by Amy Myers
The bar itself was untended and looked as if the staff had left their posts in a hurry, as in legends of the Marie Celeste. Empty glasses and coffee cups stood on the counter, a tea towel lay tossed beside them, and a half eaten cup cake waited for attention on a plate. The entry door to the staff side of the counter was wide open.
Then I noticed two people sitting by the window. With the dying sun streaming through the glass I did not immediately realize who they were, until I saw one of them in a wheelchair. The other one was sitting in a wing armchair so large and high that it seemed almost to be making a statement of solidarity with the elderly man it sheltered. Both men must be around ninety; one I knew, and it didn’t take much to work out who the other one was. The silence between them and the angle of their chairs confirmed it. I recognized one as Arthur Howell and the other, frailer in body, must be Mike’s father Ray. They spoke not a word, neither to each other nor to me, and the atmosphere was stuffier than a 1930s Austin on a cold day. Natural enough with the shock of such a tragedy, but I wondered what Ray was doing here rather than being at High House with the rest of his family, mourning his son’s death. Grief isn’t always rational.
I forced myself to say, ‘Mr Nelson? I’m Jack Colby, a friend of your son’s.’ I offered my sympathy to both men, but there was still silence, and my hasty withdrawal was clearly called for. Then I remembered that Brandon had wanted me to ‘stick around’ and he said nothing without reason.
It was Arthur Howell who finally replied, although as I drew nearer to them I could see he too was in shock. ‘You’re Jack Colby,’ he said. ‘The man Mike told us had been put on the Porsche case. We’ve met before. Goodwood Revival 2007. Right?’
‘Right,’ I agreed. He had a keen memory, because I never flatter myself that I make an unforgettable impression on those I fleetingly meet. This was a man who had got where he was in the world by remembering. At Goodwood I had met a buoyant, happy Arthur Howell but he was hardly recognizable in the Arthur before me now. He was watching me though, and I had little doubt he was as shrewd as ever.
‘Were you there when Mike was found?’ he shot at me.
‘Shortly afterwards.’
‘He was murdered?’
No point in pretending otherwise. ‘It does look like it.’
‘His killer has to be found. Quickly. That right, Ray?’
The other man raised himself in the wheelchair to glare at Arthur with such venom that I physically shrank back. ‘Not far to look,’ he growled.
He was a thin-faced, suspicious-looking man and hard to reconcile with the suave, good-looking singing partner of Miranda Pryde that I had seen in so many photos of the 1940s. He had been very much the junior partner, and it was Miranda’s voice that lingered in the memory. I hadn’t seen him since my childhood because I’d been abroad in the oil business for many years.
I had to ask him, because sometimes people say things in the heat of extreme emotion that they do mean, as well as those they don’t. ‘Does that mean you know who murdered your son, Mr Nelson?’
Silence was his only reply. He stared at me, expressionless, and so I left the two old men to their private grief. Whether Brandon wanted me here or not, this was no place for me. I could be of more use tracking down Jessica and Tim.
Morgans Hangar was crowded and I couldn’t face it at first. There were two police constables logging in all arrivals and departures, so I checked with them whether Jessica and Tim were present. Neither was. Perhaps I’d been wrong and Jessica was at High House with the family, but Tim wouldn’t be there. Then I realized where he must be.
I found him there. Sobbing his heart out. Sitting on the ramp into the garage that currently housed the Morgan but not the Porsche. The Morgan looked lonely without its mate. I said nothing to Tim, just sat by him for a while. There was no need of words.
Eventually, I had to speak. ‘The police need to talk to you, Tim. I’ll walk back there with you.’
He didn’t demur, just blew his nose into a large cotton handkerchief, carefully replaced it in his pocket and stood up.
‘When did you find out, Tim?’ I asked him.
‘I was down at the track. Mike …’ His voice faltered then he tried again. ‘He said he’d bring the Crossley down. Didn’t come. Should have been there at quarter to five so I thought he’d changed his mind and gone to the concert first, but he wasn’t there by twenty to six either. So I went to Thunderbolts – and there he was.’
I went very cold. ‘You saw him before Peter and Anna Nelson got there?’
‘Must have,’ he muttered. ‘Ran straight out. Couldn’t face it.’
‘You’ll have to do that now, Tim. We all will,’ I said gently. This wasn’t going to look good in Brandon’s eyes.
I escorted him to the clubhouse to wait for Brandon then returned to Morgans Hangar, where the remaining crowds were still looking bemused at this terrible end to Swoosh. On the way I spotted Jessica and fulfilled the second part of my immediate mission for Brandon with a quick, ‘See you later,’ to her.
To my pleasure, I found Len and Zoe patiently waiting for me when I reached Morgans. I could see Mrs Len talking to a friend, but Zoe’s partner Rob had vanished – his forte at times of trouble. It was a happy surprise to see Len and Zoe, though, and I told them I appreciated it.
‘You’re free to go, Jack?’ Zoe asked anxiously.
‘Not yet.’ I’d have to get clearance from Brandon, although the planned clear-up that Jessica had foreseen would no longer be on the cards with a crime scene in operation. ‘Brandon wants me to stick around.’
‘Careful who you stick with,’ Len grunted. ‘Funny people, these Nelsons, so Tim says.’
I took this seriously. I knew Tim rated loyalty highly and wouldn’t have passed on his opinion of his employers without foundation. ‘Tim’s with the police now.’
‘He’ll take it badly,’ Len said. ‘This is going to be the last straw for Old Herne’s. No saving it now.’
‘I was told Howell’s decision was going to be announced at lunchtime.’
Len snorted. ‘Maybe it was. The Nelsons are skint and so is the club. Mike wasn’t too good with cash. Swoosh may be first class, but a good paint job doesn’t mean there isn’t rust underneath.’
With these words of wisdom, Len decided to take Mrs Len home, but Zoe lingered.
‘Bad day for you, Jack,’ she said sympathetically. ‘Shall we talk about something else?’
‘Let’s do that.’ It might take my mind off Mike, though I doubted it.
‘I saw you chatting Jessica Hart up earlier,’ she said airily.
‘All in a day’s work.’ Taken by surprise, I managed to be equally airy.
‘Good. But so’s a steamroller in its right place.’
‘Very droll,’ I commented.
‘Take care, Jack,’ Zoe said seriously. ‘You don’t want another follow-my-own-star woman in your life.’
I froze. Zoe might be right on the ball but she had stepped too far into my private territory. Louise is a celeb and had chosen her career on stage and in films in preference to a life at Frogs Hill – and as I could not leave Frogs Hill to be a trailing spouse that spelt goodbye to happiness. Louise’s departure from my life was my problem, however. Luckily, Zoe realized it.
‘Sorry,’ she added, ‘but next time you need a sticker, not a runner.’
I alternately fumed and was grateful for her concern, and was glad when she left to find Rob. Rob was a first-class sticker – otherwise known as a leech – but did I envy her that? No way. I’d follow my own star, and currently I could see it coming right towards me.
Correction: although it was indeed Jessica, albeit some way away, it was Liz who reached me first. Again. I received another embarrassing hug, and over her shoulder I saw Jessica retreating. Almost worse, I saw Liz’s nerd husband Colin approaching – not that in the scale of things after Mike’s death I was over-concerned for Colin’s feelings. Liz was looking shell-shocked, however, and w
as clearly in need of reassurance.
‘You did a great job this afternoon, Liz,’ I told her. ‘Didn’t she, Colin?’
‘I got here too late,’ he announced stony-faced, glaring at me with his sharp microscopic eyes, as though I were a hitherto unknown species of slug.
‘It was a terrific concert, for all its aftermath,’ I told him. ‘You’d have been proud of Liz. She sang like a real pro.’ Perhaps an unfortunate word to choose with Colin’s suspicious nature.
‘Jason seemed pleased,’ Liz contributed with some effort. ‘Until afterwards, that is. Terrible for him. Terrible for us all.’
‘Where is he?’ I asked. ‘At High House?’
‘I’ve no idea. I haven’t seen him since the concert ended. He’s in an odd mood today anyway. We didn’t think he was even going to turn up for the concert. We were waiting and waiting until the very last minute.’
‘He sang well.’ I stored the information away in my mind.
‘That’s what he does,’ Colin said heavily. ‘What’s all this about a murder, anyway? I’m not having Liz involved.’ Another glare at me, as though I was about to take her into custody on behalf of the police.
‘I’ve told you, Colin,’ Liz said patiently. ‘It’s Mike Nelson who’s been killed. It’s nothing to do with Jason’s band, only with Jason himself.’
‘Nevertheless, it’s high time we went,’ Colin said, then glanced at me and added a meaningful ‘darling’ to his command.
‘OK, Colin,’ Liz agreed, then darted over to give me a quick farewell hug. ‘Thanks, Jack, for being there for me.’
Unfortunately, Colin darted back too, put a possessive arm round her and yanked her away from me – just as Jessica once more appeared at the wrong moment. She had other things on her mind this, however, and didn’t even comment as they left. She looked very white. ‘I’ve been looking for you, Jack. I’ve just been grilled by the police and grilled by the family and I’m …’
She began to sway and I grabbed her just in time. ‘I need to see the police again,’ I told her, ‘so let’s go over to the clubhouse. Maybe we can get a drink or something to eat from the kitchen. The bar’s pretty empty so we can find a quiet corner.’
‘I daren’t relax. And anyway, your girlfriend—’
‘Is just an old friend. She’s not my wife or my girlfriend and that’s her husband with her.’ I then linked her arm in mine for physical as well as moral support. What to say now? No avoiding the subject of Mike, that was for sure, but I tried not to make it sound like another grilling. ‘You said the family had been questioning you, Jessica. Did you mean Mike’s?’
‘Arthur Howell’s too. His son is a beefy chap called Glenn, and Glenn’s daughter Fenella is here as well, an all-American stunner. They’re both gearing up to – as they put it – protect Arthur’s interests, once it’s seemly to do so.’
‘Arthur seems well able to protect them himself.’
‘He doesn’t get on with Ray Nelson too well and not with Peter either. Arthur thinks he’s Ray’s number one spy, which he is. And then of course there’s—’
‘Boadicea,’ I finished for her. ‘Doesn’t Arthur see eye to eye with her?’
‘Did the Romans get on chummy terms with Boadicea?’
I managed a laugh. ‘What about Jason Pryde? He’s a Nelson and is Ray’s grandson too.’
A pause. ‘Jason? Arthur gets on with him well. I haven’t seen him since it all happened, but he certainly won’t be comforting Boadicea. They’re at daggers drawn and have been, so I was told, since Mike married her fifteen years ago.’
‘Is he still at odds with his father too?’
She didn’t answer this except with a non-committal, ‘Well, he was here today,’ as we reached the clubhouse. I was longing to know what had happened at the lunch but I was forestalled before I thought it seemly to do so.
‘Jessica!’ Sweeping out of the main door was Boadicea herself, by now clad in subdued grey. She still looked distraught and little wonder, but the fighting spirit was to the fore again.
I began to express my sympathy but she swept it aside. ‘Have they found out yet who did this monstrous thing to my husband, Jessica?’ Then her eyes narrowed as she saw me. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘The police asked me to stay. As I explained, I came to discuss the Porsche with Mike.’
‘Then discuss it with me,’ she snapped. ‘It’s mine now, although it’s only three weeks until the insurance is paid out. What are you going to do about it?’
Even for Boadicea this was quite something, and there was no way I was going to discuss car business now. ‘I’ll keep in touch,’ I said shortly.
That appeared to be that, and even making allowances for shock and distress I was stunned at this bizarre conversation so hard upon the heels of her husband’s murder. Of Mike she said not a word, but as she stalked past us out of the clubhouse I saw her face collapse with a complete loss of control. Grief takes people in strange ways.
The bar was deserted now, but Jessica knew her way round the kitchen and at my urging found something for us to eat. I wasn’t concerned on my account but on hers. She needed to get back to some base of normality, and this was a good way of doing it for us both. I felt I’d been catapulted by an enormous swoosh into a kaleidoscope of whirling images of Mike’s destroyed body. Someone had been very determined to see him dead.
Jessica and I had half an hour together before Brandon descended and spotted us, but it had been a relatively silent one. I wrestled with my conscience since I still did not know what had happened at the lunch meeting, but I could not question Jessica further. Beyond saying she had been at the concert, she wasn’t interested in talking. I could understand that and said I’d call her. She couldn’t have heard me because she murmured that she would call me. Brandon came over to us and asked us to call in at Charing HQ on the morrow to sign statements, but surprisingly lingered after Jessica left.
‘Thanks for rooting out Jarvis and Jessica Hart for me,’ he said. I thought he might elaborate, but he didn’t. Instead: ‘Tell me what you know about Old Herne’s.’
Interesting, I thought, that this was his choice of line to follow, and for me it was much easier than talking about Mike. I did my best, ending up with: ‘Great institution running downhill faster than a Ferrari out of control.’
‘What if this Arthur Howell takes it over for himself? I’m told he’s the owner.’
‘That doesn’t seem likely unless he ran it in conjunction with someone. His decision was going to be announced at a lunch today. Was it?’
Brandon is a practical man. He knew I’d find out anyway, so he told me.
‘Reprieve for Old Herne’s, according to this new broom you’re sweeping along with, Jessica Hart.’
Only this morning that would have been great news. Now the picture had dramatically changed. For instance, could someone who wanted the club to be closed have taken decisive action?
‘Will it work out? How do you rate her?’ Brandon continued.
I forced myself to be objective. ‘She’s only on the starting grid, but it looks promising. This sort of place runs on trust and familiarity so it’s early days to tell.’
‘Who’s your informant?’ he shot at me.
‘Tim Jarvis, Jessica herself and my own impressions.’
‘An obsessive volunteer, a new broom and a prejudiced outsider,’ Brandon summed up.
‘That doesn’t mean it’s wrong,’ I pointed out, nettled. ‘And delete the prejudiced.’
Brandon switched tack. ‘Have you met the widow?’
‘Several times. A formidable lady.’
‘They’re all formidable. Old man Nelson saying he’d been expecting something like this; one arrogant twerp of a grandson claiming he’d have done it himself if he’d thought of it, only he hadn’t; and the other grandson, Jason Pryde, not saying anything. Singer, isn’t he? Met him, have you?’
‘No.’
‘Ah. Now …’ Brandon became
formal again. ‘About this Porsche. Any line on it yet?’
My antennae shot up. ‘One or two leads that might be helpful: the Porsche Club 356 Register and one other. And there’s the DVLA, of course.’
Brandon frowned. ‘Swansea won’t help, will it? The car couldn’t be re-registered.’
‘It could if it was fixed to look like a first registration from abroad. Why are you interested in the Porsche though? Because its owner’s been murdered?’
‘Quite,’ was Brandon’s reply. ‘It’s a good reason for you to stick around for a while. Get to know the politics of this place. Could be useful.’
Which meant that he thought the murder could indeed link up with the car theft. Had Mike confronted the thief? But if it wasn’t linked, whom would Mike’s death benefit? One thing was clear. Brandon didn’t think this was a random killing.
‘There was blood all over the place,’ I called after him as he left. ‘Could help?’ Brandon stopped in his tracks.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Jarvis told me the axe belonged to the Crossley – and so did an RAF uniform greatcoat. That’s missing.’
Dusk was falling fast as at last I returned to the exhibitors’ car park by the track. I’d gone over to the main car park before I left, with Brandon’s permission. I’d been hoping to catch Liz again but her car was gone. There were still police cars and vans there, as well as several civilian cars – amongst the latter might be some early bird journalists who had caught a whiff of what was going on. Tonight the visitors to what would probably be the last Swoosh had already driven along the lanes of Kent to the highways that returned them to their known world: home. Soon, thankfully, I would be one of them.
I walked over to my Gordon-Keeble, which was standing in lonely state by the track, but did a double take as I reached it. What I had assumed was part of a tree trunk in the shadows bordering this area of Old Herne’s suddenly walked towards me. Forties, thin brown hair, a slight build and nondescript – or would have been except for the fact that I knew who he was.
