Classic In the Pits--A Jack Colby classic car mystery (6 page)

‘Thanks for rooting out Jarvis and Jessica Hart for me,' he said. I thought he might elaborate, but he didn't. Instead: ‘Tell me what you know about Old Herne's.'

Interesting, I thought, that this was his choice of line to follow, and for me it was much easier than talking about Mike. I did my best, ending up with: ‘Great institution running downhill faster than a Ferrari out of control.'

‘What if this Arthur Howell takes it over for himself? I'm told he's the owner.'

‘That doesn't seem likely unless he ran it in conjunction with someone. His decision was going to be announced at a lunch today. Was it?'

Brandon is a practical man. He knew I'd find out anyway, so he told me.

‘Reprieve for Old Herne's, according to this new broom you're sweeping along with, Jessica Hart.'

Only this morning that would have been great news. Now the picture had dramatically changed. For instance, could someone who wanted the club to be closed have taken decisive action?

‘Will it work out? How do you rate her?' Brandon continued.

I forced myself to be objective. ‘She's only on the starting grid, but it looks promising. This sort of place runs on trust and familiarity so it's early days to tell.'

‘Who's your informant?' he shot at me.

‘Tim Jarvis, Jessica herself and my own impressions.'

‘An obsessive volunteer, a new broom and a prejudiced outsider,' Brandon summed up.

‘That doesn't mean it's wrong,' I pointed out, nettled. ‘And delete the prejudiced.'

Brandon switched tack. ‘Have you met the widow?'

‘Several times. A formidable lady.'

‘They're all formidable. Old man Nelson saying he'd been expecting something like this; one arrogant twerp of a grandson claiming he'd have done it himself if he'd thought of it, only he hadn't; and the other grandson, Jason Pryde, not saying anything. Singer, isn't he? Met him, have you?'

‘No.'

‘Ah. Now …' Brandon became formal again. ‘About this Porsche. Any line on it yet?'

My antennae shot up. ‘One or two leads that might be helpful: the Porsche Club 356 Register and one other. And there's the DVLA, of course.'

Brandon frowned. ‘Swansea won't help, will it? The car couldn't be re-registered.'

‘It could if it was fixed to look like a first registration from abroad. Why are you interested in the Porsche though? Because its owner's been murdered?'

‘Quite,' was Brandon's reply. ‘It's a good reason for you to stick around for a while. Get to know the politics of this place. Could be useful.'

Which meant that he thought the murder could indeed link up with the car theft. Had Mike confronted the thief? But if it wasn't linked, whom would Mike's death benefit? One thing was clear. Brandon didn't think this was a random killing.

‘There was blood all over the place,' I called after him as he left. ‘Could help?' Brandon stopped in his tracks.

‘Yes,' he said. ‘Jarvis told me the axe belonged to the Crossley – and so did an RAF uniform greatcoat. That's missing.'

Dusk was falling fast as at last I returned to the exhibitors' car park by the track. I'd gone over to the main car park before I left, with Brandon's permission. I'd been hoping to catch Liz again but her car was gone. There were still police cars and vans there, as well as several civilian cars – amongst the latter might be some early bird journalists who had caught a whiff of what was going on. Tonight the visitors to what would probably be the last Swoosh had already driven along the lanes of Kent to the highways that returned them to their known world: home. Soon, thankfully, I would be one of them.

I walked over to my Gordon-Keeble, which was standing in lonely state by the track, but did a double take as I reached it. What I had assumed was part of a tree trunk in the shadows bordering this area of Old Herne's suddenly walked towards me. Forties, thin brown hair, a slight build and nondescript – or would have been except for the fact that I knew who he was.

Mike's son, Jason Pryde.

‘I like cars,' he told me conversationally, looking at mine. ‘This one – it's good.'

‘Thanks,' I said warily. ‘I liked your concert too.' I expressed my sympathy for his father's death but he merely stared at me. Not in surprise or in obvious grief or shock, but as if I had said nothing and he was summing me up.

Then he remarked, ‘My grandmama had a Gordon-Keeble. When I was a kid, I got a kick out of the tortoise – still do.'

The tortoise is the emblem of the Gordon-Keeble, said to have been chosen because a pet tortoise unexpectedly crawled across the path of the prototype.

‘Miranda Pryde was a great singer,' I said awkwardly, as his father's murder was clearly off the subject list and Jason was still staring intently at me.

He nodded. ‘Yes, she was. You're Jack Colby, aren't you? Liz told me about you. You're a car detective, here about my father's Porsche.'

‘Correct.'

Unexpectedly, he smiled. It lit up his face and changed him briefly from a mystery man to a human being. ‘I loved that car. Did you know Steve McQueen drove with a broken foot when he came second in the 1970 twelve-hour race at Sebring? He was in a Porsche 908.'

‘No, I didn't,' I replied, somewhat thrown. I hope I find the missing Porsche for your family.' One part of me was aware this was a crazy conversation with his father's death hanging over us, but I told myself again that grief has strange ways of showing itself – and also it reminded me that Jason Pryde was no ordinary individual.

‘Do you?' Another of those amazing stares. ‘Good. My father said he'd leave it to me in his will. Don't know whether he has or not. I've already got a 1972 Porsche 911S. But I'll try to help you find my father's car.'

I wasn't sure whether I'd welcome his input, but I made suitably gratified noises, adding, ‘It would be a wonderful inheritance for you.' The pound signs flashed up in my mind. A quarter of a million and rising. As an inheritance, whether it was sold, or retained, it was a major asset – and if it was never found, so was the insurance.

‘My stepmother won't think so,' he replied with great seriousness. ‘She expects it to be hers.'

From the way she had been talking, she might still do so. How would she take it if Jason was right about his inheritance? Not well, I was sure of that.

‘Have you met Arthur?' Jason continued.

‘Briefly. He was sitting with your grandfather in the clubhouse.'

‘Was he? That's odd. Arthur's a nice man, isn't he? I like him very much.'

There was a childlike simplicity about Jason Pryde which was engaging, but I warned myself not to underrate him. Children, after all, are a lot more intelligent than we often assume. Jason's own family life had been and still was dysfunctional to say the least. With Mike, Boadicea, Ray and Peter possibly lined up against him, it was hardly surprising that an outsider like Arthur Howell, who had Old Herne's interests at stake, should be a good ally for Jason. It had been Jason who'd told Liz that Old Herne's was closing – was he glad or sorry that it'd had a reprieve? That, however, had been before Mike's death.

‘Arthur wants to meet you again,' Jason added.

This was a surprise. ‘I'll look forward to it.'

Jason stood aside as I got into the Gordon-Keeble. ‘I'm glad I met you,' he said.

‘Do you want my mobile number in case you want to get in touch?' I asked politely.

He confounded me yet again. ‘I already have it.'

F
rogs Hill was a welcome haven after the events of the day. It was dark as I drove the Gordon-Keeble home. The winding lanes from Piper's Green have no street lighting and I felt an idiotic splurge of gratitude as my security lights blazed out in their friendly way as I arrived. My farmhouse and the Pits seemed a refuge. Frogs Hill had been my childhood home until my university days, my oil career and my early (brief) marriage took me away. When my father's illness had brought me home some years back, living at Frogs Hill had cured any remaining wanderlust for ever. I was here to stay (hefty mortgage or not), which meant that Frogs Hill Classic Car Restorations, begun by my father and Len, was a permanent fixture. I doubt if Len or Zoe would even notice if I said it was closing. They'd just carry on working. Correction: they might feel differently if Harry Prince took it over. His eyes are permanently fixed on acquiring Frogs Hill not only for the business but for the Glory Boot, housed in an annex to the farmhouse, and it was there that I decided to take a belated snack when I returned.

My father's priceless collection of automobilia varies from the nut bolt that fell off a Liège–Rome–Liège winner to a collection of paintings by the now world-famous Giovanni, who still blows in once in a while to re-examine his surreal works of glory. This task usually reduces him to tears of admiration at his prowess, which are only dried by a bottle or two of the finest Chianti.

I don't exactly chat to Dad in the Glory Boot but I undoubtedly feel his calming (or reproving) presence there. I certainly did tonight as I perched on an old leather rally seat, still punch-drunk from the combination of Swoosh's magic and Mike's murder. The two just did not fit. I'd be the last person to say that the classic car world doesn't know the seamier side of life but events such as Swoosh are their showcases, when everyday life is put aside for a while. The fact that it had intruded with such violence took some readjustment on my part – especially as I'd liked Mike and felt his death personally.

Dad would have felt the same way, which is probably why I could sense so clearly what he would have had to say about my problem. I had been at Swoosh on a straight car job for the Kent Car Crime Unit to find a stolen Porsche and I still had to carry on with it. Brandon, moreover, had suggested that I hang around Old Herne's, implying the theft was connected to Mike's death. Was I comfortable with that? Not entirely. I'd liked Mike, I loved Old Herne's and I fancied Jessica Hart. Did these ingredients glue together? I wasn't sure, even though they could give me an entrée into the Old Herne's world behind the scenes. On the other hand, there could be a possible conflict of interest, as Jessica would be at least the temporary successor to Mike. There was also the question of the Porsche's ownership if it was found again, and if not there was the insurance issue. Quicksand ahead. A foot wrong and I was sunk. Would that stop me? No.

As I closed the Glory Boot door behind me, I sensed a waft of approval from its founder. OK, I told him, I'll sleep on it, and if you really think it's a good idea for me to stick my nose in, come back to me tomorrow.

My landline promptly rang at eight a.m. the next morning. I detached myself from my coffee mug, padded over to answer it and received a boom in my ear.

‘Jack Colby? Glenn Howell, Arthur's son. Can you get over here right away? Dad wants to talk.'

Phew, that was quick! I mentally congratulated my own dad. Whatever Arthur Howell wanted to see me about, it showed a degree of interest beyond the stolen car. Glenn made it sound as though he was conferring a favour, which remained to be proven. Arthur would hardly be consulting me on the future of Old Herne's, but the stolen Porsche alone seemed an unlikely topic in the current circumstances.

‘Can't make it before eleven, I'm afraid.' There was a delightful six-cylinder 1935 Wolseley Hornet Special with engine trouble booked into the Pits at nine thirty and Len wanted me to share the excitement of the diagnosis.

A brief silence at the other end of the line. Then a slightly incredulous: ‘Sure about that? He's real keen.'

I said I was sure so, sounding somewhat disgruntled, Glenn said he would meet me in the Cricketers Hotel lobby. Another family on the horizon, then, which might have its own agenda. I could see Jessica's position might become that of battering ram between two families. Which end would be wielding the power?

Len spent so long discussing the Wolseley with its owner and then – the real fun – reaching his own diagnosis with me as an admiring stooge that I feared I wasn't going to make it on time, but at last I managed to prise myself out of the Pits and into my Alfa. The trouble, he had informed me with pride, was faulty ignition timing advance. All this excitement took me away from the tragedy at Old Herne's and why Arthur Howell wanted to see me. Whatever it was, it could be a valuable contribution to my job and judging by the speed of his summons it must be urgent.

The Cricketers is a great place. It's on the outskirts of Harrietsham, a village on the A20, and the hotel had acquired its name from the fact that the famous nineteenth-century cricketer Alfred ‘the Mighty' Mynn lived locally and played for the Harrietsham Cricket Club. The hotel doesn't possess a private cricket pitch but it does have plenty of old prints and paintings to celebrate the sport.

I found not Glenn Howell but his daughter Fenella the Stunner awaiting me; she was the supercilious lady I'd noted at the concert. She did not look particularly pleased to see me and she was indeed a stunner. Slim as a beanpole, stylishly and expensively clad, and cool as a cucumber – the latter being a traditional remedy for sore eyes, as she was. The message she was putting over, however, was that whatever plans she had for her life they would not include Jack Colby. Fine by me, because inscrutable felines – and her mask-like face did give her this resemblance – aren't my speciality. My welcoming smile relaxed the mask, albeit only by a millimetre or two.

‘I saw you yesterday at the show,' she informed me almost accusingly.

‘It was a tough time for you as well as the Nelsons.'

‘Especially my grandfather. He's in one of his moods today, so we've no idea why he asked you to come here.' She made it sound as though this were my fault. She took me up in the lift to a suite on the top floor, from which there was a glorious view of the Downs. I expected to find Glenn installed with his father but there was only Arthur Howell sitting by the window. Fenella too departed, presumably at Arthur's wish. I was intrigued, not knowing whether to be glad or sorry that I wasn't to get the full family experience. On the whole I was glad, I decided. One to one is usually more productive.