Classic Mistake (12 page)

Tony looked rather pleased with himself. ‘Brian and I strolled up to the van,’ he continued, ‘and since we had the sense to dress like policemen, albeit masked ones, the guards kindly rolled the windows down so we could spray them with tear gas. Must have wondered what was going on up to that point. Then we helped ourselves to the stuff, the other two having joined us, and we put it into my car, and off we went back to the four separate places we’d left our own cars, peeling off one by one, so we could all drive separately back to the May Tree to sort ourselves out.’

‘And what happened there?’ I asked, bearing in mind one of the four had died as a result.

Tony sighed. ‘You’re worse than the flaming cops. Brian threw his weight around. That was the cause of it. He was already getting a bigger percentage of the final takings than the rest of us, but he announced he was taking more. I objected, so did the other two. Things turned nasty as we all pitched in. Brian produced his shooter, the other tried to stop him and I grabbed my piece that I’d kept handy at the hijack just in case. Only grabbed it to warn him off, not to use. But a right old kerfuffle took place, when Brian decided to shoot me. Vic got in the way and caught one in his leg, and somehow Brian got shot with my gun. Accidental, like. There was a lot of noise in the pub that night, so with the racket going on outside the shots didn’t attract instant attention, us being at the back of the pub, but then folks started coming. We’d transferred the stuff earlier to Joannie’s car as being the least likely to get attention as she drove through Dover. So there I was all alone with no sign of Joannie, no sign of Frank, Brian lying dead, Vic wounded – and no sign of the goods. I spent so much time hunting for Joannie that I was still there when the cops came.’

I was beginning to feel decidedly chilly at a story that had more holes in it than Emmental cheese, but luckily Tony didn’t seem to need any comment from me as he continued: ‘Someone must have called them, even though everyone was running around like headless chickens.’

‘Even me,’ Betty said ruefully.

‘I thought as I was the pub manager I might escape notice in the crowd,’ Tony added. ‘Fat chance. But it was an accident. Self defence, anyway. But the jury didn’t see it that way.’

‘Vic got off lightly,’ Betty said disapprovingly. ‘Tony cleared him, didn’t you, love?’

Tony shrugged. ‘He got a year or two for the robbery, but he didn’t have nothing to do with Brian’s death. Now Frank …’

‘He was a nasty piece of work,’ Betty said. ‘True, it was the only time I ever met him, but I didn’t take to him.’

‘What was he like to look at?’ I asked.

‘Nothing remarkable that I could see,’ Tony said. ‘Only remarkable thing was how unremarkable he was. Joannie must have thought differently.’

‘Weren’t you surprised not to hear from him again, Tony?’ I asked.

‘I wasn’t expecting a letter of apology sent to Maidstone prison. Not after he hopped it with Joannie and the loot.’

‘And you’re certain that’s what happened?’

‘Rock sure. Frank’s first wife divorced him a couple of years earlier and he was missing it, so he decided to skedaddle with Joannie. I’d seen them together – just never put two and two together about what they was planning.’

I turned to Betty. ‘Yet his son Neil, who must have been pretty young, then turns up at the May Tree in 1987. Didn’t you think it was a coincidence? Did you wonder if Frank would appear?’

‘He wouldn’t dare show his face there, even though Tony was still in jail. Anyway, as far as I remember, Neil was at uni in Kent and sharing a flat with Jon Lamb.’

‘I’d like to lay my eyes on Frank again,’ Tony said. ‘I really would. Just a couple of questions for him: where’s Joannie, and where’s my share of the booty? Still, we do all right, don’t we, Betty?’

She patted his hand. ‘Should do. We’ve been together long enough.’

Touching this might have been, but the burning issue for me was still outstanding. ‘Could there be
any
link between Carlos and Frank and Joannie? If he’d met them somewhere – South America, for example.’ I was getting desperate now as once again I seemed to be heading nowhere. ‘Does that ring any bells with you, Betty? I’m sure you would have remembered it.’

‘I’m sure I would too,’ she flashed back wryly. ‘No bells rung though. Carlos was more likely to have told Neil if he’d met his dad,’ she pointed out, ‘not me. He knew Tony was in prison and how he felt about Frank.’

I grasped this straw. ‘Or he might have told other gang members. I’m trying to get hold of Matt Wright, but I’ve had no luck with the phone.’

‘Matt’s not good with phones. Best place to find him is at Wychwood House. He does a lot of odd jobs there.’

So where had all that taken me, save round in a circle back to Wychwood? It was just possible that Carlos had got a line on where Frank Watson was, with or without Joannie or the proceeds of the Crowshaw Collection. Blackmail was the sort of crime I envisaged Carlos having been very good at, but in Maidstone? Neither Frank nor Joannie were likely to have returned here – not if they valued their lives.

Thanks to Betty Wilson I could now contact Matt Wright at least, although I was still somewhat uneasy that everyone I met in connection with Carlos seemed very
affable
. They all seemed ready enough to provide facts, but the picture these presented remained fuzzy.

When I rang Wychwood House, Josie, however, was once more far from welcoming. ‘Why do you want to meet Matt?’ she asked suspiciously.

‘Same reason as I wanted to meet you, Josie.’

A long pause, then: ‘He’ll be here tomorrow doing the garden.’

So once again I drove to Wychwood, and once again I had that weird feeling as I passed through the woods. This was no pleasant shady summer scene. There was still a heaviness about it that made me even gladder that my home was Frogs Hill. Perhaps it was merely a reflection of my mood, I told myself. I was no nearer to that magic point at which I sense I have nailed a problem down, even if it wasn’t yet solved. On the contrary, I was all too aware that in Holloway women’s prison Eva was on remand awaiting trial, and so far I had no real leads to give Brandon (even if he hadn’t asked for them).

A white van was in the forecourt and so was Josie’s Polo, which was a reassuring sight. As before, there was no sign of Ambrose in the house as Josie, looking practical in jeans and a tank top, led me through to the large kitchen, which overlooked the garden.

‘Matt’s out there,’ she told me, and through the window I could hear the lawn mower thundering along and see the man behind it. Matt was tall, in his fifties, with thinning hair, a paunch and a general air of hopelessness even about the way he shuffled his trainers over the grass.

‘He’ll be coming in for coffee any minute,’ Josie told me. She looked slightly more human when I told her I had enjoyed meeting Tony and her mother yesterday, although I thought ‘enjoy’ was a relative word considering Tony had served a long sentence for murder.

‘I’ll go out to meet Matt,’ I told Josie. I wanted to speak to him alone, not because I expected any great revelations man to man, but one never knows.

The garden was overhung by trees at its rear and on one side, which gave it a closed-in effect that the regular flower beds and neat bushes did little to alleviate. Perhaps its lack of personality stemmed from the fact that Ambrose had been divorced from life for many years. A garden can tell when it’s not of much interest to its owners – I gathered that from Louise when she saw mine, save that mine was not regular and neat but had taken the opposite course to Ambrose’s.

Matt gave me an impersonal nod when he saw me coming, and I watched as he finished mowing the lawn and sweeping up the cuttings. He took great care over this task, as though by so doing he gave himself a reason for living.

‘Josie says you’ve come about Carlos,’ he said as he finalized the last bag of grass. ‘He got his comeuppance, that’s all,’ he added, without waiting for a word from me.

‘It’s a tough comeuppance, despite what he did to you.’

He disregarded this. ‘Your wife’s in for it, isn’t she?’

‘
His
wife, no longer mine. Yes. She’s on remand.’

‘You’d reason enough to do him in,’ Matt commented dispassionately. ‘So did I. Only, I never did.’

‘Nor me. But I haven’t harboured a grudge against Carlos all these years.’

‘I have.’ Matt scowled. ‘Look at me. Odd-job man. I was a fool to believe him. Number One in the charts, he said. That’s us, the Charros. In our dreams.’

‘And you were the first, weren’t you? His friend before the band existed.’

‘Thought I was. Went to hear his dad’s band when I was still a kid, got to know Carlos, and when he came back to Kent he stayed with me and my parents. Told me I was great on the guitar. I was with another band then. After we started the band, Carlos rented an annexe we had. When he was with Josie it was fine, but after your wife got her hands on him – well, he dumped the lot of us.’

‘Did you play for anyone else afterwards?’

He snorted. ‘Never had the chance. The band I was in before I joined the Charros hit the charts a year or two after the Charros split up. I could have been with them. All very well for Jonathan. He had other skills to fall back on. But me? No way. Done for in the music world, done for outside. And look what happened to Neil. He bore a
grudge
,
as you call it.’

‘Clive’s done well with Jonathan though.’

‘Yeah. Jon picked him up after his year inside.’

‘That wasn’t Carlos’s fault.’

‘Who do you think put him inside, then? Carlos shopped him. Didn’t they tell you? Carlos took the dope himself and then split on Clive to get out of paying for it. You didn’t find that out – and you call yourself a cop?’

‘I don’t, in fact, but thanks for the information.’ Time to look again at Clive Miller. True, he was in a happy business relationship with Jonathan and had a family life, but if he had met Carlos on a dark night on a towpath and they fell out …

‘And Neil,’ Matt added with satisfaction, now he thought he had got the better of me. ‘He had a
grudge
all right. Gave up his postgrad course to follow Carlos’s drum.’

‘Was his father around at the time?’ It would be interesting to find out if Neil’s parentage was generally known.

‘Eh?’ Matt stared hard at me. ‘Not that I know of.’

‘His father was Frank Watson. Met him?’ I held my breath. Those lunches … .

‘No,’ said Matt simply. ‘Know the police have been to see me about Carlos, do you? Wanted to know where I was that night.’

‘It’s not surprising. They’re interested in all the Charros.’

‘I was at home. My mobile
palace
,’ he told me with satisfaction. ‘Alone. But if I’d known someone was going to have a go at Carlos, I’d have gone along to help. I had a
grudge
,
you see.’

I ignored the sarcasm, and Matt, highly pleased with himself, walked off to get his money and coffee. I followed him, only to have the door shut in my face. I wasn’t going to leave without speaking to Josie again, and perhaps Ambrose too, so I decided to hang on. Memory is a strange thing. On buried treasure and gold, Ambrose could still be spot on, and that meant that his memory might still be intact about Carlos and the May Tree.

To pass the time I wandered round the side of the house where the sun did not reach. It felt chilly and forbidding. By the pricking of my thumbs … I thought of the witches’ chant in
Macbeth
– or should I say the Scottish Play, for fear of bringing bad luck my way? My thumbs were pricking too, which was ridiculous when I had only to walk through that kitchen door to be in the house with at least three other people. But I didn’t do it. Instead I decided to wait until Josie was free and have a wander round while I did so. I might find an old car or two. All sorts of such buried treasures lie in barns and sheds, unused and unloved, when their owners have grown old or replaced them with newer models. There are plenty lying hidden to make car lovers drool in ecstasy if only they could catch sight of them. Keeping cars in barns is like keeping a precious art painting on one’s private wall.

As I reached the front of the house I could see the doors of the double garage were open and Ambrose’s Renault inside. It was an Espace and dated (judging by the number plate) 2001. Then I strolled over to a track through the woods on the far side of the house, and my spirits rose as I saw fresh tyre marks in the mud. Hidden classics? Then I realized no one here would be
driving
a classic. I toyed with the idea that one might be hidden in the half shed, half barn that I spotted some way along the track and decided it was worth a look. The barn was side on to me as I mooched up to it to satisfy my curiosity. The wooden door was ajar and I couldn’t resist. I went to peer inside. An old Bugatti, maybe?

I froze. No Bugatti. It was a Morris Minor 1000. I remembered the photo of the Morris Minor that had belonged to Ambrose and his wife, but this one did not look neglected. Far from it. It was shiny and polished and loved. And then I did a double take. I’d been asleep at the switch.

It was
pinky-grey
,
I was facing its rear end and there was no number plate. Feeling as though I were taking part in a fantasy nightmare, I forced my way past the side of the car to the front to see if there was a number plate there. Not only were my thumbs pricking, but my whole body had joined them. I was also uncomfortably aware that if those doors closed on me, I might be done for. In this weird household no one would bother to search for me. I’m not usually claustrophobic but a sudden surge of life made me want to be out of here – and fast. I bent down and saw a familiar number plate.

I’d found Melody.

I had no time to think about my discovery, no time to contemplate, because a shadow fell across the car and a pleasant voice said: ‘May I help you?’

It was Ambrose Fairbourne who stood blocking my path out, and I had to fight irrational panic as I saw his vacant eyes and the non-focused smile on his lips.

‘I was just admiring your wife’s car,’ I said, thinking this might appease him. It didn’t.