by Amy Myers
One up to Guy, for being smarter over Tomas than I’d given him credit for. ‘Yes, and I only met her once after that.’
‘She wasn’t the person you might think she was.’
‘Sexually?’
He flushed, but whether in anger or embarrassment, I wasn’t sure. ‘I haven’t a clue. No one did with Polly.’
So where did that leave me? I wondered as I left and the black gates slid open again for my departure. He’d done a good job in convincing me he wasn’t Polly’s lover, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t wanted to be. It was on the cards. The trouble was that there were a lot of cards, and I didn’t know which game was in progress. Poker came to mind, or Five Card Stud. All I knew was that I was going to have a place at the table, no matter what the game.
ELEVEN
I’d considered going on to see Harry Prince, as I wasn’t far from where he lived, but decided against it. I felt I’d got somewhere with Guy Williams, and I might do better going one step at a time – not my usual four-wheeler in a china shop approach. He wasn’t ruled out of the script, but he was a loner. He had his own agenda and, tough nut though he was, if push came to shove we could work from the common ground we had tentatively established. As for Harry, I wondered why his jovial red face was poking itself into this case. Was it just attraction to an expensive classic Lagonda? It was a reasonably rare car, but with Harry my guess was that there was more to it than that. And I had enough ‘more to it’ personnel involved already without adding Harry Prince to the mix unnecessarily. Did I see him as a killer? I could hear his belly laugh in my imagination.
‘Me, Jack? You know me. I’m far too wily an old bird.’
Did I know him? I wouldn’t put him in prime place if a crime of passion was what we were dealing with, but a crime for money – maybe. I remembered the rumour that Polly had big money around and wondered whether there was any truth in it. Zoe said the rumours had died away, which seemed to answer the question. Coupled with what Guy had darkly hinted about Polly’s unknown depths, however, I wasn’t going to dismiss it out of hand. Nevertheless, it was hard to imagine what kind of big money could theoretically be involved, as her only apparent source in recent years would have been the sale of Mike’s business to Andy Wells. Had Mike piled up a few million on the side? If so, why should Polly still be working for a living?
When I reached Frogs Hill, I saw we had visitors. That in itself was hardly unusual, but seeing the Aston Martin parked there and Slugger Sam loping around our forecourt looking for trouble was. I’d never rated a visit from Andy Wells before, so my stock might be going up. I wouldn’t bank on it though. Approach with caution, I thought.
‘Afternoon, Sam,’ I called, more cheerily than I felt.
His large shaved head and upper body, clad in a beach T-shirt, were so tattooed where the skin was revealed that he made a formidable sight. Sam stopped his mooching, stared at me as though I were trespassing on his territory, then decided to nod. ‘Good to see yer.’
It wasn’t clear why it was good in Sam’s book. Target practice? Or had he already practised on me? I wasn’t in his league – thankfully, because he doesn’t believe in rules. What on earth were Andy and his sidekick doing at Frogs Hill, and why had they been calling on Bea the night before? This great friendship between the two of them was a new one on me. I’d never linked them in my mind before, or to my knowledge seen them together, and I’m not sure it was a good move on Andy’s part to deepen the relationship. If Sam walked into a downtown country saloon bar, everyone would dive under the tables without waiting for him to draw breath, let alone guns.
I could see Andy in the Pits, looking at the Lagonda in a thoughtful kind of way. She was not yet relegated back to her ignominious position aloft, but still lodged on the lift platform as if awaiting an imminent summons to the heavens. Len and Zoe were standing chatting to Andy, or rather Zoe was chatting. Len and Andy, both being taciturn by nature, were just nodding and grunting in time approved manner.
‘How’s the Porsche coming on?’ I asked Len meaningfully, after exchanging nods with Andy.
He and Zoe looked surprised, as though no such car had ever appeared at Frogs Hill, even though I could see it over by the west wall and it was rapidly approaching its five o’clock deadline.
‘OK,’ Len replied. Well, that was something.
‘Nice,’ Andy commented, looking at the Lagonda, not the Porsche.
‘All agreed on that then.’ Maintain the small talk, I thought, and maybe someone would enlighten me as to the purpose of this visit by our car-dealer friend.
At last the reason emerged. ‘Andy thinks he could have a good deal for Bea on this,’ Zoe explained.
‘Do you, Andy?’ I tried to sound enthusiastic, but that’s hard through clenched teeth.
‘Chap out Lewisham way is interested,’ Andy said, studying the floor with great interest. ‘Dealer called Barry Pole.’ Then, added as an afterthought, ‘Dan Burgess might be too. Know him?’
‘Yes.’ Alarm bells were ringing everywhere. Barry Pole was the dodgy dealer running the car theft gang, and with whom Mason Trent used to be associated. Did a ‘nasty piece of work’ like that really want to buy the Lagonda? And Dan Burgess too? If Dan was so interested, why not talk to Bea direct? He must know her quite well at least. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Transacting a sale through Andy and me might be less crass at this tough time for Bea, and also more professional, as I clearly had a restoration job in mind for the Lagonda.
‘A popular car, it seems,’ I commented.
‘Got a deal going then?’ Andy pushed harder than such a situation would normally warrant.
‘Good grief no.’ I tried to sound lightly amused. I was in a fix. If I said Bea was going to keep it, the locusts would home in on her in a trice. If I said it was up for sale, that would be worse. So I did the only thing I could do. I hummed and hawed. ‘Long way to go before Len knows what this baby’s about. When he does, that’s the time to talk about its future.’
‘You’re giving it the works?’ Andy said.
‘Checking it out first,’ I amended.
‘Dan might take it unrestored.’
‘Our prices are pretty reasonable.’ I was even more suspicious. Delete the professional. The job was mine. Bea had commissioned a restoration. Dan was no car restorer, and Frogs Hill prices were indeed reasonable – and why should Dan want Andy Wells to fight a battle on his behalf?
Andy got itchy. ‘Come on, Jack, let’s give Bea a break and get rid of it for her. She’ll do what you say.’
I noted that Slugger Sam was ambling up behind me, as if to ask if I’d like another cosh. What I felt like replying was, ‘Get lost and take Dan Burgess with you,’ but reason prevailed and I went with the casual approach. ‘I’ll have a word with Bea. I’m only the middleman. I’m seeing her tonight.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘Better get finished with the Porsche, Len. Time’s passing.’
As hints go, it wasn’t subtle, but Andy gave up the struggle more easily than I had feared, and even Sam backed off. ‘Yeah. Talk to her,’ he agreed in tones that suggested that gunfights at the OK Corral were outdated methods of settling disputes. Like hell they were. Seize the hour, as the Romans said. I could work out what Andy and Sam’s game was later. Right now, there was work to do, and work today meant money. I watched Len and Zoe return to their Porsche job, and Andy’s fair-haired truculent figure retreat to his Aston, with Sam at his side.
‘Are they a regular team now?’ I asked Len.
‘Dunno,’ Len said.
Zoe was more specific. ‘Doubt it. Sam’s his own man.’
So what job had Andy offered him? I wondered. And what could Barry Pole – and maybe even Mason Trent – be doing lurking in the shadows?
‘Oh, and you’ve got another visitor, Jack,’ Zoe threw at me offhandedly as she picked up her torque wrench.
I groaned. ‘Where?’
‘In the farmhouse.’
I rushed over immed
iately, envisaging Harry Prince set loose in the Glory Boot, but the front door opened as I reached it and Bea said rather sheepishly, ‘Sorry, Jack, I’ve been skulking here and didn’t fancy joining in the car talk. Mum found Andy hard going and so do I. Zoe said you wouldn’t mind.’
‘I don’t.’ It was a pleasure to see her, and quite apart from that it suited me nicely.
‘I came to tell you Mum’s barn was broken into last night.’
Just what I’d thought might happen. ‘Are you OK?’ When she nodded, I added, ‘Thank heavens for that. Any damage?’
‘Not that I could see. The lock was smashed again, the new one. At least it wasn’t the Lagonda.’
Out in the nick of time, I thought, before someone who hadn’t heard we’d removed it had a go at doing it himself. I wondered why Guy hadn’t told me about the break-in. Perhaps he didn’t know, or more likely he wasn’t going to give me the satisfaction of knowing I’d done the right thing over the car. Another, less pleasant scenario, was that this might have been because Guy’s own agenda had been kicking in.
Bea shivered. ‘I’m glad you’ve got the car, Jack.’
‘So am I. Has Dan Burgess been over to see you?’
‘No. Why?’
‘According to Andy, he’s fuffing around saying he wants to buy the Lagonda.’
‘Well, I’m not selling. I told Andy that last night.’
So that’s why he’d paid his social call at Greensand Farm. Well done, Bea, I thought, for resisting the charms of Andy with Slugger Sam as company.
‘Maybe Dan’s keeping away deliberately,’ Bea continued. ‘He was close to Mum, and some people can’t deal with it.’
‘How close?’
Bea eyed me firmly. ‘Not that close, so far as I know. She framed his ghastly pictures for him and was chummy with him because he was a friend of Mike’s.’
‘Like a son to her?’
‘Wouldn’t know. Friend, anyway. Are you making a suspect list, Jack?’
I liked her forthright approach. ‘Have to. No one’s going to roll over, put his paws in the air and ’fess up.’
She managed a giggle. ‘I’d like to see Lorna do that. The rolling over, maybe, but the paws in the air? Not her style.’ She got serious again. ‘I can’t think of any reason Dan would want to kill Mum, but then—’ She broke off and started again. ‘He was around a lot in Dad’s time, and when Dad died he gave Mum a lot of support over getting rid of the business to Andy and so on. There might have been a cooling off for a while, because I haven’t seen much of him recently. That could just be because I’ve been living in Canterbury though. I’m out of touch with what goes on here. Gloria knows more than I do.’
‘Gloria?’
‘Mum’s cleaner.’
‘The one who heard the telephone call. Is she reliable?’
‘As the proverbial rock. Come and meet her, if you like. She’s going to keep coming in three days a week, as she did before. Drives me mad, but she needs the money and it’s company of a sort while I’m living there. Though that won’t be longer than necessary. My Canterbury flat seems a haven compared with Greensand Farm. Gloria wouldn’t be privy to Mum’s inner heart though. Mum wasn’t like that. Strict boundaries had Mum.’
I could believe it. In her private life too. ‘Is there any chance Lorna might have suspected an affair, even if there wasn’t one?’
‘Highly possible, but my guess is that it’s just Lorna being dramatic. Rupert came up every so often, bringing pictures and so on, and even though Lorna was rarely with him it’s a far cry from that to having a full blooded affair. After all, she’s never accused the woman who does Rupert’s secretarial work down here, and she’s quite a looker.’
‘Depends on the background,’ I said, thinking this through.
‘I don’t follow.’ Bea looked so bewildered that I wanted to hug her and tell her everything was going to be all right, but I resisted the impulse. I’d have to leave that to Zoe.
‘I meant the Stacks were close friends with your father too. We don’t know whether anything happened then that would lead Lorna to think there was an ongoing situation. Just speculation,’ I added hastily. ‘You’ve made it clear how unlikely it is.’
‘It is,’ Bea replied. ‘Besides, neither Rupert nor Lorna could have shot Mum.’
‘Why not?’ I was shaken at this flat statement.
Her turn to look surprised. ‘They’re weekenders. They always go back to London on Sunday nights. Rupert has to be in the art gallery next morning. Sometimes he leaves a bit early on Fridays to get here, but Mondays are always spent in London. That’s one of the reasons Mum never opened on a Monday. Last week Rupert was hosting a big gathering of dealers on the Tuesday morning, so there’s no way he could have been here. And it would be a bit odd if Lorna had stayed behind after the weekend. They were only here yesterday because it was Bank Holiday Monday.’
So that was that. It seemed I was making excellent negative progress on Polly’s behalf – hardly the direction I needed to go.
TWELVE
It was hard to tell what kept me from sleeping soundly that Tuesday night, but I’m glad it did: perhaps it had been the glow of satisfaction that I had indeed helped Bea a little by removing her Lagonda from danger. More probably, however, it was my underlying fear that I was missing a trick. A big one. There just had to be something about that car that I wasn’t getting. The raid on Bea’s barn could hardly have been a straightforward theft. No dodgy car dealer worth his salt would steal a car that now had so much public awareness focused on it, yet it had to be someone who hadn’t got the news of its new temporary home early enough to prevent a wasted journey to Bea’s barn. Was that the someone who had killed Polly, or was it an opportunist thief, now that the police scene had been lifted? I couldn’t discount that possibility. Indeed, I hoped it was the right explanation, because the alternative was not welcome.
There could have been another reason for my restless sleeping. There was no one sleeping with me, and my hopes about Polly fulfilling that role had been cruelly dashed. I remembered the days of Liz’s comfortable self tucked in beside me and for a moment or two missed her, until I also remembered the downside. It was a long time since I’d had regular company; or indeed any company, and so it was hardly surprising that when I had drifted off it was to dream of Polly in a Lagonda.
No – she was in a police car screaming along the M25, round and round and round and on and on – and on.
I was fully awake. It wasn’t a police car; it was the burglar alarms going full tilt and the security lights blazing. Then I was at the window pulling back curtains with one hand and struggling into cords and T-shirt with the other. The Pits’ lights were full on, and it was from there that the alarms were blaring out. Not just burglar alarms, but the fire alarms – in the Pits. I could see nothing – but I could hear and smell something. I didn’t stop to reach the landline, but grabbed my mobile. One bit of me was telling me it was a false alarm, but the major bit knew it wasn’t. I was calling in the big battalions even as I ran like hell towards my barn.
This was no accident, and it didn’t occur to me then that whoever had caused this was probably still there, waiting for me to arrive so that he could dot me on the head again. All I could see as I drew nearer was flames at the side window, which had no doubt been smashed, as the doors still looked intact. The windows were the most vulnerable point, and the flames seemed to be mocking me, daring me to think I could win any kind of battle over them.
The Pits barn is a mix of centuries. The farmhouse was built sometime in the nineteenth century, but the barn’s construction is much earlier, at least in part. There has been a farmhouse on this site since the Domesday Book, and the barn’s foundations go back at least to the fourteenth century. A doodlebug had taken three-quarters of it out in World War Two, leaving only one wall shakily standing and the other three down to a few feet high. After the war, it had been securely patched up with no regard to style, leaving it with
modern brick walls, a couple of windows in the east wall, and a corrugated iron roof. Not beautiful, but eminently practical for its use.
Frogs Hill is so remote that it was going to take forever for the fire engines to arrive, so I dived into my pocket for the keys, wrestling the doors open regardless of the extra impetus I might give the fire raging within. Thank heavens we’d had the wit to fit an outdoor fire extinguisher, so at least I could go in armed.
And then I saw it. Fire everywhere. The place was like a floodlit stadium, but these lights were moving and the heat was blasting into my face. Clasping my fire extinguisher I felt like David with a very small pebble to sling at Goliath. Thank heavens, the fire was still, I realized, on the eastern side, and someone – Len, Zoe? – had miraculously moved the Lagonda to where the Porsche had been before: thankfully, that had been collected yesterday evening. I didn’t ask myself how they had managed to move the Lagonda or why. All I agonized over was whether I could get her out alone. I had only one small extinguisher and no protective clothing or even a mask against fumes. I’d have been crazy to risk dashing in. It might be macho, but I knew I’d be more use to Bea alive than dead. Which I soon would be, I thought, if I didn’t use my head.
So I used it. Well, partly. I stayed outside, remembered an outside tap, fixed a makeshift mask, and dashed in, praying hard that the extinguisher worked. Someone up there aloft heard me, because it did, and I sprayed it all round the Lagonda and threw myself outside again. I was lucky to get out. Fire assaults everything, ears, eyes, nose, mouth, and it takes no prisoners. It kills by its fumes before it strikes. As I looked up, gasping for the night air, I could see the quiet sky above me, midnight blue and dotted with stars, and I wondered how we human beings could create such hell on this earth.
And then I heard the sound of an engine and bells ringing; help was on its way. Who otherwise would be driving along Frogs Lane at this time of night? Only the person who started this inferno, who was no doubt long vanished. As the sound grew closer, I could feel tears of relief, or perhaps they were of anger; with each second, more of my source of livelihood, and goodness know how much of the Pits, was succumbing to the ravages of the fire. We had other cars in there, tools . . . there was the insurance. I couldn’t cope. Just let the Lagonda be safe, please, I asked the flames, the heavens, fate . . . anyone who might be listening.
