by Amy Myers
‘When do you get me out of this place, Jack?’
‘As soon as the police drop their charges.’ I didn’t think using the word ‘if’ was a great idea.
‘You find out who did it. You promised.’ Her voice rose, and I hushed her.
‘I promised to try and I’m doing so. But you changed your story, Eva, and even now I’m not sure what the true story is.’ This was not the best of places for an interrogation but I had to make a stab at getting some kind of ‘truth’.
A sigh of impatience. ‘I tell the lawyer I not go to the towpath. I go to the lock, then I go to the pub and Carlos not there, so I go back to hotel.’
‘That doesn’t seem like you, Eva. You’d go on looking for him. He told you where he was going, didn’t he?’
‘The lock. He not say more or when he leave.’
‘Brandon thinks he might have been meeting someone on a boat. Did you tell him that?’
‘I not know. Perhaps. He had woman there.’
I pressed on. ‘So you would have gone to look at all the boats moored around there.’
‘I go see the boats. I not see Carlos. He hiding under bed, perhaps. With woman. Not see, so I go across bridge but not to towpath. Not see him.’
‘Did you tell the police you checked the boats?’
‘They not ask.’
That I found hard to believe. ‘Carlos told you it was a business deal – did he give you any idea what kind of business?’
‘Woman business,’ she told me scornfully.
‘Why would he arrange to meet her on a towpath, Eva? A little unromantic, isn’t it? Even if he’d gone first to meet her on a boat, they’d hardly walk in the semi-dark along that towpath.’
‘Carlos afraid of me,’ she told me complacently. ‘Hide on towpath with woman. Perhaps a man too,’ she added placatingly. Eva was always good at adapting to what she thought you might want to hear.
I clutched my head. ‘Talk to your solicitor, Eva. Tell him the truth, even if you can’t tell me.’
‘Of course I tell the truth. Carlos met on boat with woman.’
‘But you said you didn’t know that for sure, and when you checked the boats he wasn’t there.’
‘No, he hide under bed – with woman.’
I was going round in circles, and I would get no further. Assuming Eva was not guilty, I had to go on digging away at Carlos’s past. I took a deep breath. ‘Where did you first meet Carlos, Eva?’
She beamed at me, so I was on safe territory. ‘I met darling Carlos in 1990 at May Tree. Lovely, lovely place.’
‘Did he ever tell you how he got to know about the May Tree?’
‘He went there with Matt. He build up band with him.’
I tried to remember Matt’s exact words. There was something I couldn’t quite get a grip on. Something he said about Carlos coming back to Kent in 1987, something about his father and his band. Belinda had mentioned it too. ‘Had Carlos visited the May Tree before going there with Matt?’
‘How would I know?’ She gave a shrug. I remembered those lovely shoulders of hers… . how I used to kiss them. To my dismay, I again felt a moment’s desire, but it was a desire born of memory not of today. Now I could only feel pity, not love or passion.
‘Did he ever mention knowing a Frank Watson?’ I asked her. ‘There was a lot of money missing –’ (the simplest way to put it) – ‘after the valuable haul from a raid in the seventies. There was a fight over it at the May Tree, and this Frank Watson ran away with the cash as well as with the landlord’s wife.’
Eva was always impatient when the conversation moved away from herself. ‘Yes, yes. Man in the Charros band.’
‘That was Neil Watson.’
‘Perhaps.’ Another shrug.
‘Did you know him well?’ It was like chipping at stone.
‘He was gay. Why should he be my lover?’
A typical Eva turnaround.
Another chip at the rock. ‘Did Carlos ever talk of the seventies’ raid or the missing money? Did Neil ever seem to have a father around?’
Eva had had enough and banged her still beautiful hand on the table.
‘How would I know his father, Jack? You talk stupid. What that to do with me?’
Aware of the guards’ interested eyes on us, I changed the subject but even so ended the visit defeated. Eva was still giving out the same familiar message from the ivory tower in which she had always lived – herself. Only, the ivory tower was now physical as well as emotional.
I had left another message on Dave’s voicemail as I left Wychwood House asking him to send his team over to pick up Melody, but there had been no reply by the time I left for London. That was frustrating in itself. I found a brief message when I had checked my phone after leaving Eva but it was only an irritated, ‘Call me, Jack,’ from Dave (he doesn’t believe in texts). I had tried, but the bird must have flown for the weekend.
Frogs Hill was deserted when I reached it that evening – rather to my relief, as I had thought I might find Daisy patiently waiting for me. I’d left her a message giving her the good news and telling her to wait for the police to contact her. Nevertheless, I confessed to a secret hope that she might have driven up in Melody to thank me. Len and Zoe leave at midday on Saturdays unless there’s a really interesting job – as they see it – such as rebuilding a carburettor.
There was no Daisy. The sun was beginning to sink towards its bed in the west, and I felt flat. There was no loving human being to welcome me, and for once the Gordon-Keeble and Lagonda failed to work their magic. If Louise … No. Stupid to think that way. Louise had moved on in her life, and so should I. In a way I had, but not fast enough, and seeing Eva again had set me back a few notches.
I checked the landline, even though it was a weekend and was rewarded by finding two calls. Cara? I thought hopefully. She’d been very quiet. No such luck. The first was from Dave. I assumed it was merely to say mission accomplished over Melody and hopefully that he had another commission for me. It was not. Dave was hopping mad. Instead of his usual laconic, ‘Call me, Jack,’ his message came over loud and clear and very annoyed.
‘What the blazes is going on, Jack? When the team got there, the bird had flown. Barn was empty. No one there knew a thing about its going – or said they didn’t. You sure it was there in the first place? Neither the woman nor the old man seemed too sure of anything. Can’t go after them for theft in the circumstances, but we’ll keep an eye on them. Don’t call me back. Just leave the job to us for the next few days. OK?’
Melody vanished? I was completely flummoxed. Just what could the link between Wychwood and Melody be? Only, it occurred to me, Belinda Fever who was hardly likely to be playing a joke by nicking her own former car from her granddaughter. Had Ambrose pinched it from the Black Lion car park and taken it to Wychwood under the impression it was his? Highly improbable, especially as he wouldn’t know how to dispose of it unless Josie had helped him. One step further. Had she helped him nick it just to please her employer by arousing his memories of old times? Not very likely. Had Ambrose forgotten Melody wasn’t his and taken her on a jaunt somewhere? If so, where was Melody now? I conceded that it was possible to lose a car even when one is in one’s right mind, let alone in Ambrose’s state, but if he had just abandoned the car somewhere, how did he get back home? Had he and Josie disposed of Melody altogether? If so, where? And more importantly why? Had she driven it to give him the jaunt to Eastry he wanted? If so, why not tell the police?
Then I remembered the second call, and sure enough, it was from Daisy. A simple message recorded twenty minutes before I arrived: ‘In the pub, Jack.’
I took one look at my lonely kitchen and the possibilities presented by my fridge and freezer for eating that evening and left for Piper’s Green. That’s where our terrific and only pub is. As I walked in, I expected to see the whole bar in rapt contemplation of Daisy’s beauty, but I didn’t. This might have been the case if Daisy had been alone, but Justin was
with her, looking more miserable than ever. Even Daisy looked downcast.
‘It’s not my fault,’ Justin said instantly as I approached.
‘I know that, Justie,’ Daisy said patiently.
‘I take it that you’ve heard the news and that Melody isn’t back in Huggett’s barn,’ I said as jovially as I could.
Justin wasn’t doing jovial today. He shook his head.
‘The police said you’d found her, Jack.’ Daisy’s lovely eyes looked accusingly at me.
‘I did, but I wasn’t authorized to drive it away then and there. The police have to do that.’
‘I think,’ Daisy informed me crossly, ‘that there’s something seriously weird going on.’
‘I agree. It’s possible that the owner of the house has something to do with it, because he’s elderly, has Alzheimer’s and loves Morris Minors.’ Even if he had, I remembered he had shown no sign that he thought Melody was his.
Daisy’s eyes lit up. ‘Are you going to talk to him or shall I?’
‘Not you, Daisy. And the police have told me to steer clear of it.’
‘They can’t tell me to do that,’ she said with a beatific smile. ‘Or Justie.’
I froze. ‘Don’t either of you go anywhere near him.’ I spoke so sharply, they actually paid attention.
‘Why not? It’s my car,’ Daisy said mutinously.
‘Because,’ I told her, ‘the case is in police hands. Secondly, it may have links to a murder case, and thirdly, the owner is unpredictable to the point of danger. Keep away.’
Daisy considered this. ‘All right. I’ll keep away from where Melody was found, but I won’t keep away from you, Jack.’ Another beatific smile – or rather a triumphant grin.
‘And nor will I,’ Justin said valiantly, but he was disregarded. I got the message. Daisy was on the warpath and would continue to haunt me – and not for my blue eyes or manly build.
Back to my juggling act between Melody and the Carlos trail. I’d met the three surviving Charros and the singer. It seemed to me there was something missing, however. The bare facts of the relationships amongst them didn’t add up to a whole. I’d asked to see Clive on the Monday but was not totally surprised when I arrived that Jonathan was with him – on guard. That was obvious, for all the fuss they made of me by serving me an espresso and biscuits and chatting merrily on any subject other than Carlos Mendez.
‘About Carlos,’ I interrupted firmly.
Silence, then Jonathan took the stage. ‘I gather you’ve met Josie and Matt, so I presume you are now convinced that the remaining Charros are not operating a Mafia vendetta after twenty years?’ he said lightly but not mockingly.
‘That’s Sherlock country,’ I replied equally lightly. ‘I’m just trying to find out what happened.’
‘I’m sure,’ Jonathan said more seriously, ‘that only your Eva can tell you that. We don’t blame you for trying, however.’
‘Thanks.’
‘So what can we do for you this time? We’re at full attention, but only because we want to get this matter sorted out once and for all. Josie is pretty upset at having it all raked up again.’
‘It wasn’t me who killed Carlos,’ I reminded them, ‘so don’t blame me.’
‘Nor, believe it or not, was it any of the former Charros.’
‘You all knew he was back, and you all had very good reason to hate him.’
A glance at Clive, who sat sullenly mute, then Jonathan answered: ‘He made no secret of his return, because he knew he had nothing to fear from us. Not even from Josie, whose life was so badly affected by his actions.’
‘They affected yours and Clive’s too,’ I pointed out.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Clive growled.
‘I suppose,’ Jonathan said, ‘he’s heard the story that it was Carlos who gave you away to the police, Clive.’
Another growl. ‘Never knew whether he did nor not.’
‘There was no evidence of it,’ Jonathan told me smoothly. ‘Only suspicion.’
Suspicion can be a powerful driving force, I thought. Moreover, there were motives that went far beyond the mere dissolution of the band – motives that might be relevant to the anniversary lunch, now only a month away.
‘Did you know Frank Watson?’ I asked out of the blue – with interesting results.
‘Frank?’ No doubt about it, Jonathan was shaken.
‘Is he still alive?’ I asked.
He took a fraction too long to reply: ‘Neil died in 1992 when he was twenty-two. I imagine his father must then have been in his mid-forties. He could well be alive. I’ve no idea. Have you, Clive?’
Clive took his cue and shook his head.
‘The police file on the May Tree Shoot-Out must still be open,’ I commented.
‘Probably.’ Jonathan said no more, but for the first time I sensed I was in the driving seat.
‘Frank Watson is thought to have escaped from the shoot-out, taking the priceless Crowshaw Collection with him,’ I pointed out. ‘If he was back in this country or had never left it, then it’s possible that Carlos discovered that in the 1980s and decided he’d like some of it in the form of blackmail. You were living with Neil at the time of his death, so he must have talked about his father, and if he was around you would have met him.’
Jonathan had recovered his sangfroid now. ‘I don’t recall it, but it’s an interesting theory. The snag is that Neil was living with me and not at his home, wherever that was, and I don’t recall Neil telling me adventure stories about his father being a gangster. Anyway, Frank Watson was hardly likely to stick around in England if the police were still after him. Neil just told me his father took him to South America when he was about eight, and he lived there until he came back to Kent – alone – to go to university. He lived in lodgings and then with me.’
So Neil had kept mum about his father and Jonathan had obviously never made the connection – or had he? I tried a parting shot. ‘Frank Watson had every reason to want Carlos dead if he believed Neil had died because of him – and if Carlos was blackmailing him, even more reason.’
‘That,’ murmured Jonathan, ‘is true. The only problem with that theory is that you haven’t the slightest evidence that Frank Watson is back in England.’
I returned to Frogs Hill expecting to join Len and Zoe in a truly interesting quest to restore life to a Karmann Ghia, a car for which I’ve always had a special affection. Dad had an affinity with Karmann Ghias, and that’s important in a classic car. My plans were foiled – once again by Daisy. She was sitting on the wall, contemplating her smart black boots.
‘There you are,’ she said brightly. ‘This is my day off so I thought I’d come over. What’s the news?’
‘Nothing on Melody.’ I had rung Dave’s team early that morning, fearing she would be on my trail. ‘Too soon.’
‘Not for me, Jack. Have you been out hunting for her?’
Honesty is the best policy. ‘I’m afraid not. The police—’
‘Then I’ll go and beard that old chap at – um – Wychwood, is it?’
‘No!’
She grinned at me. ‘Then you go, Jack.’
Actually, why not? I’d go.
My heart sank, but on the other hand I needed an excuse to go to Wychwood again. Preferably not now, it was true. But I faced reality with a grim determination. The mystery of the missing Melody needed my urgent attention.
EIGHT
I planned to tackle Wychwood unannounced. At the very least, if both Josie and Ambrose were out I could nose around the old barn again to try to figure out whether I had indeed been hallucinating. I might have had Melody so much on my mind that I saw her everywhere. I dismissed that notion right away and concentrated on why it had been so necessary for Melody to disappear again. The most likely reason was that I had seen her. The next most likely was that Ambrose might have taken her on a solo local jaunt and forgotten to bring her back. I thought I could rule that out, however, as even in his d
emented state he had shown no liking for her.
So back to the first possible explanation. Why was Melody so precious that she had to disappear quickly in case I (or the police) removed her forcibly? She had looked a straightforward Morris Minor 1000 to me. In good nick, true, but then a great many Moggies could answer that criterion. The colour? Striking, but not so unusual that an enthusiast could not get any Minor resprayed in Rose Taupe more easily than by stealing Melody.
Tentatively, then, I put Melody’s disappearance down to my arrival on the scene. Which meant what? First, the possibility that someone did not want Daisy to have her car back – very unlikely – or wanted it themselves (more likely). The second possibility was that I represented a link to the police and – stretching it – to Carlos’s murder. That would mean that Melody had some kind of connection with Josie, her mother, Belinda Fever, and therefore the Charros. The drawback to that theory was that by the time Melody disappeared I had already seen the car and had had every opportunity to mull over its connections to Wychwood. The barn door was being shut after I had seen what was inside.
Could Melody be linked to Carlos’s death? He had been killed late on a Monday evening in mid May, and Melody had been stolen four days earlier – first, by Justin, whom I had great difficulty in imagining could be mixed up in a murder. It had been after Carlos’s death that Melody had disappeared from Justin’s friend’s ‘guardianship’. She could have been stolen for a day, perhaps, without the friend being aware of her absence from the car park, but could not have had a role in the murder because of the timing. What threat could Melody present now? Was someone’s DNA plastered all over her? Was Josie in the frame? How would she have known of the car’s theft in the first place, unless of course she was responsible for it? Presumably, Gran Fever did not know about Melody’s disappearance from the barn, and I did not want to be the one to tell her.
