Classic in the Barn (3 page)

Silence. Not even a grunt.

Then Zoe's hand did briefly wave above the grease pit and a spiel of stuff about various chassis and engine lubrication systems followed. Push-button grease jobs and full-flow oil conversions are now delights of the past, but for their devoted admirers they are subjects of never-ending joy.

Len and Zoe make a good team – but a strange mix. Len must have reached sixty now, although I've never dared ask him. I'd get a crusty put-down. Any words not devoted to the inner workings of, say, a Cotal preselector gearbox are wasted, in his view. His father was a World War Two engineer in the RAF, but Len took to cars. He was big in the racing scene in the fifties and sixties, then opted for a quieter life tinkering with classic cars off circuit. At one point he got in with a bad crowd and made the mistake of believing that a good classic must have a good owner. He went even quieter after that, but he brought a car to show Dad one day, and somehow – neither of us knew quite how – he moved into the barn and never moved out, thus beginning Frogs Hill Classic Car Restorations.

Because Len is good at his job – very good – business is brisk. Unfortunately, he is also slow, so the briskness is all on one side: cars coming, but not so often leaving. Len is a perfectionist, but the result is that there's no reliable monthly income to pay off those delightful mortgages on the farm, even with my input.

The only way the business works at all is because of Zoe, Len's saving grace and mine. With her spiky orange hair, surmounted by a baseball cap, she and Len make an odd couple, but a great team. She must be about twenty-three now, having dropped out of university and into classic cars, preferring getting her hands dirty over wheel bearings and half-shafts to engineering courses. Clad in jeans, sweatshirt and baseball hat, she worked happily (and more speedily) with Len for a couple of years until Dad died and the cuckoo in their comfortable nest arrived. Correction: two cuckoos. Firstly, me. I squawk around them anxious to help, but my knowledge of classic cars is mostly in my head, not my hands. Secondly, her boyfriend – lover, perhaps, who knows? – Rob Lane, who is trouble with a grin on its face.

‘Ever seen a drophead round here?' I yelled at Len and Zoe, trying for more decibels than Classic FM, which was apparently essential for their work, as it slowed them down, Len claimed . . . No comment.

‘Yup. A thirty-eight V12,' Len shouted back, and then returned to his work. This time, a Laycock de Normanville overdrive unit seemed to be the object of his affection.

‘I saw one in an old barn—'

Off went the radio, up came Zoe from behind the tool chest, interrupting with a bawled-out:

‘There's a car in my barn,

‘Dear Jack, dear Ja – ack.

‘Oh what is it doing there,

‘Dear Zoe, dear Zoe . . .' And on and on. Even Len was trying not to laugh.

I eyed them with scorn. ‘If neither of you has the imagination to think beyond idle jests—'

‘I have, I have,' she pleaded. ‘Please do tell us
all
about this barn, dear Jack.'

‘On the bridleway from Pluckley to Charden.'

‘Greensand Farm, Polly Davis's place. Yup. That's where I saw the drophead. Years ago, it was. Serviced it once.' This was a long speech for Len. Talking takes too much time away from what's really important in life, such as Roots-type superchargers or the superiority of desmodromic valve systems. ‘Guy Williams rents the orchards,' he added.

‘You know Polly Davis?' The adrenalin began to rise. This could be a breakthrough. Casually but smartly dressed in a Ted Lapidus blazer and slacks, I could stroll up to her at a drinks party – and who knows? Problem: I don't do drinks parties, or rather I'm not in the right set to do them.

‘Nope. Met her though.' Len grew positively chatty. ‘Mike ran that classics to order business. Before your time.'

‘Yes, but was it a good 'un?' By which I meant: was it strictly legit? I'd hate to think of that Lagonda being part of a non legit set-up, i.e. stolen.

Len considered this for so long I had to fight to control impatience, which never works with Len. ‘Seemed to be. I wouldn't have touched it.'

Helpful, I thought. I could not recall Dad ever mentioning meeting Mike Davis, but he wasn't exactly one for the social life. Mum had done her best to winkle him out of his mental garage, but after she died, its doors rarely opened. He ruled over the Glory Boot and waited for people to come to him, when he proved the best and most affable of hosts.

‘Polly's OK,' Zoe volunteered.

‘She wasn't OK today,' I said ruefully.

‘I was at school with Bea; she's her daughter,' Zoe continued undeterred. ‘She's just come back from working abroad. Got a job in Canterbury. Polly runs a picture framing business at the farm.'

‘Any hope of getting me an introduction as a respectable citizen?'

A snort. ‘No way. Long queue.' A wave, and Zoe was back in the real world of nuts and bolts.

Len was still ruminating though. ‘That Lagonda,' he said. A long pause, spanner in hand.

‘I presume it was Mike's, perhaps the one he died in,' I said.

‘Hers, not his,' he said to my surprise. ‘Belonged to her dad.'

That was a relief. My foot hadn't been quite as big as I thought. Of course, it could still be the car Mike died in.

‘So why is she letting it go to rack and ruin in the barn? Has she got no soul?' Surely such a face must have a soul somewhere.

‘Used to drive it,' Len informed me. ‘Pride and joy.'

‘I could restore it for her and sell it,' I said plaintively, ‘but she won't hear of it.'

‘Takes all sorts,' was Len's final offering, and then he too went back to his real world and left me to worry about mortgages.

As may be apparent, I don't have any capital stashed away for rainy days. I had thrown up my oil job, confident that, with my early and brief marriage well in the past and my daughter in her early twenties, I was a lily of the field and could take my time over choosing how to toil and spin. One sight of the massive debts of Frogs Hill had cured me of that quaint notion. Fortunately, I'm not totally dependent on Len's and Zoe's contribution for income. I'd become a car detective in earnest.

One day Zoe had had enough of my incompetent technical abilities. ‘Stop poking your nose in, Jack,' she had yelled in exasperation. ‘Poke it
out
.'

So, with their help – Len on the knowledge side, Zoe on the ‘let's go for it' side – I had begun working with the police and insurance companies on routine jobs and then added the hunting down of rare cars on commission for individuals, or anything anyone would pay me for. Zoe and Len eye me warily now, as though my detective work might tempt their cuckoo to migrate to foreign parts again and leave a devastated nest behind him. He won't, of course. This cuckoo is here to stay, but
not
in a nest run by Harry Prince.

That Lagonda was, therefore, my next mission. Strictly speaking, I should have been returning a call from DCI Dave Jennings, who operates the Kent Police Car Crime Unit, but the Lagonda called more loudly. First step: meet Polly Davis under more favourable circumstances. In order to do that, I needed to know more about this Lagonda. A few facts and especially figures might come in very useful. Attractive though Polly was, the Lagonda had to be my main target.

Was that true? I had a moment's doubt because classics and their owners are joined at the hubcap; you can't have one without understanding the other. The thought of being joined at the hip with Polly – although what I had in mind might be somewhat difficult if we were – was a highly pleasurable one. We'd got off to a bad start, but there was surely something I could do about that.

I thought out a rapid plan of action. ‘Fancy the Wheatsheaf on Sunday week?' I threw out to the two heads that were all there was to be seen of my colleagues, who were back at their far more interesting jobs. These included, I knew, making an elaborate exhaust system for a ‘blower' Bentley, and therefore I naturally only received a couple of ‘ums' in reply.

Every third Sunday in the month the Wheatsheaf pub, a few miles from Piper's Green, hosts a classic car get-together. I'd seen a Lagonda there once or twice, and if I struck lucky I might have a chance to find out how rare my barn discovery was, and whether it was well known to the buffs. Given the noses of the usual suspects at this gathering, there was a pretty good chance someone would know something, even if the Lagonda I'd seen there previously failed to show.

The classic car world is a knowledgeable one, and a friendly one – usually – and a lot of my sleuthing work is done at car shows both here and in continental Europe. Len had implied that Mike Davis wasn't squeaky clean in his car doings, and if so I might pick up some vibes on that.

Then, on a whim, I changed my plan of action completely. Although the logical thing was to do my homework first, what I
wanted
to do was see Polly Davis again. I thought of Zoe's throwaway ‘a queue at her door'. A whole lot of trouble might lie ahead, but hey – when had that ever stopped me?

Or stopped Zoe, come to that. There was, after all, Rob Lane in her life.

Rob Lane, the big drawback to Zoe. ‘He means well,' had been her less than wholehearted excuse for Rob last time he had turned up at Frogs Hill. He hadn't exactly covered himself with glory when he'd put a fingerprint on a freshly lacquered Bugatti firewall. Or the time he'd backed his old banger into a customer's priceless Mercedes 540K Cabrio.

I'd spent ages of avuncular time trying to warn Zoe off Rob. Warn her off? You'd think I'd urged her to make a bid for the best catch in Europe. Somehow, however, fate has a way of choosing unlikely messengers, and this time I'd had to grit my teeth. It seemed my path to Polly could be through Rob.

‘What?' I asked dangerously, ‘are you doing here?'

I had come to the Pits the next morning, my head still full of Polly and Lagondas, to find Rob sitting on the bonnet of an MGB, and even Len wasn't yelling at him to get the hell off. If I'd done that, it would have been a different matter. I was only the boss.

Zoe had run into Rob at university and made the mistake of not instantly running in the opposite direction. Was it love? Was it sex? Was it some fatal attraction for catastrophe? Don't ask me. I'm a car detective, not a psychologist. All I know is that Zoe eyes him as fondly as if he were Clarence, that messenger sent from the heavens in the old James Stewart weepie
It's a Wonderful Life
. Not with Rob around it isn't.

‘I came,' he said plaintively, moving off the bonnet, ‘to ask Zoe if she'd like to go to Hurst Manor tonight.' He looked injured, every inch the victim.

‘Do you, Zoe?' I asked politely. Typical Rob invitation. He is, as they say, of good family, and every inch of his confident face and neatly trimmed designer stubble betrays it. Bored charm is Rob's speciality. He's waiting for the big opportunity that fate will drop in his path tomorrow. But even if tomorrow should happen to come, he would have to be coaxed into taking up the offer. That's where Zoe comes in. I don't think they live or even sleep together, but how would I know? Zoe keeps her private life to herself.

‘Private view,' Rob condescended to explain. ‘Local art show. Everyone will be there. Fancy it, Zoe? Bea's going.'

Full alert! All the antennae waving together. ‘Bea Davis?' I asked, unable to believe my luck.

Zoe grinned. ‘The very same.'

‘And her mother?' Could this be manna dropping from heaven? Rob's presence usually suggests the other place, so it seemed too good to be true. Lagondas temporarily receded in my mind.

He regarded me as a simpleton who has to have allowances made for him.

‘Of course.'

‘I'll come,' I said.

‘Will you?' The eyes glittered as the two rams locked mental horns, and Zoe got unconcernedly on with her rebuilding of a Scintilla Vertex magneto. ‘I invited Zoe.'

‘As an exception, I'm prepared to forget the errant fingerprint and the scraped bumper episodes if you'll let me come with you both.'

I endeavoured to look menacingly formidable, but without success. Rob is some eight inches shorter than I am, boasting a slighter frame and featuring cocky charm. No, delete the cocky. Rob was merely assured. Although, I had to be generous today, I could see no quarter being given in those triumphant eyes.

Nor could Zoe, so she entered the fight. ‘Rob, lighten up.'

Rob could obviously see his free dinners and sympathy flying out of his reach, because he promptly grinned. ‘Sure,' he said languidly. ‘Lorna likes beefy guys.'

I'd get my own back later. Beefy is not a word I'm comfortable with – it smacks of Arnie and
The Terminator –
but there was too much riding on this to take revenge now. ‘Lorna?' I queried.

‘Lorna Stack. Sex bomb lady of the manor – or thinks she is. Wife of Rupert Stack, who's the leader of the “second homes” brigade.'

I'd heard of him, a London businessman. The second homes folk tend to keep themselves to themselves, so I only met them if they were bringing their classics to me. We don't frequent the same watering holes and troughs. They're rather like expats. We locals are here for amusement and service. Unfair? Of course. Some of them are good fun and do their bit for the village, but on the whole it's like the grain and the grape: we don't mix.

Today, however, I felt able to take on the world. First, I rang Dave Jennings. Result: there was a job tracking down a Merc for which he might have to call me in, and a missing Rolls he needed my help on more or less right away. So I would have to give Polly, the Lagonda and the art show full throttle. They might present dangerous curves to be approached with caution, but I was up for it.