lagonda anyway, which might suggest that its importance was symbolic rather than physical.
Nevertheless, symbolic wasn’t a word that had the ring of credibility. I couldn’t see the Andy Wells of this world going for it. Then I heard Zoe’s voice calling me.
‘Jack!’
‘In the Glory Boot,’ I shouted back.
I come in here sometimes when I want a quiet think. Surrounded by the peace and quiet of old car parts, ephemera, and the smell of ancient leather, it’s as good as a potting shed to a gardener. I can still almost see Dad poking around in here with his rolled up sleeves, pullover and slippers. ‘What’s on the speedometer, Jack?’ was his invariable reproof if I disturbed him. It was his way of hinting that life is for reflection, not forever speeding along motorways. Here, amid his Giovannis and 1920s rally posters, was his chosen place for practising what he preached. He’d left some of his peace behind him, which is why I don’t meddle with the place, in case it disturbs the atmosphere by adding a layer of my own. Dad’s is still there – and Harry Prince won’t be sharing it.
Zoe appeared in the doorway. ‘What’s with you? Head still giving you gyp?’
‘That’s OK, thanks. I was thinking.’
‘Takes time for you.’
I ignored this. ‘What’s your take on Tomas Kasek?’
‘A lout with charm. Not good enough for
Bea.’
I stored up those words to treasure for the next time Rob was under discussion and I could remind her of them. ‘Capable of murder?’ was all I asked now.
Zoe shrugged. ‘We’re thought all to be capable of that in the right circumstances.’
‘If right is the word. Charming louts wouldn’t give Polly an incentive to rush down to the barn. What would?’
‘Broad spectrum there.’
Then Rob’s familiar face loomed up behind her. ‘The Old Bill’s money is still on Tomas,’ he pronounced with authority.
I sighed. ‘Good of you, Rob. How do you know?’ I shouldn’t have asked. Of course Rob would know.
‘My cousin’s in the CPS – the Crown Prosecution Service,’ he kindly explained to us peasants. ‘Entre nous, Polly Davis died about tennish, or so the thinking goes. The cleaner was in the farmhouse and heard her take a phone call about nine thirty, and after that she went straight out. Told the cleaner she’d have to be back at eleven for another appointment, but the cleaner left at ten. And no, they don’t know who the call was from. Couldn’t be traced.’
I didn’t care. Another appointment. Me! At least Polly had remembered. I steeled myself to treat Rob as a reasonable human being. ‘But no clues at all to who rang? Was it a mobile or landline?’
A pause and then rare words for Rob: ‘Not sure.’ He hastened to cover his lapse. ‘The landline would be traceable, but with a pay-as-you-go probably not.’
‘The cell site would be.’
This display of male jockeying for position obviously irritated Zoe. ‘I’ve got a job to do.’ She promptly turned on her heel and vanished, with Rob ambling after her.
It was time to get going, I decided. Polly’s barn would be a natural meeting place to play my ace, if I could lure Guy Williams there. The trouble is that to play an ace successfully, it’s preferable to be a Cool Hand Luke or Steve McQueen, and I am neither. I’m more of a dash-in idiot, usually failing to see that angels were fearing to tread there. I told myself I’d met bigger targets than Guy Williams in my oil roving days, but then in those days I’d had company bosses as background shadows, who would at least have followed up any sudden end I might have met. Now I was on my own – as my wounded head still reminded me. I changed my mind about the barn rendezvous. It would be too charged an experience for both of us. I’d pay him a visit – unannounced.
Guy’s home, Friston House, was at the end of a long unclassified lane off the Charden to Little Chart road, which wound in the general direction of Ashford; it almost rivalled Frogs Hill Lane, but was a little more cared for. The house was modern, alarmed, tidy to a fault, and shouting money. The huge electric iron gates were firmly closed in my face, and I had to remind myself that I was Cool Hand Luke as I pressed the entryphone. A woman replied, rapidly replaced by Guy when I announced my identity.
‘What the hell do you want?’ was his welcome.
‘We should talk.’
‘What about?’
‘Let’s talk about that too. I’m unarmed,’ I added placatingly. ‘I’m here on Bea’s behalf.’
Rather to my surprise, the gates slid open silently back into their sockets, and I was able to drive in with a flourish. Unfortunately, they closed behind me almost immediately, reminding me who held the advantage now.
Guy was waiting at the front door, but from the look of him not with eager anticipation. ‘Come in,’ he grunted.
‘Thanks.’
I followed him into what in more gracious times would have been a morning room and was now obviously his office. It was big, practical, impersonal and atmospheric only of how important he reckoned himself and his farm to be. Before I could get a word in, he went on the attack.
‘Just heard from Bea that you’ve got Polly’s Lagonda tucked up at your place. Your idea, I presume? She wouldn’t have suggested it.’ He sat behind his desk as though it were only that stopping him from hurling himself at me, fists flying.
‘Words and Lagondas can travel fast,’ I commented. I was uneasy that everyone seemed to know about the car now, and for all I knew Guy might be Polly’s murderer. Why this great interest in the Lagonda? I’d wanted to get it out of that barn for Bea’s safety, and not to be seen doing so. Such is my own faith in Frogs Hill security that even though I’d believed the car would be safe once we had got it there, somehow its whereabouts had become general knowledge. I was by no means sure that this was a good idea. Blame the state of my head.
‘The car’s safe,’ I continued confidently. ‘Len Vickers will do a great restoration job on it, and Bea can decide whether she wants to keep it nor not.’
His eyes flickered, and he said nothing. I didn’t like that. I’d have to gun my engine. ‘We didn’t get off to a good start, Guy,’ I admitted. ‘I was crazy to climb over that fence, but now both of us have far worse things to think about than my bad manners. There’s Polly, Bea – and Tomas. I heard he’s out on police bail.’
Risky ploy, and Guy was still silent.
I pushed further. ‘Bea’s not up to much at present, as you can imagine. If Tomas is back working for you it’s going to be difficult for her.’
He leaned forward across the desk. ‘Not your business.’ Each word was rapped out with heavy emphasis in case I missed the point.
‘It is my business. Bea needs help. My mechanic Zoe Grant is her best mate, and so I feel involved. Bea asked me to be.’
Perhaps some of my sincerity rubbed off on him, for it seemed to me that the gorilla’s guard was more relaxed, even if he had an odd way of showing it. ‘Don’t you think I bloody well feel involved?’ he roared at me. ‘I knew Polly and Mike for over twelve years, and my wife even longer. She was at school with Mike. How do you think I feel, with Polly murdered and then a twerp like you storming in and telling me you feel involved?’
‘Let’s call it quits,’ I retorted. ‘We both feel involved. You don’t like me, and I’m not crazy about you. We both want to help Bea over this. She doesn’t want to see Tomas, whether innocent or guilty. And,’ I added quickly, seeing hope of a ceasefire threatened, ‘that’s her business. Is Kasek still working here?’
A fist crashed on the table. ‘He’s not even been charged yet. He’s out on police bail for four weeks from the nineteenth. That’s three weeks still to go. He’s a good worker. Bea will be all right either way. I’ll see to that.’
‘So he’s still working for you.’ I couldn’t bring the car spotting angle into it, because that was between me and Dave Jennings only.
The eyes bored into me. Then the gorilla let me into his cage. ‘I can watch him here. Better than letting him skip the country, isn’t it?’
I saw his point. At last we had common ground, and I wasn’t going to risk it by keeping Tomas on the agenda. ‘Someone killed Polly, Guy, but for my money it wasn’t Tomas.’ I could see I had his attention at least. ‘Next point: do you seriously think that I had anything do with Polly’s murder, apart from finding her body?’
‘Coincidence, wasn’t it, you just happening to be there?’
‘I had an appointment at eleven. She didn’t turn up. I went to find her.’
‘By jumping over the fence?’
So he’d spotted that. Why had I gone that way, when I’d had a legitimate reason for walking through the farm? I thought back to how I felt then, and told the truth. ‘I was a new customer. I couldn’t just stroll through her property without invitation – especially since she’d warned me off the Lagonda that first time.’
‘Didn’t realize you had so much tact.’
I wasn’t off the hook, but he seemed somewhat less inimical, so I went on: ‘So who killed her, Guy, if it wasn’t Tomas or me?’
He still wasn’t sure of me. ‘Can’t have been Tomas,’ he told me. ‘He was nowhere near the barn. He was in Five Acre Field, a good way away.’
‘You saw him there?’
The eyes narrowed again. ‘There were witnesses, which is more than you have.’
He was
hanging in there. But so was I. ‘In that case, why are the police so convinced they’ve got their man?’
Guy struggled. ‘Racist. He’s Polish.’
‘Not convincing. There has to be something. Same goes for me. You’re my witness that I was a stranger to Polly that first time we met. Any reason I should take it into my head to kill her?’
‘Depends.’
‘For you too,’ I whipped back. ‘You’ve known her a long time. As wife and widow.’
He took the point. I thought I’d be right back outside the cage again, but oddly I wasn’t. He considered me for a moment, then: ‘OK, Colby. Quits – for the moment.’
No point quibbling, I decided. Take it. ‘Do you know of any reason anyone would want to get rid of Polly?’ Even now the idea seemed unimaginable. The waste. The senselessness. ‘Omitting passing maniacs, of course.’
‘Such as you.’
I gave him another chance. ‘Was Polly having an affair and wanted to end it? Did the chap’s wife or girlfriend object? Did she have money problems? Was jealousy at the root of it? Greed?’ I rattled off as many deadly sins as I could think of, but he only picked up on one:
‘Affair?’ he echoed, and I could swear he looked astonished. ‘She loved Mike.’
‘It’s four years since he died.’
‘Who are you pointing fingers at? Me?’
I was caught off guard, particularly as there seemed no heavy meaning in the ‘me’. ‘Dan Burgess, Rupert Stack—’ I stopped hastily as Gorilla Guy spluttered with laughter.
‘That numbskull? You’ve been listening to the lovely Lorna. You’re out of your depth, Jack. Way out.’
‘Nothing in it?’ I persisted.
He grew serious. ‘Polly loved Mike. Get that into your head. As for me, if you’re interested, ask my wife Sarah if it would have escaped her attention. She’s a nose sharper than a bloodhound if I chat up anyone else, let alone take it further.’
‘What’s left then?’
He eyed me carefully again. ‘I don’t know, but I’m with you where Tomas Kasek is concerned. He’s no angel, but if he’s bent it’s small time. Guns and murder are way out of his league.’ A pause. ‘That really was your first meeting with Polly?’
