Classic in the Dock

by Amy Myers

  ‘Don’t think so. Someone said it began in the snug. Then it must have been forced upwards plus spreading out around the rest of the ground floor. The alcohol around can’t have helped.’

  I could see clearly the burnt-out left side of the building, now a smoking ruin although the walls and ground floor were still standing.

  ‘Foul play? A little bit of help from their non-friends?’ I asked.

  ‘Could be accident, but a coincidence.’

  ‘The police must think so. There’s plenty of them here.’

  I walked over to take a closer look at the pitiful sight. Fire takes lives in more ways than one. As well as physical life it can sweep away the whole basis of everyday life and destroy emotional life through the loss of the memorabilia and other irreplaceable possessions that define individuals’ existences. For Andrew and Lucy it was an extra hard blow after their struggle to build up the pub. I could see them standing close together for comfort, hypnotized by the sight of their lives being destroyed in front of them.

  ‘Do you have somewhere to stay?’ I asked Lucy when they moved closer to me.

  ‘My mother’s.’ She didn’t even look at me. She was staring at the ruins of the Hop and Harry as though even now she could not believe what was happening. ‘They won’t let us in,’ she said abruptly.

  ‘Tomorrow they will,’ I said in a vain attempt at comfort. ‘They have to ensure it’s safe first.’ I could see that was optimistic to say the least. The majority of their possessions, both private and the pub’s, would either have been burnt beyond salvage or at the least damaged, as would the fixtures and fittings, both their own and anything belonging to the Comptons.

  ‘We won’t let this get us down, Luce,’ Andrew said without conviction. ‘Bloody Makepeaces,’ he added.

  ‘You think this is down to them?’ I asked.

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘Even a stray match could have caused it.’

  He didn’t bother to reply and I could see why. George Makepeace had threatened further action and perhaps this was it, whether by his hand or another’s. I too could not believe that this was an accident. I could see Jamie Makepeace in the crowd but there was no sign of George, something that the crowd seemed to be taking as evidence of his guilt. Jamie was staggering around – whether through drink or overwrought emotions – and had his eye on Bronte who was comforting Lucy. Although clearly aware of his presence, she was ignoring him.

  ‘This’ll put paid to the bloody Comptons,’ Jamie declared loudly. ‘Can’t use the pub as an excuse any more.’ There was a roar of disapproval from the crowd at such ungraciousness, and even Jamie’s smarting youth could not make this forgivable. Certainly Bronte didn’t think so.

  ‘We still own the land, Jamie Makepeace,’ she yelled at him. ‘And we have some respect for others’ feelings, not like you. Lucy and Andrew have lost their home.’

  He looked shamefaced, but didn’t heed the voice of caution that Martin was urging on him. ‘The future and jobs are all that’s important.’

  ‘Maybe thinking about Miss Bronte is too,’ Andrew yelled at him.

  That infuriated Jamie even more. He lowered his head and charged at Andrew. Time for me to intervene. I grabbed Jamie, just managing to swing him away from Andrew before contact. I received a punch in the face as a result from Master Jamie. I’d had enough, so I treated him to a couple of quick judo moves, pinioning him by both arms.

  ‘Sober up,’ I told him sharply. ‘Bronte needs you. But you won’t get her by behaving like a complete jerk. Or by punching me,’ I added.

  ‘Oh yeah? Want another one?’ he tried feebly.

  This time he found himself on the floor, by which time two police officers had arrived. I showed them my ID card to prevent myself being arrested. Jamie was still groaning on the ground and, at a nod from me, the police decided to turn a blind eye as I dragged him to his feet and sent him on his way – which was not towards Bronte.

  Depressing, I thought. A young couple so much in love, so unable to talk it through. If it was meant to be, I supposed, they would get together again, but now there were more pressing problems.

  ‘Arson?’ I enquired of the police.

  ‘Too soon. Maybe. Wads of burnt paper at a possible seat of the fire.’

  The sight of the old building in such a state was sobering, even for me who didn’t live in Plumshaw. No one was going to class this wreck as a safe house to enter for a while.

  The mutterings about Makepeaces and Comptons were subdued now. First light had come and the birds had the nerve to begin their cheerful racket to tell us what a nice day it was going to be.

  As the crowd began to disperse, I could see no further sign of Andrew and Lucy, and Martin and I adjourned to his house for a restorative coffee. His home was next to the garage, a small detached modern house, tidy and somewhat soulless inside, although I glimpsed a model railway in one room. I asked him if it was his hobby, and was told it was his son’s who liked playing with it on his visits, from which I deduced that Martin was indeed divorced.

  ‘A shock for old Peter Compton,’ he said, handing me the coffee. ‘He doesn’t deserve this.’

  ‘You look fairly shaken,’ I said. ‘Not the best way out of the village problem.’

  ‘Don’t jump to conclusions. I’ve never known the Makepeaces go this far before.’

  ‘It might be their last throw of the dice, now their offer has been turned down, although burning down the pub doesn’t mean that Peter Compton will sell.’

  ‘He’ll have to. The estate needs the cash. It’s struggling.’

  ‘Selling the Alfa Romeo would keep a few wolves from the door,’ I pointed out. Provided, of course, that Peter Compton had the right to sell it. As there had once been a dispute over the ownership that might not be straightforward. Peter had accused Giovanni of coming here to claim it for himself. Were there grounds for that? Did Giovanni have a legitimate claim on behalf of the Santoro family? If so, the ownership might be tied up in litigation for years to come.

  That brought me back to the pressing need for another visit to Giovanni. I could foresee a battle ahead, and this one would not be settled by withholding the dessert menu.

  More than charity has to begin at home. The next morning I needed to do some preliminary work before I saw Giovanni. Louise had left me to sleep, thankfully, so it was eleven o’clock before I staggered into the Pits, even then not at my brightest. Len pretended he hadn’t seen me and began polishing the Lanchester very vigorously.

  I gave no quarter but planted myself directly in front of him. ‘Giovanni stayed with you on the Monday after his release from prison. You went to Gatwick to pick up Maria and then took them back to your home. What did they do all day?’

  ‘Nothing much. The wife said they sat in the garden, though they took her out to lunch at the pub.’

  ‘Giovanni didn’t leave Maria on her own? Drive anywhere else?’

  He fixed me with a glare. ‘Ask the wife. She says no. And I reckon she’d have noticed if he nipped off to murder that bloke.’

  Point taken. Well, at least I knew what questions to ask Giovanni once I had arranged my visit. That took a while and it was Monday before I got to see him.

  My first impression was that he was avoiding my eye. I interpreted that as meaning Maria had relayed the content of my visit to her, so I had a clear run on the grandfather angle.

  ‘Your grandfather Giulio Santoro. Why didn’t you tell me about him?’

  Giovanni attempted a lofty disdain. ‘I did not know he was my grandfather.’

  ‘I’m told that you did know. Maria did. And now so do the police.’

  He began to crumple. ‘I did not want the Comptons to know about Giulio. They think bad things maybe, but all I wished to do was paint.’

  ‘They knew as soon as you sent your letter to them asking to paint the car. But why did you not tell me, Giovanni?’

  His head went up again. ‘This is a matter of family, Jack. You wou
ld not understand. We settle such matters within the family. Outsiders know nothing.’

  ‘Then how did your friend at La Casa come to know about it?’

  Giovanni looked trapped. ‘From a customer.’

  ‘How did the customer …?’ I stopped. Ten to one the customer was one of the Comptons and probably Hugh. This hoax had been better planned than I had realized.

  ‘Are you sure the Compton family knew about my grandfather?’ Giovanni asked me. ‘They said nothing to me. How could they have known?’

  My lips had to be sealed on the hoax issue and on Peter’s past, so I switched subjects. ‘The car, Giovanni. Do you really believe it still belongs to your family?’

  He glared at me. ‘It was stolen by Fascists when my grandfather died.’

  Could I be getting some cooperation at last? At least he was opening up. ‘At some point after the war it was sold to Peter Compton.’ Then I remembered this was not strictly correct. ‘Sold to him through his first wife, Sofia Mesola, who arranged the sale. Your family disputed ownership and he was imprisoned.’

  He thumped his fists on the table which brought two warders smartly to their feet. ‘I not born until 1957, Jack. How could I know?’

  ‘How could you not? It’s your family history.’

  He looked sulky. ‘Italy, my family, every family want to forget after the war. A new country, a new republic.’

  ‘A split country, half monarchist, half republican, some of them communists, some Christian Democrats. That’s why the car’s ownership could be disputed?’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed sulkily.

  ‘Your friend at La Casa told you about the rumour of the Alfa Romeo because he knew your family had a claim to it.’

  ‘Perhaps that is so.’ He was very grudging about it. ‘I do not want the car, Jack. I went to paint the car,’ he repeated. ‘It is my right.’

  Knowing Giovanni of old, I was reasonably satisfied with this, so I moved on to the vital point.

  ‘Tell me what you were doing on the Sunday after you were discharged from the police station, Giovanni. You didn’t see your friend at La Casa, did you? The restaurant was closed and he was away that day.’ (I hoped Brandon would excuse me one bit of evidence revealed.)

  He took a very dignified stance. ‘That is not your business, Jack. I am an important man. I have places to go.’

  ‘Is that what you’re telling the police? They know your story is not true.’

  Silence.

  I sighed. ‘Tell me, Giovanni.’

  ‘I was not in Plumshaw. That is all I say. This is all you need to know. I was not murdering Hugh Compton.’

  ‘Tell me, Giovanni.’

  ‘You will not like this, Jack.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  One glance at my face and he surrendered. ‘I went to see my son Ricardo.’

  I’d walked right into it. One never sees the blow that fells you. ‘He’s in England?’

  ‘Yes. He is living here.’

  A dozen fearful scenarios shot through my mind. ‘Has Louise seen him?’

  ‘I do not know. She would not come on that Sunday.’

  The world tipped back into balance again. That was a relief. Or was it? Perhaps she was having tête-à-têtes with Ricardo? Perhaps she wanted to go back to him and had sworn Giovanni to silence?

  ‘Does Ricardo have a new partner?’ I asked hopefully.

  ‘Partner?’

  ‘Wife, girlfriend,’ I said impatiently, aware that he was stalling for time.

  ‘Of course. He is a Donati,’ Giovanni said proudly. ‘But Louise is a very special lady.’

  Pride would not let me ask: ‘Does he want her back?’ Would she go if he did? Was she still in love with him? I wanted to hurl all these questions at Giovanni but I managed to restrain myself – just. Instead I asked the obvious question.

  ‘Why did you not tell me you were with Ricardo on Sunday?’

  ‘If you knew about Louise and my son, you would not have liked it, Jack.’

  He had me there. I wouldn’t have done. ‘Why not tell the police?’

  The head went back again. ‘It is family matter.’

  ‘As it will be if you are found guilty,’ I said grimly.

  He glared at me. ‘If the police know about my family they could discover I am Santoro’s grandson. Then they think I lie when I told them I only wish to paint it. And if I tell them I go to see Ricardo they would not believe me. He is my son.’

  He was right. ‘Not a strong alibi in police terms,’ I agreed.

  ‘It is the truth.’ He sat back and folded his arms. I got the message but ignored it.

  ‘You also have a motive for Hugh Compton’s murder.’

  ‘Why?’ Giovanni said indignantly. ‘The car belongs to his father, so if I was to kill anyone I kill Peter.’

  ‘Not,’ I pointed out, ‘if you had a row with Hugh about it and lost your temper.’

  Giovanni looked puzzled. ‘But my lawyer tell me he not die until the next weekend. So if the quarrel in the barn was over who owns the car, I would not wait a week to kill him.’

  The hoax. He didn’t know about it and I couldn’t tell him.

  TEN

  The great thing about cars is that what you see is what you get. That sounds trite, but underlying car problems can be stripped away layer by layer to find the root cause of the trouble. Unfortunately, it’s more tricky with human beings. I can’t just diagnose the fault, send away for the spare part and have him or her on the road again, waving happily at the rest of humankind. With human beings you have to be very sure what spare part the fault requires before you press their accelerator pedal to full speed ahead.

  With Giovanni I was far from sure I had the right spare part. He had admitted what I needed to hear – the family connection with Santoro – which meant I had stripped away to what must surely be the root cause. The complex story it revealed, however, still did not fully explain his present predicament. It had rung true that the painting rather than the car itself might have been uppermost in his mind, not the possibility of claiming back the Alfa Romeo. I just couldn’t see Giovanni (or the Giovanni I thought I knew) going berserk over a family incident dating back seventy years. He is a man who lives in the present, however much he admires classic cars. Furthermore, I couldn’t believe he was either lying or holding something back about the Alfa Romeo. I now had both Peter Compton’s and Giovanni’s pitches on the car and they more or less dovetailed. What more could I want? Goodness knows. Perhaps nothing. The burning down of the Hop and Harry at this particular time almost surely was more than coincidence however.

  I couldn’t tackle Louise on the Giovanni angle with the shadow of Ricardo still hanging over us, and so when she picked up on my preoccupation at breakfast the next day I took the plunge into the deep end and hit a pool full of cold water for my pains.

  ‘Did Ricardo ever talk about his family—?’

  She cast a scathing glance at me. ‘I don’t talk about Ricardo.’

  A shadow over the day already. ‘You should.’

  ‘My business.’

  ‘Mine too. Otherwise I’m living with you both.’

  She slammed down the marmalade pot – by which I deduced I had won a point, and was quick to capitalize on it.

  ‘If you talk, you normalize. If you suppress, it festers.’

  ‘It’s past, it’s gone.’ She had her obstinate look on.

  ‘If it’s gone, you can talk about it.’

  ‘Oh, Jack. Keep clear, please.’

  We were at an impasse so I risked a leap into darkness. ‘Let’s both go and see Ricardo. Clear the air.’

  ‘Whatever for?’ The portcullis stayed where it was.

  Keep your voice deadpan, I counselled myself. ‘I can talk to him about his family history. It could help Giovanni and Ricardo’s his son.’

  ‘Unfair pressure,’ she whipped back. ‘And you’re in too deep, Jack.’ At least she hadn’t rejected the idea outright.

 
‘Do it, Louise,’ I said more gently.

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  Perhaps she did. She certainly wasn’t talking to me through the rest of breakfast. When we’d finished, however, she grudgingly conceded a point. ‘Tell me what Giovanni told you.’

  I didn’t want to prejudice my case by overplaying my cards, so I told her without comment that he had admitted to knowing who his grandfather was and about the Alfa Romeo but that he claimed he only wanted to paint it.

  ‘That fits,’ she commented. ‘What worries you?’

  I couldn’t analyse that myself at first, but I had to do it somehow. ‘The facts that a brutal murder took place, preceded by an almost unbelievable hoax, that ownership of the car is disputed, that its sale could bring in what would be a fortune to most people and that the village pub has burnt down. Nothing seems to link up.’

  She began to come round. ‘Does that matter? What certainly does matter is whether Giovanni is guilty of murder. And that’s going to be decided by what’s happening now, not by an old car from seventy years back. It will be settled by forensic and trace evidence, which isn’t your province.’

  ‘I agree, but I have a valid province too: if Giovanni is innocent then someone else killed Hugh Compton. Unless someone works out who could have done it and why, then even in these DNA days my province is useful. That’s what I’m here for,’ I added unwisely.

  ‘You’re also here to do the washing up,’ she informed me.

  I kissed her. ‘A pleasure. Your turn tomorrow.’

  Only three words – but they brought contentment. Tomorrow we would still be together, and I thought of all the tomorrows when we hadn’t been. Then Ricardo slunk back into my mind. Get out, I warned him, and then belatedly took the advice that I had handed out to Louise. I wouldn’t keep ignoring his existence. I’d let him come in, which was much more sensible. Well, I’d try anyway, especially since Louise seemed in a mood for compromise.

  ‘If the story’s out of balance,’ she reflected, ‘maybe it’s the story that’s wrong.’

  ‘I can’t believe both Peter and Giovanni are lying.’