by Amy Myers
‘The place isn’t the same without it,’ Mike said gloomily. His face without a smile was the nail in the coffin that convinced me that times were indeed bad. I wondered what Boadicea’s ‘know soon enough’ meant. Something to do with Arthur Howell’s visit obviously.
‘It looks the same old dump to me,’ Boadicea barked. ‘What are the chances you’ll find it, Jack?’
‘Can’t say,’ I replied mildly. ‘The police think it’s still in the country.’ Dave had confirmed that no Porsche 356 had turned up at any exit in the country without being scoured for false identity and so far without any result.
‘I’ve had the insurance people on my back,’ Mike grunted. ‘Their chaps haven’t turned up anything either; it’s been three weeks already and after another three they have to fork out, so they’re getting anxious.’
You bet they would be anxious, I thought. That Porsche’s pedigree and condition would skyrocket its value. Maybe £250,000? More probably, perhaps £300,000. A sum, it occurred to me, that would come in very handy for sprucing Old Herne’s up, but I dismissed the idea. It might occur to Boadicea, but not to Mike. That car meant too much to him personally for him to even think of an insurance scam. He had won practically every sports-car trophy going in it, and the car was the best tribute to his past career that he could have.
That sleeping beauty had been in its glass-fronted garage, coming out for occasional excursions round the track, as long as I could remember. That was a long way back, because I used to come as a kid with my father to Swoosh and the silver gleaming curvy car (‘Not a straight line on it,’ Dad used to say) had hooked me. If it wasn’t on the track I would gravitate to its home and press my nose against the glass to admire it. The game I played with my father was to decide which of the two cars – as the Morgan lived side by side with the Porsche – was the finer car. I always got sucked into choosing first, and whichever I picked, Dad would convincingly argue the opposite.
I assured Mike I’d report back to him on anything I discovered during the day about the missing Porsche. I kept coming back to the word ‘coincidence’. It could just be chance that the threat to Swoosh had materialized at the same time as the theft. Sorrows, as Hamlet’s villainous uncle had pointed out, come not as ‘single spies, but in battalions’, so he might not have seen a link. But me? I keep my options open.
Before I left the clubhouse, I took one further step. ‘I heard Arthur Howell was over from the States, Mike. Is he around?’
Mike’s face grew even gloomier. ‘We’re all lunching together, but he’s hopping mad about the Porsche. Sees its disappearance as a threat that his Morgan is next on the list.’
A good point. ‘Is there a Thunderbolt flying in the display? That’ll keep him happy.’
Second World War Thunderbolts are so rare that it’s a pièce de résistance if one joins the fly-past that usually concludes the Swoosh festivities. Nor are there many British World War II fighters still flying, but somehow Swoosh always manages to produce something very special.
‘Yes, and it’s costing far too much,’ put in Mike’s personal thunderbolt, Boadicea.
‘But a wonderful tribute to Swoosh, especially as it will follow Jason’s concert,’ I said brightly. Nothing like putting a conversational cat among the pigeons. When I saw the look on Mike’s face I felt a twinge of remorse, but if the missing Porsche had any link to the Old Herne’s situation then I needed to know every angle. And Mike’s son Jason was one of them. In the past he had gone through a much reported personal bankruptcy.
‘Arthur’s arranged the fly-past,’ Mike said abruptly, ‘and Jason—’
‘It’s an insult,’ Boadicea trumpeted.
This threw me. A Jason Pryde concert an insult?
‘That popinjay hasn’t been near us for years,’ she rampaged onwards, ‘and now he comes swanning back telling us – not even asking – that he’ll be giving a concert at Swoosh. As if anyone wants to listen—’
‘Anna!’ Mike interrupted, sharply for him. ‘It’s a tribute to Ray and Miranda.’
On swept her chariot. ‘Arranged over your head by Arthur,’ she snorted.
‘It’s good to see Jason again,’ Mike said quietly.
By which I gathered that there was still a family upset of serious proportions between Jason and Mike. I wondered whether Jason Pryde felt strongly about Old Herne’s and whether the concert was because he’d heard it was likely to close. It could be his bid for a stake in the club by helping its funds. Even a takeover? A somewhat cynical thought on my part – I must be getting as pessimistic as Len.
Swoosh was a wonderland, even if it was under threat. There were classics here that brought tears of emotion to my eyes. Every so often I could see one or two of them take off on a lap of honour, spruced up for the Ascot of the car world. A De Dion Bouton driven side by side with a stately Lanchester and sporty Austin-Healey was a mesmerizing sight, even though strictly speaking my eyes should have been mentally focused on a Porsche 356.
There were so many motor clubs represented here this year that I wondered whether the word that this might be the last Swoosh had spread even further than I had realized. No, I thought, I surely must be imagining the slight air of a wake, socially jolly but with a somewhat forced determination to affirm that the land of the classic car was alive and well, Swoosh or no Swoosh. My fancy, I decided.
Time to do my job, and I threw myself in a general round of information gathering on the missing Porsche. It wasn’t very productive. There were about a dozen 356s here and I tracked down most of the owners. They had all heard about the theft and had their own ideas, but none of them took me forwards, save that someone mentioned Sam Fenton, the owner of a local chain of burger take-aways, who might be able to help. I knew him by sight and by his Porsche, a 1972 911S, having seen it around for years. I couldn’t find him though, so I made my way back to the general throng.
And then I saw her. It isn’t often that the ‘across a crowded room’ scenario, as immortalized in the song ‘Some Enchanted Evening’ from South Pacific, comes into play – certainly not in my emotional life, as the departure of Louise had left a hole that wasn’t healing. I had thought we were on a golden path together, but she had followed her own star. Today, however, swap ‘morning’ for ‘evening’ as I looked up and caught the eye of someone chatting in the swirling throng some way away. Just as in the song, I knew this someone was for me. One can ignore such a moment, one can hesitate too long, or one can go for it.
I went for it.
Not that that was quite as cavalier as it sounds. I didn’t forge a determined path through the crowds, pushing people aside left, right and centre in pursuit of my goal. I inched my way through to her: smart jeans and blouse, fortyish, dark-brown hair, arguing (from the body language) with a young man (thirtyish). A romantic row? No, a woman like this would never pick a grinning lout for a soulmate – even if he were a good-looking one, I conceded. I could see she needed rescuing as another great exchange of glances with me took place, and I could hear the lout taking advantage of the lull to sneer some more. Until I arrived, automatically checking the lady’s ring finger – not that that tells one much now. For what it was worth there were no rings on either hand.
‘Jack Colby,’ I greeted her enthusiastically as I arrived. ‘Good to meet you again.’
She grinned at this unsubtle ruse. ‘Peter, meet Jack Colby. Jack, this is Peter Nelson, Ray’s other grandson.’
‘Who the hell are you?’ Peter laughed, less delightfully than the lady. Perhaps the ‘other grandson’ had riled him.
‘Police,’ I remarked casually. ‘Looking for Mike’s Porsche.’
‘Really?’ he drawled.
Without even looking at him I flicked open my police ID and waved it at him. Strange the effect this can have. Occasionally, it has the opposite effect to that intended and one receives a mental – or physical – punch in the face. More often than not it works, however, as it did this time, and Peter slunk away leavi
ng me with the lady. Excellent.
‘You probably know Ray and Miranda were the first managers of Old Herne’s,’ she explained. ‘Peter’s the offspring of Mike’s younger brother, who lives in New Zealand. Peter used to work here.’
‘Used to?’
‘Recent parting of the ways.’
That was enough about Peter. ‘And you?’ I asked.
She looked amused. ‘We haven’t met before, have we?’
‘I’d have remembered.’
‘Me too.’ A smile, which told me a lot more than the earlier grin. It told me it was genuinely meant, and I had to pull back my imagination fast from the point to which it was racing all too quickly. I changed my mind about her having been in need of rescue, however. This was a lady in full command of herself.
‘I really am with the police,’ I assured her. ‘Civilian recruit on specialist classic car cases. Otherwise plain Jack Colby of Frogs Hill Classic Car Restorations near Pluckley.’
‘Jessica Hart. Old Herne’s deputy manager under Mike.’
Len had kept quiet about the gender of Mike’s deputy, so this was a pleasant surprise and explained the delightful but determined chin before me. ‘That’s quite recent, I gather.’
‘Two months. It’s getting too much for Mike to do it alone. He’s sixty-eight now.’
I didn’t think age had a lot to do with it, because although Mike was the nicest chap around managing was clearly not his forte.
‘He told me you were coming to talk to him about the Porsche,’ she continued. ‘How’s it going?’
With that sleek brown hair bobbing around one of the most engaging faces I had seen in a long time, it was hard to think about anything else. I did my best though.
‘Every chance we’ll get it back,’ I said more confidently than I felt. Then I leapt right into it. ‘I heard a rumour that Old Herne’s was under threat.’
She answered me straight away and frankly. ‘It’s possible. We just don’t know. The place needs a lot of cash spent on it. Mike doesn’t have a bean; he’s been pouring most of his salary into it, and we don’t think Arthur will pay up any more. It’s losing money hand over fist.’
It didn’t take a great brain to deduce that Old Herne’s finances were in a downward spiral, and a genteelly decaying club can only go on so long before the gentlemen, not to mention the ladies, tiptoe out of it. ‘How long does it have?’
She hesitated. ‘Yesterday it was looking as if it would close as soon as Arthur could sell it, most likely just for the land.’
‘And today?’
‘It depends on what happens in the next hour or two. Arthur hadn’t said anything yet but we know he could well pull the plug on it. Swoosh is obviously its usual success, but he won’t let that sway him. I’m due to join Mike and his wife for lunch with Arthur and his family, not to mention Ray, so the news will probably be broken then. Wish me luck. I may be jobless when I see you next.’
I liked that ‘when’, and it would be as soon as possible. ‘Arthur will surely see your potential and give a stay of execution to the club.’ I meant it. This lady was impressive. ‘Is he here yet?’
‘Yes. He’ll have lunch and then go out on his usual trip round the track in his Morgan. That and the Thunderbolt fly-past are his big thrills of the day.’
‘What brought you to Old Herne’s?’ I asked curiously. ‘Cars or aeroplanes?’
‘Neither.’
‘You like management?’
‘Not sure about liking it. I want to do well here, if Old Herne’s survives, but …’
When she stopped, I wanted to say: come with me to some place where we can be alone and talk. I wanted to know more about this lady, but being surrounded by several thousand people did not provide the best circumstances for getting to know someone. And I knew I wanted to get to know Jessica – in every way.
‘Can we meet later?’ I said.
That smile again. ‘I’d like that.’ Then she gave me a look which suggested I’d passed some kind of test because she continued, ‘I’m here because I like saving things. Does that make sense? Saving good things, which includes Swoosh, and I’ll try my damnedest to do so. Just look at it all.’
She waved a hand and I saw her point because I shared it. I could see people chatting, children racing around, stalls with model cars, miniature and pedal cars for children to drive around, groups of war veterans chatting by the hangars, the bandstand erected ready for Jason Pryde, the usual fairground attractions and, beyond the track, the classics parked for the judges to choose the best car of the show. Which I hoped, of course, would be mine. Of course Swoosh would continue. It had to. And with someone like Jessica in charge there was every chance it would. If Arthur Howell saw sense.
‘Can Arthur close it down?’ I asked her. ‘I thought Old Herne’s was a kind of charity.’
‘Not really. It’s a family trust. Arthur’s still the owner; Mike has been its trustee ever since his mother died in 1991. Miranda and Ray first met Arthur in his World War II days. Arthur has the last word on Old Herne’s though.’
‘How does Jason Pryde fit in? I didn’t get the impression he was close to Mike and Boa— Anna Nelson. So why’s he here? Does he have an interest in Old Herne’s?’
I noted the hesitation, but then she said, ‘Arthur probably persuaded him to come. They get on well so he’ll be at the lunch. But who knows what Jason thinks about anything.’
I had the distinct impression she was sorry she had said anything at all about Jason, but just at that moment Liz Potter arrived with a whoosh, as if taking the chequered flag, and threw herself into my arms. She’s a small, lively woman to whom fashion is pleasantly unknown, a complete contrast to Jessica’s stylish cool.
‘Glad to see you too, Liz,’ I remarked, highly irritated at this inopportune display of intimacy.
‘I’ll be off,’ Jessica remarked airily. ‘Nice to have met you, Jack.’
I detached Liz and just managed to catch Jessica’s arm as she strode off in a meaningful way. ‘Dinner tonight?’ I asked feebly.
‘Too much clearing up. Bye now.’ And she was off.
‘I’ll help,’ I called after her.
She briefly paused, turned round and shrugged. ‘Accepted.’
‘Thanks so much, Liz,’ I said through gritted teeth, watching Jessica probably walking out of my life forever.
She giggled. ‘You can handle it.’
‘I bet Colin’s not around,’ I said. Colin is her nerdish husband who can’t stand me – with no reason at all, since I had been out of Liz’s life for well over a year before she even met him.
‘Minding the shop,’ she said happily.
The shop is Liz’s garden centre on the outskirts of Piper’s Green, the nearest village to Frogs Hill.
I sighed. ‘Do you want lunch?’
‘Why else would I hug you?’
‘My manly attractions?’
‘You wish. Let’s go eat.’
We non-invitees to the VIP lunch were stuck with the clubhouse café, which proved to be full, and so we headed for the burger stall. This turned out to be much jollier than I expected and I enjoyed the car chat buzz around us. I cheered up, and Swoosh turned into the perfect day again – or would have done if I wasn’t still sensing that the situation at Old Herne’s was a volcano gently rumbling away waiting to erupt.
TWO
Still harbouring my wistful hope that the Gordon-Keeble would win the best in show award, I made my way back after lunch to where I parked it earlier with its fellow competitors on the far side of the track. Len and I had scrupulously checked each millimetre of my beloved car, polished it up to its Sunday best and cleaned its engine to the nth degree. Nevertheless there must have been a speck of dust left somewhere because it had only been awarded third place. I would have patted it in commiseration if I hadn’t been worried about fingerprints on its shiny polish.
I had been wondering what had happened at the management lunch but there was no sign of Jessic
a or anyone else who could enlighten me. It must have been over because I glimpsed Arthur Howell in his Morgan whizzing round the track. The Morgan was a four-wheeler racing green original and it looked splendid. As I had been used to seeing the Morgan since my youth, only now did I wonder why this 1965 Morgan was so special to him rather than, say, a three-wheeler pre-war model which he might have driven during his wartime career here. That reminded me that I had to talk to Tim Jarvis, who was busy overseeing the laps of honour round the track. And there was still Sam Fenton to nobble.
The latter was the easier, as he had been watching the Morgan too, so I caught him after the crowd dispersed and explained my mission over the Porsche.
‘Bad show that. Tried the Porsche Club 356 Register, have you?’ he asked.
This was a natural step, but the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency in Swansea was more likely. Dave had provided me with a short list of four 356 registrations there in the last month of which two were due to change of owner. That ruled them out of my reckoning because if they were stolen cars the Agency’s records of previous owners wouldn’t tally.
The other two were first registrations, which for a classic Porsche would imply that a car acquired overseas had now entered the UK and needed UK registration – all perfectly legal. Unless, of course, the foreign documentation required for registration and an old-style logbook, dating back to the year of manufacture, were forged, along with the number plates. So the DVLA line didn’t look hopeful either, unless the engine and chassis numbers on Mike’s car had been left unaltered, in which case they would show up in the Swansea records and set the alarm bells going. With today’s class of criminal, however, that was unlikely, although changing figures with a number punch is not an easy matter.
Unlike the DVLA, with the Porsche Club 356 Register there was a chance that even if the numbers had been changed something would smell fishy to them, as, dealing with such a specific subject as the 356, every single number ever issued would be known to them. The drawback to this line of enquiry though was that the new keeper of Mike’s Porsche would not stick his neck out by registering it with the club, or possibly not even with the obligatory DVLA, depending on what his intentions were for his new acquisition.
