by Amy Myers
And play they did. I was impressed, particularly by Josie. That shimmering silk dress, the hair and the songs had me captivated. They were performing on a platform erected in the gardens, with the audience gathered around, and even the staff came out to listen to ‘The Bamba’, ‘Beloved Mexico’ and ‘You Belong to my Heart’. Was Josie thinking of Neil or Carlos, I wondered. She certainly put her heart and soul into song, and if, as she had claimed, she had lost her voice over the years, it had miraculously been restored with only the odd glitch. It was, as Jonathan had said, indeed the best way of remembering Neil.
‘How are you faring, Jack?’ Belinda unexpectedly materialized at my side as I applauded.
‘On the trail,’ I said lightly. In fact I had by now no great hopes of the afternoon achieving anything, even from those last five prospects on my list. One of them was Neil’s uncle, a benevolent sixty-year-old plus who regarded me with mild curiosity, as did his companion, surely his wife – they had the same benign smiles as I introduced myself as a friend of Jonathan’s.
‘You’re Frank Watson’s brother?’ I asked with interest.
‘Brother-in-law Mike,’ he told me. ‘This is my wife, Neil’s Aunt Lizzie.’
‘I’ve already met one Aunt Lizzie.’
‘Right.’ A merry laugh. ‘Neil’s landlady. He used to joke about it.’
‘His father isn’t here, is he?’ I asked carelessly, as a friend of Jonathan’s might do.
‘Frank? Crossed out of the family Bible years ago,’ Lizzie informed me cheerfully.
‘Sorry to hear that.’
‘We’re not.’ She giggled nervously. ‘Blot on the family escutcheon. That’s what he was.’
‘Jonathan told me he was a clergyman in Dorset now.’
‘That’s right. Or was. Clergyman, anyway,’ Mike said defensively. ‘Don’t know where or even if he’s still in the land of the living.’
The answer had come back quickly – too quickly? – and somewhat threw me. Had I made a mistake over this clergyman business or was this whole gathering in on some kind of conspiracy to hide the existence of Frank Watson? ‘Are there more siblings, or are you the only one, Lizzie?’
‘Just me and Frank,’ she replied. ‘His getting mixed up with that hijacking at the May Tree was the last straw. Then he vanished, and good riddance.’
‘You’d have thought he would have come on a day such as this though, especially as he was a clergyman.’
‘Expect he would have if he was alive,’ Mike said firmly.
‘You really don’t know?’
‘No,’ they both told me in unison.
They were both watching me very carefully, I thought, but perhaps that was my imagination. ‘I’d assumed your brother was still living in South America with Joannie Wilson until Jonathan told me otherwise.’
Mike looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, he’s not.’
There was an air of finality in this that suggested I could now get lost. I did just as poorly with the other four candidates, with the result that as the afternoon ended I found myself caught up in a mass of people heading for the car park and kicking myself for having failed. Frank himself was not here, and no one was going to give me any clues on his whereabouts. I had duly paid my respects to Jonathan and resigned myself to joining the traffic jam.
Unexpectedly, the jam cleared, both the one in the car park and the fuzziness in my mind. At last! I reminded myself that I was a car detective. To be certain that Frank Watson was not here, I had only to hang around, take some photos, see which of my candidates took off in which car, note the number plates – then get the details of the owners from the Swansea licensing agency.
It’s always interesting to see who owns which car, and in this car park it was more than interesting. It was essential. Lizzie and Mike climbed into a Renault Megane hardtop; another candidate, who told me he was Frank’s brother (interesting, since his sister didn’t seem to know she had another brother), climbed into a BMW M3; one who said he had been Neil’s college tutor roared off in a Porsche Boxster, and another candidate in a Vauxhall Astra. One by one they all left, but despite the assurance of their car registrations being in my possession I remained a worried man. Why? Because Belinda, Betty, Jonathan, Clive, Matt and Josie all seemed remarkably unworried by my presence. Clive even gave me a friendly hello.
Jonathan must have been watching my every move because as I waited – I thought unobtrusively – until most cars had gone, he came over to me. ‘I used to collect train numbers as a kid,’ he remarked, looking pointedly at my iPhone and notebook.
I put them away, with a bland: ‘Car numbers aren’t nearly so much fun.’
‘So what do you hope to discover?’
‘Frank Watson,’ I told him.
He merely grinned and strolled off back towards the hotel. I watched him go. I was dispirited to say the least, since I had no great hopes of the Swansea venture turning up trumps. There was something about the cocky way he was walking away that riled me. I was missing something, and I was damn well going to find it.
In desperation, I walked over to have a look at the smaller car park marked, Staff Only, behind the main parking area, since as well as the staff cars I could also see Belinda’s Thunderbird and Jonathan’s Bristol. Just for luck, I took some photos of them too. At least they were great cars, even if I now had to admit I wasn’t going to find that missing X factor. Not today, anyway.
I set the Swansea plan in motion as soon as I reached Frogs Hill. I didn’t get any results for twenty-four hours, and unsurprisingly none of them made Frank Wilson a possible candidate for ownership. Even gloomier now this avenue was closed, and frustrated that nothing seemed to be happening about pinning down this mysterious boat one way or another, I roped Cara in for a recce of Allington Lock. The fact that the boat (if it existed) had gone by the time Brandon’s men tackled the question was not proof there had not been one. Anyway, the trip was something to do, and perhaps the fresh air might even clear my addled brain. It would also provide an opportunity to be with Cara. I had seen little of her, despite the fact that she was living in the farmhouse. On the rare occasions she was at home in the evenings she seemed to be perpetually on the phone. To Harry, I presumed. I didn’t dare ask.
Cara wasn’t convinced the mission was worthwhile, but I could see she shared my feeling that doing something was better than doing nothing, with Eva’s plight so much on our minds. Cara said she would come along as a ‘sounding board’. I could bounce my ideas off her, and she could tell me when I was going off the rails. This appeared an excellent plan. The only flaw in it was that I had run out of ideas to bounce. In vain did she and I march up and down the towpath, gazing at endless boats that told us nothing except that some of them were permanently moored, some temporarily and some passing through. Cara had no other ideas either. What she did have was determination, so we duly inspected all the many boats and talked to the many owners. To no avail. Even Cara was forced to abandon this quest in favour of lunch at the Malta Inn.
‘Where now?’ she asked, that enjoyable respite over.
‘I’ll leave you here for five minutes while I take a walk.’
She fixed me with a glare. ‘Along the towpath? Are you trying to spare my feelings?’
‘He was your stepfather.’
‘Which is why I’m coming.’
There was no answer to that, so we set off, with the noise of the weir deafening us as we passed the bridge. What on earth had brought Carlos along here in the semi-dark? Cara didn’t flinch when we reached the point where his body had been found. ‘Here?’ she asked, when I stopped. And when I nodded, she said in bewilderment, ‘But there’s nothing here.’
‘That’s the reason.’ I explained the theory that his murderer could have been looking across the river to point out the boat to him, and she was dubious, as I feared.
‘Carlos wasn’t stupid. He was pretty careful over his own skin. He wouldn’t walk along here without good reason. He wouldn’t know
where he was going, for a start, even if he was with this so-called business colleague Frank – or a floozie, of course. All he’d see was a lot of boats over the far side of the river and expect to go over there. Though there are quite a few moored this side too,’ Cara added. ‘And Carlos would have expected to be walking in the Maidstone direction.’
‘But in front of us—’ I broke off and gazed in amazement at this prodigy I had sired. ‘Daughter mine, that is it. Carlos wouldn’t know that his chum’s boat didn’t exist and that it wasn’t ahead of them round the bend in the river and moored to the towpath.’
Cara laughed, as delighted as I was. ‘Easy when you think of it. What else can you solve, Dad?’
‘Where else to look for Frank Watson.’
‘A very elusive man,’ she commented. ‘A Scarlet Pimpernel of sorts. Anything remarkable about him?’
‘Tried that one. I was told that the only remarkable thing about Frank Watson was that he is or was unremarkable.’
‘In what way?’
‘Not noticeable, I suppose, just an accepted part of the landscape, like Chesterton’s postman.’
‘Did you notice any postmen at Conygarthe Manor?’ she asked.
‘Very funny. No—’ I did a double take. ‘Again. Cara, you are brilliant. You are the most remarkable daughter I ever had. Forget Harry. Join my team.’
‘Cars aren’t my thing. What have I solved now, Dad?’
‘Postmen, Cara. Postmen.’
‘Explain.’
‘The staff,’ I told her. ‘I saw them, but I never looked at them.’ They had been there in their penguin suits, listening to what was going on. ‘And, jubilation, one of them must have been Frank Watson. He was there all the time, and the numbers at the lunch had been swelled to make him even less conspicuous.’
Jonathan’s cockiness as the last car left the main car park had been for that reason. That it was all over. He had seen me put my iPhone away and known I had swallowed the bait. Frank had been one of the staff – most probably a waiter, so that he could mingle. He was either a permanent employee or a casual through an agency, in which case he could have covered his tracks and would be untraceable. What Jonathan did not know, however, was that I had looked at the cars in the staff car park, even if I had not written down the registration numbers.
My photographic memory for number plates can’t cope with a large number of them at one time, but there hadn’t been many cars there apart from the two I already knew. I had, I remembered with relief, taken the photos of the Bristol and the Thunderbird, and in them the other cars appeared in the background. They would be too distant to read the plates, but it would help me to remember them, so with good fortune and a fair wind behind me I could bring the numbers to the forefront of my mind.
When we reached Frogs Hill, Cara went off for a walk to the village and I repaired to the Glory Boot to look at the photos and concentrate. There had been five staff cars left, none of them straight off the production line. They were a VW Golf, a Honda Jazz, a Toyota Yaris, a Ford Ka and an elderly Audi A3. Which one would Frank Watson choose?
I came down to the Golf or the Audi. So I concentrated on those, willing the numbers to return. Maybe Dad saw me and took pity, maybe it was my lucky day, but one at least returned in full instantly. The other was only missing one letter. Eventually, it came to me and in two days’ time I had my answer. The Golf was registered to a Mrs Barbara Heywood, and the Audi to a Mr Stephen Frank, who lived in Folkestone. No contest as to which I would be following up.
By rights I should have alerted Brandon, but pig-headed as I can be on occasion, I decided to have a scouting expedition to see if I could catch a glimpse of this Mr Frank. I didn’t want to be fretting, wondering what was happening if I had reported it right away. Stupid? Perhaps, but I’d had enough of false avenues. As I prepared to set off for Folkestone on Saturday I was once more full of hope that I was on my way with this case. Frank Watson, wanted for theft and involvement in murder, living on the profits of the theft and being blackmailed by Carlos for a second time. Now murderer of Carlos and Ambrose, for reasons yet to be determined but which should not be hard to discover.
It being a weekend, I might spot Stephen Frank in his garden. Even if he was employed full time at the manor, he had to have some days off, and Joannie might be around. On balance I thought that he was probably employed there, rather than a casual, as that would explain why the lunch had been held there. It had been for his benefit.
Once more my plans were stymied, however. There, once again sitting on my wall, was Daisy. Guilt returned in full force.
‘Off to find Melody, Jack?’ she called.
‘Another case, I’m afraid.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
I was about to say no, but changed my mind. ‘Why not?’ I replied. On a scouting trip it might help to have a female companion. I would look more innocently ‘normal’. Moreover, having a Daisy on any trip isn’t exactly a penance, although I didn’t want to listen to too much talk about Melody while I needed to think about Stephen Frank.
‘Lagonda?’ she asked hopefully, jumping off the wall.
‘Not today. My aim is to escape notice.’
The Alfa it was, despite her disappointment. Both my beloved Gordon-Keeble and the Lagonda would be far too conspicuous for my purpose. Luckily, Daisy was happy enough. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.
‘Folkestone area.’
‘Oh good, I like the seaside.’
‘So do I, but this trip is inland.’
Folkestone is a large sprawling town and spreads quite a way back from the sea, so I humoured Daisy by taking the Hythe coastal road to approach Folkestone in order that she had her taste of the sea. Then I branched off into the town’s back streets to find Elmore Close where Mr Stephen Frank lived blissfully unaware that Nemesis was about to descend on him. As we turned into the close and I was busy looking for number eight, there was a shriek from Daisy.
‘Melody!’
Fortunately, I had been driving slowly, but even so shock made me slam on the brakes. When I’d recovered my breath from the jerk I enquired: ‘What, may I ask, was that all about?’
She was already jumping out of the car, even though we were still in the middle of the road. ‘Whoopee! Melody. It really is her.’ She was shouting this back even as she raced back to the car.
I turned round to have a look. The car was indeed pinky-grey, and indeed it was a Morris Minor 1000. I parked as speedily as I could and ran to join her. It was only as I reached her and the car that I realized that we were more or less outside number eight. I was dizzy with shock. What kind of conjuring trick was this? Stephen Frank’s home, Frank Watson – and Melody?
Daisy was by now shrieking and dancing with joy. ‘It’s Melody, Melody …’ she cried, attracting curious looks from the one or two people who passed us. ‘Look, Jack, it is her. Look at the number plate.’
I did, and she was right. It was Melody.
Daisy busily examined the car from top to bottom, end to end. ‘She’s only got a scratch on it, and look, that’s where Justie tied the number plate on again. I can drive her home,’ she crowed.
‘No way, Daisy,’ I yelped, wondering what had happened to my planned unobtrusive visit to spy out the land. ‘There are procedures to follow.’ I felt as ancient as Methuselah delivering this line, but it had to be said. There were indeed procedures and, more importantly, this car could still be part of a murder case and would need checking over yet again.
‘What procedures?’ Her face darkened.
‘I have to call the Car Crime Unit. I’ll ring now, plus,’ I added, ‘she could still be involved in something more serious.’
Daisy was furious, even when I pointed out that there was no key in the ignition, so that unless she had brought the spare set with her Melody would be going nowhere without a low loader.
She ignored that fact. ‘Are you telling me I won’t be able to have her even after the police have been he
re?’
‘They’ll probably take her with them.’
Disbelief all over her face. ‘You’re joking.’
‘Afraid not. I wish I were. I’ll ring now while you guard the car.’
‘You bet I will.’ Gone were the sunny smiles. I got the message. If I’d had a commission from her I was sacked.
At that moment, however, I had more on my mind than Melody. Mr Frank. I rang Dave, whose remit covered all Kent – which might apply to Brandon too. I didn’t care. If I rang Brandon to announce that I thought I had found Watson, the complications would be endless. He’d want to know a lot more before he’d act.
Should I hold my horses until Dave arrived? No way. I just could not resist temptation. Watson would vanish as soon as he saw anything resembling a police car.
So what did I do? I took a deep breath, walked up the drive of number eight and rang the doorbell.
FOURTEEN
‘Stephen Frank’ did not blink an eyelid when I told him who I was and why I was here – now that was remarkable.
‘They said you were good,’ he remarked.
‘You’re not so bad yourself. I imagine you’ve been living here quite some time.’ I saw what Tony had meant by his being unremarkable though. Stephen Frank must be about seventy, thinning nondescript brown hair, middle build, middle height, and a ‘middling face’. Not too lined, not too alert, not too dull, regular features and a look halfway between content and resignation.
‘Twenty years or so. I take it the Old Bill’s on its way?’ He grinned when I nodded. ‘They don’t waste time. It was thirty years ago. Why don’t they spend their time cleaning up today’s crimes?’
‘This one is today’s crime. Car theft,’ I told him blandly.
‘Eh?’ His face registered complete astonishment.
‘One Morris Minor.’ I turned round to point it out.
