Classic Cashes In

by Amy Myers

  ‘Agreed,’ Dave said.

  ‘Agreed,’ I echoed enthusiastically. News of Philip’s proposed foundation couldn’t have pleased John unless Joan Moxton had known Staveley was safe. And that was a question mark.

  ‘Why should Carson pick on you?’ Brandon asked.

  ‘Maybe I was getting too close to the truth,’ I offered them hopefully. I’d be glad of a hint as to what that was.

  I must be getting better because Brandon’s gimlet look was back.

  ‘Am I up to date with you on Father Carson?’

  ‘As far as I know.’

  Brandon let me off lightly on this unhelpful contribution. ‘That applies to all of us. Put some thought into it, Jack. The assault on you is logged as GBH. I take it you’ll press charges?’

  ‘Hard to press anything at the moment,’ I rejoined. ‘Too bloody painful.’

  In between dozes I had plenty of time to brood on the Volkswagen’s surprise reappearance. Medical visits had tailed off and it turned out that Brandon had arranged for me to stay in for another few days past the time that I would normally have been kicked out. Tests over, my bruises now had to heal by themselves. I wondered why Brandon was so concerned until Louise told me she would have to be away filming in Dorset for a couple of days and, unusually, Len too was away from Frogs Hill. Brandon didn’t want me there alone with only Zoe to protect me. Nice of him, although I assured him that Zoe on the warpath could protect me from Attila the Hun. Brandon’s reply had been that Attila the Hun wasn’t in Carson’s gang.

  Louise was leaving on Sunday and that day marked another great event: I managed to hobble along the corridor to a patients’ day room. That’s where Wendy found me. My first reaction was that I would have preferred Attila, but I softened my view when I saw how anxious and ill she looked.

  ‘But it’s terrible, Jack,’ she told me after the usual commiserations. ‘Was it through this murder case?’

  Might as well tell the truth. ‘Probably. I’m not handling anything else at present except a Riley and an old Morris. I can’t see their proud owners leaping into hobnail boots to express dissatisfaction with Frogs Hill’s service.’

  She tried to smile. ‘I’m sorry I got so ratty with you. The Herrick and Moxton clans believe I’m the enemy so it was tough when you seemed to be joining them. I’m not the enemy, I’m really not. They pretend they’re eager to see me and keep coming to the café pestering me about Geoffrey. They don’t really want to know anything, they just want to make sure that they’re seen to be concerned on his account, so they bring Timothy with them or even worse a journalist. That Roxton woman is a pain in the neck. She’s as ruthless as they are.’ Wendy shivered, despite the warm cocoon of the hospital heating. ‘They are ruthless, believe me. That’s why Geoffrey lived under a pseudonym. He was scared of what they might do to him.’

  ‘Pen—’ I began.

  ‘Fat lot of good that did,’ Wendy swept on, ignoring my interruption. ‘They tracked him down and murdered him.’

  ‘His killer could have been anyone who knew who Geoffrey was.’

  ‘Precisely,’ she snapped. ‘Joan Moxton and that awful Carson man. And Timothy. An outsider like him could have killed Geoffrey. I’ve been a bit worried, in fact. I’ll tell you when you’re better. Probably nothing.’

  I was still thinking about outsiders. ‘Do you think of Barney as an outsider? He seems to choose that role.’

  ‘No is the answer to that question. Barney’s the son of Philip Moxton and Gwen Herrick for heaven’s sake. Outsider? No way. He’s not as simple as he seems. He just opts out, Jack. If he decided to opt in, do you think he’d stop at murder? Again, no way.’

  This was a new angle, but I couldn’t get my head round it. ‘He didn’t know about Geoffrey Green, did he?’ was the best I could manage in reply.

  ‘Of course he knew, but it suited him and all the rest of them to appear not to know. Don’t you see, Jack? That’s why he was killed as Geoffrey Green – to shift the balance of probability – and that’s why they’re now accusing me. As if I’d murder him, or murder anyone.’

  As she left, a great wave of relief followed by extreme tiredness blanketed me. My body might be recovering but my mind felt at the mercy of anyone who came along to brainwash me. Then balm in Gilead arrived in the form of Louise. She looked wonderful in a red check jacket over black trousers, and a perky little cap over her dark tresses. This was an oasis indeed.

  ‘Phew,’ she said, planting a kiss on my forehead. ‘I’ve just run the gauntlet of a host of your admirers at the entrance.’

  The press admirers of course would be waiting for her, not me. From which I deduced that although Louise did her best to keep a low profile on her private life, the news that she was living with me must be at least semi-public knowledge. No doubt with Pen’s help. I’d missed the latest issue of the Graphic. The fact that I seemed to be some kind of detective and had been beaten up must add a great deal of spice to their stories of Louise’s private life – these are spun out of fictional cobwebs as she is very canny about keeping a low profile.

  ‘I’ll send down my autograph,’ I assured her.

  ‘I just nipped in to say I’m off this afternoon. Back Tuesday evening, and then we’ll be home together. I hate leaving you.’ She looked at me. ‘Perhaps I could—’

  ‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘I’ll be like Morse. Remember he solved the murder of the Princes in the Tower when he was incarcerated in hospital.’

  ‘Then stick to Richard III,’ she instructed me. ‘Leave Philip Moxton to the foot soldiers.’

  ‘I’ve always fancied being Mycroft Holmes, solving things from my gentlemen’s club armchair. I can do a lot of things from this armchair …’

  I reached out for her and there followed a short interlude when I was (a) grateful that no other patients were present in the day room and (b) grateful that my arms weren’t quite as painful as they had been and (c) grateful that my attacker hadn’t been able to get a direct kick on various other parts of my anatomy which only had a couple of days to wait with luck.

  As Louise left I decided to hobble back to bed. I was through, spent, exhausted and ready for a doze followed by a touch of evening TV. Unfortunately Pen Roxton had other plans for me. She must have been waiting for Louise to leave and I only hoped she hadn’t been peering through the keyhole with a camera.

  ‘Got a pic of her,’ she told me smugly as she marched in and planted herself at my side.

  ‘Use it and that’s the last help you get from me. Ever.’

  She snorted. ‘Help? Your help doesn’t amount to a row of beans. You and your game, mate.’

  ‘Glad I’m still your mate.’

  ‘I tell you, Jack, that game’s vicious. You know that now. First me, now you.’

  ‘You’re backing out?’

  ‘No way. I’m in with a chance and not one I’ll be sharing with you, my darling.’

  I groaned. ‘Don’t, Pen, don’t do it.’

  ‘They won’t get me a second time. Sorry they got you,’ she added belatedly. ‘Those folk play rough.’

  ‘Who do you mean by they?’

  ‘Those Herricks, especially that bruiser Gwen. And that fellow Barney is an odd one. I’m on to them, and they don’t like it one little bit, so that’s why I dog their footsteps.’

  ‘You’ve stirred them up again?’

  ‘Of course. Said I was printing the story of this robbery and their so-called game.’

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘Warned off by my boss. I told you his wife was a mate of the darling Herricks.’

  ‘So you’ve dropped it.’

  ‘No way. Just taking the robbery angle to see what falls out of the trees.’

  ‘Take care, Pen.’

  ‘Sure. Taking care to get the story, that’s me. That robbery’s tied up with the banking world somehow which could have had a lot to do with Moxton’s death. Someone’s sitting pretty now.’

  I was getting serio
usly alarmed, and I opened my mouth to voice even stronger objections but she forestalled me.

  ‘He’s in this merger, right?’

  ‘If by he you mean Timothy Mild, the answer’s yes.’

  ‘It’s his big chance. Right? Then along comes a little piglet like me who threatens to blow it to smithereens with the story of how the first Moxtons bank was bought with dirty money.’

  ‘Could you prove it, Pen?’ I asked wearily. ‘All we know is that Donald Moxton and Gavin Herrick were in the car. It was another ten years before Donald bought the bank and there was no hint of a story in that.’

  ‘I’ll publish it, Jack. I will – right or wrong,’ she added.

  At least she was straightforward and I thought – hoped – she was merely winding me up. I had another go at reason.

  ‘So now the theory runs that a sixteen-year-old boy steals a fortune, invests it cleverly and buys the bank ten years later. Sixteen, Pen, sixteen. Is that likely? Did no one at the bank suspect? Where did he hide the loot so that it was untraceable? How would he know how to invest it? Did he stuff it in his wardrobe for years and his mother never noticed?

  Pen’s eyes gleamed. ‘Don’t forget his accomplice, Jack.’

  ‘Don’t tell me.’ We were back on this false track. ‘Gavin Herrick. That makes two ingenuous teenagers.’

  ‘They could have fixed it between them,’ she said obstinately. ‘That’s why the Herricks are so cagey. They know the truth all right.’

  ‘Sorry, but I don’t buy the story, Pen.’

  ‘Don’t remember telling you it was for sale. Besides,’ she added in dulcet tones, ‘even if it wasn’t true it could still blow Timothy Mild’s carefully timed merger to bits. There have always been rumours going round the banking world about the Moxtons. They upset a lot of folks with their hire ’em fire ’em ways. A lot of people didn’t like Donald one little bit, so all Gavin Herrick had to do was blackmail him.’

  ‘Go away, Pen.’ My head was spinning and I couldn’t reason with her any more.

  She looked hurt. ‘You’re not yourself, Jack.’

  ‘And nor are you, Pen. You’re tackling too broad a canvas.’

  ‘But I’ll paint a pretty picture,’ she chortled, as she waved me goodbye.

  Please, no more, I groaned to myself as I staggered back to my bed. I should have known I wasn’t going to get away that easily, however. Sam West arrived, rather uncertainly and bearing a basket of fruit – plus for good measure a travelling chessboard. I looked at it blankly. Was he inviting me to a game?

  ‘I thought it might help pass the time if I left it with you,’ he said apologetically, perhaps reading my expression correctly. ‘It can be fun playing against yourself.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said weakly. I wasn’t up to playing noughts and crosses let alone chess.

  ‘Even if you don’t play,’ he said brightly, ‘you could think of Philip Moxton’s murder in terms of pawns, bishops and knights.’

  I gazed at him speechlessly, feeling like Alice in Wonderland landing in the midst of a set of crazy people.

  ‘My feeling is that you should think of the pawns in the Moxton case, Jack.’

  My only feeling was that I was a pawn myself temporarily battered off the board. ‘Who are they?’ I asked to be polite.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he replied seriously, ‘but I think Wendy is one and she’s at risk.’ He was pink-cheeked at the effort of telling me this, so I concentrated hard. ‘That’s why I came,’ he continued. ‘Oh,’ he added belatedly, ‘and to see how you were of course.’

  ‘Wendy at risk? Why?’ I couldn’t see it.

  ‘Banks and powerful people can strike anywhere and at anyone they choose.’

  ‘But why Wendy? Because she knew Geoffrey? So did you.’

  ‘That’s true, but not as she did. Geoffrey could have told her things that other people wouldn’t have liked. She could have information.’

  ‘Have you talked to her about it?’

  ‘Yes. She says she hasn’t any but I don’t believe her. You ask her, Jack. She said there was something you hadn’t asked.’ He glanced at my immobile self in bed. ‘When you’re better.’

  With a faint recollection of Wendy having referred to something she wanted to tell me, I was doing my best to ponder this one after Sam departed, only to be presented by a worse situation. To my horror I saw Gwen Moxton bearing down on me. I wasn’t up to fighting back at anyone either physically or mentally. I don’t know how James Bond copes with such situations but I was flesh and blood and both of them were currently quailing at what was before me. Hospital patients should be issued with Do Not Disturb placards.

  ‘Sorry to hear what you’ve been through, Jack.’

  Gwen didn’t look at all sorry. She looked more as if she was sizing me up for a second round.

  ‘Who did it?’ she continued.

  I longed to say that her family was high on the list but restrained myself. ‘No idea,’ I replied.

  ‘How about John Carson?’

  Right. I could cope with this. ‘There were three of them.’

  ‘His son’s gang. Isn’t he a mobster of some type?’

  So she knew about Richie. ‘I don’t know who they were working for.’

  ‘You’re not suspecting Joan was behind this, are you?’

  ‘I’m not up to suspecting anything much at present.’

  Gwen was relentless. ‘Or me, or Tom or my poor Barney?’ she continued. ‘I can tell you that none of us attacked you.’

  ‘It’s a police case,’ I told her in a desperate attempt to close the subject. ‘They aren’t paying me to investigate my own GBH.’

  She stared at me, unamused. ‘It could have been your girlfriend had you beaten up. Not Louise of course.’

  ‘Thank you for that.’

  Gwen didn’t notice the sarcasm. ‘I meant Wendy Parks.’

  ‘Three burly blokes beat me up.’

  ‘A woman like her could have strange companions.’

  ‘Such as?’ I hoped this would squash her but it didn’t.

  ‘John Carson for one. I never liked him.’

  I began to wonder if Gwen had been commissioned to put the Herrick and Moxton case for innocence on behalf of them all, for she waxed eloquent for some time on the subject of John Carson. She even had me wondering whether Wendy’s prowling at Staveley Park had been quite as innocent as she made it sound. Finally I had had enough of this Wendy-baiting. I was quite capable of pursuing that line myself – even if not right now.

  ‘Wendy told me you’ve all been over to see her, including Timothy,’ I said, fighting back. ‘Why?’

  She glared. ‘Why not? Barney wants to know her better. He feels it’s time to build bridges.’

  ‘She didn’t get that impression.’

  ‘More fool her. But then she is either a fool or a murderess. Take your pick.’

  FOURTEEN

  By the time I was signed off on the Wednesday morning I had had a great many strategic dozes. By that time I was able to function with some degree of normality, especially as Louise was at the hospital to drive me home. She had a silver blue Ford Focus into which I was just able to manoeuvre my aching body. She’d come back to Frogs Hill too late the previous evening for the hospital to risk my precious self in sending me home alone, but Louise had wangled a rescheduling so that she could pick me up today. Len, now back at his post, and Zoe too, had offered to do so, but Louise had been adamant about coming herself. I was aware that her film would shortly be wrapped up and that as yet she had said nothing about what came next. Perhaps she didn’t know. Perhaps she didn’t want to tell me.

  I decided not to be pessimistic. I don’t think either of us doubted that we were off to a flying start in our relationship, but neither of us wanted to push the other into saying so. Or so I was presuming. Every now and then the word ‘next …’ came up or even worse, the word Christmas but both of us shied away from tackling that issue. Louise had a father and brother who
m I’d never met plus a mother who was doing her own thing with a new husband somewhere or other. So far there had not been time to go deeply into family involvement but there was plenty of time ahead – I hoped.

  After Louise had to leave me at Frogs Hill for the rest of the day, frustration set in. Although I was back home I had strict medical instructions not to drive, and immediately became the passive recipient of more phone calls and callers than I could have wished. I couldn’t complain of neglect.

  ‘You OK, Jack?’ Zoe would put her head round the door at frequent intervals and in between her visits Len’s gruff voice would ask the same thing. In between these enquiries tea, coffee, sandwiches and soup would appear. Finally I became so used to my standard answer ‘Doing fine, thanks’ that when I actually wasn’t fine I couldn’t bring myself to say so.

  On Friday afternoon, however, there was a phone call I couldn’t ignore or fob off. It was Sam and it wasn’t a ‘how are you?’ call. It required prompt action.

  ‘Any chance of you getting over here, Jack?’ It sounded serious.

  ‘When? What for?’ I asked cautiously.

  ‘Now. I’m anxious about Wendy. I told you she had said something rather odd. That there was a question Jack hadn’t asked. Then yesterday she said she was worried about what to do. Do you know what she’s talking about? I can’t get hold of her by phone and I’ve been ringing all day now. The café’s been closed all day too without explanation.’

  ‘I can’t drive.’ I felt a first-class chump, and options skidded through my mind. Len? Zoe? Even so, did I feel up to the trip? ‘Could Timothy drive over and go with you? Is he around?’ I asked hopefully.

  ‘No, and I don’t want to go alone. Could you come over with your lady friend if she’s around? I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t getting desperately concerned.’

  My heart sank. ‘What about the police?’ It was a last-ditch attempt as I’d seen Louise drive into the yard. She was back early and I had to wrestle with my conscience.

  ‘Wendy’s probably only out for the day, so I doubt if they’d come,’ Sam replied. ‘Look, don’t worry. I will go alone.’