Classic Calls the Shots

by Amy Myers

  ‘I take it the six were all stolen?’

  ‘Yes. But,’ Dave said complacently, ‘the interesting thing is the time they’ve been in their present car park homes since the thefts took place. The Bugatti was only nicked two days before you found it. The DB4 only one day, but the others between two and six weeks max – quite a time, don’t you think? The Jag had been there thirty days before you found it gone. And all of them under the guardianship of Shotsworth Security. Conclusion: there’s a plan.’

  ‘Any links to Stour Studios and our chum Biddington, apart from Ken Merton working there?’

  ‘That’s the bad news. We can’t find anything on Biddington for you. There was an insurance hitch over the Auburn and Oxley Productions but it got sorted out.’

  ‘What sort of a hitch? Roger Ford didn’t mention one.’

  ‘He was right. It had been sorted. The Wades’ private insurance on the car turned out to be nowhere near high enough, and Oxley Productions was therefore suddenly presented with a whacking extra premium. That meant there were about ten days when it was insured privately, but not yet for Oxley’s use while it was under negotiation. The Oxley insurance for the film didn’t kick in until the Friday morning before filming began at Syndale Manor, two days after Angie Wade’s death.’

  I saw immediately. ‘But on the Thursday before it was pinched Eleanor Richey went for a drive in it with Angie.’

  ‘Right. Before they left, Angie checked the insurance situation either with Roger’s office or with the company and must have been told it wasn’t yet insured for film work. That didn’t matter since she and Bill were privately insured for the drive with Eleanor. Nevertheless when she next saw Nigel, she tackled him about it, since she knew the car should have been covered by Oxley from the day she and Bill first brought it there. In her book, that meant Nigel had been paid.’

  ‘Expletive deleted,’ I commented. ‘That can’t be laid at Biddington’s door. Even if he mishandled the private insurance, it doesn’t add up to a motive for killing Angie.’

  ‘Looks as if you’d better get your skates on finding out who pinched that Auburn. I can’t hang on forever, Jack. There’s the—’

  ‘Budget,’ I finished for him gloomily.

  My theory had exploded in my face. I was not in the business of concocting theories without evidence – that was Pen’s province – and I was forced to admit that over Nigel I had come a cropper at the first fence. Angie had been rampaging with Nigel about some trivial point she had misconstrued and I’d blown it up into a major incident. Nor was I doing much better over Angie’s death. Only Tom had any motive as far as I could see, or possibly Brian Tegg – excluding Pen’s daft notions. I forced myself to wonder whether they were so daft. Should I begin looking into the Running Tides angle more deeply? Over ten years still seemed a long time to wait for a boiling pot. Revenge would not only be cold, but icy. My time was running out though. The end of the filming couldn’t be more than two weeks or so away, and then finished or not, the stars were going to have to take up previous commitments.

  Including Louise.

  Wild thoughts raced round my head. Were there hidden financial difficulties with the film that gave Roger a motive? Was the film planned to make an enormous loss, as it was insured against failure? No, that was ruled out because Roger’s wife was financing the film. The dirty tricks campaign, Angie’s death, the theft of the Auburn, Tom’s sacking. Nothing fitted. No one fitted the role of murdering maniac, but then how many murdering maniacs had I met?

  When I arrived at Syndale Manor on Thursday afternoon, security told me that filming was going on in the grounds behind the house, but I could hear something happening much nearer than that. An interested crowd had gathered around a slanging match going on through the open sash window of Roger’s office. Pen – for of course it was her outside the window – was conducting her own form of interview with Roger. Today Pen had been clever. She was dressed in 1930s costume, obviously hoping to be taken for an extra. Roger had not been fooled. He, as everyone else, had been forewarned about Pen.

  ‘Out,’ he was shouting to her, as I approached to join the fun.

  ‘Don’t you want publicity, Mr Ford?’ Pen sounded hurt. She was in her element.

  ‘Not your kind,’ he retorted.

  This was a new Roger Ford to me. Gone was the smooth businessman, the caring fatherly figure and pacifier. His angry face showed the gritty determination and prize fighter qualities that must lie behind his rise to the top.

  ‘There’s a hate campaign going on, isn’t there?’ Pen cried gleefully. ‘It will make jolly good reading. Especially after Mrs Wade’s death. Who did you think did it, Mr Ford? Does it go back to Running Tides?’

  There was a commotion at the window and an attractive dark-haired woman in her forties pushed past Roger. ‘No, Miss Roxton, it does not,’ she said coolly. ‘That is your name, isn’t it? I hope so because I’ve been on the phone to your editor.’

  Pen laughed. ‘You terrify me.’

  ‘I hope I do. I’ve also spoken to the police. They take seriously the fact that you are masquerading as one of our cast.’

  ‘I’d willingly leave,’ Pen said plaintively, ‘if only someone would tell me the truth.’

  ‘And what,’ Roger said quietly, ‘would you accept as the truth?’

  Pen immediately sharpened up. ‘Something that makes sense. The police line is still that they’re following up lines of investigation. What are they? Is Bill Wade chief suspect?’

  Time for me to intervene or Pen was going to get into serious trouble. I moved forward, put my arm round her and practically lifted her, still fighting, away from the scene of action. ‘Enough, Pen,’ I said as she dug her elbow into my sore abdomen.

  I promptly dropped her and she flew at me, but I managed to catch her flailing arms. ‘Wrong target, Pen. Remember me? I’m the good guy.’

  ‘Judas,’ she hissed. ‘I’ll sue you for assault.’

  ‘That won’t save you if the police come. And the Graphic isn’t going to like the publicity.’

  ‘They will if the story’s good enough,’ she shouted at me. ‘You’ll see. They’re all hiding something.’

  ‘Possibly. But, Pen, just trust me. Go.’

  This time she took some notice. ‘Look, Jack,’ she began, in a voice carefully designed for everyone to hear, ‘there’s something weird going on here. There’s a story and it’s one I’m going to get with you or without you.’

  ‘Without,’ I said firmly, marching her away without too much injury to myself. I escorted her through security and then over to the car park. ‘Pen,’ I continued, ‘you must see you have no evidence for this cockeyed idea of yours.’

  ‘I never will have if I don’t have a chance to look, will I?’ she said, reasonably enough, and I had to laugh.

  ‘Look, Pen, if I find anything to help and it’s not under police confidentiality, I’ll tell you.’

  ‘By the time it’s been through that mill it’ll be mush. Thanks, Jack, but I prefer my own methods.’

  And what they might be I didn’t dare to think.

  When I returned to the Manor, I was asked to step into Roger’s office by reception, which was usefully sited next door to it. I half expected expulsion myself but he was surprisingly cordial. He wanted me to meet his wife, Maisie, the dark-haired lady who’d faced down Pen.

  ‘So you’re Jack Colby.’ Maisie welcomed me appraisingly. Luckily she didn’t look another Angie Wade, which was something. ‘Roger says Bill wants you to help find Angie’s killer. We wanted to ask you if there was any news?’

  Bearing in mind that she had been a close friend of Angie’s, I went cautiously. ‘There’s progress on what Angie meant about something fishy going on with the cars. Whether it has any bearing on her death, I don’t know.’

  ‘Don’t tell me. Insurance.’ Roger groaned. ‘I had the police crawling over our house, the studios and even here, looking at every blasted computer and bit of paper we h
ave.’

  ‘But what they found or didn’t find seems to eliminate that as any kind of motive for her death.’ I hesitated. ‘Do you know what Pen Roxton’s line of investigation is?’

  ‘I do.’ Maisie flushed red with anger. ‘The woman’s mad. She thinks Angie killed Margot. It just is not true.’

  So even Pen had not dared go the whole hog and accuse Bill of murdering his wife. Perhaps she was keeping that back as a nice surprise.

  ‘It’s pure fantasy,’ Maisie continued. ‘For a start Angie and I were lowly extras. Margot was light years above us in the pecking order, and we didn’t even know her to speak to. The idea that after the filming was over, Angie was so keen on Bill that she went out and killed his ex-lover is ludicrous. Angie wasn’t so tough in those days.’ She grimaced as she realized that even she had acknowledged Angie’s imperfections. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘She changed, honey,’ Roger said. ‘Recently she was hell to deal with. But you know we needed Bill and Angie came as part of the package.’

  ‘Were you still very friendly with her?’ I asked. ‘Or did the friendship cool?’

  Maisie took this on the chin. ‘Good friends never cease to be otherwise. Roger and I helped Angie whenever we could.’

  I think she meant it. She seemed a nice woman. ‘Helped by giving way to her?’ I asked bluntly. Too bluntly judging by Roger’s expression.

  ‘Where reasonable, yes.’

  ‘Didn’t it get beyond reasonable?’

  ‘No,’ Roger said flatly. ‘I know what you’re thinking, Jack. Angie was out of order over Tom, but Bill and I saw he kept a job here. She knew she couldn’t push us too far.’

  And nor could I push too far. I retreated to safer turf. ‘Did you both get on well with Margot Croft?’

  ‘Yes, both of us,’ Roger shot back at me.

  Maisie however hesitated. ‘I didn’t know her and nor did Angie. We just saw her as extras do stars. She was kind to us, when she noticed us at all. That’s not meant to be brutal. It’s a fact of movie production. She and Bill were inseparable and Angie knew that. Angie and I were both horrified at the news of her suicide. Roger was still at the studios in post-production stage then and I’d hung around in some menial role. Angie had gone back to her home in London, but we stayed in touch.’

  ‘It was impossible not to like Margot,’ Roger joined in. ‘She was a dream star. Interpreted what Bill needed on screen and gave it to him. Didn’t throw her star weight about, just got on with the job.’

  ‘Did you know her husband?’

  Roger again took the lead. ‘Not well. We knew him of course, but once the funeral was over we lost touch. Like Bill, we live about half of the year in the States so it’s easy to do so.’

  ‘You told me Margot wanted to have a happy threesome with her husband and Bill but Bill wouldn’t have it. Any idea what her husband thought about that?’

  ‘No,’ Roger replied. ‘What I do know is that Bill was beside himself with grief when she died.’

  ‘But if it was his decision to leave her . . .’ There was something wrong here but I couldn’t get at it.

  ‘It was,’ Roger said.

  ‘None of us knew the whole story,’ Maisie broke in. ‘Joan Burton probably knows most. She was closest to her, so talk to her about it. Look, is all this relevant?’ she asked impatiently.

  ‘It is if it helps me ward off Pen Roxton,’ I said firmly.

  I felt crunched between pillar and post as I went to find Joan again. Not that I felt I would get much further. I was flailing around in a place I didn’t understand, although Joan was clearly unhappy about something more than classic cars and Nigel Biddington. I didn’t at first find Joan, but I caught sight of Pen, although luckily she didn’t see me. Thinking she was out of sight, she was eavesdropping on Eleanor Richey who, from her body language, was intent on seducing Justin Parr, poor bloke. I decided not to interfere. Neither was in Running Tides and neither as far as I knew had any reason to kill Angie, so Pen could do her worst.

  Someone told me I’d find Joan with Bill in his caravan, so I went over there hoping she might be on her way out. She wasn’t. It seemed to be my day for busting in on rows, however, because I could hear Bill and Joan arguing. Had it not been that the name Pen Roxton reached me, I’d have crept tactfully away, but it glued me to the spot in frozen horror.

  ‘Margot, Bill.’ Joan sounded as if she was crying. ‘That dreadful woman Pen Roxton wants to know about Margot.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Joannie, give me a break.’ Bill sounded furious. ‘It’s Angie who’s died. Margot died more than ten years ago. Why rake it up again?’

  ‘But she thinks Angie killed Margot.’

  An awful silence, then an explosion. ‘She thinks what? The woman’s crazier than I thought. There’s never been any doubt that Margot killed herself.’

  ‘I know she did.’ Joan was clearly weeping. ‘But you know how it was. Margot was one of those people who stir up passions without meaning to.’

  ‘Joan, stop,’ Bill said more quietly. ‘Are you telling me that you think Angie killed Margot?’

  Joan was really breaking up. ‘No, Bill, no. But Margot never realized how strongly people felt about her. She created lasting emotions. That’s bad, because it can fester.’

  There was a silence, then the door was pulled open, Bill came down the steps, saw me, realized that I must have overheard, but brushed past me and walked away. I rushed up to see how Joan was. I found her ashen faced and she hardly seemed to recognize me.

  ‘He doesn’t realize,’ she blurted out. ‘It was always just him and Margot. Margot said he never noticed anything else, he just went blindly on, as he always does, regardless of other people. I’m afraid . . . one day . . .’

  I wanted to take her somewhere quiet to recover but she refused my help and said she could cope. They were about to do some outside shots and she wanted to be there.

  ‘It’s Nemesis,’ she added.

  ‘Revenge?’

  She looked surprised. ‘Perhaps. I don’t know. I hope I’m wrong, Jack.’

  I could see one or two of Tom’s storyboards propped on Bill’s table – he must have brought them over from the ops caravan. They were new ones – and they were dark. In these the charcoal helped create Bill’s mood for the film better than in any of the earlier ones I’d seen, and I could understand why he liked the storyboards to be around all the time, not only as a pre-production tool. In these, clouds and shadows hung over a Greek temple – of course, the temple in the grounds. No wonder it had caught Bill’s imagination. All it needed was a few bats flying around and it would seize the imagination of Dracula himself.

  I returned to Frogs Hill and the Pits, hoping that a dose of reality there would help sort my mind on Angie’s murder. For once Len was the talkative one; Zoe was deep into a dynamo overhaul and I was lost in thought. Then I began to listen to Len’s unusual chatter. ‘New customer with a Daimler Dart SP250, needs a gearbox rebuild. You went to the Wealden car show, didn’t you, Jack?’

  ‘Sure, but I don’t remember the Dart.’ Or did I? I go to quite a few car shows. I searched my mind and one salient fact came up. I did go, and that was one of the shows at which I remembered seeing Nigel Biddington. I’d gone with Liz Potter, but the idea of jolly jaunts with her now is right out. The trip had been before we’d split up and she’d married the nerd Colin. It wasn’t surprising I’d seen Biddington there, I supposed. Not only was he relatively local but his job would take him to car shows.

  Had I slipped too quickly over something important? I scrabbled for the notes I had made on Angie’s words, which were: ‘something fishy about the cars’. Suppose good old Nigel had misinterpreted them not as applying to the Auburn or the other cars he’d hired for the film, but as something with a much wider application? More than the Auburn, more even than the cars here on Car Day. If he was mixed up in something shady, however, Dave would surely have picked up on it.

  Or would he?

 
Dave was investigating insurance, theft and stolen cars. Angie was referring to the Auburn and by ‘more than the Auburn’ she meant the other cars Nigel had hired. But if her words had been taken by Nigel to refer to some far wider crooked scheme in which he was involved, something for instance that did involve those cars under wraps, Dave might not yet have thought of looking for a link between Nigel and Mark Shotsworth.

  What scheme, though? Could we be back to insurance? Some of the cars Dave’s team had seen under wraps were there for an unusually long time for stolen goods. As policies usually carry a time limit beyond which the company has to pay up if the car is still missing, the Jag I had seen might have been in Gladden car park waiting for the necessary time to expire. It would be out of the limelight while the hunt was at its hottest and the insurance investigating team was on the trail. Once the owner had been paid off, there would be less chance of its being spotted and thus it went on its merry way to a new owner across the Channel, probably in Holland or Belgium, suitably disguised. Cars like the Jag that were still lying low however needed to be kept somewhere safe and sound. Such as in a small car park guarded by Shotsworth Security.

  I allowed myself the luxury of feverish excitement. Could that be it? If so, what part might Nigel be playing apart from his day job as broker in placing the insurance and processing the booty? Answer: he could be the middle man knowing when it was safe to move the cars on. Also – I clung on to my mental seat belt in case I went through the roof with this – he could be a spotter for the organization. Maybe that was too simple. Gang leader? Regional organizer?

  I thought of Pen, with her love of theory built on air. For once I didn’t care. All I could think of was that if Nigel had taken Angie’s words as an accusation of his role in a major classic car ring, it could well give him a motive for her murder. Trouble was, I was almost sorry.

  TWELVE

  Dave did his best to be interested in this new theory, but there was a definite touch of a damp squib about his response. He would, he promised, check into it – and he would keep Brandon posted. The more I thought about it, however, the more it seemed to me to fit, although I was forced to admit that finding proof was another matter. Dave might nail Nigel on the car theft front, but proof for murder was a very different matter. The message Dave put over was that I should keep my nose firmly glued to what I was paid to do and leave the clever stuff to the professionals. Fair enough, I conceded, but there was something I could do on home ground.