by Amy Myers
Inside the air was cool. The Alfa Romeo sat there without her cover looking sublime. It was hard to believe that this car, which had taken part in what is called the ‘most beautiful race in the world’, had anything to do with murder. It had not been driven for decades, but why did Peter Compton leave such a treasure here untended and unloved? Plenty of cars have been discovered in barns such as this one but there is usually a reason for the neglect. Often, their owners had died, the next generation often honoured a beloved car but left it to rot, and by the time the succeeding generation came along there was no interest at all and its provenance was forgotten. Only when someone took up its cause would interest be aroused in its value. But in the case of this Alfa Romeo the owner was still alive and, it seemed, very much a power to be reckoned with. I was looking forward to meeting him, but today was not the day. He had his son’s death to cope with. All the same, as I looked at the Alfa Romeo I thought what a crying shame it was to see it so unloved. Was Peter Compton missing a trick?
I drove my Polo out of the manor gates with a feeling of relief, and made straight for the pub, hoping I might find Martin there. It was five-thirty and his garage closed usually at seven p.m. Today, however, the news about Hugh would have spread.
Parked on the forecourt of the Hop and Harry was a white van with the legend ‘Manning and Thompson Limited: Surveyors’. That might mean nothing, but on the other hand it could be a provocative move on the Makepeaces’ part if they were planning to put in a development plan to the council to get approval before the land was sold to them.
The pub was full and I hardly recognized anyone there. Then at a large table I spotted Martin, and standing plumb in front of me, back to the bar and with arms folded, was Nan. No one took any notice of me, even Nan.
I made my way to the bar, listening to the continuous babble of voices as Lucy served me with a shandy and a whispered: ‘Careful where you sit.’
I hadn’t been planning on sitting anywhere so far, but I would defend my right to do so. ‘Why’s that?’
‘The Comptons are sitting over there—’ she indicated the area to the right of me – ‘and the Makepeaces there.’ That was to the left, and where Martin was sitting. ‘You should be OK,’ Lucy added, ‘because they’re just talking about what it will mean for the village.’
‘Suppose they don’t like where I’m sitting?’ I meant it as a joke but she treated it seriously.
‘Nan will deal with it,’ she told me.
I glanced at him but he showed no sign of wishing to continue our earlier acquaintanceship, so I decided I’d join Martin. I was an outsider, after all, so I took my glass and strolled over to the table. Outsider or not, I was in no doubt that my choice had been noted.
There was a murmur of appreciation from the Makepeace table, and Martin greeted me, looking self-conscious. The pub seemed more and more like a kids’ playground – with Nan playing the same role as The Larches’ Huggy and Puggy bears: an imposing welcome that no one could miss. A sour-looking man in his sixties, opposite me, seemed disposed to fight my claim to a seat at the table.
‘Heard you’d been at the manor,’ he grunted.
‘Jack Colby,’ Martin quickly introduced me. ‘He’s been on a job there.’
The tension relaxed. ‘George Makepeace,’ Martin continued, introducing me to Mr Sour Face. ‘And this is his grandson, Jamie.’
Ah. The Romeo of the pair, who had designs on Hugh’s daughter. Jamie, a good-looking lad in his early twenties, grinned at me.
‘We heard you were up there this afternoon, Jack,’ Martin continued awkwardly.
This information must have been courtesy of Nan, I presumed. The eyes round the table were fixed on me expectantly.
‘I was at the pond when Hugh Compton’s body was found. Or rather the body presumed to be his. Not officially published yet.’
‘It’s him all right. And you can give the old bastard my compliments next time you’re at the manor,’ grunted good old George.
‘No need to take that line, Grandad,’ Jamie muttered.
‘Where them Comptons are concerned, there’s every need, son,’ he retorted. ‘All this toadying, yessir, nosir. Them days are over. And you’re as bad, Martin. Up there like a flash when they crook their crooked fingers.’
‘Business, George,’ Martin replied mildly.
‘All of you, boot lickers,’ George continued. ‘Still, I’ll say no more today, in respect, like. Lost his son, but we’ll soon see the manor taking a different turn now, eh? No more of this beating the bounds of Plumshaw in his Land Rover as though he owns the lot of us.’
There was the scraping of a chair and one of the men – a retired businessman perhaps – came over from the Compton camp. ‘Suppose for once you keep your mouth shut, Mr Makepeace?’
‘It’s a free world.’
‘You’d never know it the way you grab every penny you can.’ Another Compton supporter had joined him. There was a further scraping of chairs and the Makepeace table (save for me and Jamie) rose as one. They made their way east, as the Comptons promptly edged west.
The atmosphere was turning ugly, and Nan slowly uncoiled himself from the bar.
‘A man died in my pond today,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll not hear ill of him till the mourning’s over.’
To my amazement this had a remarkable effect. The Comptons simply melted back to their own side without a word and the Makepeaces to theirs. Although this stand-off had lasted perhaps half a minute, it was a sign to me that, even with Nan as umpire, this was a village that would carry on the infighting. It would be firm in the knowledge that it could only go so far in public. But in private? What went on there?
Eventually I had to drive home. I was still shaken by the events of the day and the thought of what I might find when I reached home made it worse. It was worse. It was seven-thirty, long after the time when Len and Zoe might be found in the Pits and any hope that Louise might be there was dashed. I had to face whatever might be happening at the Vickers’ home. Had they heard the news or not? Rather than ring first, I drove straight to Pluckley, aware that I was breaking unspoken taboos. Crazy though it might sound, although Len has worked for my family for many years, I have never been inside his home. The doorstep, yes, but no further. It riled me that Giovanni had entered it without even earning the privilege. Today however I had to break bad news to him.
It was Len who came to the door and he let me in without a word, which set my alarm bells ringing. They rang even louder when in the living room, a friendly looking place crowded with family photos and souvenirs, I saw Mrs Len, Zoe, and Maria. There was a gap.
‘Where’s Giovanni?’ I asked, though I hardly needed telling.
‘They arrest him for murder, Jack!’ Maria screamed at me, leaping up from her chair.
‘It’s serious,’ Zoe told me. ‘Looks as if they’re going to charge him this time. There’s a body been found. We heard it on the news.’
Maria rushed over to me, throwing her arms round me. ‘He want you help him, Jack. He say Jack will save him.’
FIVE
I pulled into a lay-by in the lane to Frogs Hill. There is a good view from this point down over to the Weald far below and it’s good for thinking, whether idly or seriously. It was the latter I needed. It was hardly a surprise that Giovanni had been rearrested and could very well be charged this time, but that Brandon should have acted so quickly took me aback. It suggested that even his hotshot solicitor wouldn’t be able to do much for Giovanni at this stage, save to find him a good barrister. If charged, would he get bail after the first hearing? This might be a side issue, but it would be important for Maria. As Italy is an EU country, there wouldn’t be much danger of his skipping the country to evade justice, but even so bail restrictions might include his staying here – if it was granted at all.
I put this issue aside in view of the much larger one facing me. Giovanni was expecting me to save him. Brandon was expecting me to help either way. Around me dusk was falling, the
air was fresh and peaceful. Everything was preparing for the restful night, and metaphorically so was I – except I’d delete the ‘restful’. The die was now cast and I had to sort out what to do. I wrestled with the core of the problem again: did I believe Giovanni to be a killer? No, except possibly by accident, if for instance he had hit Hugh Compton who had then fallen on something that caused his death. As he had died by stab wounds that probably ruled this out. So I was still left with a question mark: could anything after so short a time together have caused such an outbreak of rage on both their parts that it led to murder? Surely nothing could. It’s true Giovanni doesn’t like people criticizing his work – but who does? True, he doesn’t like being told what to do – but who does? True, he doesn’t suffer fools gladly – but a great many people don’t. In my experience of the man, however – I struggled to be objective – he bore such everyday matters with equanimity, usually laughing them off.
I was going to need a fuller account from him as to what had happened between him and Hugh than I had so far received, including what he remembered of the time before he blanked out, exactly when that must have been and what Hugh was wearing. Assuming his basic story to be true, had he blanked out because of the sheer shock of seeing blood around him, with or without remembering the awfulness of what had happened? The alternative was that someone had drugged him. But that didn’t add up in practical terms. This ‘someone’ – who could be one of the family – would have had to be sure that Giovanni was well and truly out, killed Hugh, put him in the rear seat of the Ferrari, driven the car to the woods in Challock and then walked back to Plumshaw, a theory I had already dismissed. I had also ruled out the possible accident-on-the-spur-of-the-moment scenario, and so even the cool air of the Downs wasn’t inspiring any sensible alternative to the version the police were obviously going by. Which was that Giovanni killed Hugh either by plan or on the spur of the moment, panicked and drove away to find somewhere to hide the body.
There was no alternative to my next step. I had to talk to Giovanni again as soon as I could, but I’d have to separate the Giovanni I thought I’d known from the new one who had emerged on this visit. If the latter was the real man, I reasoned, then my instinctive opinion that Giovanni wasn’t a killer might not be worth the paper it wasn’t written on. To my frustration, I couldn’t go far down that line. My father had been dead for over five years, but even so I sometimes sense his reproving eye glaring down at me. Giovanni was his friend long before he met me. Letting him down would be letting Dad down too.
Wrong, I eventually decided after a tussle. I’d bear that in mind, but I had to start from scratch and look at this case objectively, with no Dad and no Louise in mind. I waved goodbye to the placid scene in front of me, started the Polo and drove the remaining way to Frogs Hill. At least I had come back to the same decision. I would go ahead. If I could help, I should do so and with no holds barred. The past had to be ignored – however tough that was.
The lights were on. I pulled up on the forecourt of Frogs Hill and took stock of the situation. Had I left the hall light on? No. And that meant either I had a burglar waiting for me or that Louise had unexpectedly returned. Then I saw her car tucked round the corner of the Pits. At first sheer pleasure coupled with relief uplifted me, but less pleasant thoughts soon followed. Had she heard about Giovanni and come flying to his rescue?
‘Jack!’ She came running downstairs as soon as I was in the house. ‘I thought I heard you crunching your way in.’ The gravel on the drive is useful both as a deterrent and a warning. ‘Have you brought supper?’ she continued practically.
Had I brought supper? What wonderfully normal words to hear.
I hugged her and it felt good. ‘How could I? I didn’t know you were coming. I had a sandwich on the way home.’ That was true; it had been a delaying tactic on my way back from Plumshaw. ‘I’ll cook you up something though.’
‘I’ll do it myself. I’ll get a ready meal out of the freezer. What kept you? Work I presume?’
Now for it. ‘Well, in view of the news …’ I began awkwardly. Louise seemed remarkably composed, which was good.
‘What news? World War Three?’
I steeled myself. ‘About Giovanni.’
Her face fell. ‘Is he still here?’ She was trying to sound casual.
I remembered I hadn’t told her that Giovanni had moved in with Len. I explained the situation and that he wasn’t there now, of course.
‘Why of course?’ she asked carefully.
So she didn’t know what had happened, which was, I supposed, hardly surprising and made me ashamed of having attributed him as her reason for being here. Maria was not going to put her at the top of the list of those to be informed about his arrest. I tried to make my answer sound deadpan.
‘Giovanni has been arrested again and this time he’ll probably be charged with murder.’
‘Charged? Oh, Jack!’ She unwound herself from my arms, either through her choice or because mine were already loosening their hold. ‘But he’s not a murderer. How could anyone think that? This means I—’
‘Means what?’ A cold feeling came over me as she broke off.
She shook her head impatiently. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. Is Maria coming back here?’
Was Louise so nervous of Maria because of her affair with Giovanni? Was she …? Stop, I commanded myself.
‘It’s not yet settled,’ I told her. ‘I’ll have to suggest it. It isn’t fair on Len otherwise, especially if Giovanni gets bail again after the initial hearing.’ I hesitated, but realized it was no good holding back. I had to know, so I took the plunge.
‘Tell me what’s wrong, Louise. What’s with you and Giovanni?’
Her face had a mulish expression that I had never seen on it before. ‘That’s not important. Giovanni isn’t a murderer, Jack. He couldn’t have done it.’
However important it was to me, I could see I would get no further. The matter was dropped. She ate some supper while I watched and a polite silence reigned. When we went to bed her back was turned to me. Worse, at that moment, I didn’t care.
I needed a break from this avalanche that was smothering me, but I could see no way through it. Louise had left the next day and apparently the short run she was doing in London had been extended so she might be staying at the flat even longer. My wandering star arrangement with her hadn’t been meant to cover this sort of situation. Under it she was free to come and go – because of her career, though, or so I had assumed. Never in my wildest nightmares had I thought that this would apply to our relationship as well. After all, nothing – it had seemed – could ever go wrong with that. Her flight today, however, was to escape from Frogs Hill, not the call of her own special star.
In the Pits, Zoe took one look at me as I approached – I had thought I appeared at least reasonably normal – and decided she had an urgent call to make outside. Len didn’t even glance at me. I realized that without being conscious of it I was sending out signals set at danger.
After a while Len suddenly stood up. ‘What’s to happen to Maria?’ he asked me belligerently. ‘Up all night with her, my missus was.’
I was aghast. This long speech (for Len) meant things were really serious. ‘I’m sorry, Len. She’s naturally upset.’
‘Me too. Can’t go on, it can’t.’
‘I’ll sort something out for Maria,’ I said wearily. I knew very well, knowing Maria, that it would go on and on and I wasn’t sure I could cope either. The idea of her coming to Frogs Hill now Louise had left again didn’t attract me, but I had no choice. ‘She’d better stay with me.’
‘What about—?’
‘Louise will be staying in London,’ I said through gritted teeth.
‘Women!’ Len muttered darkly as Zoe came back to join us.
She took the slur on her gender amiss. ‘Some women!’ she yelled at Len.
Len glared at her. I glared at them both. Frogs Hill was not in for a good day, and my best plan was to get out
of it. But where to? I couldn’t go to Plumshaw so soon after yesterday’s trauma. My association with Giovanni was hardly going to go down well and nor would irrelevant questions about a stolen car. I’d tackle the Maria question later. For now, the Glory Boot was my immediate haven provided that Dad, whose memory is stamped everywhere there, didn’t kick me out. Luckily he didn’t bother to turn up today.
I was only on the starting grid of this case, I reasoned, but the Alfa Romeo was a great starting point. Its ‘home’ in the barn was where Giovanni and Hugh had been on the night it all happened. I needed to understand this car. There was no doubt it was a very special one, as it had been Giulio Santoro’s own.
Dad didn’t believe in filing systems, although he did believe in occasionally captioning photographs on their rear. I managed to find several more taken of the 1938 Mille Miglia race at various stages, including the one Giovanni had rhapsodized over, which was lying on the top of the pile. At least he’d had the grace to leave it there, but that didn’t make me feel any better about this case.
I stared at this handful of pictures, one by one, and wondered what relevance they could possibly have to a murder almost eighty years later. From my iPad, I checked my memory about the 1938 race. Coming in first in a 2900B were Clementi Biondetti and Aldo Stefani, with a time for the 1600 km drive of eleven hours fifty-eight minutes twenty-nine seconds. Coming in only about two minutes behind them and also in a 2900B were Pintacuda and Mambelli. The third Alfa came in thirty-seven minutes later in a 2900A. These three had not been the only Alfa Romeos in the race, of course – one of the others was Giulio Santoro’s.
So far so good, but where next? Those were the statistics, and anyway Peter Compton’s wreck hadn’t been one of the three winners, but the one that dropped out when nearing the end of the race. According to the press, that story had captured the hearts of the people. In 1938 its driver Giulio Santoro was twenty-three and married with a young daughter. He and his co-driver Enrico di Secchio were the celebs of the day because of Giulio’s compassionate act. He had been well positioned for winning the race until the final stages, when Enrico had been taken ill and Santoro insisted on diverting from the race to stop at the nearest hospital, where a burst appendix was treated just in time.
