Classic In the Pits--A Jack Colby classic car mystery

by Amy Myers

  ‘Why?’ Arthur barked back at me. I could see he was still not convinced.

  ‘It must have been his way of hinting that the Porsche story linked up with you and Jason. And,’ I added, ‘that you were both under his protection.’

  Arthur stared at me for a moment, then chuckled. ‘Pity you didn’t think of that before calling in the Marines for Friars Leas.’

  He wasn’t going to get away with that. ‘I hadn’t seen your poppy then.’

  He gave in gracefully. ‘Right on target, Jack. Now, see here, we’re going to have a coming home party for Anna when she’s well enough. That will be a few weeks yet. You’ll think we’re crazy and perhaps we are, given that she’d planned to have the Porsche destroyed. But Jason and I are going to do it. Understand?’

  No answer needed or given. ‘But here’s one for you, Jack,’ he continued. ‘Where are you on Mike’s death? That can’t be down to Tom Barney’s great-grandson. Mike would have been protected from this guy as he was my son.’

  ‘But Doubler didn’t know that.’

  He glared at me but his fighting spirit was gone. ‘Have it your way, Jack. I want Mike’s killer found, and if you can help do that, I’ll send you poppies or Porsches every damn year.’

  I had to tell Brandon about Doubler. I had to tell Dave too, and I would do both and in person, when I felt ready. But that wasn’t yet. I needed to think first. Not at Frogs Hill, not in a pub, not at old Herne’s but on the Downs in the open air. There is a point on the Pilgrims Way that passes a former chalk pit, now an open land area, which has been left for nature to make of it what it will. Nature had done a good job, I thought as I climbed the steep slopes and looked down on the pit, now overgrown with wild flowers, humming with bees, fluttering with butterflies and busy with birds. I had the place to myself and walked along the pit’s edge to a point where I could look over the glorious valleys and flat Weald of Kent as far as the sea while the birds, bees and butterflies ignored my problems on their own serene quests for sustenance.

  I sat down on the grass and emptied my mind, as if shaking out the floor mats in my car. They do their job day after day, collecting dust and other tiny fragments of rubbish, but every so often they require attention. I’d just had my own shake-up and opted not to let dust settle but to rid myself of it.

  A few walkers passed me and I waved cheerily. Down in the valley I could see cars that seemed to crawl along the highways, and I felt blissfully divorced from everyday life. There was only one hitch in this cleansing process. The shake-up produced the interesting conclusion that maybe the only person who had been straight with me – up to a point at least – was the notorious killer Doubler, which was hardly something I could brag about to Brandon. Then the fresh air kicked in another angle. ‘I take exception to being double-crossed, Jack,’ Doubler had said, but how had Shaw double-crossed him seriously enough to warrant his death? It must be to do with the Porsche case or possibly Old Herne’s because the body had been dumped at Frogs Hill – after I had been diverted to Friars Leas where the one man in the world whom Doubler would never harm was living.

  Had Alex Shaw been playing his own game, not Doubler’s? There’d been no sign of that when I met him, except his acquaintance with Old Herne’s which he could well have had anyway. And yet Ray Nelson had known his face, I remembered. He’d thought Shaw was the log man. What if he was right and he had indeed seen Shaw at High House, ostensibly delivering logs but on another mission?

  Step by step, I warned myself.

  Why would he go to High House?

  Possible answer: to arrange the theft in the first place. Likelihood: one out of ten. With Mike around, Boadicea would have chosen somewhere far more secluded than High House.

  Second answer: on a mission of his own, over which he had the upper hand. Likelihood: eight out of ten. What mission though? Answer to that one: blackmail? Boadicea had been crying out for money – because she had to pay a blackmailer.

  It was a line to work on, I decided, and would most certainly tie in with Doubler’s notion of a double-cross. Furthermore, if Boadicea had refused to pay Shaw and threatened to notify Doubler – there could be the reason for Shaw’s attack on her. That fitted, so the next port of call was to break the news to Brandon and then Dave.

  The best of intentions can be foiled by Brandon, however. He was out when I reached Charing on Monday morning. Dave was not. He is usually the better bet when a case is going well, Brandon when it isn’t. Today I had Dave. What Dave likes is a quiet chat over a problem in a pub or café. He’s not fussy which, but he doesn’t like being given bad news in his office – especially just before lunch. As now.

  ‘Let me get this straight.’ He leaned menacingly forward across his desk, after I’d told him the full story about the Porsche, including my theory about blackmail. ‘This Anna Nelson paid for it to be pinched. Dear old Doubler has a change of heart – if he has one – and reprieves it from the knacker’s yard. Doubler then arranges for it to be sold on and tracked down by you –’ not us, I noted – ‘and returned to its rightful owner. What the hell for?’ he finished with a roar.

  ‘To prevent it from being destroyed.’

  ‘So once Pryde knew, why not mention it to us and return the car to his dad? Why keep us on a fool’s errand?’

  Trust Dave to leap on the weak point. ‘I gather Jason wanted to teach his stepmother a lesson. A sort of joke.’

  ‘Joke?’ Dave snarled. ‘I know a joke too, Jack. Forget your invoice.’

  Sometimes I’d let this familiar gambit run its course, but not today. ‘I was called in three weeks after the car was stolen. Any of you think to interview Jason or Mrs Nelson in that time?’

  To do him justice, even in a rage Dave sees reason. ‘Fair enough. Send in the bill. This time.’

  That out of the way, I faced the other matter. ‘Brandon’s out,’ I told Dave. ‘I can ring him with this blackmail theory, but he needs to know about Lily Ansty pronto. Shall I wait?’

  It was like offering a child sweeties. Dave’s eyes lit up. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll tell him.’ From rage to a chuckle. ‘Mike Nelson’s first wife as a player in his game, eh. How did he miss that one?’

  I returned to Frogs Hill, feeling like Len’s beloved oil rag, rung out and in dire need of renewal. Oddly enough, when I saw the crime scene cordon was no longer there and that Jessica’s car was in the forecourt I didn’t automatically think of her in terms of restoration. It wasn’t her fault, I argued to myself, but she represented Old Herne’s, and at the moment I wanted nothing more than my home, including the Pits, whose seductive aroma – at least to petrolheads – wafted out to me as I shut the Alfa’s door behind me.

  Jessica turned out also to be in need of restoration – so it wasn’t a good pairing. She emerged from the Pits, still in smartish working clothes and her face looking set and grim. Had she heard the news? I wondered. Jason had indicated it was open house on his mother and the Porsche story, but neither of these subjects was necessarily bad news for her personally.

  ‘Trouble?’ I asked cautiously as we walked to the farmhouse together.

  ‘It’s pistols at dawn, Jack. Hope you don’t mind my unloading myself.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ I said warily, ‘provided the duel’s not with me.’

  She took that as a green light, naturally enough, and the dam burst. Words just poured out as I ushered her though to the living room. ‘I see now what Fenella’s game is. It’s straightforward enough. She wants my job now.’

  ‘I thought she’d been fobbed off with her design work.’

  ‘No way. She’s aiming for the number one job.’

  ‘But that’s Glenn’s for three months.’

  ‘Quite, but Fenella is making it quite clear she’s here for keeps. Nothing obvious, she’s too clever. Just little things like: “Of course it’s not my job, but I reckon that if you do such and such …” That sort of thing. I can see through it, but her game is to ensure Glenn makes a mess of things in
Arthur’s eyes, so that she can get rid of two birds with one stone. Glenn and me.’

  Interesting plan, if Jessica was right. ‘Who’s to be her number two, if she’s alienating you? Peter?’

  ‘Good grief no. He’s history as far as she’s concerned, with the result that he’s busy buttering up Arthur and Jason on the grounds that he’s Miranda’s grandson and he knows all about Old Herne’s and its customers.’

  I offered her a drink and was glad when she opted for tea. I was tired and needed as clear a head as I could still manage if I was to distinguish between my private life and Old Herne’s. All I longed for at that moment was that Jessica would go away. I knew this was unfair of me, especially as the physical Jack Colby was all too well aware that he didn’t want her to go away and that the night lay ahead.

  I made an effort. ‘Where does that you leave you?’

  ‘I get on well with Arthur and Jason. Someone needs to look after their welfare and their interests.’

  ‘You don’t fancy being a number two to Peter if he takes over or if Jason gives up the band and runs Old Herne’s himself?’

  I had put it too bluntly and she turned a blank face to me. Nor did she reply – which was all the answer I needed. In the midst of this game of politics, what, I wondered, had become of the Jessica who liked saving things, and in particular wanted to save Old Herne’s? As an unpleasant result of Mike’s death, Old Herne’s seemed to be getting a raw deal by being manipulated this way and that.

  ‘Any news of Boadicea?’ I asked Jessica. ‘Arthur seems to be planning for her return.’

  She groaned. ‘That’s the last straw. A welcome home party. It was Jason’s idea, whatever Arthur says. I ask you, Jack. I – I, mark you – have to organize it at Old Herne’s, and everyone’s leaping on the bandwagon with bright ideas for me to put into operation. It’s too bad, Jack. If I agree, it’ll be my fault if it’s a disaster. If I refuse, I look like an uncooperative employee who can’t cope. Either way, they win, I lose. Glenn is pretending to be all in favour, of course. No help there.’

  ‘Too bad.’ I was on automatic pilot by now, but quickly switched it off when I realized that this was somewhat ambiguous and tried my best to put it right. ‘That’s a challenge, Jessica. Why don’t you make it a resounding success and then everyone will forget whose idea it was and praise your expertise?’

  She brightened up. ‘Do you know, that’s a good idea. I’ll visit Boadicea in the hospital and get her input. That’ll win me brownie points.’

  ‘So it will,’ I murmured.

  ‘I’ll bring Glenn in on it, but not too far.’

  ‘Why did Jason suggest this party?’ I had been contemplating its oddity.

  Jessica was taken aback. ‘Goodness knows. Why?’

  ‘He loathes Boadicea, and Arthur himself doesn’t seem so keen on her, and I wouldn’t have thought,’ I added, ‘that Old Herne’s would be her first choice of venue.’

  Focusing on that angle put an airlock in my fuel flow, which had only been flowing gently while Jessica had been recounting her woes. It was indeed a kind gesture to welcome home Boadicea, but a family dinner would normally suffice in these circumstances – especially as she had been the cause of so much trouble over the Porsche.

  A grim thought came to me – would a public appearance by her attract her attacker to have another go and thereby bring this gruesome saga to a close? Her attacker was – we were assuming – Alex Shaw, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t been paid to do it. My blackmail theory fitted but it could still be wrong.

  ‘I wish Old Herne’s wasn’t the venue,’ she said fervently. ‘It’s Arthur and Jason who specifically want it there, although it’s aimed to please her by its content. She told them about her orphaned childhood and how she missed out on childish pleasures, so the general idea is to give her a taste of them.’

  Jessica was wandering around my living room aimlessly as she talked about it, and I noticed I hadn’t put Louise’s photo away. Her eyes fell on it, but she didn’t comment.

  Jessica elected to go home that evening to get an early start for the morning, and I didn’t try to stop her. There was a distance between us that I was too despondent to bridge. However, the next day Old Herne’s proved to be my own destination too, after Brandon rang me. He’d heard my theory about Alex Shaw and Boadicea from Dave and wanted to talk. Boadicea was indeed being discharged from hospital within the foreseeable future and although she would by then be more or less back to normal she still claimed to have no idea who had attacked or why. My theory fitted rather well with that. Brandon told me he was heading for High House and Ray Nelson; he would then tackle Boadicea, he said, and anything I picked up at Old Herne’s would be helpful.

  So I went to the Old Herne’s fount of information: the curator. Tim was an independent voice and not involved in club politics. He was also the one closest to Mike – or so I assumed. However, I was soft pedalling every assumption at present. Old Herne’s was Tim’s passion, only equalled by his devotion to Mike, but they did not necessarily dovetail. I’d bet my last (almost) dollar that they did, but when the road sign speed limit reads five miles per hour it’s wisest to obey. Go slow.

  I found Tim in Morgans, not in his curator’s office, but tenderly unwrapping a chequered flag from one of Mike’s early races, which had been bequeathed to Old Herne’s by a former track steward. Len had told me it was on its way, and Tim was so engrossed in his task that he didn’t notice my arrival.

  I cleared my throat meaningfully. ‘I’m told you knew about Jason’s hand in the Porsche story,’ I remarked.

  Tim jumped, then took in what I’d asked with some embarrassment. ‘Part of the story,’ he muttered. ‘She was going to have it destroyed, Jack. I’ve never taken to Mrs Nelson and now I know why. All she can think about is money. Sad, really, when you think of Mike.’

  ‘I hear there are plans for a welcome home party,’ I said, trying to sound casual.

  His face darkened. ‘It won’t be a car day, Jack. She’s not one for wheels, but I don’t hold with people being murdered, or as good as, so I’ll go along with it. Mr Arthur had a word with me. Asked me to do my best for Mike’s sake. So I will. After all, it’s all for Old Herne’s one way or another.’

  ‘Don’t you think it risky?’

  ‘It’s all money coming in, isn’t it? The place’ll go under without a boost.’

  ‘I meant risky for Mrs Nelson,’ I said drily.

  A long silence. ‘Maybe, but so’s life, isn’t it?’

  Perhaps Tim had come to the same conclusion as I had: that if Mike’s killer was still around, Boadicea would be put directly in the line of fire, but with the net drawn closer around her. There was another interpretation of the risk to her – that the excitement so soon after her release from hospital could be bad for her recovery, especially with the party being held at Old Herne’s where her husband had been murdered.

  ‘Having it here seems undiplomatic,’ I told Tim, but surprisingly he disagreed.

  ‘There’s good reason to have it here. Protection. And besides, you’ve got to consider the soul of the place. That’s why they want it here. Soul. To show Old Herne’s is going on. That’s what it needs.’

  ‘Plus a good manager.’

  ‘Yes.’ Tim looked round his beloved hangar. ‘Mike wasn’t much of one, was he? If he’d gone on the way he was we’d have gone bust. Mr Arthur knew it, Mr Ray knew it, Mrs Anna, them Howells – and me too. It had to be saved one way or another.’

  SIXTEEN

  July passed in low gear, perhaps because I was impatient for that welcome home party to be over and done with and it was fixed for the last Saturday of the month. It still seemed to me the height of madness to gather the staff and family to welcome Boadicea home when one of them could have been responsible for her attempted murder and probably Mike’s death too.

  Brandon more or less admitted that the hunt for Mike’s killer had stalled. The trace evidence on which he’d placed so m
uch faith had produced no clear path and without new input was likely to remain that way. Alibis presented the same problem – no clear path. Those closest to Mike had known-whereabouts for most of the vital period but in view of the crowds milling around at Swoosh none of them could be pinned down to the whole period.

  I, too, felt I’d stalled. I rarely saw Jessica – it always seemed to be: ‘Sorry, Jack, far too much to do – next week, I promise you.’ Zoe had taken a week or two off. Len was here (his idea of a week off is to come in on mornings only) but was so preoccupied with a new baby to admire – a Lancia Fulvia under attack from rust – that he was one hundred per cent in dreamcarland.

  July hosts the beginning of the so-called dog days, the hottest days of the year (if we’re lucky) when the sun beats strongly, the wind drops and everything is still, as there’s no wind to drive one’s sails.

  I felt just like that now though there was precious little heat in the sun. But I was becalmed. No word from Dave – save that he declared he would pop in on the welcome home day, and Brandon had told me he would be there. Not, obviously, to cheer Boadicea back, but in her interests. Altogether the festive day was beginning to take on the air of Armageddon rather than a summer party.

  I paid a couple of visits to Old Herne’s but was no further forward. It was like a disturbed ants’ nest – everyone rushing around and doubtless doing their own jobs but looking like chaos to an outsider like me. Glenn and Jessica seemed the best of friends, Fenella seemed to be doing her best not to take over Jessica’s job, and Tim was in a perpetual sulk because cars and hangars were not going to be the feature of the day. I could persuade no one to stop and explain what this great day was going to involve.

  At last, a week before the event, I managed to buttonhole Jason.

  He grinned. ‘Arthur told me Anna was to have whatever she really wanted.’