by Amy Myers
He didn’t look surprised. ‘Yeah, Tony told me that. So what? I didn’t know him just because he was in the pub. Joannie was in her element that night – I did notice that. Some cheeky young bugger was chatting her up – was that this Carlos? – and that archaeologist bloke was too.’ He paused. ‘The one who’s just copped it along with Mendez. That anything to do with you?’
‘It is. You’re sure it was Ambrose Fairbourne? Can you tell me more about him and Carlos that night?’ I waited interminable seconds until he replied.
‘No problem, Jack. I’ve gone over it enough times already. I was only ever at the May Tree the one night, so I know what I saw and when I saw it. Brian’s plan was that we steered clear of the May Tree before the actual day so that it wouldn’t be the first place that the rozzers would raid. We all came back to the pub in our own cars, but slipped in at the back entrance so as not to draw attention to ourselves. About six thirty that was. The band had just arrived, but wasn’t yet set up. The others were all busy piling the stuff into Joannie’s car, so I strolled into the bar to see what was what. This young chap was at the bar, and Joannie was giggling with him. Then this Fairbourne bloke turned up, went straight to the far end of the bar and made a dead set at her. Joannie played them off against each other. Favourite game of hers, didn’t mean nothing.
‘I went back later and Frank was with them. We took it in turns to see all was OK out in the bar and buy a drink or two. Joannie was quieter by the time I got out there and the conver-sation changed smartish as I arrived. Then it all speeded up – in my memory, at least. The band got going, customers rolled in, and Brian was making his pitch in the back room with us three about how he was going to take more. Brian was a good chap, but we’d already agreed who was having what so it wasn’t going to be changed. Tony started yelling at him, and I could see what was going to happen.
‘I was standing back, so was Frank,’ Vic continued, ‘then Frank moved forward, quick like, and Brian drew, thinking Frank was coming for him. He never did, but Tony made this lunge. Brian didn’t like that, the gun was trembling in his hand, and as Tony saw it he drew too – well, I rushed to stop him like a fool and caught Brian’s bullet in me leg, and the next thing I knew I was on the floor in agony and Brian beside me, blood everywhere.’
Vic grimaced. ‘All hell broke loose then. Tony was gobsmacked, couldn’t move, nor could I, and people were rushing in, calling the rozzers, women screaming. No sign of Frank. Tony rushed out and came back yelling that Joannie had gone and there was no sign of Frank. I told him Joannie would have gone to France like we arranged, but he wouldn’t have it. He was right. No word of Joannie, Frank or the loot since. When the police arrived, half of the customers had gone too.’
‘Including Ambrose Fairbourne?’
‘Must have done. I never saw him when I was carted off, though that doesn’t mean much owing to the fact I was on a stretcher. Last I saw of Carlos, the band – and of the blooming Crowshaw Collection too.’
When I returned from my visit to Vic, the current lady in my life arrived, and like Daisy she was a welcome one. It was Cara, and she was not happy. Cara is usually so sanguine about life, and so clear about her own path through it, that I was even more concerned to see her looking so down.
‘Can I stay a few days?’ she asked.
‘Of course.’
‘No lady friends I’d be embarrassing?’
‘I wish.’
That made her laugh. ‘We’re a fine pair, aren’t we?’
‘Are we?’ This sounded bad. I took her inside, settled her with a cup of tea and then asked: ‘Not going well on the Harry front?’
‘No.’
‘Harry is the problem then,’ I ventured when she said no more.
‘Only whether I’m really cut out for a life with nature. And Harry.’
‘Explain.’
‘I love him and he loves me, but his nose, eyes and mind are all focused on the land in front of him. I know that’s important but …’
‘You feel there’s more to life?’
‘Yes. People, for instance.’
‘Such as you?’
She giggled. ‘Yes. So a little time away could do us both good. I’ve got time off until after the weekend. OK by you?’
‘Very OK. Just don’t expect me to cook breakfast.’ A vision of the tray I once prepared for Louise came to me and had to be thrust back into the archive. ‘Is that what’s brought you here?’
‘Plus Eva.’
‘What news?’ I asked cautiously.
‘There’s a date for her trial. Fifteenth of January.’
‘That’s quick.’ It was almost July now, and those months were going to race by.
‘She’s not doing well, Dad.’
‘Her story’s changed again?’
‘No, but she has. I’ve never known her so quiet. Almost as if she was giving up.’
This didn’t sound good and tallied with my impression. ‘Do you think that’s because of the case, or because she’s lost Carlos?’
‘Mainly the former. The warmth had gone from their relationship, as they say. I don’t think it was all fantasy that she and Carlos were splitting up. Eva was banging on about some cousin in Spain whom she fancied years ago.’
‘Here we go,’ I groaned.
‘But she’s not even talking about him any more. Give me some good news, Jack. How’s your side of things going?’
‘It’s not good – not in the short term, anyway. They’re just bits and pieces.’
‘Can I help glue them together?’
‘Not unless you can find a man who’s been missing for over thirty years, plus get me an invitation to a party in just under two weeks’ time.’
‘Neither. Is it any particular party you have in mind and is it important?’
‘Yes.’
Cara listened as I explained the situation on both counts, then she fastened on to one point. ‘This Belinda, who’ll be at the party, does she come into the Carlos story?’
‘She’s Daisy’s grandmother.’
‘Who?’ Cara asked patiently.
‘She’s Melody’s owner.’
She gazed at me, and I grinned. ‘Melody’s a car, Daisy’s a client, Belinda’s her grandmother.’
Cara honed in. ‘Does this Daisy owe you?’
‘Yes and no. She depends on me.’
‘Make it yes and ask her to order her old granny to get you an invitation.’
‘She won’t,’ I said gloomily. ‘I’d be the cuckoo in the nest.’
‘Push it, Pa, push it.’
Daisy was the simpler part of the mission. She didn’t know what was involved, so she gaily replied, ‘Easy,’ when I put my request to her the next day. I had bent the truth and told her it might help find Melody, and she therefore saw no reason that Gran Fever would veto my presence.
I received my prompt comeuppance that evening in the form of an imperious phone call. ‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at, Jack?’
‘Playing at nothing, Belinda. It’s a murder case. It’s my job. I need to be there.’
‘For Melody?’
‘She’s part of it.’
‘You know full well you have no right to be at the lunch and that it could ruin it for those who still mourn Neil.’
‘I still need to be there.’
A long pause. ‘Any real reason I should talk Jonathan and Clive into it?’
More stretching of the truth. ‘I’m told that the case against Eva is collapsing. The people at that lunch are highly relevant to what happens next.’
‘So?’ she replied impatiently. ‘The guilty party could be tracked down. Why ruin the lunch?’
‘Because Frank Watson could either be there or someone have information about him.’
A pause. ‘And if he’s not present? Will you give up the hunt for him?’
‘No. But you could tell your friends that the police will have them in their sights for shielding Watson.’ I didn’t care ho
w far I stretched truth now. The link between Melody and murder must surely be getting shorter, and it was time to shorten it even further. I had to be at that lunch.
‘You told me Frank was a clergyman in Dorset and might be dead by now.’
‘I did, but let’s assume he’s alive, shall we, Belinda? And that he is not a clergyman in Dorset.’
She didn’t laugh. She merely said, ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
I should have guessed that Melody’s story was not yet over. It couldn’t have ended as peacefully as it appeared. I still had a way to go before the party, and I was returning from a depressing visit to Eva – depressing for both of us, as I still had nothing to tell her. I could almost smell trouble ahead. As I turned into the gates of Frogs Hill I could see it. To my horror the old Volvo was once again parked there, and once again Daisy was haunting my premises. She saw me coming, jumped off the wall, ran over to me as I opened the door of the Alfa – and burst into tears.
‘Justin?’ I asked, almost hopefully.
She shook her golden curls. ‘No.’
‘Then it’s Melody. Crashed her?’
‘No. She’s gone.’
‘Again?’ I couldn’t get to grips with this calamity. The story was not making sense. Then the pieces clicked into place. ‘Someone’s playing a joke on you, Daisy,’ I told her soothingly.
‘If so, it isn’t funny.’
I made a supreme effort not to laugh. ‘When did she vanish?’
‘During the night.’
‘How come you didn’t hear anything?’
‘We were still keeping her in the drive,’ she moaned. ‘No one would steal her again, we thought. But Mum and Dad woke up and saw her being driven off down the street. They started yelling and half the street woke up, but they never caught her. She’s gone.’
‘Doesn’t she have a car alarm?’
‘No.’
‘Locked?’
‘Yes. It’s not a joke, Jack.’
I was beginning to think she was right. A pro could easily have unlocked Melody and started her up. Even so I could see what Dave was going to think. Merely a joker at work.
And then came the dreaded words: ‘What are you going to do about it, Jack?’
My duty, of course. ‘Try to find her,’ I said wearily.
‘Good. And this time,’ she told me severely, ‘I don’t want her stolen ever again. See?’
THIRTEEN
On the ninth of July I drove the Gordon-Keeble to Conygarthe Manor, the hotel where the lunch was to be held, determined that I would turn the day into a watershed for the Carlos case. The manor is on the far side of Canterbury, and although I had heard of it I had never visited it before. Nor was it likely to be home territory for any of the Charros, as it seemed a fair distance from any of their abodes. I had been impressed by what I had seen of it on its website. It looked my sort of place (when I can afford my sort of place). An old Georgian house of mellow yellowing stone, wisteria on its walls and the remains of a monastery in its grounds, which the website informed me stemmed back to Saxon times. That brought back King Egbert to mind and Ambrose’s vain quest to discover his burial mound and goods. Eastry was not that far away from Conygarthe Manor, but today I had to concentrate on Carlos, so a memorial visit to Eastry in Ambrose’s honour had to be put on the back burner.
When I reached the manor gates, I could see that the house lived up to its website. I was surprised to see a board posted outside, however, announcing that the restaurant was closed today owing to a private function. By my reckoning we would only be a party of ten at the most, or a few more with partners, although it was true I had had no such information from Belinda, who had reluctantly sent me an official invitation. I parked in the designated area to the left of the building and walked back to the entrance.
The door was open, and its guardian receptionist ushered me through the house to the gardens. My first shock. From my first sight of the group it seemed more like a large wedding party than a memorial lunch, both in size and attire. No funereal pomp for this anniversary. The women were dressed in all colours of the rainbow, and amongst the smart casual male attire I saw several white charro suits. One of which clad Jonathan Lamb, who came immediately to greet me.
‘Good of you to join us, Jack.’ There was no trace of sarcasm in his voice.
‘Thanks for inviting me.’ No trace of sarcasm from me, either – albeit with some difficulty.
‘Not at all,’ he murmured. ‘Let me get you a drink and introduce you. You won’t know everyone here.’
I doubted if he did either, although perhaps I did him an injustice. Were all these people – eighty or so at a rough guess – his customers, perhaps? They surely could not all be Neil’s relations and friends. Those I talked to over the next half hour while drinks circulated had varied connections, but they all shared one thing. They had all not only heard of Carlos and the Charros, but also seemed to know the band’s music extraordinarily well. Call me cynical, but I wondered whether Jonathan had provided all guests with a CD beforehand. If so, I had not been included in this freebie distribution.
This was a party organized in style. The white suits of Jonathan, Matt and Clive made a stunning picture, and Josie, in a gorgeous slinky white silk dress, was almost unrecognizable. The years fell away, and I could see what an impact she must have made twenty years ago. She was with her mother, but there was no sign of Tony, so either the guest list did not include partners or – I felt a rising excitement – Frank Watson might indeed be here. Tony would have recognized him, but even with the passage of time I had to acknowledge that Betty might not. Vic had only been to the May Tree that one night and so had Frank, according to Brian’s plan. I had not thought of that angle and my hopes rose slightly from rock bottom that Frank was indeed here.
‘Are you performing today?’ I asked Josie.
‘Any problem with that?’
I was taken aback by her return to belligerence. ‘None. I’ll look forward to it.’
I had been about to soothe her, but Jonathan came once again to join us – almost as if he wanted to keep an eye on me. ‘Do all these people come every year?’ I asked innocently.
A speedy answer to this. ‘No. It’s a special year.’
‘To commemorate the Charros because of Carlos’s death?’
‘To remember Neil and Carlos.’
What better way to hide Frank Watson than in a crowd this size, I thought. Most of them were strangers to me and possibly to each other. ‘All these people?’ I asked sweetly.
A smile was Jonathan’s only answer before he melted away in the crowd – taking Josie with him.
Nice one, Jonathan, I thought. I sipped my glass of wine and looked around at the group. The Sancerre was good, just right for the summer sun. But then Jonathan was in the business of getting things right. Today, I was too. I worked my way through to Belinda, who looked stunning in a primrose coloured outfit.
‘In search of someone, Jack?’ she cooed.
‘Pity the guests don’t have name badges,’ I rejoined merrily. ‘Why are there so many people here, Belinda?’
‘All of them remember Neil. Schoolmates, college friends, work experience friends …’
‘And his family too? His father, for instance?’
‘I wouldn’t recognize him even if he was,’ she countered offhandedly.
‘He’s central to two murders, Belinda. Three if you count 1978. Do try to keep an eye open for him.’
‘You’re still on the wrong side of the road, Jack,’ she warned me. ‘You’ll meet an awful lot of traffic coming right at you if you keep going. Get back on course.’
‘Very cryptic. Thanks, but I’ll choose my own route.’
‘Take care you don’t miss the countryside around you. Gorgeous here, isn’t it? Have you seen the monastery ruins?’ Belinda slithered smoothly out of the danger zone. ‘They’re over there, disguising themselves as rockeries.’
‘Not yet. I thought I should talk to
everyone here.’
I did my best. By the time we were summoned to lunch half an hour later I had worked my way round half the guests at least. My small talk had been the smallest possible in the circumstances and it had got me nowhere. Several men fitted the criteria for Frank, but the fuzzy photograph I had copied from the police files proved useless, and unless they were lying as to their connections with Neil and their current employment and status, Frank Watson was not amongst them. How could I know for sure though? Any one of them could have been him. For a few minutes I felt lost as to what to do next – but that, I realized, was exactly what Jonathan wanted.
And that meant Frank must be present.
I still had the other half of the guests to work my way through, and as the party began to move indoors, I reasoned I might stand a better chance here. The stars were with me. It was a seated lunch, with a place arranged for each guest. Unfortunately, unless Jonathan had a sense of humour, I guessed I would not be placed next to Frank Watson.
I wasn’t, nor was his name on the table plan. On my right was Neil’s Aunt Lizzie and on my left Betty Wilson. Why? I wondered. So that she could report my doings to Tony and Vic or because she was a safe bet not to know what Jonathan’s plans were as regards Watson? I chatted amiably to Betty about how good Josie looked and to Aunt Lizzie about her memories of Neil. I did venture a question about Neil’s father, but it turned out that Aunt Lizzie was actually his landlady when he first came to university in Kent and all the students called her Auntie Lizzie. No, she had never met Neil’s father. I sensed Betty listening with interest but she must have been as disappointed as I was because she began to talk avidly to her other neighbour.
Looking around the table, I picked out five more contenders who might be worth investigating, and I decided I would give them a polite grilling before the party broke up. I would also talk to everyone here, male or female. After all, Joannie herself might be here, although Betty would hardly pass that news on to Tony.
The lunch was so good that I almost – but not quite – forgot my mission. At its conclusion, I expected Jonathan would make some kind of a memorial speech about Neil, but he didn’t – or at least only a very short one to announce that as everyone was here because of Neil, the company should move into the garden for the best memorial of all to him. The Charros would play.
