Classic Calls the Shots

by Amy Myers

  Jane shook her head. ‘But she’d been in. I knew that. She’d taken her post. She and Mr Wade and Mr Ford all have their own keys, so they can get in at any time. And there’s the gate of course.’

  There was. There were also the open windows in Roger Ford’s office. ‘Is Mr Ford’s office the only one on the ground floor?’ I asked her.

  ‘Yes. There’s a waiting room of sorts across the entrance hall, but no one used it this morning. Mr Wade’s and his wife’s are on the first floor, both overlooking the garden.’

  ‘Is that her regular office?’ It seemed strange to me because she was a consultant on the film, and so technically an outsider and not part of Oxley Productions.

  Jane pulled a face. ‘She made a fuss and so she got it.’ Then realizing these were ambiguous words, she burst into tears and Louise comforted her. ‘I’m sorry,’ Jane wailed. ‘It’s the shock. Did she . . . did she die while I was there or earlier?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said again. I had found Angie at about twenty to ten, and the blood, I recalled, was congealed. I comforted Jane by reminding her that the side gate was open when I found it, albeit that for all she knew I had pulled it open myself before asking her to guard it.

  ‘Were there a lot of visitors this morning?’ Louise repeated my question.

  ‘You, Miss Shaw. Mr Ford came in and out, and so did Mr Wade.’

  ‘Did they stay in their offices long?’

  ‘I don’t know about Mr Ford, but Mr Wade never does. Not on a shooting day.’ Jane looked dismayed at yet another ambiguity.

  ‘Filming usually begins at six thirty,’ Louise explained hurriedly. ‘It takes a bit of time for us to get costumed, and the crew to sort themselves out so we tend to arrive here about five forty-five when the gates officially open. From about six fifteen or so, Bill is usually on set continuously.’

  ‘Was he today?’

  She looked at me stonily. ‘I don’t know. I wasn’t on call until eight. And if it’s relevant I don’t know about Roger Ford either.’

  I had to persist. ‘He must have been in his office at some point, Jane, because the windows were already open when Bill and I went through them at twenty to ten. Was the rear door to the house locked? If it was, perhaps that’s why Angie went through the patio doors. Or perhaps she was with him when you arrived at eight thirty?’

  A step too far. Much too far. Jane closed down. ‘I unlocked that door like I do every day when I come in. Other than that, I really couldn’t say.’

  Louise stepped in. ‘I’m sure Jane would support me, Jack, and indeed everyone at Stour Studios, when I tell you there’s no way Bill or Roger would have been involved in Angie’s death. Bill adored her. He was a lion to everyone else but a pussy cat where she was concerned.’

  ‘Even when she effectively threatened his film?’

  ‘They would sort it out between them. Murder wouldn’t come into it. Angie was sharp. She knew there was a line she couldn’t cross and she rarely did.’

  ‘She seems to have done over Tom Hopkins. He was sacked yesterday.’

  Louise hesitated. ‘That’s true.’

  ‘Tom,’ Jane said, ‘is never sacked. I saw him around this morning just as usual.’

  Had she indeed, I thought. Then why hadn’t we seen him since Angie’s body had been discovered?

  My second and more formal interview with Brandon was unexpectedly straightforward. He had established himself in one of the front ground-floor offices in the production building, and the whole of the farmhouse was cordoned off as a crime scene. Brandon and I had taken each other’s measure on a previous case, and though I can’t say the rapport between us was strong, he didn’t seem to be automatically assuming I was in the frame for this murder. He is serious, with a one-track mind, the automaton type. Keeping one’s nose to the trail you are on is a good attribute for a copper, but he can carry it too far, until you wonder what makes him tick when he’s at home with his wife and kids. He listened with only one or two interruptions to my story.

  ‘This car theft,’ he said at last. ‘You think that was part of this dirty tricks campaign?’

  ‘From what I’ve been told, I do. Angie Wade was as fond of that car as Bill was, and she was identified with it by everyone here.’

  ‘And she wasn’t popular on the set.’

  ‘An understatement.’

  ‘Any line on that missing car yet?’

  ‘No, but it’s early days. I have a feeling that it’s not that far away.’

  ‘A pricey job, from what Dave tells me.’

  ‘He’s right,’ I agreed. ‘Too rare to be an easy mark.’

  ‘So the theft could have been a warning to Angie Wade. But why bother to warn her? Seems odd.’

  ‘I agree. She told her husband there was something weird going on over the cars.’

  A pause while the automaton gobbled up this information. Then: ‘You’re going on looking for that car?’

  ‘Unless called off by Dave or Bill Wade.’

  ‘Good. Keep in touch over anything I need to know, will you?’

  Good? Was this really Brandon letting me on the ground floor? I decided to put this to the test. ‘What time was she killed?’ I asked.

  ‘She arrived with her husband in their BMW more or less on the dot of six. He seems to be a stickler for punctuality. Estimate is that she’d been dead between two to three hours when you found her. Some leeway necessary.’

  That meant she’d been killed between six and eight, and so that open gate figured even higher in importance. Anyone could have used it.

  I tried another question. ‘Who opened the patio doors in Roger Ford’s office? It could have been Angie herself. The rear door was locked until eight thirty.’

  ‘Not yet known, but it could have been. Roger Ford denies opening them. Says he was only in there first thing this morning about six fifteen and they were shut then. After that, he was dividing his time between the studios and production building. Question is, why should Angie Wade have decided to spend a bit of time in the garden that early?’

  I’d no answer to that. ‘No chance it was suicide?’ I asked.

  ‘Would you like it to be?’ Brandon asked surprisingly.

  ‘Yes.’ If it was murder, I could see a very messy road ahead.

  Brandon turned into a human being. ‘Don’t get too involved, Jack. You’re no use to us that way. Answer: we need the lab report, but suicide doesn’t look likely.’

  ‘Not from where I’m sitting either.’ I rose to go.

  ‘By the way, Jack,’ he added, ‘the gun’s a Smith and Wesson thirty-eight pistol, with silencer. Bill Wade says he owns one.’

  When I returned to the green room, it was empty, but Louise had left a note that she and Jane were going down to the canteen to ‘join the others’, so I made my way there. When I reached it, I could see that ‘the others’ meant everyone at the studios. It was, to my surprise, already lunchtime, and the canteen, despite the circumstances, was doing brisk business. I stood in the doorway for a moment or two, thinking about what Brandon had said: ‘Don’t get too involved.’ Perhaps it was too late. I spotted Louise at a table with Joan Burton and – yes – Tom Hopkins. Sacked or not, here he was. At another table Eleanor Richey was deep in conversation with someone I recognized from TV as Justin Parr. I felt an outsider, even when Louise introduced me to Justin, who seemed amiable enough. But he was a heart-throb, and I usually distrust that kind of face in case it’s a mask for something quite different going on beneath. I wondered whether it was in his case, then decided I was getting obsessively suspicious because of the shock of what had happened.

  The sole subject of the subdued conversation was obvious, and I wasn’t sorry when one of the runners came up to me with a message from Roger Ford. Could I join him and Bill in Studio Two? I whispered to Louise, ‘I’ll call you,’ and she looked pleased.

  I walked over to the studio and found Roger and Bill at a table with a plate of untouched sandwiches, glasses
and a large carafe of water. Both still looked in shock, although Bill seemed slightly better than when I had last seen him, as if he were winning the fight he had set himself.

  I murmured my sympathy to both of them, and was glad that it was not brushed aside, but gracefully accepted by both men.

  ‘She was a good friend,’ Roger said quietly, and it seemed to me he was sincere. Bill said nothing and his eyes were moist. I tried to push the thought from my mind that other people didn’t have such favourable impressions of his late wife.

  ‘Sit down, Jack,’ Bill said, and as I obeyed he barked out at me: ‘This Brandon, Jack. Good at his job, is he? You work for the police, so I reckon you know.’

  ‘First class,’ I said, meaning it. I didn’t much like the bloke, but credit where it’s due.

  ‘And are you?’ he shot again.

  That took me aback. ‘I’m good,’ I replied. ‘That doesn’t mean I score one hundred per cent – no one does.’

  ‘That’s what Brandon says. So here’s where we’re at, Jack. Roger and I want you to hunt down that Auburn as arranged. Brandon’s going to find out who killed my Angie, but you’re in a different field, and we need you too. This Dave Jennings you work for – I’ve spoken to him, and he says you have a nose for car trouble of all sorts. I told you Angie said there was something mighty wrong about the cars. That was as we drove here only this morning, and now she’s dead.’

  ‘It could be—’ I began.

  Brushed aside. ‘Coincidence. I know that, but she said cars, not car. That means more than the Auburn. She wouldn’t have been talking about the studios’ general parking lot, she meant the cars that Oxley’s hired – the Bentley, the Fiat, the Horch and my Auburn. We’ve also got a day’s filming coming up for which Oxley’s hired a whole lot more. Someone’s killed Angie, Jack, and if the cars are the link, I need to know. Name your own rates, I’ll pay.’

  I was stymied. ‘I work for the police, but you have a car adviser. Wouldn’t he do the job better?’ I could see problems ahead if this job clashed with Dave’s, or worse with Brandon’s.

  ‘Nigel? He’s wet behind the ears compared with you. Besides, you’re new on the block, and that’s valuable.’

  ‘Did your wife say anything more about the cars?’

  Bill’s face twisted in pain. ‘No. I’m not proud of myself, Jack. I get absorbed in the movie and Angie knows that. She said she’d tell me tonight or over the weekend. She knows what I’m like.’ The pain must have got worse as he must have realized he was talking of Angie in the present tense, because he glared at me. ‘So whatever it costs, I’ll pay you well.’

  I tried to work my way through this, but couldn’t. ‘I can’t do it, Bill – I’m already working for the police. I have to be independent.’

  The keen eyes were on me. ‘Neither Roger nor I killed Angie if that’s what worries you. Let’s do it this way. You work for the police. You tell them anything they need to know. Anything.’

  That sounded OK to me. ‘In that case, I have to ask you two questions. First, what would Angie have been doing in the garden at that hour? It can’t just have been chance.’

  Bill struggled to keep emotion from overwhelming him. ‘She’s crazy about gardens. Keeps a strict eye on the gardeners Oxley employs. That so, Roger?’

  Roger nodded. ‘We employ two ladies to look after that garden and where we shoot the exteriors. You’ll find their number in the book – Garden Easy is the name. Janette Paul and Daphne Marsh. Been working here for years.’

  I knew Daphne. She was a chum of Liz Potter who was the love of my life for a year or so when I returned from the oil business. We parted amicably and are still great friends.

  ‘Second question,’ I said. ‘Have you reached a decision over what’s happening to the film?’

  ‘We have and it’s not been easy,’ Roger replied as Bill was beginning to look grey with the effort of trying to seem rational. ‘These studios are closed until at least the weekend because of the crime scene. Monday, the shooting goes on as scheduled up at Syndale Manor. Angie was a trouper. She’d understand.’

  Bill did his best to achieve something like a grin. ‘Six a.m. Monday, Jack. With the Auburn.’

  By the time I returned to Frogs Hill, the news was out. It travels fast. Albeit it was only that a woman had been found dead at Stour Studios, with no details, but my trusty team was eager to know what was going on. Zoe appeared, spanner in hand, as soon as she heard the sound of my Alfa drawing up in the forecourt. Len was close behind her.

  ‘Who’s the woman?’ she demanded.

  ‘Angela Wade.’

  It takes a lot to stun Len. ‘Bill Wade’s wife?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Owner of the Auburn?’

  ‘That was Bill’s, but she drove it a lot. It was a classy car.’

  ‘Was?’ Zoe raised an eyebrow. ‘Given up, have you?’

  She was right. I was thinking in terms of the Auburn being gone for ever. I supposed this was because Angie’s death had capped it in horror. It put matters in perspective. If I was going to sort out what Angie meant by ‘something mighty wrong with the cars’ I needed to get the Auburn right back on the agenda.

  ‘I meant is,’ I told her.

  ‘Good, because Rob has a lead.’

  FIVE

  All I had wanted was a quiet evening with a stiff drink after the shocks of the day. I did not want to have to think about Rob, who, so Zoe informed me, would be coming to pick me up at nine o’clock the next morning. This was unfair of me, especially if Rob actually had come up with something helpful. Was that likely? Knowing Rob, it could possibly be on the cards. On the other hand, he could be leading me way off target and wasting valuable time. Not that I had any real hopes of finding the car by Monday, but at least I didn’t need to be driving along false avenues.

  I retreated to the farmhouse, considered the question of eating and discarded it. I’d make myself a sandwich when my stomach had settled down. I’d even do without the stiff drink. Even Dad’s haunting presence must have sunk into gloom because when I made my way to the Glory Boot, it didn’t have its usual resonance – especially when Dave Jennings rang my mobile.

  ‘What’s all this about Angie Wade? I heard you’d found the body.’

  ‘Whatever you were told, it’s probably right.’

  ‘What’s your take on it? Connected with our job or not?’

  ‘Could well be. Bill Wade told me his wife was talking about something being wrong with the cars – meaning, I assume, the other cars hired for the film. That might be something to do with her death, or completely irrelevant.’

  ‘Did you tell Brandon?’

  ‘Yes. He’s asked me to stick around. My stock seems to have risen.’

  ‘Let’s hope the Footsie keeps it that way,’ Dave said drily.

  I hoped so too. My stock all too easily goes down instead of up.

  ‘I might have a lead over the car,’ I told him. Overstatement, since it was only Rob.

  ‘If you find it, your job with us ends, Jack. It will be over to Brandon and I doubt if he’ll pay.’

  ‘It isn’t over,’ I pointed out, ‘until we find who nicked the Auburn.’

  He grudgingly agreed, but the word ‘budget’ hung over us both.

  Rob turned up about ten o’clock, not nine. He drives a Range Rover Vogue Edition, and invited me to share it with him. I still wasn’t feeling too great so I made no protest, although I wouldn’t choose to be driven by him on a Peking to Paris rally.

  ‘Where are we off to?’ I asked, as he revved along Frogs Lane to the annoyance of my stomach.

  ‘To see Clarissa.’

  ‘And she is? The latest gorgeous blonde in your life perhaps?’

  ‘She’s in her mid eighties, with Alzheimer’s, so go gently.’

  With her maybe. Rob wouldn’t be so lucky if this was a wild goose chase.

  ‘She lives in the Gladden Estate at Charing. Know it?’

  I did. It wa
s on the A20 on the Lenham side of the village and was one of those new doll’s-house estates with attractive town houses and larger ones divided into several flats. It even had a few shops to make it a jolly community. The door to Clarissa’s flat was indeed opened by a gorgeous blonde. I looked suspiciously at Rob but he was completely oblivious, because he was too busy chatting her up. She eyed him up and down and I fretted until he had run out of steam. We all had a merry laugh or two and then she led us into a cosy over-warm room where a silver-haired lady who could have auditioned for Miss Marple was sitting by the window in an upright armchair with a small table in front of her loaded with her needs, which included a newspaper, Radio Times, audio player and a radio.

  Clarissa smiled at me benignly. ‘You’re the vicar, aren’t you? I remember you.’

  ‘No, Clarissa,’ Rob told her firmly. ‘This is Jack Colby – he’s interested in the car you told my father you saw last week.’

  ‘Car?’ she repeated doubtfully. ‘I think I sold it.’

  My heart sank, as Rob tried his best. ‘This was a very special car. You said you heard it one night about a week ago.’

  She still looked puzzled, but then brightened up. ‘You don’t mean the Auburn, do you? The 1935?’ When we nodded, she added, ‘Why didn’t you say so earlier, Rob? Of course I remember it.’

  Could this be a set-up, I wondered, taken aback at the sudden briskness of Clarissa’s tone. No doubt she thought she remembered one, but had the idea been planted in her mind?

  ‘A cream-painted one—’ I began.

  ‘The colour is immaterial, Mr Colby,’ she interrupted reprovingly. ‘In fact the one I saw was indeed Cigarette Cream, the colour that had featured in one of the charming advertisements for Walker Cigarettes. I’m surprised that a vicar can afford one, however.’

  ‘I’m actually a classic car restorer,’ I murmured.

  ‘How do you find time to fit that in with your religious duties?’ Another reproving stare. ‘Dear Rob is a classic car restorer too, of course. Perhaps you work for him?’

  I turned a bemused eye on Rob, who did his best to look innocent. I decided in the interests of the Auburn to ignore the slur. ‘Do you remember when and where you saw it?’ I asked her.