Classic Mistake (6 page)

Further Internet research on the Charros brought painfully meagre results, as did local newspaper archives. A few fuzzy photos and a few more places where they had held gigs. I was getting nowhere.

I heard nothing from Daisy for a day or two, for which I was grateful, although on that score I had one not very helpful nugget to follow up which had been thrown at me by Dave. Otherwise progress on Melody had been non-existent. That was odd in itself as her colour alone would help her stand out. I had taken the number plate in to Dave and been duly laughed all the way out again. He told me there had been no reports of any abandoned Minors, let alone pinky-grey ones, only this nugget of a sighting. Not a situation to get excited about: a thought that failed to cheer.

Just as I was nerving myself up to set off on Saturday morning on a carefully planned casual call on Eva, Zoe came over to the farmhouse. By grace and favour she and Len sometimes devote Saturday mornings to jobs that particularly interest them. Zoe wanted to know whether I was aware that Len was chatting about Morris Minors with a gorgeous blonde and could I please do something about it as she needed to consult him about a warped cylinder head and gorgeous blondes were my province not hers.

I groaned and accompanied Zoe to the Pits, where Daisy greeted me with her usual sunny smile and my clouds lifted a little. ‘No firm news yet,’ I said brightly, ‘but lines to follow up.’ I tried to give the impression that I had been working non-stop on Melody.

She looked somewhat bleak at this as she interrupted: ‘Gran might help.’

‘I thought you didn’t want her to know Melody is missing?’

‘No, but I had to tell her. She was incandescent, but she’s—’

But then another gorgeous blonde arrived – although perhaps the hair had had a little help in this case. Gran was here in person.

I’d had a vague stereotyped image of a decrepit white-haired old lady forced to give up her beloved Morris Minor because she wasn’t safe to drive any longer and had had to move into sheltered accommodation through declining health. What roared into the Frogs Hill forecourt was a stylish slim lady in a huge classic red Thunderbird convertible, which when it first came out was Ford’s answer to the Chevrolet Corvette. This Thunderbird, however, was a two-door 1958 model, bigger and fatter than the original and made for large empty roads, of which America had plenty and the UK most certainly did not.

It churned up the gravel and drew up with a flourish. Out stepped Gran, looking in her forties, rather than the sixty-or even seventy-year-old she must be. She was clad in tight jeans, an elegant jacket, and a sporty hat and was clutching designer sunglasses.

‘So there you are, darling,’ she said briskly to Daisy, after a friendly wave to the rest of us and a disdainful look at the battered Volvo. ‘What’s the news about Melody?’

‘Jack’s a firm line on her,’ Daisy lied unblushingly. ‘He’s a car detective. I’ve borrowed Justie’s dad’s wheels.’

Gran marched round the offending object. ‘Justin’s father, Daisy, has no style. One should always drive cars with which one feels an affinity, don’t you agree, Mr Colby?’

I did. I wouldn’t claim that owners grow to look like their cars, but they certainly acquire a relationship with them that goes beyond paying the maintenance bills. Gran then advanced towards me and, still stunned at this apparition, I shook her hand.

‘Tell me what this lead is on Melody,’ she demanded.

‘Not a strong one.’ I borrowed Brandon’s get-out. ‘Early days.’

She regarded me scornfully. ‘To find a
Rose Taupe
Morris Minor?’

‘Yes.’

She looked at me keenly and nodded. ‘Don’t leave it too long. Subject closed.’

Now, I thought, for the scarlet beauty. ‘Is this Thunderbird yours?’

‘It is. Rest assured I gave up car theft years ago.’

My admiration grew. She wasn’t in her forties, she might be in her seventies, but I liked
her
style. ‘Had it long?’

‘Two years. I thought, why not? I’ve always wanted one, and Melody was on the small side for me. I love this red beast.’ She patted the Thunderbird lovingly.

I could see that she did. I wondered whether Kent’s small lanes would cherish it as much as she did, however. Passing places are for normal-size cars not this monster, delightful though it was. The 1958 model was the first of the larger four-passenger models, and Len and Zoe had already shot out to inspect its innards.

‘Where do you live?’ I asked Gran curiously. ‘California?’

‘No. Out near Wormslea on the Downs,’ she said blithely. ‘I need a car to get around.’

She was right. Wormslea is a very small village and probably the nearest it ever got to public transport was the First World War landing ground on its outskirts. A Thunderbird nearby must be livening up its life considerably.

‘It was either this or a horse and cart,’ she explained. ‘The folks at my current residence would have found that difficult to cope with. Now, young man,’ she addressed me briskly, ‘I hear you have a Gordon-Keeble and a Lagonda. And this restoration garage. I need to see them all. Do you tweet?’

‘Sometimes, but—’

‘I’ll follow you. Blog?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘I’ll guest for you. Regularly, if you wish. Now, Daisy tells me you need me, so I came immediately. Besides, I thought you might like Juno.’

‘Who?’ I was thrown again.

She looked at me pityingly. ‘No education nowadays. Thunderbird. Juno, goddess. Wife of Jupiter the Thunderer.’

I laughed. ‘Stupid of me. Yes, I did want to meet you. Daisy tells me you knew the May Tree and the Charros band.’

She looked at me speculatively. ‘You could say that. The murder. I thought as much. It was your wife that Carlos Mendez ran off with.’

‘Yes. How well did you know the May Tree?’

She looked somewhat bewildered. ‘Very well, thanks. I co-owned it with my husband.’

‘James Fever?’ I reeled. ‘You bought the May Tree after Tony Wilson went inside?’

‘Correct. I’m Belinda Fever, known to the band as the Feverbird. I bought Melody after James died. He’d have loved her
and
Juno. The father of Daisy’s young man now owns the pub.’

‘
Not
my young man,’ Daisy said belligerently.

‘Nonsense,’ Gran informed her. ‘You’re ideally suited. I
like
Justin.’

Diplomacy was clearly not Gran’s strong point. ‘Carlos Mendez,’ I said firmly to get back on track.

‘I could do with a coffee.’

This took some time, and we were sitting in the garden together with refreshments by the time Gran Belinda was ready to impart whatever information she had. I was beginning to fear that was very little.

‘So you’re in the frame for Carlos’s murder, Jack?’ Belinda obviously believed in getting right to the point.

‘Half in, half out. My ex-wife came down here to join Carlos.’

‘And now you want to find out all you can about Carlos and the Charros. Didn’t you know the band at the time?’

‘No. I was too busy babysitting – the May Tree must have been Eva’s territory.’

‘Ah. I see now.’ She nodded thoughtfully. ‘Suppose you show me the Gordon-Keeble first?’

Was she deliberately employing delaying tactics? If so, she’d hit the right one. ‘You drive a hard bargain,’ I told her. Daisy, Belinda and I walked round to the barn where the Gordon-Keeble lives together with the Lagonda. ‘You do things in style, Jack,’ she commented. ‘That rear arch needs looking at though.’

I hadn’t noticed. Typical that I’d missed it. The cobbler’s daughter goes unshod, as they say. For cobbler’s daughter read garage owner’s own wheels. I’m devoted to my classics – so devoted that I don’t always
see
them when I look at them.

My respect for Belinda grew. She’d even heard the rumour that there was another Gordon-Keeble in existence, in addition to the accepted one hundred. ‘I love legends, Jack, especially car legends.’

‘Have you ever driven one?’ I asked. Mistake.

She brightened up. ‘No. Shall we—’

My turn to set the conditions. ‘Afterwards. Talk first.’

‘Talk about Melody,’ Daisy put in meaningfully.

I took the hint. Time to produce my nugget and blow it up as much as I morally could or she would be on my case night and day. Dave had told me that a Rose Taupe Morris Minor had recently been seen on Bluebell Hill. Bluebell Hill is a picturesque name for a road, and if one can forget the traffic on this fast dual carriageway and think of the lane it had once been years ago, winding itself up the Downs with woods on either side, it still is. Prehistoric man certainly thought so.

‘When are we going there?’ Daisy demanded.

‘
I’ll
go as soon as possible. No point your coming with me since there’s no guarantee it will be seen there again.’

Daisy scowled, but gave way gracefully when I pointed out that meant Melody might still be around in the neighbourhood and hadn’t been whisked off to foreign parts. ‘OK then. Get back to this dinosaur band of yours, but go over to Bluebell Hill, Jack.’

I agreed I would, and then kicked off, as Belinda had consented to delay her drive. ‘Did you know Carlos well?’

‘Of course. He used to come to the May Tree with his friend Matt Wright, and after I’d known them some months Carlos told me about his idea for the band. That would have been about 1987. He was rather a nice young man then, about thirty or so, and a first-class musician and leader, so I encouraged them, with the result that the Carlos and the Charros band was formed and often played at the May Tree. Carlos told me he knew all about mariachi bands because his father ran one and had often played in Kent. That’s how he had first met Matt and would stay with him occasionally. Then I think the family went back to Mexico for a few years. Both Carlos’s parents were Mexican so he could talk and behave Mexico one hundred per cent.’ Belinda paused. ‘Is this the kind of thing you want to know?’

‘Go right ahead.’

She obliged. ‘Matt became one of the Charros with three other young men and the singer. They were all with other bands when he found them, but he persuaded them to take their luck with him and learn new tricks. He poached them one by one, telling them they could make a fortune, and they were well on their way to doing so. Carlos was always the leader, playing the vihuela. Josie – the singer – had a magnificent voice. I can still hear it in my head. Love songs, blues, rock – she excelled at them all. Carlos persuaded them all to give up their day jobs and play full time at weddings and other events. Then he grew bored, said he wanted wider horizons, and off he went with your wife. The band, being British-reared not Mexican, fell apart, and there they were, jobless. Not unnaturally they blamed Carlos.’

‘Do you know where they are now?’

‘Of course,’ she replied, but did not offer any details. ‘I was fond of them all. Dear Josie. She’s the daughter of one of our former barmaids, Betty Gibson – we took her over with the pub. With her dark hair and eyes, Josie could have passed for Mexican or Spanish. Carlos taught her flamenco dancing – and other things.’

‘Other dances?’

‘The dance of life, my friend. Carlos was Josie’s lover for three, maybe four years. He cast quite a spell, that one. Until he met his match.’ She glanced at me, clearly amused. ‘Eva Colby.’ She was trying to goad me.

‘A long time ago,’ I said lightly, wondering if Eva had known of Josie’s other role in Carlos’s life – and vice versa.

‘And now she is back and Carlos is dead.’

There was no innuendo in Belinda’s voice but it brought the situation home to me in stark clarity. ‘Where is Josie now?’

‘After Carlos abandoned her, she drank,’ Gran Fever said matter-of-factly. ‘No more singing, no more bands. Now she is a trained live-in carer.’

‘Locally?’

‘Certainly. She’s employed by an archaeologist, Dr Keith Fairbourne, to look after his father full time. He, too, was an archaeologist.’

‘Not Ambrose Fairbourne?’ I’d heard of him years ago. ‘Specialized in Kentish history and archaeology and was always appearing on local radio and television?’

‘Yes. He was a great man. Josie is very happy there.’ She moved on, it seemed to me rather quickly. ‘The other Charros suffered too. Jonathan Lamb who played the violin went through a very sad time, poor man. But he has recovered and runs an interior decoration business called The House of Lamb near Canterbury. He works with another member of the band, Clive Miller, who played bass guitar. He served a prison sentence for drugs after the band split up and Jonathan gave him a job. An unlikely partnership but it works well.’

‘So they don’t bear bitterness?’

‘You must ask them.’

Her tone was matter of fact. Little speculation for Belinda Fever, I thought. Just the minimum. For the moment that suited me, although it suggested that if I needed to probe further it wouldn’t be welcomed.

‘That’s two Charros and Josie. And there was Matt Wright as well.’

‘Yes. Matt played the other guitar. He’s had a hard time. Went to pieces after the band split up and never fully recovered. He does odd jobs when he’s up to it, garden and house.’

‘And the last?’ I felt I was pushing even for the facts now, and I wondered why. What had her own relationship with Carlos been? She would have been older than he and apparently happily married, but had there been friction between them? Love even? What had been her attitude to Eva’s conquest of Carlos?

‘The last was Neil Watson. The other violin,’ she replied.

‘Where will I find him?’

A pause. Then she said: ‘A question of faith, my friend. Neil killed himself after the band dispersed.’

I was shaken. ‘And Carlos made the mistake of returning.’

‘His death is not forgotten.’

‘G
ran, that’s
awful,
’ Daisy said as I took in the implications of what Belinda had told us. And impli-cations there were in plenty now it was clear that Carlos’s actions were far from being buried in the mists of time.

‘Yes,’ Belinda agreed. Calm though she sounded, she must realize that this was highly relevant for Carlos’s death. Four people – all with good reason to want their revenge.