Classic Mistake

by Amy Myers

‘Likely or not, it could be Miss Gibson was complicit in the theft – and it was serious enough for someone, if not her, to kill Fairbourne because he got in the way.’

  I felt my stomach turn over, but despite my personal reactions it had to be considered. ‘Before Daisy Croft,’ I told Brandon firmly, ‘the Morris belonged to Belinda Fever, her grandmother, who was owner of the May Tree Inn at the time the Mendez band was formed.’

  He frowned. ‘Very cosy circle, as Miss Gibson was with the band at that time. We’ve nothing to suggest a Minor was involved in Mendez’s murder though. He drove an old Ford Granada there.’

  ‘His killer could have come in the Morris. It’s an unusual colour,’ I pointed out. ‘Pinky-grey. Might have been spotted?’

  ‘Timing?’ Brandon asked.

  I thought back. Justin had taken Melody on May the ninth, moved her on the thirteenth to her new ‘home’ at the Black Lion, and on the seventeenth she had vanished again. Those eight days included the evening of Carlos’s murder, the thirteenth. It was theoretically possible that she had been ‘borrowed’ from the car park just for the purposes of Carlos’s murderer and then returned a few hours later, but in that case why had she been taken again four days later?

  ‘Just about possible but unlikely.’

  ‘OK, Jack. Leave it to us. I’ll liaise with Dave.’

  Colby not required, I realized. Tough. ‘What about the boat angle?’

  ‘No sign of one that would fit the bill, all checked. Nor any evidence of Carlos having been on the lock side of the river.’

  ‘There are moorings back in the Maidstone direction on the side Carlos was found.’

  Brandon dismissed this right away. ‘We checked those too.’

  I was getting desperate. ‘Suppose there wasn’t a boat?’

  A beady look. ‘A ploy? Why? How?’

  ‘The towpath was an odd place to suggest as a meeting point. The killer lures Carlos there with talk of locks and a boat for entertainment or discussion, whichever. But that doesn’t mean there had to be a boat.’

  ‘Agreed. That’s the conclusion we reached.’

  I was too wrapped up in this to stop now. ‘Mendez’s car was found in the lane down to the river on the side his body was found. The killer suggested they met there for a drink and chat and then that they would go over the bridge to the boat – which didn’t exist. No problem, as he’d planned to kill Carlos anyway.’

  ‘Agreed. We got there as well,’ Brandon repeated, deadpan. ‘Any ideas on how he got Carlos to stroll along the towpath in semi darkness on the weir side of the bridge though?’

  ‘No,’ I admitted. ‘Unless the killer suggested they strolled out to see if the boat had come through the lock, because a chum was bringing it through.’

  ‘Possible, but weak,’ Brandon conceded. ‘Thanks, Jack. So now all I have to do,’ he added, ‘is to find out why Mendez was killed and who killed him. No problem. Luckily, we already have someone who has motive, opportunity, left evidence, and has lied like blazes from the word go.’ He spoke dispassionately, not sarcastically, and I had to see his point of view.

  ‘The Charros also had motive enough.’

  ‘As I said, it’s a long time to cherish the idea of revenge.’

  ‘Refreshed by a memorial annual lunch?’ I was heartened by seeing his expression change. ‘As you know,’ I continued, ‘one of the band committed suicide, thought to be because Carlos’s actions had ruined his life.’

  Brandon dismissed this angle – rather regretfully, it seemed to me. ‘Too way out, Jack.’

  ‘Even though those involved were at Wychwood House on Tuesday – a mere three days ago – and one of them was possibly here this morning, Matt Wright?’

  A split-second freeze, then: ‘Miss Gibson told us about Wright. We’re following that up. Now –’ he came to the salient point … for him – ‘how do you know about the band being here on Tuesday?’

  ‘I called here unexpectedly.’

  ‘I’ll let that go for the moment. What were they here for?’

  ‘They said it was to discuss the anniversary lunch. That’s on the ninth of July.’

  ‘What were you here for?’

  ‘To talk to Ambrose Fairbourne.’

  ‘Did you do so?’

  ‘Not for long. He was with them.’

  ‘To discuss a lunch? He had Alzheimer’s. What did you want to talk about to him?’

  ‘The Morris Minor.’

  ‘And today it was an archaeological trip? Pull the other one,’ he snapped.

  ‘I can’t. I thought the two might overlap and his archaeological life might have something to do with Carlos’s murder.’

  Silence. ‘Did you work out what it was?’ he asked at last.

  ‘No. I found his body. The only obvious connection is the May Tree Inn at Tickenden. Ambrose was a regular there even before Carlos formed his band.’

  ‘I still don’t see it,’ Brandon said flatly. ‘Evidence?’

  ‘None. Except the coincidence of the May Tree Inn.’

  ‘Any other golden nuggets you’d like to dig up while I’m here?’

  ‘Yes. Does the name Frank Watson mean anything to you? He was the father of Neil, the Charro who committed suicide. Frank Watson ran off with the loot of the Crowshaw Collection in 1978. That had a lot of golden nuggets.’

  A flicker of interest from Brandon. ‘Does Fairbourne link into this?’

  ‘Not as far as I know, but Carlos—’

  Brandon sighed. ‘OK, Jack. That’s enough. You’re free to go.’

  I wasn’t sure whether this was good or bad news, but I didn’t argue. ‘Is Josie free too?’ I explained to him that I would like to drive her over to stay with her mother, and he raised no objection provided he had the address. Josie must have found it tough enough living in Wychwood House with only Ambrose as company, but without him – even if there were police around – I could see she was in no state to stay here alone.

  I negotiated the security system at Jubilee Crescent, Boyfield, with Josie and patted the spaniel Don, as he was indicating he was the official Cerberus and considered the house his own property. Betty came rushing out of the house, and it was a relief to hand Josie over to her care. I wasn’t too sure that Betty was the caring sort, but Josie was happy, which was the point of the exercise. They made an odd contrast: Betty extrovert, lively and in control, compared with Josie who looked almost the elder of the two.

  ‘What’s this all about, Jack?’ Betty said anxiously over Josie’s shoulder as her daughter clung to her. I hadn’t explained fully on the phone and did so now.

  ‘Murdering that old man?’ she exclaimed in horror. ‘Josie, you poor girl. Finding him like that. And all the while you and me were at the supermarket. Poor old Ambrose. You’d never think it, Jack, but Ambrose was a real looker when I first went to the May Tree in ’seventy-seven. Tony said they used to come to the pub together, Ambrose and his wife, in that car of theirs. Ambrose adored Muriel, and then she went and died of cancer. He was a real flirt after that, but it didn’t mean anything. Everyone made a fuss of him though, especially the women, but it took time for him to get over it.’

  ‘He looked rather dashing in his photos,’ I agreed as I followed them inside the house. ‘Was he a regular during the period Carlos formed the band and while it played there?’

  ‘Sure. He was still around.’

  Could that have been the reason Ambrose was in the room with the Charros on Tuesday, or had that been simply because it was easier for Josie to keep an eye on him?

  ‘Did he still have a Morris Minor then?’

  ‘Couldn’t say after all this time. I think he had one for a year or two when I first went to the pub, but then he moved on to Renaults.’

  ‘What’s all this about then?’ Tony came in to join us, looking anxious, and when Betty explained, he tactfully indicated that we should leave mother and daughter together in favour of a beer in the conservatory. It was a non-alcoholic one for me, w
hich won me no plaudits from Tony, who was born into a different generation. He took me (with Don barking enthusiastically) into their garden, which looked out over the Downs farmland to the blue and grey haze of the Channel far beyond.

  ‘Josie and you found the old chap’s body then?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m afraid so. A shock for us both. I’d only gone there to chat about archaeology with him.’

  ‘Keen on that, are you?’

  ‘Only because he was. I promised to take him to Eastry one day.’

  He spluttered with laughter. ‘You and everyone who came to the house. He was fixated on it. Thought he knew exactly where the king was buried, along with his treasure. Poor old sod. Josie said he never got over finding the Suffolk hoard and was convinced there was another one waiting for him.’

  ‘And could there have been?’

  ‘Wouldn’t know. Not my game.’

  ‘Did he talk to you about it?’

  ‘Talked to everyone – if you can call it talking. He’d got a house full of archaeological stuff of one sort or another. But it never produced this treasure for him. I felt sorry for the old chap. I know what losing a mint of cash means.’

  I seized this opportunity. ‘You mean Frank Watson. Did Ambrose know him?’

  ‘Not that I know of. He might have seen him that night. Good old Frank, eh? When Betty told me she thought Joannie had scarpered with the loot I couldn’t believe it, especially when she said she reckoned that it had been planned all along. Then I found that Frank had gone too. You know how life can change so sudden? One minute we were celebrating and discussing how to divvy up the cash after the stuff had been smelted down, the next I was left with a dead body, no wife, no loot, police storming around and handcuffs.’

  I almost felt sorry for him. ‘Do you have any idea about where your wife and Frank went?’

  ‘We all have ideas, but precious little to back it up. Vic reckons it was South America. I thought maybe Australia. Joannie liked it there. The cops kept Vic and me apart after we were carted off in the hope that one of us would spill the beans as to where the booty went. If only I knew, I told ’em.’

  And then it happened. It was one of those glorious moments when one’s brain produces the fruits it has slowly been ripening. South America – Carlos! Matt had mentioned Carlos knowing the May Tree well before the band was formed, and there had been mention of his father’s band. There had been a lot of noise, Tony told me, in the pub that evening. Could it possibly be that Carlos was there with his father’s band on the night of the shoot-out? Surely he’d have been too young – no, he wouldn’t. He could have been twenty-one or twenty-two in 1978. I tried not to make too much of this and keep control but …

  ‘Was there a band playing that evening?’ I asked.

  Tony laughed. ‘Look, chum, I had other things on my mind than music that evening. Might have been.’

  He went on to grill me about the murder, but eventually he decided it was time, as he said, ‘To join the ladies.’ I was relieved to see that Betty had worked some kind of magic and Josie was looking much more composed.

  ‘Jack’s still on about Frankie boy, Bet,’ Tony joked. ‘He’s hoping to find him skulking around carrying the collection in his back pocket.’

  ‘That would be good,’ I agreed. ‘Did you see Frank Watson leave that night, Betty?’ I took a chance. ‘And the band too?’

  ‘He’s got this thing about there being a band around, Betty. Can you remember? Jazz, was it?’

  Betty looked puzzled. ‘Jazz? No, general Latin-American. Vicente Mendez, that was his name. Carlos’s dad. That’s what gave Carlos the idea for the Charros. Last time we ever saw Vicente – he had been a bit of a regular before that, but he hopped it when the police were called. He didn’t like police, Carlos said, so they all disappeared sharpish, including Carlos. You got back at five or so, Tony, but you were in the back room while the band got set up about seven – and the balloon went up about nine if I remember rightly.’

  ‘I do,’ Tony said feelingly. ‘Accident, that’s all it was. Are you telling me Carlos was there then?’

  Betty was looking uneasy. ‘Far as I remember he was. He’d been several times with his dad. But that was years before the Charros, Jack.’

  Tony had been brooding. ‘That kid?’ he said. ‘I’m beginning to remember him now. Greasy kid, he was. He took a shine to Joannie but he wasn’t her type. Too young, whereas Frankie boy was right up her street. He’d split up with his wife a year or two earlier and was ripe for a bit of Joannie and the cash to go with her. Vic and I were the dumb ones. We went inside, and Frank had a nest egg for life.’

  ‘Do you think he and Joannie are still alive?’ I asked.

  ‘Not,’ Tony said with great simplicity, ‘if Vic and I catch up with them. But we’ve no handle on where they are, so we let it be, let it be.’

  ‘Was Carlos actually playing in the band that evening, Betty?’

  ‘Sometimes he played, I think. Not always. Can’t remember that far back for sure. I think he helped me and Joannie at the bar for a while.’

  ‘But he left with the band?’

  ‘Didn’t see any of them go,’ she told me. ‘I was too busy looking for Joannie, worrying about Tony, dealing with the police and all that. Some of the customers hung on, lot of them went. I remember Ambrose going at a very early stage, said goodbye and that if anyone needed him he’d be at home. Then the police arrived and stopped any more departures. The band had gone by then and Carlos too – I didn’t see him again, anyway.’

  ‘If you were all going to meet up again across the Channel, what happened to Frankie’s car, do you think? Was it still in the car park?’

  ‘No idea, mate,’ Tony said. ‘Otherwise engaged. Fools, weren’t we? We all trusted Joannie, even Brian. We thought, like I said, we’d all join Joannie in Calais in our separate cars. Her plan, I reckon, was to depart with Frankie somewhere up north while things calmed down, but after the shoot-out it changed, I reckon. Her car was found at Dover though, so I reckon they were over the channel and down to Spain soonest. It was Frankie started the row with Brian about the share of booty. He didn’t know Brian was carrying – probably thought he could turn it into a punch-up so he could slip out with Joannie and drive off into the sunlight.’

  I was glad I wasn’t Brandon trying to sort the wood from the trees in this kind of story. ‘Didn’t you follow that line up to try to trace Frank when you heard about Neil’s death, Tony?’

  ‘How, Jack?’ Tony said simply. ‘Didn’t hear about it till Betty told me, and anyway he’d long gone. Don’t go getting any ideas that I’m still in the network,’ he joked.

  ‘Are you?’

  Tony chuckled. ‘No way. I make the odd phone call to Vic and a couple of others from the old days. But I’m sixty-five now, a respectable retired publican married to a lovely wife I’m crazy about. If I ran into Frank or Joannie I’d like a few words with them, but that’s not likely now, is it? They’re in Barbados or somewhere, I reckon,’ he said without rancour. ‘But Betty and I do all right. Can’t ask for more, can you? World isn’t run that way.’

  Its isolated position perched on the Greensand Ridge is one of the blessings of Frogs Hill. I can feel detached from the world, as though divided from it by a pane of glass. I can see, but am not connected. Just what I needed that evening. The Pits was closed, so the next place to try to get my thoughts in order was the double barn-cum-garage where I keep the Lagonda and Gordon-Keeble. Today, however late home as I was, bed held no attractions as my mind was racing like a magneto, so I made my way straight to the Glory Boot. This has a smell of its own: accumulated dust, oil and a fragrance I can only sum up as ‘the past’, as defined by classic cars of course. Here I can stare for hours on end not only at the automobilia but also at the Giovanni paintings, which can be summed up as classics in fantasy land. My particular favourite is a robin blue Karmann Ghia set in an azure sky with a hint of mountains below.

  The Glory Boo
t also has another attraction – it has no phone. All mobiles, iPods, iPads have to be left outside – mentally, at least. Len and Zoe know better than to come here unannounced, and so I’m left with my own thoughts, helped along by considerations of what my father would have contributed. He still does in a way. Tonight, however, Dad seemed determined to fight my every effort to arrange the tragic death of Ambrose Fairbourne into a pattern that included Carlos Mendez.

  I could hardly blame Dad, because Eva had been – and for me still was – a family problem. Both my parents had suffered under her reign, even though thankfully Eva and I had not lived at Frogs Hill, although we did live near enough to visit. Too near for my parents’ taste, although that instantly changed when Cara was born.

  I sat down on a Corbeau bucket seat that Dad had once used in the Tulip Rally and thought about Ambrose – and, for good measure, Carlos. Carlos had been present at the shoot-out, and now it seemed Ambrose was there as well. Could they have met there? Even if they had, so what? It got me nowhere if they were all together one evening in the late seventies and met again ten years later when Carlos and the Charros was born. There was no sign of any treasure around by then. It had long vanished with Joannie and good old Frank.

  I felt a mental nudge from Dad. ‘And another thing, son …’ he whispered, in imitation of his favourite catchphrase from Columbo times. Another thing? About Frank? I wondered. Could be, Dad, I agreed. Treasure was one thing, but Frank must have felt strongly about the death of his son. So what is ‘the thing’, Dad? But I was greeted only by silence.

  TEN

  It’s all very well staying silent, Dad, I thought gloomily as I shut the Glory Boot door behind me, but why not give me a break? Even Kafka could not find his way through the impenetrable mist that currently enveloped me. In fairy tales, princes who fought their way through brambly hedges were rewarded by a beautiful princess beyond. I was painfully aware that my bank manager would not consider me a prince, and furthermore I doubted if I could rely on Louise returning to play my sleeping princess. I was also uncomfortably aware that celibacy was rapidly becoming a way of life. It’s nice to dream, but unlike Louise’s return, the threat of Eva’s was no inducement to continue my mission. What was an inducement was the thought that Cara was my partner in our joint efforts. I remained convinced that there was more to this case than a jealous woman’s revenge, and coupled with my concern for Eva herself, that drove me on.