Classic Mistake (18 page)

‘And could there have been?’

‘Wouldn’t know. Not my game.’

‘Did he talk to you about it?’

‘Talked to everyone – if you can call it talking. He’d got a house full of archaeological stuff of one sort or another. But it never produced this treasure for him. I felt sorry for the old chap. I know what losing a mint of cash means.’

I seized this opportunity. ‘You mean Frank Watson. Did Ambrose know him?’

‘Not that I know of. He might have seen him that night. Good old Frank, eh? When Betty told me she thought Joannie had scarpered with the loot I couldn’t believe it, especially when she said she reckoned that it had been planned all along. Then I found that Frank had gone too. You know how life can change so sudden? One minute we were celebrating and discussing how to divvy up the cash after the stuff had been smelted down, the next I was left with a dead body, no wife, no loot, police storming around and handcuffs.’

I almost felt sorry for him. ‘Do you have any idea about where your wife and Frank went?’

‘We all have
ideas
,
but precious little to back it up. Vic reckons it was South America. I thought maybe Australia. Joannie liked it there. The cops kept Vic and me apart after we were carted off in the hope that one of us would spill the beans as to where the booty went. If only I knew, I told ’em.’

And then it happened. It was one of those glorious moments when one’s brain produces the fruits it has slowly been ripening. South America – Carlos! Matt had mentioned Carlos knowing the May Tree well before the band was formed, and there had been mention of his father’s
band
.
There had been a lot of noise, Tony told me, in the pub that evening. Could it possibly be that Carlos was there with his father’s band on the night of the shoot-out? Surely he’d have been too young – no, he wouldn’t. He could have been twenty-one or twenty-two in 1978. I tried not to make too much of this and keep control but …

‘Was there a band playing that evening?’ I asked.

Tony laughed. ‘Look, chum, I had other things on my mind than music that evening. Might have been.’

He went on to grill me about the murder, but eventually he decided it was time, as he said, ‘To join the ladies.’ I was relieved to see that Betty had worked some kind of magic and Josie was looking much more composed.

‘Jack’s still on about Frankie boy, Bet,’ Tony joked. ‘He’s hoping to find him skulking around carrying the collection in his back pocket.’

‘That would be good,’ I agreed. ‘Did you see Frank Watson leave that night, Betty?’ I took a chance. ‘And the band too?’

‘He’s got this thing about there being a band around, Betty. Can you remember? Jazz, was it?’

Betty looked puzzled. ‘Jazz? No, general Latin-American. Vicente Mendez, that was his name. Carlos’s dad. That’s what gave Carlos the idea for the Charros. Last time we ever saw Vicente – he had been a bit of a regular before that, but he hopped it when the police were called. He didn’t like police, Carlos said, so they all disappeared sharpish, including Carlos. You got back at five or so, Tony, but you were in the back room while the band got set up about seven – and the balloon went up about nine if I remember rightly.’

‘I do,’ Tony said feelingly. ‘Accident, that’s all it was. Are you telling me Carlos was there then?’

Betty was looking uneasy. ‘Far as I remember he was. He’d been several times with his dad. But that was years before the Charros, Jack.’

Tony had been brooding. ‘That kid?’ he said. ‘I’m beginning to remember him now. Greasy kid, he was. He took a shine to Joannie but he wasn’t her type. Too young, whereas Frankie boy was right up her street. He’d split up with his wife a year or two earlier and was ripe for a bit of Joannie and the cash to go with her. Vic and I were the dumb ones. We went inside, and Frank had a nest egg for life.’

‘Do you think he and Joannie are still alive?’ I asked.

‘Not,’ Tony said with great simplicity, ‘if Vic and I catch up with them. But we’ve no handle on where they are, so we let it be, let it be.’

‘Was Carlos actually playing in the band that evening, Betty?’

‘Sometimes he played, I think. Not always. Can’t remember that far back for sure. I think he helped me and Joannie at the bar for a while.’

‘But he left with the band?’

‘Didn’t see any of them go,’ she told me. ‘I was too busy looking for Joannie, worrying about Tony, dealing with the police and all that. Some of the customers hung on, lot of them went. I remember Ambrose going at a very early stage, said goodbye and that if anyone needed him he’d be at home. Then the police arrived and stopped any more departures. The band had gone by then and Carlos too – I didn’t see him again, anyway.’

‘If you were all going to meet up again across the Channel, what happened to Frankie’s car, do you think? Was it still in the car park?’

‘No idea, mate,’ Tony said. ‘Otherwise engaged. Fools, weren’t we? We all trusted Joannie, even Brian. We thought, like I said, we’d all join Joannie in Calais in our separate cars.
Her
plan, I reckon, was to depart with Frankie somewhere up north while things calmed down, but after the shoot-out it changed, I reckon. Her car was found at Dover though, so I reckon they were over the channel and down to Spain soonest. It was Frankie started the row with Brian about the share of booty. He didn’t know Brian was carrying – probably thought he could turn it into a punch-up so he could slip out with Joannie and drive off into the sunlight.’

I was glad I wasn’t Brandon trying to sort the wood from the trees in this kind of story. ‘Didn’t you follow that line up to try to trace Frank when you heard about Neil’s death, Tony?’

‘How, Jack?’ Tony said simply. ‘Didn’t hear about it till Betty told me, and anyway he’d long gone. Don’t go getting any ideas that I’m still in the network,’ he joked.

‘Are you?’

Tony chuckled. ‘No way. I make the odd phone call to Vic and a couple of others from the old days. But I’m sixty-five now, a respectable retired publican married to a lovely wife I’m crazy about. If I ran into Frank or Joannie I’d like a few words with them, but that’s not likely now, is it? They’re in Barbados or somewhere, I reckon,’ he said without rancour. ‘But Betty and I do all right. Can’t ask for more, can you? World isn’t run that way.’

Its isolated position perched on the Greensand Ridge is one of the blessings of Frogs Hill. I can feel detached from the world, as though divided from it by a pane of glass. I can see, but am not connected. Just what I needed that evening. The Pits was closed, so the next place to try to get my thoughts in order was the double barn-cum-garage where I keep the Lagonda and Gordon-Keeble. Today, however late home as I was, bed held no attractions as my mind was racing like a magneto, so I made my way straight to the Glory Boot. This has a smell of its own: accumulated dust, oil and a fragrance I can only sum up as ‘the past’, as defined by classic cars of course. Here I can stare for hours on end not only at the automobilia but also at the Giovanni paintings, which can be summed up as classics in fantasy land. My particular favourite is a robin blue Karmann Ghia set in an azure sky with a hint of mountains below.

The Glory Boot also has another attraction – it has no phone. All mobiles, iPods, iPads have to be left outside – mentally, at least. Len and Zoe know better than to come here unannounced, and so I’m left with my own thoughts, helped along by considerations of what my father would have contributed. He still does in a way. Tonight, however, Dad seemed determined to fight my every effort to arrange the tragic death of Ambrose Fairbourne into a pattern that included Carlos Mendez.

I could hardly blame Dad, because Eva had been – and for me still was – a family problem. Both my parents had suffered under her reign, even though thankfully Eva and I had not lived at Frogs Hill, although we did live near enough to visit. Too near for my parents’ taste, although that instantly changed when Cara was born.

I sat down on a Corbeau bucket seat that Dad had once used in the Tulip Rally and thought about Ambrose – and, for good measure, Carlos. Carlos had been present at the shoot-out, and now it seemed Ambrose was there as well. Could they have met there? Even if they had, so what? It got me nowhere if they were all together one evening in the late seventies and met again ten years later when Carlos and the Charros was born. There was no sign of any treasure around by then. It had long vanished with Joannie and good old Frank.

I felt a mental nudge from Dad. ‘And another thing, son …’ he whispered, in imitation of his favourite catchphrase from
Columbo
times. Another thing? About Frank? I wondered. Could be, Dad, I agreed. Treasure was one thing, but Frank must have felt strongly about the death of his son.
So what is ‘the thing’, Dad?
But I was greeted only by silence.

I
t’s all very well staying silent, Dad, I thought gloomily as I shut the Glory Boot door behind me, but why not give me a break? Even Kafka could not find his way through the impenetrable mist that currently enveloped me. In fairy tales, princes who fought their way through brambly hedges were rewarded by a beautiful princess beyond. I was painfully aware that my bank manager would not consider me a prince, and furthermore I doubted if I could rely on Louise returning to play my sleeping princess. I was also uncomfortably aware that celibacy was rapidly becoming a way of life. It’s nice to dream, but unlike Louise’s return, the threat of Eva’s was no inducement to continue my mission. What
was
an inducement was the thought that Cara was my partner in our joint efforts. I remained convinced that there was more to this case than a jealous woman’s revenge, and coupled with my concern for Eva herself, that drove me on.

So where now? It was all very well to decide to track down Frank Watson, but where should I start, as the House of Lamb’s door had been gently but firmly shut? I wasn’t the only person after Watson. At the slightest hint of his whereabouts, his former partners in crime would be on his trail long before me. So would the police. An unusually sympathetic Dave had conveyed the news to me that the file was still open although there had been no leads since a sighting in Rio in 1980. Should I begin with Vic Trent? No, he would have no more information than Tony did, so I put him way down my list of ‘jobs to do’.

And also featured on that list was Melody.

Over the next few days Daisy took to alternately texting me (with a mournful ‘missing Mel’ as a subtle reminder) and just ‘popping in’, as she put it. Nice as it was to see her bright face, it was driving me round the bend – and Len and Zoe were ahead of me.

It was the following Wednesday before there was a breakthrough of sorts – in the form of Dave.

‘There you are,’ he told me irritably and unnecessarily as he rang me at breakfast-time.

‘I am,’ I agreed.

‘I spend a lot of time running after you. This Morris Minor of yours …’

‘Of Daisy Croft’s, to be exact – and featuring in a murder case.’

‘Don’t I know it. First you, then Brandon after me. It’s back.’

I was knocked off balance. ‘What?’ I asked stupidly.

‘
Back
. Found. By
my
team.’

‘Where? The middle of the Hindu Kush?’ I, too, can do stroppy.

‘Wormslea Retirement home. Know it?’

I did. ‘Belinda Fever lives there.’

‘And that’s good?’ Dave barked impatiently.

‘It was she who gave the car to Daisy in the first place. Belinda’s her grandmother.’

‘Bully for Gran. Off her trolley, is she? Pinched it back?’

‘No and no.’

‘Either way, the job’s truly over this time, Jack.
We
take over now.’ He must have heard me gathering breath. ‘And if you’re about to pontificate that there’s something weird going on, save your breath. I agree. That’s why
we’re
taking over. You’re fired.’

Great. Could the day get worse? It could. What, I wondered wearily, was going on? I didn’t have long to wait for the next stage. A cloud of smoke rivalled only by Zoe’s Fiesta announced the arrival of Daisy in her Volvo.

‘Boss says I should come straightaway,’ she told me breathlessly. ‘He’ll make up the rolls for me. Let’s go.’

I was lost. ‘Where?’

‘Gran’s, of course! Melody’s there.’

Back on target. ‘Then so are the police.’

‘
Why
?’ she wailed. ‘They haven’t taken her away, have they?’

‘It’s a murder case, Daisy, and Melody is mixed up with it.’

‘But she’s mine.’ Her face was a study in indignation.

I took pity on her and unlocked the Alfa. ‘Hop in. I’ll take you up there. We might get there in time.’

‘For what?’

‘They’ll probably take her for tests.’

‘Get going, kiddo,’ she ordered me grimly as she slammed the Alfa door and fastened her seat belt. ‘First Justin, now the police. Time someone realized that car’s
mine.
’

With Daisy bouncing in anticipation beside me, even I began to get into the Melody mood as we swung through the lanes with the sun deigning to beam on us. I half expected Melody to have vanished again by the time we reached Wormslea and perhaps Daisy did too, because we both breathed a sigh of relief when we saw her pinky-grey curves parked in the gateway to the field opposite the home.

I was about to joke that the description of pinky-grey curves for Melody was highly suitable for a village called Wormslea, when I saw Belinda. She was standing grimly by Melody with her arms folded. The reason was not difficult to fathom. There was a low-leader just approaching from the lane to Bredgar and two police cars already parked there. Dave’s or Brandon’s men, I wondered. It had to be one of them with this speed and degree of response.

‘Can’t you do anything about this, Jack?’ Belinda demanded as Daisy flung her arms around her, sobbing at this new threat.

‘No,’ I said sadly. ‘I wish I could.’ Melody had been missing for nearly two weeks this time. Where had she been and why?

‘Why has she got to go?’ Daisy sobbed.

‘Checking for evidence,’ I tried to explain, not for the first time.