Classic in the Barn (18 page)

‘Sensible of you, then.' A grin. ‘Bet he's charging you. Get back to your own place soon though. Smells rub off.'

‘That bad?' I was surprised. Firstly, Guy wasn't in the car business so he was theoretically a long way off from ‘smells', and secondly, I hadn't thought Andy's reputation was that dubious.

‘Where Mike left off, Andy took over, remember.'

‘All legit business.'

There must have been a slight question mark at the end of my sentence because Guy replied, ‘No smells without smoke, no smoke without fire.'

I took this seriously, coming from Guy. ‘Personal experience?'

‘Near enough.'

‘Polly?'

‘No, in fact, though she couldn't stand the chap.'

‘He was calling on Bea the other day. He and Slugger Sam.'

He looked surprised. ‘Weird, but Andy likes to know what's going on, especially where cash is concerned,' Guy commented. ‘And cars,' he added. ‘Still, hiring Slugger is stretching it a bit far.'

‘Tomas Kasek knows Andy, doesn't he?'

Guy was on the defensive right away. ‘Why should he?'

‘That's what I wondered. Just rumours, maybe.'

‘Tittle-tattle,' he snorted.

‘As you say, no smells without smoke and so on.'

He flushed and surrendered. ‘Andy's in the car business, and so is Tomas's brother. He's in Poland.'

Now we were getting somewhere. I couldn't reveal that I already knew about this brother. I could see Guy didn't like telling me, which sent up his credit rating with me. Then our eyes met, and I let him off the hook. ‘Small world, eh?'

My mind was working overtime. Tomas, suspected spotter. Andy, with a question mark. Barry Pole, who knew Tomas's brother, thought to be a receiver. It looked as if Tomas was nicely tucked into a stolen to order chain, as Eastern Europe was a prime destination for stolen cars. He could even have spotted Peter Winter's Merc – and, more importantly, Polly's Lagonda. I thought I'd try one more name on Guy.

‘Heard of a guy called Mason Trent?'

Guy shook his head without much interest – and I was glad. Trent's number was in Tomas Kasek's mobile, albeit a dead line, so it was a relief that Guy hadn't reacted to it.

Change of tack needed. ‘I heard rumours about Mike having left big cash that never turned up after his death.'

He answered that one promptly. ‘I heard them too.'

Too promptly? I wondered. ‘Believe them?'

‘Polly didn't.'

Second cue, and I switched direction again. Brake for the corner, Jack. This one could be tricky. ‘I'm beginning to think I didn't know Polly well enough to help Bea. I need to get on her mother's wavelength, but I'm dodging between stations at present. How would you sum her up?'

Guy looked nonplussed. ‘Could you describe your best friend if someone demanded an instant pen portrait?'

‘No,' I admitted.

Guy grinned. ‘Come with me.' He heaved himself to his feet, and I followed him into the main house and through to a conservatory where the lady I had seen him with at the art show was in the throes of going through cookery books and composing lists. I had a sudden image of myself and Polly in later years sitting occupied in such a companionable job and had to swallow hard.

‘Sarah, meet Jack Colby. Wants to know what Polly was like.'

If she thought this somewhat strange, she didn't show it. Sarah was a warmer version of Guy, large, somewhat intimidating and ultimately friendly – I hoped.

‘So you're the desperado who threatened Polly, the hero who came to Bea's help, and the victim of a cosh on the head plus arson?' she welcomed me.

‘That sums me up nicely,' I agreed. I took the offered seat. ‘Do you feel up to talking about her?'

‘Yes, if it helps. Guy and I liked her. And Mike. Both of us,' Sarah emphasized.

‘But, as a person, how would you describe her?'

Sarah considered. ‘I'd say she was rather lost, a bit sad.'

That startled me. ‘You mean after Mike's death?'

‘No, all the time we knew her. She seemed to be desperately looking for something and never quite appreciating she had it, if only she'd stop and look around her.'

‘That's interesting. She did love Mike though?'

‘Good grief, yes. No problem there. I remember her at school, though. She always wanted more. If we went on a school outing she couldn't believe that wherever we went was a goal in itself. There had to be a follow-up – something secret, something exciting – and it seemed like that with Mike too. But the odd thing is that she didn't approve of Tomas, who might have represented the same kind of excitement for Bea.'

Dead silence. Would she break it, or would Guy?

Guy did. He cleared his throat. ‘Don't push it, Jack. Tomas was way out of order in going after Bea – I even had a word with him myself, and so did Polly – but he isn't a bad chap, in his way. Hot tempered, perhaps, and arrogant, but which of us wasn't at his age?'

I could think of quite a few who weren't, but I refrained from doing so. Interesting that ‘the word' had been reported to me as a flaming row.

‘He's already made one attempt to see Bea, but luckily she wasn't on her own,' I warned him.

Sarah looked appalled, and even Guy looked thrown for a moment or two. Then he rallied. ‘He seems to be keeping to his bail conditions,' he said. ‘And he's working well. But you can depend on it he won't be going within a mile of Bea from now on.
Or
Andy Wells. OK?'

I nodded. ‘But there's a possible murder charge hanging over his head, so the police must have something on him.'

He snorted. ‘They arrested a suspect, that's all. Something for the targets' list. It's up to them to find out who murdered Polly, not you, Jack.'

Was that a warning or a threat?

A lost sort of person, a happy person. How many other Pollys might there be? I'd keep on going. I wasn't sure I was on the right track, but I'd wait until proved wrong. The arson attack had had one good effect: I felt so hopping mad at the world that I had no compunction in doing my Poirot act. It would only be a matter of time, I reasoned, before the new home of the Lagonda was discovered and whoever disliked it so much would be after it – and probably me – again. I needed to work fast.

Not that fast, as it turned out, because the Stacks weren't in when I called. Not to be daunted, I presented myself un announced on their doorstep on Sunday morning.

‘How nice to see you, Jack.' Lorna's words belied her expression, which indicated that as I had so rudely rejected her earlier offers they were not going to be repeated, and that good though it might be to see me, the sooner she could slam the door in my face the better. ‘We're just going to church. So sorry.'

Fortunately for me, Rupert appeared behind her and indicated that he at least would have time to see me. This could have had something to do with the fact that I'd said I was here on Bea's behalf.

He looked concerned, and for once brushed his wife aside, ushered me into the manor house and led me down a stately corridor into what was clearly his office. Lorna, having made it clear she wasn't wasting her valuable time on me, had left to go to church, and so fortunately we were alone together. That suited me. There was something about Rupert and Polly that I wasn't getting. Was he friend? Customer? Lover? None of these, all of these?

‘I hear you lost cars the other evening, as well as the damage to the barn,' Rupert said.

‘Unfortunately, yes. Including Bea's Lagonda.'

‘Irreplaceable,' he murmured.

‘Except at a price.'

‘But not that one. Mike and she loved it.'

‘Then why didn't she still drive it?'

He looked at me in amazement. ‘She couldn't bear to. She was sentimental about it.'

‘Polly struck me as tough, as well – somebody who would feel deeply but tackle the problem, not ignore it.'

‘But you, Jack, hardly knew her.'

Cue for question, especially with Lorna out of the room. ‘Of course. I realize that. Which is why it's interesting to me to hear you talk about her. I get a better picture than if I talk to Bea, who sees her as a daughter would a mother.'

‘Why should I want to talk about her to you?' His voice was mild, but it had steel in it, and I realized he would be a match for Lorna if pushed.

‘Bea wants me to look into her death.'

He regarded me thoughtfully, and I decided I wouldn't like to be Lorna if he ever decided to take a stand against her flirtations, whether she carried them through or not. He was not quite the forbearing husband I had taken him for. ‘Why you?' he shot at me.

I was ready for that. ‘You might well ask. Because her chum Zoe knows I'm a car detective, I suppose.'

He made up his mind. ‘Very well. I'll tell you what I thought of Polly. Just this. She was the nearest thing to a friend I had. I'm well aware that my wife sometimes gets carried away and accuses Polly and me of having been lovers. We spent time together. We had to; she did a lot of my framing for me. That's well known, and why not? Her service was far better and far cheaper than anything I would find in London. As for an affair, I'm a reasonably rich man, Mr Colby, and if I wanted an affair it wouldn't be difficult. But with Polly? Never. Firstly, Mike had a keen eye for any man other than himself who paid her attention, and secondly, I prized her far too much as a friend and adviser. She had too good an eye for art to risk –' he actually smiled – ‘Lorna's wrath. Polly was all the things that Lorna isn't. Steady, reliable, a good counsellor, she could step back and make judgements. Very useful for my work.'

‘So would you say she was cool-headed?'

‘Very. But not cool-hearted.'

I liked that. ‘Did she come up to London for your exhibitions?'

‘Nearly always. She was coming up for Giovanni's exhibition at my gallery.'

I did a double take, which amused him. ‘Ah yes,' he added, ‘you have a few of his early works, don't you? If ever you decide to sell—'

‘Unlikely.'

‘Nevertheless, do come up to the exhibition. Come to the private view next Friday evening. Giovanni will be there. You're welcome.'

That sounded like an offer I couldn't refuse, and I didn't. He said he'd send me an invitation. ‘Security,' he murmured.

When I left, I discovered Lorna hadn't gone to church after all. She was waiting for me, standing by her car, at the corner of the drive. She put her head through my open window and treated me to her no doubt expensive scent.

‘Darling Polly,' she cooed. ‘So she snared you too. I'm sure Rupert has been treating you to the tale of what a sweetie she was. So she was to anyone who could advance the cause of Polly Davis. Which meant she wasn't sweet to me. She used the same techniques as she did in her TV days to anyone who didn't see her as an angel. You don't get to be a TV presenter by being coy. Polly was devious, shallow and ruthless. And that was before Rupert began his blasted affair with her.' She fixed me with a glacial eye. ‘And as for you, Jack—'

‘I wait breathlessly,' I assured her.

‘You're all beef and no balls.'

I returned to Frogs Hill not sure I had yet reached the heart of Polly. She was happy, she was sad, she was devious, she was straightforward, she was ruthless, she was a good chum. All possible, and had it helped me at all? Curiously enough, I thought it had. But even if Slugger Sam appeared with all fists flying at that very moment, I couldn't have told him how or why I felt that way. Somewhere in-between all these various attitudes lay the kernel that would provide the key to Polly's death.

FIFTEEN

When in a tizz, come to Liz – so she had idly joked once years ago, but on Monday morning it didn't seem a bad idea. There's something comforting about driving into a garden centre: plenty of parking space, the usual bags of soil piled up, the odd wheelbarrow and the promise of much more within – and we all know the verse that one is nearer to God in a garden than anywhere else on earth. Somewhere in the garden at Frogs Hill Dad even had a stone with that engraved on it – not that that had induced either of us to become Christopher Lloyds.

When I had reached home that Sunday evening, I'd felt frustrated and somewhat sorry for myself. By the following morning I felt worse. It was the first day of June, a month when most sensible people were out enjoying themselves – and I wouldn't be. It was then that the idea of popping down to Liz's garden centre came to me. Colin would be safely clad in his laboratory whites and poring over some inoffensive bug, and so Liz therefore might be relatively human. Busy perhaps, but equally perhaps not too busy to see me. I took the daily driver, my Alfa, not wishing to appear ostentatious (what me?), and as usual the sight of those bags of compost and the June roses and bedding plants all crying out to be bought cheered me up. There was an atmosphere about it that told me cars might come and cars might go, but gardens went on for ever.

Liz didn't seem to share my sudden enthusiasm for the eternity of gardens. I found her busy pushing a trolley-load of grit at the rear of the centre where all the plants were on sale.

‘What do
you
want?' she asked.

‘Your loving advice.'

A scornful glance. ‘Advice doesn't make my tills ring.'

‘Suppose I buy you a coffee?'

‘And a bun?'

‘Done.'

Liz has a small coffee shop at one end of the wooden building that houses the usual tills, seeds and paraphernalia necessary to make gardens grow and thrive. The coffee shop tables are gaily covered with red check tablecloths, and adorned with good crockery and cutlery. Mrs Greeve was on duty that day, which was good news for those who liked cakes because she is a dab hand at making them. It's not such good news for Liz, as Mrs Greeve is a talker par excellence, with the result that if you're in the queue behind her chosen target listener, customer satisfaction is not high.