by Amy Myers
‘You wouldn’t have the invoices for 2006 on computer, would you?’ I asked Dean hopefully.
‘Alf did it all manually.’ There was a note of smugness in Dean’s voice. ‘I computerized the system a couple of years back although he still used the manual system – if you call it that.’
Looking at the precision of Alf’s bookkeeping, I could indeed call it a system and a good one, but it had yielded nothing save for that missing year.
‘Fancy an Indian tonight, Zoe?’ I heard Dean ask in a caressing voice as I prepared to leave. He was back in a field where he felt at home.
The last straw. Without my lift home, I’d be taking the train back to Ashford, forking out for a taxi to Frogs Hill and dining on a ready meal. Great.
‘Thanks, Dean. Can’t make it tonight though,’ Zoe said in the most offhand voice I’d ever heard her use.
Sometimes I think I don’t understand women – particularly as Zoe started up the old wreck she calls a car with a pleased smile on her face.
A week later, my contacts were still only bringing in rumour, not hard information, about the De Dion Bouton. Admittedly Easter had intervened, but the criminal world doesn’t observe niceties such as that. My last hope was that the Mad Major’s restorers, Parr & Son, might have an idea of where and when they’d first heard this story. They do good work and are well established so it was worth having a shot at it. What’s more, that meant I could ring Helen and get an invitation to those mysterious sheds. I’d tried her over Easter in the hope that work could be combined with pleasure, but only voicemail greeted me on the landline and I had no mobile number for her.
She seemed pleased to hear from me on the Tuesday following the bank holiday however, and suggested my coming over the next day. She was showing someone round Treasure Island in the afternoon but in the morning she and I could poke around Pompeii and Herculaneum to my heart’s content.
‘Should I clear it with Julian?’ I asked.
‘I’ll tell him, if you like. As I said, he’s sensitive about them.’
‘Does he have a wife or family?’
‘Neither. I think there’s a son somewhere but Mrs vanished long ago clutching her toddler. Julian works from home, surveying consultancy, so he’s out a lot of the time. But even he knows the sheds have to be dealt with sometime. He just doesn’t want to face it and nor does Stanley. Fantasists both of them. Look at it this way: you might have some idea how to tackle their problem so you’ll be doing them a favour.’
I was hooked. Pompeii, Herculaneum and Helen too. What more could I ask?
Answer: a more fruitful visit to Parr & Son. The weathered Len-look-alike who appeared when I rang the bell informed me he was the Son and that Parr senior had long departed. Pete Jones had no problem remembering the Mad Major. He was a frequent visitor, I was told, as was Julian. Nor did he have any problem remembering the story about the De Dion. They’d all had a good laugh about it. Where had it come from? Ah now, bless me, my non-informant chuckled, now you have me. He couldn’t remember. He thought the Major told them – or did they tell him? There’d been some chap in here . . . Perhaps it was he who told them. Or had they thought it up themselves as a good joke? Whichever, they knew they’d talked about it and laughed their socks off.
‘Did you pass the story on?’ I asked.
His answer: why not? It was a joke, wasn’t it? What exactly was the joke? Well, now, he recalled, it involved Kent, De Dion Bouton and Peking to Paris 1907. Big deal. To cut the story short, the race was over, as far as Parr & Son was concerned.
When I arrived frustrated at Treasure Island, Helen was wonderfully comforting. Dressed in jeans and T-shirt, she exuded warmth as she dispensed instant coffee and words of solace. ‘Is it so very important to trace the source?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ I said gloomily. ‘If you find the centre of the whirlpool you’ll understand why it’s whirling.’
‘So you hope the De Dion really is around in Kent?’
‘Yes, but I’m tired of chasing this will o’ the wisp.’
‘Perhaps seeing Pompeii and Herculaneum might help. Perhaps the De Dion’s in one of them.’
‘Temptress. Lead on.’
‘Prepare to gasp,’ she warned me when we arrived at the locked doors of Pompeii.
I prepared.
In vain, however. Nothing could have prepared me for the vision before me when Helen opened the door.
There’s a wonderful novel by Carlos Ruiz Zafón that opens with a cemetery of forgotten books. Here before my eyes lay a cemetery of forgotten cars. Dust lay on them all so thick that I couldn’t even tell the colour of most of them. A few were only the bare bones of chassis frames picked clean by vultures; from another I could see a lone steering wheel sticking up like a hand beseeching help, and empty seats echoed the loneliness of this derelict collection. These poor carcases could not even have had the dignity of driving here under their own steam – and some of them might indeed have been steam powered. There was a double door large enough and high enough for them to be dumped ignominiously by low-loader and crane. Nothing but huge piles of car wrecks met my eyes, some halfway up their neighbour’s bonnet, others piled on top of one another. These forgotten classics looked as if they were waiting in some motor-car limbo for someone to decide their fate, be it heaven or hell.
All these cars had been loved – once. They looked so pitiful I felt like crying. They seemed to be pleading that they had a former life. The glory has departed, I thought. Wasn’t there a word for that?
‘Ichabod,’ murmured Helen at my side.
I took her hand. ‘You read my mind.’
‘Hard not to feel that way faced with this, isn’t it? I hate the sheds.’
‘Is Herculaneum as bad as this?’ I asked. Goodness knows how many cars lay in this forgotten place. Seventy-odd? Eighty? More? Perhaps the De Dion itself really was here.
‘Worse,’ Helen replied. ‘It’s heaps of bits of cars.’
I couldn’t face that. ‘Some other time,’ I muttered. ‘Tell me how this came about.’
‘They’re all cars that Grandfather Carter and Father Carter bought, but didn’t restore,’ she told me sadly. ‘Grandfather Henry ran out of money. Eyes bigger than his bank balance. Dad Carter simply went on buying and closed his eyes to the same problem, although he did set up the charitable trust. Julian inherited it and he too shut his eyes until we were forced to discuss it at a trustees’ meeting after his father’s death.’
There was no clear path through this heap, but Helen and I got into the spirit of the thing and scrambled around like kids. I managed to edge my way along one wall to have a closer look at something. I wish I hadn’t. I found a rare 1924 Jowett, only just about identifiable and beyond restoration. The sheer horror of it drove me back to Helen.
‘Could there possibly be a slim chance that the De Dion Bouton is in this lot?’ I asked. There was no way I could fight my way through to check that for myself.
‘No. That’s the one thing we can be sure of,’ she said to my relief. ‘Mrs Grandfather Henry was a great record keeper and listed each car as Grandfather drove it triumphantly home or had it dumped here. Usually the latter I gather. His son did the same and Julian doesn’t dare buy any more unless they’re in decent nick.’
‘Are the entries fully catalogued with source and any claims to fame?’
‘I doubt it. I suppose that’s part of my job, isn’t it?’ She pulled a face.
I remembered from Zafón’s novel that the privileged few allowed inside the cemetery of forgotten books went from shelf to shelf and browsed until one particular book cried out to be read. Here though? Could one browse through the cars or the heaps of automobilia that waited so patiently to be found? I thought how much Dad would have loved this place, and wondered if he had seen it. I couldn’t believe so, because the sheer thrill of it would have led him to talk to me about it. I was his only outlet, because my mother hadn’t been so keen on cars and automobilia – perhaps bec
ause her chance of a normal life with holidays tended to vanish with each new acquisition.
‘Is the August rally to raise money for sorting and restoring this lot as well as Treasure Island?’ I asked Helen. It would have to be a highly successful fund-raising effort to make any dent on the sheds.
‘Not even Julian and Stanley would dare push for that. The rally money is only for opening the museum to Joe Public, insurance, staff wages, security stuff, accounting, loos, snack bar – that sort of thing.’
I gave one last despairing look at the heaps in front of me. ‘Are you absolutely sure there are no De Dion Boutons or any wreckage in the other shed? Did Stanley check what lists there are?’
‘I don’t know if he did, but Julian and I went through them and clambered around in here when the rally idea first came up.’
‘Whose idea was this rally? The Major’s?’
Helen shrugged. ‘How do ideas get born? No one person was responsible for this one. At the initial trustees’ meeting I’d been talking of fund-raising events and suggested some kind of rally. Julian joked that we should organize one of those Peking to Paris revivals they hold from time to time. Stanley said why not hold our own here, Peking to Paris. Romney Marsh could be the Gobi Desert, etcetera, and Canterbury could be Paris. And then it went on from there.’ She turned those warm brown eyes on me and smiled.
Two ideas were born to me that very moment and they were all my own. Firstly I was going to find Alf King’s killer as well as getting to the truth of this De Dion story. Secondly, that I wanted to take Helen to bed – and preferably soon.
Neither was accomplished that afternoon, but I left her with the two ideas still firmly in my sights. From the kiss she returned as I left, I thought the second idea might be in hers as well.
The next day I paid another visit to Doris. She had been staying at her daughter’s home over Easter, but still seemed shaky – not unnaturally as only ten days had passed since the funeral. She was eager to see me, though, and had even baked teacakes for me. We got on like a house on fire. It wasn’t hard to imagine her home life with Alf – nor how much the manner of his death weighed on her.
I told her about the missing records for 2006 but she shook her head when I asked if he could have left them at home. ‘Alf never did that. I wish he had worked at home. I’d have seen more of him.’ A hesitation, then: ‘So you are treating it as murder,’ she said bravely.
I explained that I wasn’t from the Serious Crime Directorate but had been asked to look into her claim because I knew about cars and car crime, but that we hadn’t reached any conclusion yet. I could see she understood right away. She seemed very much like Alf, in fact. I could imagine them chuckling together at the odd ways of the world, contented and comfortable.
‘Did you share Alf’s love of cars?’ I asked.
‘No. I never could see what made cars so special for him although some of them are nice enough to look at. He and I just agreed to differ. After all, he could never tell one plant from another but to me they’re all special because they’re growing. Cars aren’t alive.’
‘Nor are great works of art,’ I pointed out. ‘And yet they can change people’s lives. Cars can do that too.’
She sighed. ‘I expect you’re right. It’s just that Alf’s met his end by cars – it’s so terrible, terrible. I’m sorry.’ She mopped her eyes. ‘I’m not sleeping too well.’
‘That’s natural.’
‘Yes.’ A silence fell. Then: ‘Do you believe it was an accident?’
‘It seems an odd one to happen to someone as experienced as Alf but—’
‘Don’t say accidents happen,’ she interrupted firmly. ‘’Course they do. But I think someone wanted him dead.’
I tried to go gently but there was no real way round it ‘Why could that be, Doris?’
‘I can’t think. I’d like to help but I can’t. Who would want to hurt him?’
I plunged in. ‘Did he ever suggest he was being threatened, or that anything was wrong at work?’
She stared at me. ‘Never.’ Her eyes filled with tears but I had to press on now.
‘Do you remember anything odd about 2006 that would explain the missing records?’
‘No. Dean might though. He wants to buy me out with a partner. The lawyers are waiting for me to decide, but I can’t think what Alf would have wanted so I’m taking it slowly.’
I took her hand in both of mine. ‘Don’t rush. Take it very gently.’
‘It’s hard, Jack.’ A pause. ‘You said 2006?’
‘Yes. Any odd customers or cars?’
She tried to please me but had to admit, ‘He had so many. Some customers came to the funeral. Alf would have liked that.’
‘Regular customers?’ Could that be a line to follow up? I wondered.
‘Some. There was one lady at the funeral. Her late husband brought several cars to Alf and after his death she brought one too. She used to come to see us every so often after Alf worked on her car, but not recently. Came to the funeral with her neighbour Brenda.’
I clutched at this fleeting point of contact. ‘I met Brenda here after the funeral. Who was the customer?’
‘Victoria I think her name was. I saw her in the church with Brenda, but she didn’t come on to the crematorium or back here.’
Another forlorn hope flickered and died. Then I remembered Brenda’s startled look at the mention of a De Dion Bouton while we were talking at the funeral and hope flared up again. ‘Do you have either of their addresses or surnames?’ It was probably nothing but any port in a storm was better than the open sea in which I was currently floundering.
‘No, Jack. I’m sorry. Brenda told me she’d read the announcement about the funeral in the newspaper. Is it important?’
‘I doubt it.’ I smiled at her. ‘But I’m going to find out anyway.’
Glory be, I rejoiced as I drove away. Forlorn hope or not, it was greatly helped by one of the few quirky talents I have: an uncanny photographic memory where car licence plates are concerned. Any other figures I fight to retain, but put a number plate before me and it’s lodged with me for good. Somewhere, that is . . .
I concentrated. I saw that VW Polo coming towards me again – I’d jumped aside and turned round with shock, so I had two opportunities at seeing the number plate. I only needed one. I relived the scene in my mind and conjured up that plate again.
The magic letters and numbers. The number plate. It was there, before my eyes. I had it.
And soon, thanks to Dave, his team and the Swansea registration office, I’d have the owner’s name and address.
FOUR
‘Alfred King? What about him?’
The female voice at the end of my phone line was querulous, crotchety and possibly cranky. Nevertheless Victoria Drake was the current owner of the car that had nearly run me down, and might have some useful information about Alf if her dealings with him had included a car in the year of the missing records. Especially – although I scarcely dared hope as much – if a De Dion Bouton had been that car.
After convincing her that I wasn’t selling double glazing or insurance, I explained that the Kent Police Car Crime Unit needed to check whether Alf could possibly have been involved, unwittingly, in a crime network past or present. We were therefore checking his customer register in which she figured.
‘Am I supposed to be part of this supposed crime network?’ she snapped back.
‘No, Mrs Drake, but organized crime is increasing in this field and we need to eliminate any suspicion that Mr King’s death was no accident. For instance there’s a current rumour that there is a valuable classic around and as Alf—’
Funny how even over the phone one can pick up vibes in the silences. I’d hit a nerve. I broke off immediately, not knowing whether to curse myself for mentioning it or rejoice at a possible bull’s eye.
‘I drive a Polo and do not possess a De Dion Bouton.’ Her icy voice broke the silence.
Bullseye. I had not
yet suggested she did.
‘Then may I ask which car Alf King restored for you?’
‘Just how far has my privacy been invaded, Mr Colby?’
Definite hostility now, so now more fencing. I was going to take this five-barred gate blindfold at one leap. ‘Your name and a De Dion Bouton were in his records for 2006.’
I waited for another furious retort but it did not come. She must be thinking very carefully indeed, which was good news.
‘I inherited a wreck of a De Dion Bouton from my late husband,’ she replied at last. ‘After his death, I had it restored by Mr King. I no longer possess it. Goodbye, Mr Colby.’ Then a click and the line was dead.
And that was that.
Or so Victoria Drake obviously believed. I had different ideas.
Victoria Drake lived on the outskirts of Lamberhurst, south-east of Tunbridge Wells and Goudhurst. It’s a striking village and I know it both for its vineyard and for its proximity to the magical gardens and house of Scotney Castle. Her address was Elmtree House, Shoulder Mutton Green, so called from its eponymous shape, though the name had lost its ‘of’ over the years. It is a hamlet off the Goudhurst road, and it seemed to me that a reconnaissance trip there would do no harm at all.
Brenda Carlyle had claimed Victoria as a neighbour, although that isn’t a precise term in rural England. I once met an old chap who owned a castle and who claimed that his nearest neighbour – who also owned a castle – was fifty or sixty miles away in the next county. This being in England, not in the Australian outback, it was an interesting remark as his definition of neighbour was obviously the nearest person with whom he exchanged social visits. That way of life is passing now, but all the same Victoria Drake’s ‘neighbours’ might not necessarily live in the next-door house. Anyway, I wanted to see the lie of the land before I tackled either lady again. As Victoria had stated that she no longer owned the De Dion Bouton, I checked with Swansea registration office to see if one were registered to her. Nothing turned up, and my online research revealed no trace of any early De Dion Bouton being sold by or to Victoria Drake in the last twenty years.
