Classic in the Dock

by Amy Myers

  I was in no shape to enjoy the rest of the village fête and even less when I remembered I had completely forgotten Louise. It seemed to me I’d been at the Hop and Harry for hours, but to my amazement only an hour and a half had passed. Nevertheless, I could see many of the classic cars had already left, as well as the visitors’ cars, and I walked over to them to see if Louise was sitting in the Lagonda. She wasn’t, but at least the Lagonda was still there. So was the Bentley and Paul was sitting in it, probably waiting for his wife.

  ‘I envy you this,’ I told him.

  ‘My pride and joy,’ he replied, which somewhat endeared me to him. No one who owns a car like that can be all bad. Nor, it occurred to me, as dull as Paul had struck me hitherto.

  ‘Have you been at the Hop and Harry?’ he asked me. ‘I heard what had happened. A bad show. Strangled, is that right?’

  ‘You heard rightly.’

  ‘That poor girl. Plumshaw has done badly by her.’

  I took the opportunity ‘She’ll be in a bad way now. No home, no job. Could your father-in-law help?’

  He nodded right away. ‘I’ll see to it. I’ll have a word with Hazel.’

  I must have looked surprised. ‘Not Peter?’

  ‘Ultimately, but always politic to go through Hazel. Especially as Plumshaw is a family trust. Hugh ran the farm, estate, pub, woods and so on, but the final ownership lies with Peter. He’s just appointed Hazel in Hugh’s place.’

  ‘Not Bronte now she’s broken off with Jamie Makepeace?’

  ‘She inherits the whole caboodle after both Peter and Hazel’s deaths. She has the right to live in the manor if she wishes though and she inherits Puddledock Cottage after Peter’s death with the right to live in it if she so chooses. Unless of course she marries a Makepeace. Different arrangements then.’

  ‘Yourselves?’ It seemed steep to exclude Stephanie.

  ‘Don’t worry on our account,’ he said drily. ‘We do come into it. We’ll be running the estate for Hazel. You seem very interested in us, Jack. Anything else I can tell you?’ He spoke with deep irony but I promptly took him up on the offer.

  ‘Thank you. Yes, there is. I’m obviously interested in the Alfa Romeo’s story since it affects Giovanni so greatly. Peter told me that it was your wife’s mother, Sofia, who arranged the car’s sale from the Fascists who were holding it, although she came from a Partisan family.’

  He was looking at me warily. ‘I believe that is so, but at that time such things weren’t easy to pigeonhole.’

  ‘And yet your wife referred to Giovanni as a Mafioso. Was that merely a term of abuse or did she mean it literally?’ This must be where Pen had picked up her ‘man of honour’ reference, which meant Stephanie had endured interview by Pen too.

  He stiffened. ‘Perhaps. There was no love lost between the Santoro and Mesola families. The Mesolas referred to the Santoros as the Brotherhood. It’s possible they had Sicilian connections or that the Mafia was already beginning to spread its influence into the north of Italy. But to me the implication seems clear enough.’

  It didn’t to me. I still wasn’t convinced.

  ‘Incidentally, you will undoubtedly be interested to know,’ he continued, ‘that the trust specifically excludes the sale of the Hop and Harry land for Peter’s lifetime and fifty years thereafter. A poisoned chalice, don’t you think?’

  Including for Nan, I realized. With Puddledock Cottage in effect gifted to Bronte, he would have nothing to gain from Hugh’s death. But did he know that?

  FOURTEEN

  ‘We should talk,’ Louise said at last, obviously worried at my continued lack of communication once we reached Frogs Hill. I’d driven back from the Plumshaw fête almost in silence, poleaxed both by the horrific events of the day and by the twists and turns that were unexpectedly emerging in this case. Case? Could I even define what case this was? Was it Giovanni’s? Was it Hugh Compton’s? Or was it Plumshaw’s itself: its manor, its old style, its new style and every damned thing about it?

  After my dismay at realizing that while at the Hop and Harry I had completely forgotten the fête, the manor and even Louise, I had compounded this by stopping to talk to Paul. When I returned to the fête itself, it had seemed at first glance still to be in full swing, which nearly finished me with its stark contrast to the horrific scene so relatively close by. In fact it wasn’t. It had thinned out considerably and those remaining were obviously discussing the news. I found Louise helping to clear up in the refreshment marquee.

  I had explained my absence and she had sympathized. ‘After all,’ she said, ‘I can get immersed in a role as much offstage as onstage, and that’s only a make-believe world, whereas yours is real.’

  ‘The dark side of Plumshaw erupting,’ I’d agreed.

  ‘That poor woman. How will she cope with his death on top of what’s happened to the pub?’

  Thunderstorms follow stifling heat, I thought, as now back at Frogs Hill I carried drinks into the garden. Old Plumshaw assumed its sunshine and fêtes would go on for ever, but it had to face the fact that some change at least was inevitable. If only it wasn’t. If, if, if … If only Giovanni could be back, laughing, quaffing his glass of wine and wielding his paintbrush amid his adoring fans and family. With all his irritating faults, how much I longed for that. If only … but first I had to do my best to solve two murders.

  ‘How much longer can they go on holding him after all the new evidence?’ Louise asked at last, when I mentioned his name.

  ‘None of that absolutely rules him out,’ I told her despondently. ‘In theory he could have carried out the murder with Ricardo or with Ricardo providing an alibi.’

  ‘Without that fake murder scam he wouldn’t need one, as there’s no other evidence, except that he set up the appointment with the Comptons in the first place.’

  ‘Agreed. It would be tricky to prove that the idea had been deliberately planted by them at La Casa.’ Trust Louise to put her finger on the salient point. That’s what makes her a fine actor. She looks at a part, a speech or even a line, decides its heart and its mood in relation to the character and then pitches her performance accordingly. ‘And,’ I continued gloomily, ‘it’s a powerful motive too. The more I look at those of other possible suspects, the more they vanish like the Cheshire Cat’s grin. The Compton trust, which Bronte would surely have known about, knocks most of them out anyway, whether Comptons or Makepeaces.’

  ‘The Makepeaces might not have known about that, and if they heard about Hugh’s hideaway from Andrew they could have taken advantage of that.’

  ‘Nan would be in the same position with Puddledock Cottage, which Hugh was intending to hand over to Bronte. At least Paul and Stephanie knew for sure they would not inherit quickly, if at all.’

  ‘Wrong,’ she came back at me. ‘If Hugh died, they might have thought they would because the trust would be rejigged, and Bronte then seemed out of the picture. Hazel on the other hand—’

  ‘Is in her seventies,’ I retorted, weary of this merry-go-round. ‘She’s hardly likely to butcher her own son.’

  Louise pressed on. ‘You know what Sherlock said about the improbable.’

  ‘Only if the impossible is eliminated,’ I shot back. ‘But we haven’t done that.’

  ‘Peter Compton,’ she said promptly. ‘You can eliminate him, at least physically.’

  ‘I agree. And sorry, Louise, I’m going to eliminate Hazel too.’

  ‘Which brings you back to Giovanni. He’s not impossible.’

  Stop right there, I wanted to say, but I had to deal with it. ‘But very improbable.’

  ‘I’m glad of that,’ she said awkwardly. ‘You know that he and I don’t get on, Jack. It goes right back. Ricardo seemed in his shadow and because he thought that himself it annoyed me. He had no confidence in himself and Giovanni would never see that. Ricardo’s gifts lie in management, but as they weren’t in art Giovanni never encouraged him. Art is all to him and he tried so hard to turn Ricardo into
an artist, that Ricardo felt he was a failure. He’s good but not in Giovanni’s class. Parents can be devils when they are so arrogantly convinced their children’s lives can be laid out on the same track as their own and don’t even dream that they might be wrong. Once upon a time that was understandable, because that was economically the only path open, but now? No way.’

  I was on soggy ground here. I didn’t want to sink, but I forced myself on. ‘When you were with Ricardo did he talk much about his family?’

  ‘Very little, because he was also caught up in this family forever concept. Family first, family forever and repel all invaders. I had no wedding ring and so I was excluded. Worse, in his view, I didn’t want one. Not that it bothered me. Ricardo and I were happy – until we weren’t.’

  Not exactly what I had wanted to hear, but I struggled on.

  ‘Did Ricardo say anything about the Santoro family having connections with the Mafia before or after the war?’

  That really did it. Louise was furious. ‘You’re way off beam, Jack. Out of order.’

  ‘You’re sure? There was a mention of it by one of the Comptons.’

  ‘Then the mention was wrong. I’m as sure as I can be. The idea’s ridiculous. Ricardo is straight, and if Giovanni wasn’t I would have picked that up in my two years living with Ricardo.’

  She really knew how to hurt. I put my defences up. ‘You didn’t know about the imprisonment of Peter Compton, so you might have let this go by too. For instance, could Giovanni’s father have had any connection with the Brotherhood?’

  The stony face changed to cool triumph. ‘As Giovanni’s father was in the Italian navy, it’s hardly likely, is it?’

  ‘No.’ I had to go on, even if I wasn’t sure where I was going. ‘Did Ricardo talk about Italy during the war, even if not about family matters?’

  ‘Not much,’ she snapped. ‘Somewhat before our time.’

  ‘I know Giulio’s sister married his co-driver Enrico di Secchio, so perhaps there were brothers too.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Louise retorted. ‘But not in the Brotherhood.’

  She meant it as another put-down, but it occurred to me that this might have been how the possible misconception about the Mafia might have begun. Stephanie was only a child when her mother died but she must have kept in touch with the family thereafter. It could be something she had picked up rightly or wrongly from them. Perhaps it was a complete red herring, though. I couldn’t see how this factor might have affected Hugh Compton’s death.

  I realized I was getting to the desperate stage of needing to find something, anything, to cling to that might shed a new light on the case. Another tricky situation. One last go: ‘Did either Maria or Ricardo ever mention the Alfa Romeo before Giovanni heard about it from his cousin?’

  ‘Not that I remember, but of course I might have let that go by me too. Time for supper?’

  It was and we called an armistice. Louise made an early departure for work the next morning, Sunday or not, but to my relief I found a billet doux left on the kitchen table. I hadn’t ruined our relationship for ever, for which I was profoundly grateful.

  There were two big kisses scrawled on it – and a few scribbled words. These read: ‘Did either of them mention Floria?’

  Who on earth was Floria? I had a vague memory of Maria mentioning a Floria, then amending it to Lucia. Or had that been a quick recovery from a slip? By ‘them’ I presumed Louise meant Giovanni and either Maria or Peter Compton. It didn’t matter too much, which was fortunate as she was on set and that meant no phone calls, no mobiles and no texts. The princess was up in her ivory tower until this evening. There was no instant way to contact Giovanni; Maria was out when I rang La Casa and Ricardo was on voicemail.

  The word ‘communications’ conveys a mistaken image. One assumes they are always helpful and available, but as with other areas in life it takes two to make them work, one to initiate and one to receive. And today, I was doing all the initiating without any cooperation from the other side. Brandon wasn’t answering, his Sunday team couldn’t help, and Dave wasn’t around. Unfortunately for Zoe, she was. There was a late 1920s Model A Ford roadster from which she would not be parted, even on a Sunday. Either that, or she had had a row with her boyfriend, Rob. I saw her arrive, gave her ten minutes and then strolled over to the Pits to greet her, trying to look nonchalant. Zoe glanced up and her body language suggested no help was required. Finally she grew restless as I didn’t budge, continuing to watch her every move, and threw three words at me: ‘Talk away, Jack.’

  As she had picked up the right signals, I did. I went as far as I could, given that this was confidential work for the police – although it was true that no mention of payment had yet been made by Brandon, save for the Land Rover case. I ended my diatribe, which concentrated on the Alfa Romeo story and finished with the Brotherhood via a side track to Andrew Lee’s death and his probable involvement in the arson attack on the pub, with a plaintive, ‘Where do I go from here?’

  Zoe actually stopped work and considered the matter. ‘Harry Prince.’

  ‘What?’ As I mentioned earlier, Harry Prince is Frogs Hill’s bête noire. A local garage magnate, he longs to buy us out lock, stock and barrel, meaning the farmhouse, the Pits and of course the Glory Boot, and is eagerly awaiting the day that I throw in my hand through lack of money. So far I have eluded this by the skin of my teeth, but I never congratulate myself that he is no longer a threat. Thus the idea of going to sup with this devil without a very long spoon was unappealing. ‘What about him?’ I asked cautiously.

  ‘If there’s a big development in Plumshaw afoot he of all people will know something about it. He’ll be looking for his angle or be busily pulling strings behind the scenes. Bet you he knows all about the Comptons and Makepeaces and the man at the pub who was murdered, and he might have heard gossip about the Alfa Romeo.’

  ‘Why should he help me with inside information?’ A reasonable question given the delicate relationship between us.

  ‘For your bright eyes, Jack. Besides, his wife likes you.’

  I like Jackie as well, although that’s all there is to it. Harry knows that, so there’s no unease between us on that score. Only over Frogs Hill.

  It could do no harm, I reasoned, so I parked in Pluckley and walked over to Harry’s home at Charden along a bridle path. It would be good for my soul, I thought. The countryside tends to put life in perspective and this particular track took me past the barn that had once contained my Lagonda, the subject of the first of my cases and the one that had brought me face to face with DCI Brandon for the first time.

  The walk did succeed in calming me down, even if it did not produce any miracle cures for my problems. This countryside might endure for ever, unless the concrete jungle spread its tentacles as far as this. Long after the woes of Plumshaw were solved, if not forgotten, it would remain, just as once it nurtured Neanderthal ancestors.

  At last the huge iron gates of Château Prince faced me, as I pressed the keypad entrance. His Majesty came out to greet me in all his rather endearing pomposity. Harry is not a tall or a slim man, so this can be an impressive sight.

  ‘Good to see you, Jack.’

  ‘And you, Harry.’

  These courteous fibs over, he took me round to the conservatory at the rear of the house where Jackie greeted me benignly and we caught up to date over a tray of coffee and biscuits. Catching up is usually an interesting process, as Harry deals with modern cars as well as dabbling in classics and he can impart – if he so chooses – many sidelights on the criminal car underworld. In return – subject to obvious restrictions – I can fill him in on the other side of the coin.

  ‘Heard you’re involved with that Alfa Romeo,’ he eventually said. ‘That Plumshaw business is looking weird.’

  ‘As usual, you heard correctly, Harry.’

  ‘Another death, I gather. Linked to this development they’re planning.’

  ‘Quite possibly.’ This was both true and
a tactical move since Harry doesn’t like being mixed up with trouble – even if it’s on his own pitch and even if he initiated it. ‘Did you know Andrew Lee, the man who was murdered yesterday?’

  ‘I did, as a matter of fact.’ Harry was finding his coffee spoon extremely interesting judging by the way he was fiddling with it. ‘Running the Hop and Harry pub, wasn’t he? He used to joke about it. Weird chap. Said I was a dead ringer for Henry the Eighth.’

  Then he realized he had revealed too much. ‘Not that I knew him well. Andrew, I mean, not Henry the Eighth.’ It wasn’t like Harry to lose his grip, and Jackie was giggling.

  ‘Of course not,’ I said politely, though I could see Andrew’s point. ‘What’s your interest in the Plumshaw development?’

  ‘Always interested in progress,’ he told me heartily, back on safe ground. ‘No doubt it will go through. Compton will sell up the land.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that.’

  He tapped the side of his nose. ‘I would. We’ll find a way somehow whether he wants to sell or not. There’ll be shops, garages, restaurants, a cinema maybe, and industry. Jobs, Jack, jobs. I’ve heard about chaps who’ll make his life hell if he doesn’t sell. Wouldn’t like that to happen to the old man.’

  Nor would I and I wondered who would be paying these ‘chaps’. Unless it was just bluster on Harry’s part. It’s never safe to assume that with him, however. I had noted the use of ‘we’. So had Jackie, who winked at me.

  ‘Another restaurant? Another garage? Martin Fisher won’t like that.’

  ‘Progress, Jack. That’s what I told Andrew.’

  I could have pointed out that Andrew had possibly died as a result, but this would not have been a good tactical move. All the same, these ‘chaps’ Harry knew might have been behind Andrew’s death.