by Amy Myers
It was a weak recovery though – I knew it, and Belinda spotted it. That made me press on even more rashly. ‘With both Ambrose and Carlos there that evening, either or both of them could have known what happened to Watson and the Crowshaw Collection, couldn’t they?’
‘I’m not psychic, Jack. They would hardly tell me about it, would they?’ Belinda laughed, clearly knowing she had won – temporarily.
Canterbury is a magnificent city, and just walking through it gives one a sense of perspective. It did so today, as I realized that even after three days I was still nursing hurt pride where Frank Watson was concerned. I told myself that Canterbury had flourished under the Romans, had a cathedral church under the Anglo-Saxons and another under the Normans; in comparison with that my pride was hardly a major issue.
The cathedral we know today is mainly twelfth-century workmanship. With Thomas Becket’s tomb safely in the crypt and his shrine erected, the age of pilgrimage to the city had begun. The cathedral had survived the dissolution of the monasteries and even the second world war bombs only dented it slightly. Pilgrims used to approach the cathedral on their knees, their horses presumably parked elsewhere, as is today’s motor traffic wherever possible. Even the large shops that now dominate one end of the St Peter’s Street can’t diminish the cathedral’s glory. And just outside the old city walls St Augustine’s Abbey, where King Egbert might or might not have been buried, lies in ruins.
I was here on another mission for the Pits, but as my route took me past the library I made a spur-of-the-moment detour to the reference section. I remembered Belinda’s reference to Watson possibly having retired to heaven, and that Crockford’s has a list of recently dead clergy which I hadn’t yet checked. What did I hope for? That I would find nothing, or that Frank Watson would be amongst the list of the recently deceased? The search produced nothing. Which meant what? Either he had changed his name when he was ordained, or he had died soon after his ordination and that he – and all clues to his treasure – were indeed in heaven.
I drove home in low spirits. Where next? Only one choice. The Pits. At least I had fulfilled Len’s mission, and I was able to hand him the ignition coil he wanted for the Frazer-Nash. He thanked me and turned back to the job. Once again I was not needed.
‘When will it be ready to go?’ I asked, determined to remain one of the party.
‘Don’t know,’ Zoe sang out. Len didn’t even reply.
Them that asks no questions isn’t told a lie, I thought, remembering Dad’s beloved Kipling poem. Kipling always has a word for it, he would say. I felt obstinate though. I had to ask questions about Carlos Mendez and Ambrose Fairbourne. Even if—
I stopped right there. I had been told a lie. By Jonathan Lamb.
My first sight of Eva the next day shocked me. She looked even more subdued and listless than on my previous visit. I thought of what I had read about the mental state of prisoners on remand, and I could see it in Eva.
‘Is good that you come, Jack,’ she told me, and I think she meant it, although her face had hardly lit up in welcome.
‘Has Cara visited you?’
‘Yes. She is good daughter. You good husband.’
She sounded like an automaton and now was not the time to remind her I was not her husband.
‘How’s the food here?’ I started with this banal approach, deciding to delay the serious issues for the moment.
She shrugged. ‘I still live.’
‘When you’re out of here I’ll treat you to all the paella you want.’ It had been a standard joke between us in our marriage that she liked no food but paella.
She tried to smile. ‘When do I get out of here, Jack?’
‘I hope soon,’ I said more confidently than I felt, ‘but I need your help.’
‘How I help? I help you already.’
I struggled on. ‘Did Carlos ever talk to you about his life before he met you?’
She looked at me as though I were out of my mind. ‘We were married long time. Of course he talk.’
‘Did he mention having known the May Tree Inn when he was much younger and before he joined the Charros?’
She frowned. ‘He said he and Matt knew the pub well.’
Careful, I warned myself. Eva was already growing bored. I remembered the signs. If she could not see a direct connection to her, her attention span was limited.
‘Did he ever talk about a night when there was a gunfight at the pub?’
‘Why you want to know?’ Her voice began to rise.
‘Concentrate, Eva. It might get you out of here.’
She paid attention to that, at any rate. ‘Perhaps. He say his father play there until one time there was trouble and he not go back for years. They go to America. Then Carlos come back here and start band and have that woman. Then he met me.’
Charming! I thought of poor Josie. ‘Good, Eva,’ I encouraged her. ‘Did he have money when you met him or talk about a man who had run off after the night of the trouble at the May Tree?’
‘I no remember. Perhaps.’
Press on regardless. ‘Does the name Frank Watson mean anything to you? Or Tony Wilson, Vic Trent?’
‘No.’
I sighed with desperation. ‘Did Carlos not tell you the name of the person he had this business deal with? Was it anyone in the band? That’s what you told me earlier.’
‘No. It was woman.’
Too much to hope for, I supposed. I’d try again. ‘There might have been a customer in the May Tree the night of the trouble called Ambrose Fairbourne. Did Carlos mention that name? You might have known him during your visits there too. He was an archaeologist, dug up historical sites.’
A blank expression, then light came to her at last. ‘He was in pub sometimes when he played.’
‘Who played? Carlos’s father?’
An impatient shake of the head. ‘No, no. When the Charros played.’
‘So you did know Carlos all the years we were married.’
A reminiscent smile now. ‘Only last year. Carlos very jealous, even then,’ she said lovingly, and for a moment I was whisked back to our own sex life. It had been good.
I forced myself back to the present. ‘Was Carlos friendly with Fairbourne then? Do you remember that?’
‘Carlos friendly with everyone, so yes, he friendly with Ambrose. He was a rich man, Carlos said, so maybe Carlos ask him for money when we run away.’
This was so unexpected I thought I’d misheard. Ask him for money? ‘Are you sure about that, Eva?’ I held my breath. ‘Did Carlos get money from him to go to South America with you?’
‘Yes, he get money.’ Another flicker of a smile.
‘From Ambrose Fairbourne?’
‘Neil tell me his father give it to him.’
I reeled, then thought this through. ‘But Frank Watson wasn’t there in the 1980s. It can’t have been him.’ Or was he there? Eva, Eva, I silently pleaded. Tell me.
‘Who this Frank man? I tell you Carlos’s father give him money.’ More impatience. ‘Sometimes you stupid, Jack.’
This was going round in circles and so was my head. Carlos, Ambrose, Neil and Frank … Belinda had said Frank wasn’t around in her time at the pub. If he had kept a low profile, however, how could she have known who he was? Perhaps he did nip in to listen to his son’s band. Only Neil would have known who he was – and perhaps Betty, although she had only seen Frank once and that was ten years earlier. It sounded to me as if Carlos had put Neil up to telling Eva that his cash injection was from his father, or maybe he had led all the Charros to believe that story. That would avoid the truth coming out if in fact it was Frank supplying the cash when Carlos tried a little blackmail on him. I tried that theory for size and it fitted nicely.
Which left Ambrose.
I wouldn’t get any further with Eva on that question, so I went back to basics. ‘Eva, you told the police that Carlos was dead when you arrived.’
‘Yes,’ she said piteously, ‘I see him. I run
away.’
‘How did you know it was Carlos?’
‘His coat.’
That rang true, as it implied she knew his face had been shot away. ‘You’re sure, Eva?’ I double-checked.
‘Yes. Sometimes I tell truth, Jack.’ She managed a smile, and I felt an affection for her that had somehow surmounted the years. This time I believed her story.
TWELVE
The problem with spare wheels is that they have no one to share their burdens with, whether positive or negative. After I returned on Thursday I’d rung Cara to tell her the results of my talk with Eva, but apart from being glad to hear that I now believed Eva’s story – as Cara did herself – she either wasn’t interested in hearing how my investigation was going or hadn’t got the time to listen. Neither explanation quite fitted but I had too much on my mind to take it further.
Brandon was ruled out as a sharer of burdens because he had not been convinced by the Frank Watson angle. Len and Zoe were always a possibility but they needed sympathy themselves at present. The Frazer-Nash was defying their best efforts – the spark advance was not yet advancing. I had to face the fact – alone – that I had blithely entered a blind alley where Frank Watson was concerned, now that I had realized Jonathan must have lied to me. His whole story about Watson becoming a clergyman had been a fictional red herring.
Finally, even Zoe noticed my mood despite the attractions of the Pits. ‘Snap out of it, Jack. What’s eating you?’
Zoe for once sympathized and even Len paused briefly while I related the continuing saga of Frank Watson.
Len began the response with a grunt. ‘Who did you say started this story about Frank Watson taking the cloth?’
‘Jonathan Lamb.’
‘Thought he was in that band Mendez ran. What’s he know about Frank Watson?’
‘His son was his partner.’
‘Why should he know what Frank did after his son’s death though?’ Zoe asked patiently.
I stared at her. ‘Good point, Zoe. They must have kept in touch.’ Then the clouds parted and the blessed truth shone out. ‘Frank must attend those parties. If he was dead, there would be no need for Jonathan Lamb to concoct fairy stories about Dorset. So … he’s alive and not too far away.’
I grabbed hold of Zoe and danced her wildly round what little space there was in the Pits.
Len looked on with mild astonishment. ‘Want Vic’s address now?’
I did. I also wanted to ring Tony Wilson, who listened to my thesis reasonably patiently, although I could hear him breathing heavily at the other end of the line, as though he was already on the trail.
‘I’m right with you, Jack,’ he said. ‘Frank dead? No way. We’re like old soldiers, we villains. We never die. We just fade away. That’s what Frank’s doing if you ask me. Like a blinking chameleon he is. I’ve been after him ever since Her Majesty’s Prison Service kicked me out. Hear the odd whisper now and then, and then he’s gone again. Never no hard facts.’
‘Do any of these whispers place him in Kent?’
‘Not so far. If they do, I’ll get to him first, Jack. Trust me.’
I went a vital step further. ‘You should be the first to hear any whispers, as Betty goes to that anniversary lunch for Frank’s son Neil.’
‘I would,’ he agreed. ‘Which is exactly why old Frank doesn’t go to them, whatever name he might be using.’
That figured, I thought. I’d been wrong about the lunches. Jonathan must be in touch with Frank, but Frank didn’t dare risk attending the lunches because Betty might recognize him or put two and two together. If he was still alive, however, at least I now had some kind of line on him – whatever name he might be using. It was high time I put Vic Trent into my picture. Undoubtedly, Tony Wilson would have been on the blower to him immediately I hung up, but it was going to be interesting to see what would come next.
Vic Trent lived above the shop – which was one of those invaluable convenience stores that sell everything seemingly every hour of every day of every week – although I gathered that his son now ran it. As I had driven through the congested roads to reach it I had half regretted coming, as it felt like a detour from the main path of the case. I reminded myself that the anniversary lunch was only two weeks away now, and I wasn’t going to get an invitation without some hard work. I needed more facts at my disposal before I could demand an invitation that the Charros couldn’t refuse. No Poirots would be welcome at their party, but if there was any chance of picking up a clue to Watson’s whereabouts I needed to be present. This detour could therefore be valuable. For all Tony knew, Vic could have been in contact with Frank or even sheltering him.
I found the shop, albeit with some difficulty. It was indeed a corner shop and buried in the heart of an estate in an area of Greater London that in the past had been notorious for its highwaymen, but none have been arrested recently. Not on horses with cloaks and masks, anyway. The estate looked as if it dated from the 1960s with rambling, neat identical houses. The shop was somewhat in need of paint, but it was very clearly part of the local way of life. It boasted a small post office within, and there was a wine department too, but even so it failed to enchant. The vegetables looked tired and so was the greeting from – presumably – Vic’s son.
‘Could I have a word with Vic if he’s about?’ I asked, buying a bottle of wine as an offering for Vic.
‘Who wants him?’
That wasn’t a good start. ‘Jack Colby. Len Vickers suggested I look him up.’
He disappeared into the storeroom behind the shop and reappeared so quickly with the man himself that I guessed Len as well as Wilson had already called Vic.
Central casting could not have provided a better stereotype for a semi-retired shop owner. Vic was a big man, almost as tall as me, and with a much fatter beer belly. He looked placid though, as if he had come to terms with his past life. He sized me up equally quickly, and I must have passed muster by whatever standards he was applying because he ushered me into the storeroom and then upstairs to his flat. I could hear a Mrs Trent (presumably) moving about but the living room remained our private domain. Slow and direct was Vic Trent, rather like John Wayne in his later film career; he was the sort that eyed his opponents carefully before drawing a gun. Metaphorically, I hoped, in Vic’s case.
‘Len said you wanted my take on Frank Watson.’ Vic’s face did not move a muscle. ‘Good sort, Len.’
‘Don’t I know it,’ I agreed. We chatted a bit about Frogs Hill while we took each other’s measure, then I plunged in. ‘I’ve been told Watson became a clergyman in Dorset.’
Vic appeared to think this over even though Tony would have passed this snippet on. ‘Pull the other one,’ was his verdict. ‘Who told you that load of cobblers?’
‘Jonathan Lamb, who was the partner of Watson’s son Neil, who died in the nineties.’
‘Heard about Neil. Never met him, even as a kid.’ A pause. ‘You know I was inside for a while over that job?’ And when I nodded, he continued, ‘Came out in 1984, started this place thanks to my wife and never looked back.’
‘Nor has Tony,’ I remarked. ‘Except with wistfulness at the missing cash from the Crowshaw Collection.’
Vic chuckled. ‘We’d all like to win the lottery. Me too. Doesn’t mean I can’t live without it. I’m with Tony though. If that skunk Frank is living back here, I’d like to ask him what happened to my share. Mind you, if he is here, he’s got another identity now but no dog collar.’
‘People do sometimes want a different direction in life.’
‘Not Frank. He’d have turned his life around with the help of the cash. Tony told me that if he’d been a free man when Frank’s son was mucking around with that band of his, he’d have had a few words with him. I’d have done so myself, but I wouldn’t go nowhere near the May Tree when I got out. Spilt milk, I tell Tony, but of course there’s the Joannie issue for him too. If Frank is back here, what happened to her? Is she still with him?’
; ‘Tony seems very happily married to Betty now.’
‘Sure he is, but he would still want to know what happened to Joannie. He wouldn’t forget her. He worshipped the ground she trod on, did Tony, and no wonder, she was a stunner. So he’ll be as keen as you are to find Frank.’
‘Did you like her?’
He shrugged. ‘Sharp eye for main chance, I always thought. I reckon it was her who planned the scam to scoop the lot, not Frank. She had an eye for men all right though, and Frank was one of them.’
‘Brian Thompson’s death wasn’t planned though.’
He looked uncomfortable. ‘Shouldn’t have said what I did. It’s a long time ago now. Still, now it’s out. I always thought that’s how Frank scarpered, and Tony worked it out too. The stuff was in Joannie’s car, so she just kept to the original plan for the four of us – five plus her. She’d go over to Calais and we’d all meet up there – only, the last bit didn’t work. She used her car when events hotted up, Frank followed in his – and they both went off in his car when they met at Dover, having loaded it with the swag. They must have had a different plan originally or we’d have been after Madam Joannie and Frank like a flash when we realized what was happening.’
‘That seems to add up.’
‘I’d plenty of time to think about it in the Scrubs. Well, it’s a long time ago and I’ve a new life now.’
‘Do you mind this talk about the old one?’
‘Why should I? It’s over thirty years ago, and I served my time. We’re happy enough here, with or without Frank Watson’s cash. That’s how Tony and I think of it, because you can bet your bottom dollar that the Crowshaw Collection has been smelted down or sold to some billionaire, so there’s no reason for anyone to go murdering folk over thirty years after the event. That’s what you’re here for, ain’t it? Carlos Mendez. What’s your angle on all this, anyway?’
‘Mendez ran off with my wife in 1991, but I’ve discovered he was at the May Tree on the night of the shoot-out.’
