Classic In the Pits--A Jack Colby classic car mystery (15 page)

‘In and out, in and out. Treat the place like a hotel,' he muttered. This I doubted, as I had seen Brandon's team at work many times. ‘Accident, I told them that,' he ranted on. ‘
Accident
.'

‘It's hard to see how that could have happened,' I murmured.

‘Nonsense. That Crossley – handbrake wasn't on – rolled forwards, knocked him over and he fell on the axe. I told them that.
Murder
,' he snorted. ‘Too many of those TV thrillers around if you ask me. No one goes round murdering folks just like that.'

There was no answer to this, as it was not just improbable but impossible, given the medical evidence. Instead I said, ‘I'm told your younger son lives in New Zealand.'

‘Said he'd fly over when we're allowed to have a funeral. What he thinks he can do, I've no idea. Damn stupid. What about this Porsche then?'

‘I wondered whether Mrs Nelson or you would have Mike's registration document and service book for the Porsche. The new owner,' I added diplomatically, ‘will need them.'

‘She's dead.'

‘I beg your pardon?' Such was the sombreness of this house I wondered if Boadicea was indeed lying lifeless upstairs.

‘My wife. She died in 1991.'

‘I meant your son's widow.'

‘Oh her. She's still here, worse luck. Means more people traipsing in and out. Never know who they are. Now, if Miranda were here, she'd know where the stuff you're after was,' he assured me. ‘My Miranda. That's her.' He looked over at the wedding photo.

‘I heard her sing once at a local charity show, probably after she gave up singing professionally.'

‘After
we
gave
up singing,' he corrected me. ‘All this pop rubbish, Rolling Stones, Beatles, Beach Boys – Ray, she said, it's time we faced facts. We're the old brigade. They don't want us no more. They will, I told her.'

I could see tears in Ray's eyes. He was indeed living in the past.

‘They will,' he repeated. ‘And now she's not here no more and that pipsqueak Jason thinks he can sing her songs better than her.'

‘Your grandson's very good,' I told him. ‘Aren't you proud of him for bringing Miranda's songs back to life?'

His face came alive. ‘
Proud
? After he swindled me out of the copyright?'

‘Who?' I was thrown for a moment.

‘Young Jason. Worked on my Miranda and got her to leave her copyrights in the songs to him. What about me, eh? All I got was the recordings to live on. Fat pension that is.'

I decided to ignore this and change tack. ‘It's good news that the Porsche has been found, considering how much it meant to Mike. Will Jason agree to its being shown at Old Herne's again, do you think? It doesn't seem the same place without it.' I stopped, aware that again Ray was staring at me with a blank face. Was he ‘with' me, or in some place of his own?

‘Mike raced it,' he said at last.

‘It must have meant a lot to him, especially as he left it to Jason in memory of his first wife.'

I'd hoped this might draw him out, but received another blank look.

‘His good luck symbol, he called it, and look where it got him,' he continued. ‘Bought it in 1965. Had it since he was twenty.'

‘A generous gift from you both.'

‘Both?'

‘You and your late wife.' Silence, so I continued, ‘And a very valuable car now. The theft was rough on the lady who bought it, but I expect Jason will compensate her.' Nothing like a provocative statement for breaking silences.

Ray still made no comment, so my less than subtle hint on Jenny's behalf fell on deaf ears.

And then the door opened. ‘I thought I heard voices in here.'

It was Boadicea, but not in warpaint. Indeed, she looked haggard with grief and her voice lacked its usual vigour. I leapt up and gave her my armchair, pulling forward a dining chair for myself. ‘I'm here about the Porsche,' I told her.

She glared at me. ‘Isn't that Jason's affair?'

‘Probably, but if so he'll need the former registration document under Mike's ownership.' True enough. ‘I think it was two years old when Mike first had it in 1965. I hate to trouble you at a time like this, Mrs Nelson, but might the original logbook, the current registration document and service book be amongst Mike's papers?'

‘I doubt it. All the insurance papers were dealt with by Arthur. Mike made that quite clear. It would all have gone to Arthur.' She didn't sound too antagonistic.

‘Are you sure they're not here? Could you look? The service book at least might be around.'

‘Have you any idea what you're asking?'

Even now she wasn't over-aggressive. The opposite, in fact, as she was giving every sign of surrender.

‘Yes,' I said gently. ‘And I'm not expecting miracles, but if you could find anything it would be invaluable for the paperwork.'

‘I'll try.' She said this with a finality that left me no room to manoeuvre, so I had nothing to lose by overstepping the mark.

‘They might turn up if and when you decide to move from here, Mrs Nelson.'

A return to the Warrior Queen. ‘Move? Why should I?'

‘This seems a large house for you to run.'

‘
Run
?' Definitely hostile.

An unexpected chuckle from Ray Nelson, who came to my rescue, probably unintentionally. ‘What this fellow means, Anna, is that now you're broke you might have to sell up. He doesn't know this place belongs to me. It's me who'll do the turfing out.'

Warrior queen she might be, but this was taking matters to extremes, and I was relieved when he continued, ‘Don't worry, Anna, I won't do it. I need a bloody carer at my time of life and better the devil you know and all that.' He cackled again, although I doubted if this was meant as a joke, and Boadicea sat there stony-faced. I could hardly blame her.

I wasn't laughing either.

I found Jessica in the clubhouse, where a brightly clad Hedda lit up the bar area, singing happily to herself, while piped music of completely different melodies emerged from the loudspeakers. Jessica was not alone, however, for which I was personally, if not professionally, sorry. She was with Peter Nelson, who had obviously emerged from the shadows where we had thought he was lurking as regards Old Herne's. Having greeted Hedda and obtained a much needed coffee from her, I went over to join them. They seemed on much more amicable terms today, and lounging in jeans and a sweater, Peter looked a less truculent figure than he had on that fateful Sunday, although the superior grin was still prominent.

‘Jess tells me you've been to see Grandpops and darling Aunt Anna,' he said as I sat down with them.

‘I have,' I agreed.

‘Bet that made a cheery morning for you.'

‘Understandably, no.'

‘Typical for High House,' he commented.

‘Your grandfather seems to consider your aunt is his carer,' I said casually. ‘Is that the case?'

Peter laughed. ‘That's only to rile her up. She cooks most of the meals, that's all. For everything else, there's someone comes in every night and morning plus a cleaner or two. Now the nasty stuff has hit the proverbial fan though, they might have to cut down on this life of luxury.'

‘Jason would support them, wouldn't he?'

‘Jason only looks after one person's welfare and that's Jason's,' Peter whipped back smartly. ‘After he fell out with Mike, that was that for the family as far as he was concerned. He's always been at loggerheads with dear Aunt Anna, so he's hardly likely to start baling her out now.'

A good opening. ‘What did he and Mike fall out about?'

‘Who knows?' Peter shrugged. ‘I never did. It did me a good turn anyway, or so it seemed at the time. I became flavour of the month which is what got me the job here – till Jess turned up and I was booted out.'

I refrained from doing some booting myself as Jessica retorted, ‘Hardly. Mike had to boot you out because you merely stood by and watched while profits vanished into losses. Not my fault.'

‘Nor mine. Brother Mike was hardly businessman of the year, as I'm sure you've discovered. I wish Glenn joy of the place.
And
Fenella. Now there
is
someone to spread joy.'

‘I wish you well there,' Jessica said wryly.

‘Thanks. I see her as an angel of mercy.'

Aspiring to commercial golden wings, I thought. For all his jokey words, however, Peter seemed serious where Fenella was concerned, although whether out of true love for her or her connections I wouldn't like to bet. ‘Do you live at High House too?' I asked him.

‘No way. I'd be stark staring mad after a week. The only thing that keeps Ray going is his feud with Auntie Anna,' he said with scorn. ‘And now that she'll be dependent on him, he's on a winning ticket. ‘I've a flat, Rochester way – I'm an IT consultant. I run the business with a partner.'

Since Peter was lounging on a sofa at eleven thirty on a working day the partner must be very generous minded. ‘Might there be a role for you back here at Old Herne's?' I asked casually, and saw Jessica freeze.

Peter raised an eyebrow. ‘Now it's under new management, who knows? Could be some scope there, don't you think, Jess?'

He was exactly the sort to exploit any scope at all. This lazy debonair mask would slip at a moment's notice if it suited him. I saw the future of Old Herne's under his or Glenn's rule in my mind's eye. Gone would be the Tims at its core. In would come the neat display boxes, the uniform little café tables, and the layers of management. For Peter, Mike's death could be an ill wind that blew considerable silver linings. The question was whether these silver linings had been as a result of the ill wind or whether the ill winds had been planned with them in mind. Where was he at the time of Mike's death? I wondered. Jason, Arthur and Tim were at the track, Boadicea had been hunting for Ray who turned up at the bar. Glenn and Fenella were trying to find Arthur. But Peter? There had been almost an hour between the time Mike closed the doors to Thunderbolts Hangar for visitors and the time the concert had begun. Long enough for any of them to have entered Thunderbolts through the double doors, donned that greatcoat, picked up the axe – and dealt with the disposal of the blood-soaked greatcoat.

I went on thinking about this after Jessica and Peter had gone their separate ways and I was left alone at the table, contemplating my empty coffee cup and my next move.

‘Boring old place, isn't it?' Hedda called across to me.

‘It shouldn't be,' I replied, getting up to return the cup. ‘This place will be humming with life when the public starts pouring in again.'

‘Don't know about that,' Hedda said, leaning over the counter to stare dreamily into my eyes. ‘What say we take off to see the world, sugar daddy?'

‘I've a better idea. How about we start our own band?'

She giggled. ‘I'll have to look for a new job of some sort, if that Glenn gets his hooks into this place.'

‘If he replaces you with a machine, you mean? He won't – he'll need staff.'

‘He and Dad don't get on.'

‘That shouldn't affect you.'

‘Grow up,' young Hedda suggested to me.

‘I'm very grown up. Even the newest brooms don't sweep everything clean, and anyway, he might want his own personal line to Jason through you.'

She looked thoughtful. ‘Right. But not after my spat with Flouncy Fan.'

‘Who?'

‘Miss Fenella. Peter fancies her you know – well, her or her money.'

‘Still doesn't affect you.'

‘It does,' she said dolefully. ‘He don't fancy me. Wish he did, though. I could make something of him, but he sees himself and Flouncy Fan as an upwardly mobile couple. Hope they didn't knock old Mike off between them.' She threw this out as a challenge, as if hoping I'd deny it.

‘Someone did,' I pointed out after I got my breath back.

A pause. ‘Time to see my dad, Jack.'

‘You're going to see him now?'

She sighed. ‘Not me.
You.
Talk to him.'

‘What about?' I asked patiently.

‘You work it out.'

‘I heard Arthur Howell was moving in.'

‘Right. Room to swing a few billionaire cats in Dad's house. They get on OK. Talk to him too.'

Good plan, I thought. I opted for Arthur first, as he was employing me.

‘How about tomorrow?' he suggested, when I rang his mobile, and then gave me directions to Jason's home.

Friars Leas lay several miles away in a maze of lanes that were unfamiliar to me and were further towards Canterbury on high flat land. It wasn't entirely in the wilds, but near a hamlet called Chartham Dene. It was along such narrow lanes, however, that burglars would be hard put to it to escape notice by night or by day. I had decided to bring the Lagonda on a rare outing, with the hazy idea that Arthur might like it, as it had been a favourite vehicle with World War II pilots.

Friars Leas was set in large grounds and I took the Lagonda up the long drive at a leisurely pace, savouring the experience of approaching this house for the first time. It was a staggering sight; from the bridge in front of me it looked as though there was a moat or at least a stretch of water in front of the house, and cars were obviously meant to be parked this side of it. On the far side of the moat the house reared up like a Wizard of Oz castle. What a place! Huge, part medieval-beamed, part Tudor brick, gables, turrets, a Georgian style wing, enough Victorian crenellations to make Dracula feel at home and sufficient chimneys to keep a sweep happy for life.

I walked over the bridge cautiously, but at least it wasn't a drawbridge and there was no sign of a portcullis with boiling oil ready prepared to drop on unwelcome visitors. I could see why this rambling concoction might appeal to Arthur as a temporary safe haven.