by Amy Myers
I felt a brute for pushing further, but I was driving without a map and since I had to work with Brandon’s satnav for this journey as well as my own, that meant accelerating into unknown territory.
‘Not,’ I repeated, ‘for me.’
I’d no idea what reaction I might get, but I certainly couldn’t have foreseen this one.
A heavy sigh. ‘Then you’ll have to come to the barbecue.’
SEVEN
When I left Barney I was only slightly less perplexed than when he had first delivered his invitation to the barbecue. What was this barbecue all about? He hadn’t made this clear, save that it was taking place on Saturday evening and that of all people the Herricks were officially hosting it. Nevertheless it was some sort of joint event with him and probably one or two others. This left me up a gumtree, as the saying goes. A sticky situation up or down. Apparently Barney knew the Herricks well enough not only to be invited to the barbecue but to share it with them and invite me as well. Plus a companion if I wished. He didn’t mind a bit, even when I experimentally suggested Wendy Parks.
Strange. Even stranger, however, seemed the inappropriateness of his sharing a barbecue so relatively soon after Philip’s death with a family that had at the very least a long-standing rivalry with the Moxtons. Nevertheless Barney had assured me that it was in no way celebratory of anything. I wasn’t to think that at all.
‘I liked your father,’ I had said to Barney, completely bewildered.
He had flushed. ‘It’s a gathering to show that the game really is over. My father would have approved.’
This didn’t sound ‘in no way celebratory’ to me. ‘Who won?’ I asked.
‘No one. That’s the point,’ he told me earnestly.
‘Should I arrive in the Packard then?’ I had meant it sarcastically, but he took it seriously.
‘That’s a brilliant idea.’
Some game, I thought, but nevertheless it was an opportunity to be seized. Curiosity proverbially killed the cat, but I reckoned I would still have six lives left even if I was the one who ended up barbecued.
I spent the next few days glued to my computer, following up Pen’s bank robbery hint. I had no success though, and concluded that Pen was as much in the dark as I was. She had merely been casting out flies to catch unwary fishes. I also devoted myself to the history of Moxtons as an independent private bank. A story of good planning, it seemed to me. Donald Moxton had acquired his first bank in 1948. It was then called Randolphs and run by an Alfred Randolph. Donald had changed its name and expanded his burgeoning empire over the south-east of England by buying similar small private banks. In 1960 he made his bid for higher stakes, by acquiring one in west London and turning Moxtons into an unlimited liability company. He was on his way up. His next acquisition in 1970 was a triumph, firstly because it gave Donald a highly desirable seat at the London Clearing House, making him one of the big boys, and secondly because a few years later he put his son Philip, then aged 25, in charge of it.
So there they were, father and son, planning for the next step. That came in 1981 when Moxtons was taken under the wing of the giant Fentons conglomerate. Donald did splendidly out of his sale of shares and continued to run Moxtons Private Banking under Fentons’ aegis. When Donald retired in 1987, Philip naturally took over the chair and his future was paved with gold.
Despite my further explorations on the web, there was no mention of a bank robbery, although that could be explained by the fact that no bank would boast about such an event and that the robbery, if any, was probably well before the Internet provided mass circulation. I wasn’t therefore any the wiser about that or about Philip Moxton himself, save that he must be a very rich man indeed if he had inherited Donald’s remaining shares and fortune.
I was marginally further forward on the ‘old mates’, Gavin and Donald, although still at sea on when their friendship – if that is what it was – had begun. I could discover only one element in common between the two men. Both of them had come from the largish village of Biddenford, near Woodchurch. Both were roughly the same age, Donald born in 1922 and Gavin a year later, and both were at school there – but it was not the same school. Donald attended the local grammar school from age eleven but Gavin was at private schools from the age of five onwards. Unlikely then to have been close chums from schooldays. It was possible their parents were friends, but that too was unlikely. Donald’s father was the village greengrocer, living above the shop, Gavin’s was a solicitor in Hawkhurst, living in Biddenford in what was clearly a substantial detached Victorian house. In those days at least their families would not have been moving in the same social circles.
The Second World War might have provided a firmer meeting ground, as at eighteen, they would have been at conscription age in September 1939 and would undoubtedly have been called up in due course, subject to medical fitness. I had no luck in establishing a link there either. Donald had gone into the Army, Gavin to the Air Force. It was possible their paths could have briefly collided but that was unlikely to have established an enduring friendship. As for post-war careers, Donald went straight into banking and Gavin into an acting career. No clues there either.
Back to the sunny yellow monster outside: the Packard. It was then I realized that I had been so stunned at the Packard’s arrival that I hadn’t checked what came with it. I’d checked the essential paperwork of course, which included the car’s very recent history, but I’d taken Tom at his word when he told me the original logbook was missing. It might have given me some clues as to how this ‘game’ had developed, so could I be sure Tom wasn’t being economical with the truth? It was at least worth a look in case something of interest remained in the car. I rushed out to the Packard and opened the glove compartment. Empty – well, except for a half-used roll of Polo mints, an old map of Kent, and a small packet of tissues. No logbooks, no papers of any kind.
Was that by accident or design? I wondered. I could ask Joan Moxton for any paperwork she might have and if no luck there I’d tackle the Herricks on Saturday. But somehow I knew I wasn’t going to strike lucky there either. If the original logbook was being deliberately withheld by either party, would that suggest it could tell me more than they wished me to know? Such as? I pondered this. If nothing else I’d like to find out who first owned the car, which might help track it onwards from the day it left the Packard factory.
The barbecue could be a way forward. That would be good, because I was at present on a hiding to nowhere with the Packard and suspected DCI Brandon might be getting sniffy on the subject. Dave was certainly sniffy on the Golf. With that in mind, I took action and rang both Wendy Parks and Geoffrey Green’s other contact in Monksford, Sam West, to arrange a date for Thursday. They might not be able to take me forward on the Golf but it would do no harm to have a clearer light on Philip’s life as Geoffrey Green. I therefore set off on Thursday morning in grand style with my Gordon-Keeble to Monksford, heading first for the café.
Wendy’s face brightened as she saw me, not I suspected for my personal charms, but because I might know how the police case was going. There were hardly any customers for morning coffee so she was able to leave the kitchens and join me – which she was eager to do.
‘I’ve had my police grilling,’ she told me wryly. ‘Duly roasted on all sides and left raw within.’
‘Brandon’s not usually as hard as that.’
‘Perhaps, but it turns out that Geoffrey tried to ring me that evening on my landline. He knew I never bother much with my mobile. I wasn’t in and I never check all callers unless they’ve left a message, which he didn’t. I hate thinking that if I’d been in I might have been able to help or prevent what happened in some way.’
‘He’d have dialled nine nine nine if it was an emergency,’ I pointed out gently.
‘Yes, but I seem to have been the only person in Monksford who could claim to have known Geoffrey. Even his cleaner didn’t really know him because he was usually gone when she arrived and
Sam West only met him very occasionally. Same with the neighbours. I’m afraid therefore that yours truly has been marked down as number one suspect. I suppose their theory goes that Geoffrey rejected my advances or that I knew he was Philip Moxton and that he had left me something in his will.’
Whoops! Caution on approaching this one. I cocked an interested eye at her.
She looked embarrassed. ‘It appears he has, so that little something puts me firmly on the list.’
‘Geoffrey Green’s will or Moxton’s?’ I asked. It looked fairly certain that the nightmare of two wills had been avoided but it would be interesting to know how much she was now in the picture.
She stared at me aghast. ‘I don’t know. Wouldn’t it be invalid if it was one made by a man who didn’t legally exist?’
‘Who’s the solicitor?’
‘Hall & Parsons. James Hall is dealing with it.’
That confirmed that point then. I wondered how much the ‘something’ left to Wendy was but she didn’t volunteer the information, hardly surprisingly. ‘I’m sure he must have left legacies to quite a few people,’ I reassured her, ‘so I doubt if you’ll be singled out by the police for that reason. Don’t worry. Unless of course you’re in the habit of carrying a kitchen knife around with you.’
A poor joke, but she managed a laugh of sorts. ‘Not on Thursdays, so you’re safe.’
‘Seriously, Wendy, if you’d killed Geoffrey, there’d be DNA left somewhere.’
‘I told you I had visited him there before.’
‘Did you smash a window and climb in on that occasion? Do you have a Golf tucked away at home?’
She tried to smile. ‘Are you officially investigating the case yet?’
‘No. I’m still on the two cars,’ I told her. ‘The Volkswagen and the Packard.’
‘What Packard?’
No harm in telling her, especially as I planned to drive her in it on Saturday if she wanted to come to the barbecue. Wendy listened politely but asked no questions, so I played a wild card.
‘Did Geoffrey ever mention a game to you?’
‘What game? The so-termed beautiful one?’
‘No. I don’t see Philip Moxton as a football fan. This game must have been a family thing anyway. Are you curious about the other side of Geoffrey’s life?’
‘Yes, I feel I’ve been short-changed,’ she confessed.
‘There’s a barbecue over at Frittenhurst on Saturday evening. It’s at the home of Tom and Moira Herrick, who previously owned the Packard. At least one member of Philip’s family will be there. His son Barney. I’ve full permission to bring someone with me so why not you? Would you find it rough going?’
She thought for a moment. ‘Thanks, Jack. Yes, I’d like to. Should I bring a dish?’
‘I’m told it’s a hog roast and a large scale party, so no need.’
‘Isn’t it odd,’ she asked somewhat diffidently, ‘that the family are attending parties so soon?’
‘That’s what’s interests me.’ That, and the Packard – which brought me back to the Volkswagen. ‘Wendy, that Golf of Geoffrey’s – you wouldn’t have any idea where it could be?’
She couldn’t be putting on that look of amazement. ‘No idea. I presume it’s been flogged to someone else. You’re not thinking it might still be in his murderer’s garage?’
‘It’s unlikely, but you might keep a look out for it. Which was Geoffrey’s regular garage for MOTs and so on?’
‘He used the local one, just as I do.’
Could that have a link to Richie Carson? I wondered. Dave’s team would have covered that. My hopes would lie with Carson himself.
Sam West’s home, he had warned me on the phone, was hard to find. Indeed it was. The lane wound its way round so many corners and took so long to negotiate that I thought I’d reached the south coast – until it stopped abruptly and turned itself into a bridle path and then open farmland. The Gordon-Keeble isn’t used to this kind of mucking around in tight spots and I shuddered for it as I backed into a hedge to turn round and drive back up the lane. Fingers crossed that the hedge wasn’t concealing a nice deep ditch. The fingers worked and this time I did find Five Acres, a seventies’ bungalow overlooking farmland and Sam’s peaceful retirement retreat.
Sam looked in his mid-to-late sixties, courteous, grey-haired, fit and clearly active. He was busy mowing the extensive lawn when I arrived which explained why he hadn’t seen or heard me pass.
‘The only thing I regret about moving here,’ he told me. ‘It was my late wife’s dream to have a garden this size, but she died a year or two after we bought this house. Now, shall we have coffee? I’ve laid it ready.’
He led me into a pleasant conservatory and bustled about as though I were an honoured guest. ‘I’m not sure how you think I can help you, Mr Colby,’ he said anxiously. ‘I’ve told the police the little I know about Geoffrey Green.’
What he meant was: ‘Why are you bothering me?’ but I decided to ignore that interpretation. ‘It’s the Volkswagen I’m particularly interested in. Would you mind running your evidence through again for me in case it has any bearing on it? I’m from the car unit of the police, which is a different department.’
Luckily, being old school, he took the point straightaway. ‘Ah, how I remember that problem.’
‘You were in the police?’ I asked.
‘No. Accountant. I suppose in the light of this extraordinary news I now see why Geoffrey liked to talk once in a while. It took him away from the banking world and yet we both dealt with figures. He was a busy man, so we never got to know each other well and I was amazed to hear his true identity. He told me he was a financial consultant and a day trader on the stockmarket. I day-trade too, so that and a love of chess is what we had in common, even though I see now that our careers hardly matched.’
‘You had no idea he wasn’t who he purported to be?’
He hesitated. ‘No, I’ve been thinking about that. I thought when I first met him that Geoffrey had somewhat the same manner and look as someone I’d briefly worked for early in my career. That was Donald Moxton, so I was quite right. I forgot it until this terrible thing happened. He must have thought he’d found refuge here but banking is a tough business nowadays and there are no hiding places.’
‘Did you tell him he had the same mannerisms as Donald Moxton?’
‘No, and now I’m glad I didn’t. The Geoffrey I knew might have been even more alarmed. I might have mentioned it to Timothy Mild though, who worked with Philip Moxton. He lives not that far away and we play golf together at his local club.’
‘I’ve met him at Staveley House. Did he visit you here – could he have known about the Geoffrey Green masquerade?’
Sam looked startled. ‘I don’t know. He hasn’t been here to see me, but I’ve no idea if he knows the village otherwise. I doubt if Geoffrey would have taken him into his confidence over the dual identity because their working relationship was troubled to say the least.’
‘Timothy seems to get on well with Philip’s sister Joan.’
‘That may be politic.’ Sam hesitated. ‘No harm in telling you, I suppose. It’s common gossip in the City and had even reached me before Timothy told me about it. Philip was absolutely opposed to this merger with EU. He inherited his father’s instinctive desire that the banking profession should remain solely UK-based. In Donald’s time no such move would have been considered and even offshore accounts had barely raised their heads. Donald’s motto was: “Plough a straight furrow, and keep to the same field,” and Timothy said Philip followed firmly in his footsteps.’
I laughed. ‘Very British.’
‘It worked for a long while,’ Sam continued, ‘but times have changed and are still changing. They have to and Timothy knows the merger is the right thing for Moxtons. But he said that Philip remained adamant and the whole deal was about to collapse.’
I wondered whether DCI Brandon knew about this, remembering his earlier offhand remark. Philip�
�s death would be highly convenient for Timothy’s career. It added up, though it wasn’t a line I felt comfortable with, as I’d taken a liking to him during our chat after the arrival of the Packard.
‘Was Donald Moxton a popular boss?’
He grimaced. ‘Hierarchy was strict in the sixties and the establishment still ruled. Spit and polish and the right school were all that mattered, although Donald Moxton wasn’t from the right school. The rumour was that he was a bull in a china shop, who scooped up all the pieces he smashed, put them together again and made a fortune.’
‘Interesting but ruthless.’
‘Indeed. Of course there were other rumours,’ Sam said.
‘About what?’
‘How Donald Moxton got the money to buy his first bank.’
‘The usual channels – partners, loans and backers?’
He regarded me pityingly. ‘Not in the austerity days of the late 1940s.’ A polite cough. ‘You said you were from the car unit, Mr Colby. This hardly seems relevant.’
‘In fact it is. As well as the missing Golf, there’s a Packard in the story, which Philip Moxton bought through me shortly before he died. Did Geoffrey Green ever mention Packards to you?’
Sam shook his head. ‘I don’t think Geoffrey was very interested in cars, so that surprises me. As for the Golf though, how can I help on that?’
‘It hasn’t so far surfaced, and it’s just possible it’s still in the murderer’s barn or garage. Would you know it if you saw it?’
‘I doubt it. He drove it here once or twice, but I don’t have instinctive recall on cars. Cream, wasn’t it? I’ll keep my eyes open. You’re welcome to have a look round here if you wish. But it could have been abandoned anywhere.’
No, I thought, it would have been spotted by now. So where was it?
I’d envisaged a smallish gathering in the Herricks’ large rear garden. How wrong could I be? Large signs pointed to Court Orchard, which was down a track along the side of the Herricks’ home and gardens. In the days when this was hop-picking country, hop-pickers would have been swarming down here from London and from all over the south of England to harvest the hops. The oast house, now a beautiful relic, would have been working full tilt, the inimitable smell of hops would be in the air day and night.
