by Amy Myers
Keep cool, I told myself. ‘When did the murder happen?’ I asked Brandon, but it was Eva who replied.
‘This gentleman –’ a little coo for Brandon – ‘says in the night.’
‘Early days,’ ‘this gentleman’ replied. ‘But it looks like well before midnight. He was found early this morning by a dog-walker.’
‘Were you there, Eva?’
‘Me?’ She looked shocked. ‘It was a business matter, Jack. I was at the hotel waiting for poor Carlos to come back to me, but he did not.’
‘Business on a towpath?’ I queried. ‘At night?’
‘Or possibly on a boat,’ Brandon said laconically. ‘There are no signs that the body was moved, but we won’t know that for sure until—’
He broke off, and I quickly said: ‘When did you notice he was missing from your hotel room, Eva?’
That wide mouth gaped. ‘Oh, Jack!’ Tears now, and a glance at Brandon. ‘I did – I didn’t. I couldn’t—’ A furious look. ‘We had separate rooms,’ she said sulkily. ‘For business, you understand. Carlos so kind, he not want to disturb me. Not until the police ring hotel did I find out this morning.’
Tears overcame her now, and the policewoman moved in to take her back to the van. I was alone with my favourite cop.
‘How did Mendez get here?’ I asked Brandon. ‘Any car around?’
‘Your wife – ex-wife – told us he went off from the hotel in their old Ford Granada estate and we found it parked just over there.’ He pointed to the line of cars where I’d just left the Alfa. Odd that Carlos hadn’t gone into the large pub car park, the entrance to which he must have passed.
‘Had he been robbed?’ I asked.
‘No. Full identification on him, including the hotel welcome card. That’s how we contacted Mrs Mendez.’
Not robbed – that was a bad sign. It removed casual theft as a motive for Carlos’s death. ‘Any witnesses?’
‘Nothing so far.’ Brandon paused. ‘Want to see him? I’m just about to have him moved out.’
I’m not partial to corpses, but I steeled myself and followed him down the lane to the riverside, having been hastily kitted out with scene suit and shoes. Coming from Brandon, the invitation could be seen as a compliment, although I suspected a test here. I was uncomfortably close to having a motive for wanting Carlos dead, and my reactions would be noted.
Brandon turned on to the towpath and led me away from the pub along a narrow stretch on the far side of the bridge. The bridge only crosses the river as far as a halfway island, from which pedestrians then take the lock bridge to the far river bank and the lock controls; so the island, although lit, was not likely to have been swarming with people at the time Carlos was killed. Nevertheless it was hard to see a ‘business meeting’ taking place on the towpath that Brandon and I were now walking along; it was hemmed in between the river and a row of straggling bushes and trees. For a murder, however, it must have held possibilities. It would be too late and too gloomy for there to be casual walkers along here, and even if there were light enough to be observed from the central island or the far river bank I knew that the lock-keeper was only on duty in person until seven p.m. Thereafter he was on call, and although he probably lived nearby he would not be aware of what was going on on this side of the river. The same would apply to the Malta Inn which was too far back beyond the bridge. Nothing faced the towpath at this point but the walled central island, but even so, I thought it was a curious choice for a planned murder.
Carlos lay to one side of this narrow towpath, almost hidden by shrubbery. I forced myself to look down at the pitiful remains of the man who had saved me from Eva, although I admit I didn’t see it in that light at the time. I was flaming with anger that evening, not at him, true, but at Eva, and the cocky little runaway twerp had got up my nose. My fury only came a week later when I found Cara missing, although when I calmed down I had to admit Carlos must have some saving graces. It was unlikely that a ‘cocky little twerp’ would have landed himself with a child to support when what he really wanted was only the wife. Now a casually dressed balding middle-aged man, in linen trousers, T-shirt and jacket, lay on one side, spatters of congealed blood on the grass around him and all too obvious on his cream-coloured coat. I made myself take a brief glance at what remained of his head and face – which registered, or so I imagined, surprise at life’s unfairness – and I turned away.
‘Pistol?’ I said abruptly to Brandon, for the sake of saying something.
‘Not yet found. Does your ex-wife have a gun?’
I wasn’t prepared for that. ‘I don’t know, and I doubt it. Not here.’
He pounced on that. ‘So she can use one.’
I didn’t answer, but he nodded as though I had.
I drove away, my mind whirling and a sick feeling in my stomach. There was something very odd here and I was all too glad that the case was on Brandon’s desk. Eva was doing herself no favours, whatever she might imagine. Was she really at the hotel at the time of Carlos’s death, I wondered.
Driving through the lanes back to Frogs Hill gave me a breathing space. Spring was here now in full force. Trees, birds, crops were all coming to life in the eternal pattern that had little to do with the urban nightmares that man has concocted for himself. Through the open windows of my Alfa the smells of May were strong and a million miles away from violent death.
As I arrived at the farm, it looked a paradise of calm and order, and I needed both. As I closed the front door behind me, the invidious thought came right back: where was Eva at the time of his death? And with that thought came others. The funeral – that would have to be arranged. Were Carlos’s parents alive? Quite possibly. Such stray thoughts continued to rush through my head, perhaps because I had no clue on the real question: should I begin to look for the truth?
Thinking of Carlos’s parents took me back to the day I married Eva, where I had met them, but that reminded me of our wedding night, and that sexual memory stirred me again. One outward sign of that, however, and Eva would move in for the kill. Perhaps it was the very inappropriateness of that phrase that steadied me. Cara, not Eva, was my responsibility now, and I rang her as soon as I was inside the door. I was aware that both Len and Zoe were at the door of the Pits expecting to hear what had happened, but I’d report to them later.
Cara is in her mid twenties now. She’d had a job with a magazine based in London, but had thrown it up to help run a smallholding in Suffolk with a nice guy called Harry, who like her seemed very sure of his path in life, even though their business could hardly be without its problems in this day of supermarket tyranny. Nevertheless, it suited them both, and Cara seemed happy. I’ve never pried into her relationship with Eva, but it couldn’t be that close because she saw her mother only slightly more often than I did. There must be a bond there, however, and I usually hesitate to impinge upon it. Today I had to do so. What was the real reason Eva had not rung Cara herself? That was not only odd, but possibly ominous.
Cara took the news on the chin – or appeared to do so. ‘Not that surprised,’ she said. ‘Carlos wasn’t always too careful about his business associates.’
‘Were you fond of him, Cara?’
‘He was OK if you didn’t rely on him or stand in his way. Kind, in an offhand way, but slippery. You know the sort, Jack.’
By the time Cara and I had got reacquainted, when I came back to Frogs Hill from foreign parts and the oil business, she was in her late teens and a student in London, and she was naturally wary of me. I was ‘Jack’ not Dad – and, more oddly, her mother was ‘Eva’. This might have been Cara’s way of distancing herself after a lack of training in relationships, or perhaps she’d had too many bad ones, so I try to take life onwards, not probe into her past. It seems to work and we get on well, although I tread with care.
‘I’ll come down right away,’ she told me briskly. ‘I take it she’s trying to pin this on you?’
‘Got it in one, I suspect.’
‘Leave it to me.’
‘Don’t let her mess up—’
‘My life?’ Cara cut in. ‘No way.’
Thankfully, Eva comes from a large family in Spain who are all too willing to close ranks when required. I was an only child and during our marriage had been somewhat overwhelmed at the constant stream of family members who stayed with us for endless paellas and monopolized the phone before the days of Skype and Facebook. It was all very jolly – until things turned sour and from having been my in-laws’ best mate I became public enemy number one.
I sank down in the farmhouse after the call. Frogs Hill is indeed a refuge. It is set on the Greensand Ridge looking down towards the Weald and is about two miles (via winding single track lanes) from Pipers Green, our nearest village, and five from Pluckley, reputed to be Kent’s most haunted village. In addition to my Alfa, I have two classic cars, my Gordon-Keeble and my Lagonda, which together with the Pits keep me sane at the worst of times. There is a solidity about classic cars that helps their owners withstand the unexpected shocks of life. Essentially, they are there for you, like the best of families. Like pets you feed them and keep them in good condition and you will get your reward. In times of trouble they bring comfort. I needed that now.
However quickly the police found Carlos’s killer, I was going to be affected. There would be Eva’s future to settle, the trial, the funeral – I blenched at the implications. Even if Eva’s family and Cara took over some of the nightmare, I could see that I was going to be right in the middle of it. To take my mind off it, I decided to embark on a complete polish of the Gordon-Keeble. Dad had bought it for its rarity; I cling to it for the sense of endurance it gives me. Its fluid lines and its sheer understated elegance are a panacea for the worst of problems. At times such as this, it soothes the spirit.
Brandon arrived that afternoon, by which time I had managed to convince myself that he wouldn’t be coming. After all, some killers are found very quickly and I could contribute nothing myself to their case. That at least was true, but Brandon might not see it that way. I was talking to Len when we heard the car draw up, and I saw the look on Len’s face.
‘Here we go,’ I said to him in resignation and then went to greet my ‘guest’. At least he didn’t have a sidekick with him, which might mean this was not going to be too formal.
‘How’s it going?’ I said to Brandon as he climbed out of the car and followed me into the farmhouse living room.
As before, he replied, ‘Early days.’
Not good, that. It implied I was a witness, not just a side issue. Whether approvingly or disapprovingly, Brandon looked around him at the comfortable but ancient armchairs and sofa and my choice of pictures, ranging from a nude to a photo of Louise and an original painting of a Karmann Ghia by my famous chum Giovanni. ‘Did you know Carlos Mendez was coming to Maidstone?’ he added casually.
‘No. Nor Eva. Bit of a shock to hear from her this morning.’
‘She came two days later than he did,’ Brandon corrected me. ‘Because, she claims, he was down here to look up members of his former band and make new contacts.’
I spoke without thinking. ‘That rules me out.’
No comment from Brandon. ‘Did you know he and your ex-wife were in England?’
‘Not till she rang. We’re not in touch.’
‘Is your daughter?’
‘You’ll have to ask her. She’s not that close to her mother.’
‘Or her stepfather?’
‘Ask her,’ I repeated. ‘She’s on her way here.’
‘I understand your wife met Mendez when she was living with you here.’
‘Not here. We were living near Chartham when she scarpered with him. That was in 1991, and I gathered he’d been based in Kent for several years. I haven’t seen Carlos since that time, though Eva blew in occasionally.’
‘She must have been quite a stunner.’ An unexpectedly human comment from Brandon.
‘She often stunned me. Sometimes with a frying pan.’
Brandon grinned at the weak joke. It was a brief lull but then it was back to business. ‘Did you know his band was based round here? It was called Carlos and the Charros.’
‘I knew he had a band, but not the name. I was busy babysitting while she was following the drums.’
‘It disbanded after Carlos left with your wife. Did you know any of them? Carlos plus four others and a singer, I gather.’
‘As I said, I didn’t know Carlos or his band.’
‘Your wife claims otherwise.’ He said it so lightly that I didn’t instantly get the message. Then I realized he was looking at me so intently that there had to be some reason.
I groaned. ‘OK. Tell me the worst. What else did she say?’
‘That you could not be blamed for feeling the way you did about Carlos.’
I closed my eyes and counted to ten. ‘And what way was that?’ I enquired.
‘You tell me, Jack.’
At least he was still calling me Jack, so there was hope yet. ‘Answer: my only feeling was that I was sorry for the poor sap.’ Plus – though I wasn’t fool enough to tell Brandon this – a mild antipathy, after the one brief encounter I had with him.
‘He was married to her for a good many years. No need for sorrow on your part. Marriage to her seemed to suit him.’
‘Eva has a lot of rich relations – that could have suited him very well.’
An eyebrow shot up. ‘Sure you don’t feel resentment? They brought up your daughter after all.’
I ignored the reference to Cara. ‘I’ve never pretended to be overfond of Eva but have always thought Carlos was the relatively innocent party.’
‘Generous, Jack.’ There was no inflection in Brandon’s voice to tell me whether he believed me or not. Nor was there when he added: ‘Not planning to leave town, are you?’
I wasn’t, but I felt the nightmare closing in with a vengeance. Rumbles of approaching storms were not going to vanish. I watched him drive away and wished I could do the same, at least emotionally. I couldn’t, however. I realized that Brandon probably didn’t think I had anything to do with this murder, but that he couldn’t discount it. He had to go through the motions, and he would. What that meant was that I would have to look after my own interests as well as Eva’s by trying to find out who did kill Carlos.
Emotionally, however, I was in no state to do so. Seeing Eva again normally shakes me up for a while, not because I still harboured loving feelings for her (despite the day’s earlier sexual blip), but because of the knowledge that I had been so stupid in my youth. Only Cara remains the golden linchpin for those days. I’d never resented missing so much of her life, just regretted it. In the oil business you accept life as it’s thrown at you. Now it had thrown it in plenty, and I had to put that to rights or the glory that was Frogs Hill would be tarnished.
And then fate tossed me a lifebelt – although it hardly seemed like that at the time.
I watched in amazement as, in a cloud of smoke, a noisy, battered and ill-kept Volvo 144 drove into the Frogs Hill forecourt, swung round, and drew up with a cough and a splutter. Its driver emerged and marched towards me.
Daisy had entered my life.
TWO
A cloud of golden hair, blue eyes blazing in indignation (obvious even from where I was standing), an English rose complexion, perfect figure, twenty years old at the most and apparently oblivious to all her attributes. True beauty doesn’t have to be sexy, just admired. I took all this in in an instant, and mentally put it aside while I wondered what caused the indignation – and, indeed, the visit. I could not recall any cars under restoration in the Pits that would have a Venus such as this as owner. She wasn’t dressed for effect, that was for sure: black tights, long blue dress and an old green anorak thrown over them. Rain was threatening, although this apparition walked with sunshine around her.
I had never seen her before and yet I seemed to be far from the top of her list of favourite people. I remained where I wa
s outside the farmhouse front door, unable to move with shock. She marched up, planted herself in front of me and, yes, folded her arms grimly under her perfectly-sized (from what I could see) bosom.
‘Mr Colby?’
Usually, a stranger’s voice shatters any dreams that appearance might have inspired. Not with this young lady – except that the ‘Mr’ she employed would suggest I was way out of her range for anything closer than a business relationship. Her voice was low, musical, and on a different mission might have been honey-filled. I didn’t know what her mission was, but her angry eyes did not instantly suggest honey.
‘They told me you do the Morris Minors.’
I must have gaped at this unexpected pronouncement of hers because she patiently repeated it, to which I managed to reply: ‘We restore any classics. Morris Minors are—’
This brought forth a far from patient: ‘You find them, don’t you?’
‘You want to buy one?’
Heavy silence now, and I thought she was about to turn on her dainty heel and walk out. If so, she changed her mind. ‘They told me you were some sort of cop. Are you or aren’t you?’
I pulled myself together from wherever my fancy might have been planning to take me. ‘In a way. I work for the Kent Police Car Crime Unit.’
‘I know,’ she said crossly. ‘I called them to find out what they were doing about Melody because nothing was happening. They said you would be dealing with her.’
I was lost. ‘Who’s Melody?’
‘My Morris Minor.’ Her voice now held a note of kindliness, as if speaking to a very ancient person. ‘I’m Daisy Croft.’
I was still lost. Dave commissions me job by job, but none had been forthcoming recently – a fact of which my bank balance was well aware. He and the jobs he gives me are a major factor in Frogs Hill’s survival under my ownership. The classic car restoration side of things is patchy from the economic viewpoint, dependent not only on the flow of cars coming in but on the flow going out. As Len and Zoe pride themselves more on workmanship than deadlines, the latter can be a very slow process.
