Classic in the Barn (19 page)

That morning Mrs Greeve was doomed to disappointment, as Liz put paid to her hopes by retiring with me to an outside table, where she couldn't be either a listener or overheard, except to and by me. In her work clothes of jeans and a smock top, and with her short-cropped hair, she looked just as I remembered her nipping around her small garden in Pluckley where I often stayed with her.

No sentimentality was to be permitted, however. ‘Sorry to hear the bad news, Jack,' she said briskly. ‘Any problems Colin could help with?'

‘Thanks,' I said hastily. The idea of Colin enjoying my misfortune was not a pleasant one. ‘But I think I've got it sorted.'

‘All that and a bang on the head too. You seem to be pushing your nose in somewhere it's not wanted.'

‘Me? Never.'

She looked at me in that cynical way that used to entrance me. Now it just amused me, but I suppose that was good therapy in itself.

‘Polly Davis,' I continued, pretending to be deeply interested in my cheese scone in order to avoid the snort of disapproval. ‘I've had four different interpretations of the kind of woman she was. You said at the pub the other day that I should steer clear of her. Well, as you know, I never had the chance to steer in any direction – so tell me. Was she happy, was she sad, was she straightforward, was she devious? Did she like a quiet life, did she long for an adventurous one? Is it even fair to ask you?'

‘Even if I said no, you'd still ask.' Liz thought for a moment or two while I attacked the froth of cappuccino liberally sprinkled with chocolate by Mrs Greeve. Eventually, Liz came up with: ‘I reckon she was all of those things, but none of them drove her.'

‘What did?' Could I be getting to the core of it at last?

‘I didn't know her well—'

‘Tell me what turned her on.'

‘Danger.'

Of all the things, this I could not have foreseen. ‘Danger from what?' I repeated stupidly.

She considered this for so long that I had to grit my teeth with frustration. Liz would pounce if I tried to hurry her though. ‘The spice of life. The edge. The darkness – oh, for heaven's sake, Jack, you must know what I mean.'

Must I? I thought about Polly – the one I'd met, not the one I'd been told about by various people including her daughter. What had attracted me? The cool, calm lady? The furious one? The controlled fury? All and none. Hopeless. One can't define these things. All I remembered was Zoe telling me I had a nose for trouble. Could I smell Polly's inclination towards danger? Is that what had drawn me to her? For chemistry read sex, but what are sex's components?

‘Look at Mike,' I heard Liz say, and I realized I must have missed a bit while I was musing. ‘Why should the TV presenter of a chatty art programme marry a second-hand car dealer?'

‘She had a classic car,' I reminded her.

‘Whatever. He wasn't exactly her type. Not what she was brought up to.'

‘But perhaps the danger lay in dodgy car deals, so that doesn't seem to fit either, Polly.'

‘My name's not Polly, it's Liz.' Her hand crashed on the table.

‘I'm sorry – blame the bang on the head.' As contrition went it was feeble. Nevertheless, Liz looked mollified, although not completely.

I made it up to her by bringing her up to date. I could trust her. ‘I've been told there were rumours about missing millions after Mike died. Any chance he was money laundering and smuggling the loot overseas in the Lagonda? And that Polly knew nothing about it?' I added hopefully. ‘Or would you come down on the side of her approving of it because of this love of danger that you perceived in her?'

‘I'm not coming down on any side, Jack. You asked my opinion of Polly. You've got it. Now get the hell out of here.'

‘Thanks, Liz. I mean it—'

‘And another thing, Jack. I am not, repeat
not,
Mother Earth for you to rest your head on my bosom any time you fancy you're in trouble.'

I gave her a grin, aware that Mrs G. was listening with great interest to our raised voices. ‘This danger, Liz. Miss it yourself, do you?'

The remains of the bun that she threw at me told me I'd hit a nerve, and I laughed. Nevertheless, I went away in sober mood. Did love of danger explain just why the spark had ignited between Polly and me? If so, I was all the more determined to track down who had snuffed it out for us. Danger . . . Liz could be right. Bea wouldn't have seen that side of Polly, nor would Peter Winter, nor Rupert – perhaps, it occurred to me, Lorna had picked it up, however. That might explain her impotent rage against Polly, even if misdirected as to its cause. It might also explain Guy's protectiveness and the way Tomas had managed to rub her up the wrong way. What else might it explain?

It could indicate she was involved in the money laundering – if there was any. That was an unpleasant thought.

I parked the Alfa back at Frogs Hill, but found the place deserted. This was hardly surprising, as both Zoe and Len were obviously installed at Andy Wells' garage – unless, of course, they were at the rear of the farmhouse crawling over the Lagonda. I doubted that, but nevertheless that seemed a good place for me to go to meditate over what the hell was happening to me and mine. In the ‘mine', I realized that I seemed to be including the Lagonda, not to mention her new owner, both of whom I had taken under my protective wing. I strolled round to have a look. From the outside the barn looked well and truly secure, with no sign of Zoe or Len. For a moment I had a sudden fright that the Lagonda might already have been pinched, despite the closed doors. As I had one of the three keys, I ran to the doors feeling stupid even for being concerned over it. Of course she was safe . . . or was she? I breathed again when I swung open the door and saw her there, a bit of ancient hay sticking to her windscreen like a raised eyebrow. My very own classic in the barn.

‘I have a song to sing, O . . .' I used to trill in my youth, when I was briefly in a Gilbert and Sullivan choir. The Lagonda had a tale to tell-O, as well, only unfortunately she wasn't as vocal as Jack Point. She had told me all she could, and now she seemed to be telling me it was up to me. Maybe it was, but how the hell could I delve back into her history without Mike and Polly's input?

That raised eyebrow still seemed to be sending me a message. Those blasted small headlights were winking at me like flashes on a camera . . .
Photographs
. I clutched at that inspiration in triumph.
That's
how I could view her history. All classic car owners take photos, and Mike and Polly had gone to hundreds of continental car shows. There would be dates, perhaps, and places, people. Bea must have some that would help rebuild the Lagonda's past history. Four years ago, when Mike had died, digital pix weren't so common, so with any luck there might be actual physical prints instead of my trying to beat a path into their computers, where most photos seem to prefer living nowadays.

‘Thanks,' I told the headlights with deep gratitude. I almost offered them a reprieve on the spot, but common sense prevailed. I'd find another home for them when we replaced them with the proper ones. I still wondered why there were no number plates. The car was currently registered, so there was nothing to hide about it.

I couldn't get hold of Bea – I had forgotten that sensible people have jobs to go to and that her leave might be over – so I had to curb my impatience until she got back to Greensand Farm that evening. She told me to come up right away, which was noble of her. I offered to take her out to supper, but instead we settled for an Indian home delivery – for three, as she pointed out Zoe would be there.

‘Rob too?' I asked with foreboding.

A gurgle of laughter at the end of the phone. ‘No knowing, but maybe I'd better order for him too.'

In the end it was two. Zoe called to say she'd be late – something to do with cooking for Rob, Bea gathered, so it was just Bea, me, the prospect of an Indian home-delivery – and several cupboardfuls of photographs. We gazed at the stuffed shelves in horror.

‘Typical of Mum,' Bea said ruefully.

My first instinct was to plunge in, scattering pix in all directions, but I was sensible enough to let Bea make the running.

‘We're looking for continental car shows, that right?' she asked. ‘Here, you look through these, and I'll take the next one.'

She turned out the contents of a shelf on to a coffee table for herself and one for me on the other table. In grim silence we began our search. ‘What are we hoping to find?'

‘I don't know.'

She gazed at me as if I were mad – not unnaturally – so I hastily amended it to: ‘Car shows that have the Lagonda in them.'

I searched through several hundred photos of Polly at dinner parties, Polly at dances, Polly in the garden, Mike here, there and everywhere, Bea at various stages of development, Polly laughing, Polly frowning, Polly looking beautiful and suave, Polly looking a mess and even Polly looking downright ugly, as we all can if the camera catches at the wrong moment. Forget about cameras never lying. They can lie all too often.

‘Not doing well,' Bea announced sometime later. ‘A couple of the Lagonda on a picnic, and a few with Grandpa in them, but that's all. I've put them on one side.' She patted a small heap on the table.

‘No car pix at all?'

‘Yes, but apart from these I can't see the Lagonda or any with Mum or Dad.'

‘Snap,' I said in frustration. I'd had the same barren haul. I went over to sit next to Bea on the sofa, taking my own meagre pickings with me. ‘The Wheatsheaf gatherings, Goodwood Revival Day, the Festival of Speed . . . But where are those continental car shows, Bea? I can't believe they didn't take any photos.' Even if Polly and Mike were up to no good, I thought, they'd be anxious to prove they weren't and therefore would take some happy holiday-mood snaps.

‘I don't know.' Bea looked as puzzled as I felt. ‘Perhaps she threw them away after Dad died.'

‘Then why keep these?' I asked, indicating the British photos.

‘I really don't know,' Bea said abruptly. ‘You go on looking, Jack. I'll ring the order through. This job's making me feel sick.'

Me too, I thought, but I felt contrite at having put her through this ordeal. I was glad she'd left me alone to look through the remaining shelves, though. I'd begun to think the search was going nowhere until – wouldn't you know? – I reached the very last shelf. Right at the bottom of the last cupboard, a pile of loose photos was hiding two albums. There was something else too, nestling underneath them: two number plates. No ordinary plates – they were the Lagonda's, according to Swansea when we'd checked it out earlier. I took the albums out to Bea in the kitchen.

‘Wedding album,' she said, not looking at them. ‘I've seen it a million times.'

‘Then look at the other one,' I said, feeling a heel. ‘There are two.'

Reluctantly, she did so – and we struck gold. In fact, it declared itself twenty-four carat on the first page – it was a title page with a Lagonda photo posted beneath the legend: ‘Continental Trips'. How much clearer could it be? Then a little voice inside me murmured: odd, isn't it? Especially since it was with those number plates.

Bea recovered immediately, and we rushed the album back to the table in the living room where we eagerly turned the pages. There they all were, neatly captioned. There were photos of the Lagonda, of Mike and Polly standing by them, photos of other cars too, though usually with the Lagonda somewhere in the background; cars, names and dates. What more could I want?

‘What do they tell you?' Bea asked.

I hadn't the nerve to reply nothing, or even nothing yet. I could see this was getting to her, though, and so I gently took the album over and began to go through it again. It didn't tell me anything more than on my first look through. What had I expected? That Polly and Mike would be standing there waving piles of banknotes in high glee? Polly and Mike photographed nipping into a Swiss bank to open an account? Polly and Mike surreptitiously stowing banknotes under the boot floor? Hauling stuff out of that secret pocket?

Luckily for our morale, the home delivery arrived just as we were both giving up, and so we left the rest of the album to look at later. By the time we had slaked hunger with kormas, poppadoms and vindaloo, and thirst with a beer, I had digested more than curry. I suppose I'd been churning it over sub consciously and reached a conclusion without even thinking it through.

‘You know, Bea, that album is like the Lagonda.'

‘Meaning?' she asked wearily.

‘Don't know. There's just something wrong about it. As there was with the car.' Too late I remembered I hadn't told her about the pocket and cursed myself. Well, I had to now – and tell her where I'd found the number plates. She listened and, to her credit, didn't cry out in horror: ‘How dare you imply there was any hanky-panky going on?'

Instead, full marks to her, she thought it through and said at last, ‘You know, Jack, you may be right. This album isn't like Mum and Dad. The wedding album is one thing, but it's not like them to do prissy little title pages to look pretty. Is that the kind of thing you mean about the album? That it's too tidy?'

‘Yes, but it's more than that. It's the photos.' I was getting there, albeit slowly.

‘What about them?'

‘They seem wrong.'

‘How?' Bea began to look apprehensive. I could see that it wasn't good for her to think that her parents were indulging in something she couldn't explain, and I began to wish heartily that I hadn't embarked on this. But I had, for better for worse.