by Amy Myers
‘Might turn up something,’ Sam said. ‘Good luck. I did hear a rumour that someone in the area was asking if there were any 356s in good condition for sale. Happens all the time, so probably nothing for you there, but you never know.’
It sounded vague but indeed one never knew. ‘Any idea where he or she was asking?’
‘Huptons. Know it?’
I did. It was one of the chain of garages that belonged to Harry Prince, local mandarin and millionaire who had his beady eyes on buying Frogs Hill and the Pits. I stored Sam’s information in my mind for later evaluation, but it didn’t look good. Harry Prince sails close to the wind and when it blows he is adept at heading instantly for harbour, leaving others to weather the storm.
Tackle Harry or Huptons? The latter, I decided. It was too indefinite a line to justify using up what little goodwill Harry had towards me. Meanwhile, there was work to do here today. I had to consider whether the car had been stolen for its monetary value or because it was Mike’s car or because of its iconic status at Old Herne’s, so the more I knew about those involved the better.
Top of the list was Tim Jarvis, Len’s chum. I went in search of him – not easy in these crowds – and eventually I spotted him lovingly taking charge of the Morgan again after Arthur had finished his tour. I knew him through Len, so apart from a slight defensiveness he was willing enough to chat to me. He was about the same age as Len, in his sixties, but even more weather-beaten in the face, and they shared the same general air of the fanatic plus one of overall gloom and doom.
‘I looked after that car as if it were my own,’ he told me truculently the moment I mentioned the Porsche.
‘And it showed,’ I said to smooth him down. He had the kind of rugged independence that made me worry about him. What could he do to replace Old Herne’s in his life if it closed? I asked him to fill me in on the details of the theft. It must have been well planned, even though I doubted whether security here was exactly state of the art. I’d heard the story before from Dave but there’s no substitute for the horse’s mouth.
‘What do you want to know?’ He was still guarded.
‘Let’s start with the outside gates. Locked?’
‘Eleven thirty, after the bar’s closed. Found them open in the morning.’
‘CCTV?’ I asked without much hope. I’d seen the said lock – which was merely a padlock, although a hefty one.
‘No need.’ He glared at me defiantly. ‘The gates were always locked.’
‘Was the padlock forced?’
‘Gone. Had it replaced,’ Tim added proudly.
All this told me was that it wasn’t a chance theft – and I’d been sure of that anyway – but the clincher would be the access to the control tower garage. ‘Did you notice anyone odd hanging around?’ I asked him. A daft question, but daft questions have to be asked and answered if one’s to get the general feel of the situation.
‘Not odder than usual.’ Tim was highly pleased with this witticism and readily agreed to accompany me to the Porsche’s former garage.
The control tower was between the two remaining hangars from its earlier RAF days, and several hundred yards from the clubhouse. The hangars had been converted into archives or museums – however one terms such glorious collections of memorabilia, ranging from bits and bobs from old cars too precious to throw away to letters, photos, car and plane models – anything that spoke of Old Herne’s past.
On the far side of the control tower, Thunderbolts Hangar (or Thunderbolts for short), so called in honour of Arthur, was devoted to aircraft, and the other hangar, predictably called Morgans, housed classic car memorabilia from 1896 onwards, and I loved both of them. Pride of place in Thunderbolts Hangar was given to the Crossley fire tender that meant a lot to Arthur Howell. Crossleys had served the RAF nobly during the Second World War, and the driver of this one had saved Arthur’s life when his Thunderbolt crash-landed at Old Herne’s in 1943.
‘What about the door keys to this garage?’ I asked Tim. The garage’s double doors were at the far end of the building and set into the control tower’s sturdy walls.
‘Like the main gates, the padlock disappeared. I’ve replaced this one too.’
Why should the thief take the padlocks with him if he’d forced them? I wondered. Fingerprints? DNA? Possible, but there was another explanation. That the thief had had a key – with the help of inside knowledge. I had to ask him. ‘Where are the keys kept, Tim?’
His eyes looked like those of wounded spaniel. ‘I have them.’
‘There must be spares.’
‘In the clubhouse. Mike’s office.’
‘That’s on the ground floor. Is it locked?’
‘No.’
I didn’t ask any more questions on that subject – no need. Dave’s team would have covered that, although hope of fingerprints and suchlike was nil. Anyone with knowledge of Old Herne’s could have pinched them. Instead I just commented, ‘The Porsche was an odd choice to steal. It’s too well known, if only because of its rarity and condition. Even if the number plates, engine and chassis numbers were falsified, it would still be recognizable.’
Tim gave me a scathing glance. ‘Of course it’s recognizable. Mike raced it.’
One up to Tim and I had mud on my face. He was right. It would have been modified with a roll bar welded to the body channels to give it more strength for racing. This undoubtedly had been a professional job, whether with inside help or not, but I ruled out the idea of the theft being on behalf of a nutty collector to keep under lock and key. This wasn’t like a valuable art masterpiece; classic car lovers want to show off by driving their prize possession and to chat about it to envious chums, not hide it away just for private consumption. There was something very strange going on – and I couldn’t rule out the fact that Old Herne’s future looked very precarious.
Realizing that Tim was getting itchy about the Morgan still being at the track and away from his all-caring eye, I suggested we made our way back to it. ‘Difficult time for you,’ I said. ‘I’ve heard rumours that Old Herne’s might have to close. I find that hard to believe.’
‘That’s what they’re saying, all right. Not doing well. That’s why this Miss Hart’s been brought in, going to take over from Mike. Good thing all round, or the old place would have to close. Mike’s like me. His heart’s in these cars, not in running the place. Not like in the old days when his mother was running it. No, Mr Arthur won’t close it, you’ll see.’
He looked up at me as we reached the Morgan he’d looked after for so long and I could see his eyes were full of tears. I only hoped he was right.
The afternoon seemed to whizz by. Having done all I could on the Porsche front, I was free to revel in the glories of Swoosh but I could spot no one to revel with. There was no sign of Len or Zoe, nor of Liz, who was doubtless busy preparing for the concert. The bandstand was looking increasingly in business, with electricians dashing here, there and everywhere with cables and sound equipment. The cacophony of their tests mingled with the roar of classic cars on the track was intoxicating, and the children’s screams of delight at the old-fashioned dodgems, trampolines and other delights only added to the heady mix.
The concert was due to begin at five, and the fly-past was at six. That was always timed to be overhead as the Crossley fire tender was driven round the track by Mike as a tribute to Arthur. By four thirty, however, crowds were already gathered at the bandstand and I hurried to join them, knowing that Liz would never speak to me again if I was not visible at the very front. At least Colin wouldn’t be there so the daggers from his eyes wouldn’t be piercing me like pins in a witch’s waxen image. The concert of Miranda Pryde songs would add an extra dimension to Swoosh and I was looking forward to it. After all, if it was going to be the last one, Old Herne’s would be going out in style.
Frogs Hill’s personnel assembled in force, but as the front row was reserved I found myself a spot on the grass between the seating and the stage. Len and Zo
e with their respective partners opted for seats elsewhere, but I had my camera poised to take pictures of Liz at her moment of glory.
I was so intent on not missing any opening appearance by her that I wasn’t keeping an eye on the seats filling up behind me. A minute or two before the show was due to begin, however, I turned round to see Arthur Howell just arriving to sit in the front row with Boadicea, now in glorious pink technicolor, and Peter. Next to Peter at the end of the row was a wheelchair occupied by another aged gentleman – Ray Nelson, I presumed. During his reign as manager of Old Herne’s with Miranda, I had mostly been working abroad in the oil business so I didn’t know him, except by sight from my youth. On Arthur’s other side was a stoutish man in his sixties and a slender supercilious young woman in her late twenties or a year or two older.
Boadicea looked as though she might be about to brandish her spear ready to hurl at Jason, and the rest of the family weren’t looking too jolly either. I could see no sign of Mike, who might still be at the track or in the hangar preparing the Crossley for its star appearance. Somewhat odd, given that Jason was his son, but there was no sign of Jessica either, so perhaps they were together at the back.
I was still cherishing my mental image of Boadicea on the warpath when Jason Pryde came on to the stage. Everyone remembers his stormy presence on the pop scene of the early nineties with songs such as ‘I’m a bad, bad, lad’, but then came his headline grabbing disappearance from the charts after he vanished into detoxing clinics and bankruptcy. Silence had then followed until he reappeared with a female singing partner in Pryde of the Past, his tribute band to his grandmother Miranda Pryde, for whose famous songs they were now known. In the last year alone ‘Yesterday is Tomorrow’ and ‘Sail Away with Love’ had hit the charts.
Jason came on alone, no band members, no Liz. He bore little resemblance to Mike, being slight and not very tall, and at first sight lacking Mike’s commanding presence. When he began to sing unaccompanied that dramatically changed. The slightness became strength, so that his tiniest movement had a magnetic quality that together with his voice made one forget that Miranda had been female and he was male. No doubt about the latter, I thought, and indeed whether he was gay or not was immaterial as he sang. I could listen to that voice for a very long time. I was almost sorry when the band and Liz came on to join him. I was proud of my Liz (well, she hadn’t been my Liz for a couple of years) as she sang. There was not a trace of nervousness after she’d got going and I cheered her enthusiastically. By the time Jason finished with his solo, ‘It’s time, that time again, that time to part’, I had a lump in my throat. It had indeed been a tribute to remember, a tribute to Miranda Pryde and to Old Herne’s too.
Perfectly timed came the roar of the fly-past aircraft – the Thunderbolt, a Hurricane and a Tempest – and I have to confess I didn’t recognize the Tempest until my neighbour of the grass breathed its name in awe. Nor, as we all peered upwards at this majestic display, did I take in that there was something missing from it. Not until after the aircraft had disappeared and the applause died down. I hadn’t been aware of Len’s approach until he nudged me.
‘No Crossley,’ he hissed.
‘What?’ I’d forgotten about that element of the fly-past, while I was so wrapped up in the concert and the overhead performance.
‘The fire tender. I was watching for it. It’s not on the track.’
A jolt of unease, but then I saw sense. ‘Mike probably couldn’t start it. Or maybe he has a surprise ending planned.’
Nevertheless we were both worried enough to go over to Thunderbolts Hangar. I had some idea that between us we might be able to get the old crock going before everyone gave up waiting for it. The crowds were beginning to move towards the car park now, especially those with families. Even so, there were still a lot of people around and I could see a crowd round the closed visitor entrance to Thunderbolts.
And then I picked up that the screams I could hear weren’t coming from the dodgems or the Haunted House. Without a word both Len and I ran for the double doors on the far side of Thunderbolts. As we entered I could see the Crossley’s rear and a dozen or so people shouting, screaming, choking. As I reached them, I could see there was something on the ground in front of the Crossley. I pushed my way through and then I could see all too clearly what it was.
A body, very bloody, very mangled. The bomber jacket alone told me who it was. It was Mike.
THREE
Not the swoosh of classic cars and aeroplanes now but that of police cars, incident vans and purposeful major-crime-scene operatives moving about their business. The business was murder. The police seemed to be assuming it was no accident, and so was I. Mike had been run down by the Crossley fire tender. That much was obvious, but the tender couldn’t have revved up sufficient speed in that confined space, either with or without a driver, to cause such horrific injuries, and if it had been driven at him from outside the hangar it would surely have attracted attention. The fireman’s axe lying not far away had so much blood on it that it must have been the decisive factor, whether Mike had been run down by the Crossley before or after the axe attack.
Even now though, an hour and half after the discovery of Mike’s body, I couldn’t fully take it in. Swoosh? Murder? The two words didn’t fit and yet it had happened. The crowds were thinning out fast, with police monitoring the exits, but there had been plenty of time for Mike’s killer to disappear from the hangar before the body was discovered. Out of the thousands here today how on earth could his murderer be traced? Sometimes I’m glad I don’t have Detective Chief Inspector Brandon’s job. Sometimes I’m sorry I have mine in situations such as this. Brandon likes being hands-on for some cases and was currently the senior Investigating Officer at this crime scene.
I liked Mike – everyone did, or so I had thought. Who could have hated him to this extent? Did his killer want to remove Mike the person or was it because of his connection with Old Herne’s? If the latter, the outcome of today’s lunch meeting could have something to do with it. Or – another dark thought – was his death connected with the theft of the Porsche? I couldn’t focus on any reason that it could be, but the timing of the two events made it a possibility. Had Mike, for instance, known who was behind the theft and confronted him?
‘You again,’ DCI Brandon had remarked dispassionately, when it became my turn to be called to the clubhouse room chosen for a temporary incident room.
Those in the Thunderbolts Hangar when the police arrived had been herded into one of the other clubhouse rooms, save for Peter Nelson and Boadicea who had been unfortunate enough to find Mike’s body, having become concerned, as had Len and I, over his absence from the fly-past. Their cries had brought others running, and by the time Len and I had reached the scene the emergency services had already been summoned. Mike’s family and staff, including poor Boadicea, were now in the bar area. The police cordon now surrounded Thunderbolts and all approaches to it, and scene-suited personnel were carrying out their gruesome tasks within.
At least Brandon tolerates my presence now without giving in to his natural instinct to first throw cuffs on me and then throw away the key, so my grilling this time was more a light charring rather than heavy barbecuing.
‘Job for Dave,’ I explained, when asked why I was here. ‘Anyway, no one would miss Swoosh.’ I was still on autopilot, I realized, while part of me grappled with the enormity of what had happened.
He conceded this point. ‘I know about the Porsche, but what brought you to that hangar so quickly, Jack?’
‘The Crossley fire tender hadn’t appeared on the track as scheduled, I assumed there’d been a breakdown and Len and I went to see if we could help. We thought the head volunteer Tim Jarvis would be there.’
‘He wasn’t when we arrived,’ Brandon commented. ‘And I’ve been told Mike Nelson had a deputy. I haven’t met him either.’
‘Jessica Hart. No motive there,’ I whipped back more quickly than I should have done. ‘She�
��s only just arrived in the job.’
‘So you think it’s murder?’ Brandon said mildly. ‘I need to talk to her too.’
I’d fallen for that one and perhaps done Jessica no service. ‘Surely it has to be,’ I replied. ‘That axe followed by the Crossley to make sure he was dead.’ I began to feel distinctly sick at the thought. The Crossley had been somewhat forward of its usual position in the centre of the hangar, ready to back out of the double doors for the drive to the track.
‘Seems that way,’ Brandon agreed. ‘The axe must have preceded the Crossley attack. It looks as if he was right in front of the Crossley then, maybe even looking under the bonnet. The blood spatter pattern fits that, and if the Crossley attack had come first there would be no certainty of killing him.’
Perhaps he saw my involuntary shudder because he became chummy – for him. My star must be rising. ‘Would you stick around, Jack? Find Jarvis and Jessica Hart for me. They may be with the Nelsons downstairs in the bar; Dave Jennings says you know them.’
‘Only Mike and his wife, and I wasn’t a close mate.’
‘Even better. Keep a friendly eye on them. They’re with one of ours.’
‘Now?’ I was dubious about this, but with the police already sitting in with them it might help to have a friendly face around, even if Jessica and Tim weren’t there.
‘Why not?’ Brandon gave me one of his glances, which always make me think my brain is being X-rayed for its innermost thoughts.
‘Could be plenty of reasons.’
‘All overruled.’
I braced myself, but unnecessarily. The constable at the clubhouse main door told me most of the family had gone with the policewoman to High House as Mrs Nelson was in a state of collapse. One or two people were still in the bar, he said, but the remaining visitors and staff were in Morgans Hangar, which had seating in the video room, as well as at several other points. Jessica wouldn’t be at High House and nor would Tim, so I checked the bar area first.
