Classic In the Pits--A Jack Colby classic car mystery (12 page)

The formalities took some time to sort out, and Jennifer Ansty grew quieter and quieter, answering questions briefly and not volunteering any more information. When DCI Maine told her they'd have to take the car back with them, she seemed past raising any objection, which suggested she was licking her wounds with a vengeance. If this car had anything to do with Mike's death, now was the time to find out, by stepping in both as counsellor and investigator.

So I made a start. ‘If you're going back to Heathfield, Dave, could you pick me up later from the Bear pub in Burwash village? I'll get a bite to eat there.'

A nudge is all Dave needs, luckily – he guessed what my plan was. Burwash village was easily within walking distance and the Bear is a favourite pub of mine. Kindly Dave might be, as well as understanding Mrs Ansty's devastation, he would also realize I might get nuggets of information on my own that wouldn't be revealed to a threesome. It was midday when they left so the timing was perfect for me to invite her to lunch.

‘We'll be off then,' Dave said in an artificially jolly way that should not have deceived a mouse chasing a lump of cheese, but Jennifer Ansty was past noticing. She was too busy watching her beloved car vanish on to the low-loader.

‘I don't understand,' she said forlornly. ‘I paid for it, it's mine and it's registered.'

‘Talk about it over lunch?' I suggested. ‘Come to the Bear with me.'

‘I haven't got a car,' she whipped back smartly. Then she relented. ‘I suppose the walk will do me good.'

It took fifteen minutes or so to reach the Bear, and as she stepped out smartly beside me chatting generally about life in Burwash, I wondered again why on earth she had chosen this Porsche. Generalizations are notoriously dangerous, but the Porsche never seemed to me a very feminine car and Jenny, as she had asked me to call her, was a very feminine lady.

‘The police told me you worked at a school before you retired,' I said.

‘Yes. The Sandborne Academy for Girls, near Sherborne in Dorset.'

I'd heard of it and was impressed. ‘You were the chef?' I asked politely.

‘Dinner Lady Supreme,' she rejoined, more cheerfully now we were on safer ground. ‘Choose it, cook it, serve it. With help,' she added, actually managing a laugh.

‘Most people retire
to
Sherborne,' I pointed out. ‘You seem to be doing things the other way round.'

She didn't answer and it wasn't until we arrived at the pub that she relaxed a little. Indeed, she walked into it with the air of knowing it well, greeting all the staff by name before we went into the rear garden to choose a table with a view. ‘Are you a regular here?' I asked.

‘They know me quite well. I used to stay here before I moved to Burwash, when my uncle was alive. When he died I inherited the cottage, but I rented it out until this year.'

‘So that's why you moved east. Unusual though.'

‘Ah,' she said. ‘That was the point.'

‘Point of what?'

‘Buying the Porsche. I expect you've been wondering.'

‘I was. It's an outstanding car but not one I'd have thought would be your first choice.'

‘Because it's old?'

‘No. There are plenty of classics around that would suit you if that were the reason. An Austin-Healey for example. You have to really know cars to love Porsche 356s and know them even better to pick one with a Carrera engine. Most people admire them from afar, but to love them enough to buy them? That's really something. Would it surprise you to know that the car you've briefly possessed could be worth over three hundred thousand pounds?'

She blinked. ‘I don't believe you.'

‘It's true, but then you're not a car enthusiast or you'd know that.'

She was highly indignant. ‘How can you possibly judge?'

I sighed. ‘The price and set-up alone should have been decidedly suspicious to anyone, not just a car buff.'

‘They weren't to me,' she said obstinately. ‘Simon did all the business side. I'd been introduced to him, after all.'

Well, of course, I thought. To a woman like this an introduction would make all the difference between trustworthiness and mistrust.

‘Where did all the negotiations take place?' I asked.

‘At a hotel where I met him – at a Women's Institute meeting.'

‘He belonged to the WI?'

This earned me a scathing look. ‘He was another member's brother, so he said. We talked about cars – I needed one and he told me about the Porsche. A real bargain he told me. He didn't live far from me and the office was miles away so he said he would drive it over for me to have a look. No obligation.'

‘And you bought it on the spot?'

More indignation. ‘I'm not that daft. Of course I didn't. I had to arrange the money.'

Even so, a Porsche? I thought. Something didn't fit. This was a lady who knew her own mind. She might have fallen for a confidence trickster but she wouldn't pass over what to her was a small fortune for a car she didn't fall for hook line and sinker, with or without the careful checks on the car and its seller. And I could not imagine this woman as part of a master gang under Doubler's rule.

‘Anyway, why shouldn't I?' she finished, avoiding my eye. ‘Don't you make instant judgements sometimes?'

‘No.'

‘Why not?'

‘Experience.'

‘Of what? Women or cars?'

There was a definite flirty note in her voice, but not, I thought thankfully, personal, given the age gap, so it was safe for me to reply, ‘Both.'

She considered this. ‘You're right and you're wrong. I did want the Porsche. Loved it at first sight, but if I'd been ten years older – even five – I wouldn't have bought it.'

‘Too powerful?'

She swept this aside. ‘Wrong image.'

‘Image of what?' I asked curiously.

‘It's quite simple, Jack. I've been a widow for five years. Sherborne is not the world. I wasn't ready for retiring from the world, only from the school. I wanted a new life, as I told those policemen.'

‘And you thought you would find it in Burwash?'

‘Yes. I moved three months ago. I've now unpacked all the boxes and I'm ready for the new world. By which,' she added, ‘I mean men.'

I reeled at this matter of fact statement. ‘Another husband?'

‘No. I'd prefer to phrase it as “choice of male companionship”.'

‘The merry widow?' I was still absorbing this angle.

‘Exactly, and what better for that role than that Porsche – which, as you said, is a man's car, rather than a woman's. But,' she said darkly, ‘now that's been stolen from me. Do I get compensation?'

‘Not unless the owners are generous.'

‘Who are they?'

‘I can't tell you that.'

‘No need to be stuffy. It was Mike Nelson's, wasn't it? That poor man who's just been murdered.'

I said nothing, which gave her my answer.

‘It's obvious, I suppose,' she continued, ‘but I really thought I'd bought it legally. And,' she added warningly, ‘you can tell the family and their solicitors that I'll be in touch.'

‘Quite a lady,' I told Dave when he eventually arrived. Jenny had returned to Broome Cottage and left me contemplating the Downs. Her ‘merry widow' explanation of the car added up, I conceded, and this Simon Marsh sounded just right for a Doubler associate. And yet it was still an odd story and did not tie in with Mike's death.

‘Bought it from a man she'd met in a hotel bar,' Dave said in disgust. ‘Wouldn't believe women could be so daft, would you?'

‘Not just women,' I pointed out. ‘And it's not always straightforward.'

He looked at me with interest. ‘In this case?'

‘Probably OK. She's seems bright enough.'

‘Did she tell you she paid cash?'

I groaned. I don't often miss a trick but he'd caught me on this one. At least it pleased Dave, and he'd milk this one for all it was worth. He was grinning like a Cheshire Cat that had no intention of disappearing.

‘Did she, or rather Mr Non-Upright Citizen – who doubtless is not called Simon Marsh – give a reason for wanting cash?' I asked.

‘Two. He and his partners were apparently sole traders and had been rooked too many times by accepting dodgy cheques and, as she admittedly rather shamefacedly, he had told her they would have to add VAT to the bill if it wasn't cash.'

Unlike magpies, one reason is OK, but it's two that usually bring sorrow. There
is
no VAT on second-hand goods. So that was it. Jenny had indeed been hoodwinked.

‘Cheer up,' Dave said. ‘I'm taking you to Heathfield.'

‘For what?' I asked suspiciously.

‘That's where the police pound is. You can drive the Porsche back to its home when they've finished with it. Won't be long.'

The day looked a whole lot brighter ‘Thanks, Dave.'

‘Not at all. Saves us money. Anyway, I bet you packed your Frogs Hill plates in that bag of yours.'

‘As it happens, I did. Only reason I came,' I joked. I should have known better.

He had the last laugh. ‘No need to put it on your bill then.'

O
h what a beautiful morning. Or so it seemed as the Porsche and I sang a sort of duet as I drove it along the A20 on its way back to its rightful home. What could possibly go wrong while Porsche 356s remained to cheer the darkest hour and the sun shone approvingly down on us as the Carrera engine purred? Answer: I was well aware that quite a lot could go wrong, beginning with the fact that the ‘rightful home' had a question mark attached to it, now that Mike had died. For this brief interval, however, I decided to put the gruesome horror of his murder out of my mind while I and this magical car were the cynosure of all eyes this Saturday morning as we sped along.

As I turned off the A20 to drive up Stede Hill on the way to Old Herne's, uncomfortable reality began to kick in once more. I plunged into the familiar maze of lanes, wishing I could see my way forward over my mission for Arthur Howell as clearly as I knew this route – and aware that I was driving a possible key element in it. Work out why, and I would be well on my way. But the key remained elusive. The trees overhanging the lanes seemed as though they were gloating over me, delighted that they could remove the sunlight from my path.

Already, it was ceasing to be such a beautiful morning. I knew Jessica was working this weekend and the prospect of seeing her was a big incentive, but there were a lot of minuses to face. Once Dave had officially notified the insurance people and the solicitors, I had rung to tell her I was coming, as there had been a snag. I'd expected to be told to deliver the Porsche either to Boadicea at High House or to Jason, but far from it. The instructions were to take to its garage at Old Herne's, where someone would be waiting. Regardless of who this someone was, I knew I'd be treading on eggshells. Only six days had passed since Mike's death, but
something
must surely have emerged about who had inherited the car if it was found.

When I rang to ask if there had been any developments on Mike's case that I should know about, Brandon had been non-committal, save on one point. ‘Nothing on the prints on the Crossley – too many of them,' he told me. ‘Nor on the floor. But the greatcoat has Jarvis's DNA on it. We're waiting for the lab on everything else.'

After the initial shock I realized that the greatcoat would almost certainly have had Tim's DNA on it – and no doubt that of other volunteers too. As for the Porsche, Dave had told me that no prints of interest had shown up on it – only mine and Jenny Ansty's.

‘The dealer wore gloves in summertime?' I had asked smartly.

Smart answer back. ‘If he's one of Doubler's crew, he's a pro.'

I had told Dave most of my conversation with Doubler and endured the inevitable grilling that followed. I'd be marked down as a double agent from now on – a difficult situation to be in, though I had pointed out that it could be useful too. Grudging assent from Dave, but I was a marked man.

‘No damage to the car though,' I had pointed out. ‘That's interesting too.'

‘Could be,' Dave had replied, as if indulging a small child.

It was interesting to me at least. The Porsche wasn't Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. It couldn't have flown from Old Herne's to Burwash, and clean though Doubler liked to maintain his hands it must have gone through at least two pairs of mucky ones before Mrs Ansty obliged with her cash. One pair to nick it, probably one to fix the plates and another to sweet-talk Jenny Ansty under the name of Simon Marsh.

On the latter front I had had a minor breakthrough. One of my contacts had rung me with a name. This contact believes in codes at all times and so when he mentioned Bernard it immediately rang up the name Alex Shaw in my mental data bank. Shaw was one of the suavest villains around, and thought to be one of Doubler's closest allies – ‘thought' because with Doubler nothing is known for certain. But Shaw was just the type to appeal to Burwash's merry widow; apparently, he so subtly indicates he is from the upper echelons of society that Jenny would have trusted his patter – at first, anyway. The cash element should have made her blink. Anyway, this was a good lead.

Only, nothing looked exactly good as I drove up to Old Herne's gates. Old Herne's itself has some bushes but hardly any trees around its perimeter except on the northern side where High House stands. There woodland looks forbiddingly over to the club as though given the right circumstances those massive oaks would advance in an unstoppable phalanx to repel invaders.

There's a legend about a ghost called Herne the Hunter who haunts Windsor Great Park and who brings trouble in his wake when he decides to walk. He's said to have been a hunter who hung himself in the park centuries ago, but it's more likely he dates back for many more centuries when he was not a hunter but a Celtic god. Old Herne's Club derives its name from an old word for corner, but I did wonder if Herne the Hunter's ghost occasionally travelled to Kent for a trip, having packed a whole load of trouble in his backpack. He might be here now. The sun had gone in, the clouds were gathering and those trees looked distinctly menacing. There were a lot of cars in the car park although I knew Old Herne's was still officially closed.