Classic Mistake (4 page)

Dave was only too willing to agree when I rang him the next morning about Melody – with one small exception. The Budget. Fine if I found the car. A small fee would then materialize. Any complications, however, and it would appear I should have left it to the team. ‘All clear?’ Dave asked me jovially.

I said it was, then prepared for my trip to Burchett Forstal, which began to seem a picnic compared with the death of Carlos Mendez. I was just pondering whether to take the Gordon-Keeble or the Lagonda, when the decision had to be abruptly postponed. My mobile rang, and it was Eva.

‘Darling, I come to see you,’ she announced. ‘I take taxi. You pay him.’

Panic made me undiplomatic. ‘You can’t.’ The brief silence that greeted this gave me a chance to think. ‘Cara’s on her way, and the police will need you close at hand to help them with their enquiries.’ This sounded uncomfortably formal, so I rounded it off with, ‘Anyway, I have an appointment this morning.’

‘A woman?’ she screeched. ‘But I am your
wife
.’

Oh, how that brought back the old days. No point in reminding her she wasn’t my wife and that I was a car detective with several jobs to do. So …

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘A woman. She’s been kidnapped. Her name’s Melody.’

After assuring Eva I hadn’t forsaken her and that I would contact her very shortly, I set off for Burchett Forstal with a pleasant, if temporary, sense of release. In my agitation I had initially found myself fastening the seat-belt in the Alfa and not one of my two beloved classics, but had decided to take the extra time and replace it with the Lagonda, which I guessed would be a hit with Daisy. Even so, it was Eva who was occupying my mind as I drove my beauty down the Frogs Hill Lane. Tackle the dirty fuel line first, son, my father would always advise. Polish your bonnet later. I’d take his advice. Turning off into the maze of lanes leading to Burchett Forstal, I began to calm down and think rationally about Carlos’s death.

His murder, it seemed clear to me, was no random attack but something to do with the ‘business’ he had expected to transact in Kent. After Daisy had left me the previous evening, I had tackled the Internet to see what it could produce on Carlos. I had a feeling that good though Brandon was at his job, I was going to need all the background information I could get. I can’t say I hit pay dirt in my search but it was interesting. Carlos’s father Vicente had run a band in England in the 1970s, which is presumably how Carlos had learned his trade. The last mention of Vicente’s band was in 1981 – though that didn’t necessarily mean it wasn’t still active, either in the UK or South America. The only mention of Carlos and the Charros was in 1988 at a gig in Brighton. These were pre-Internet days, and records of them on the net would be scanty.

Burchett Forstal is deemed a hamlet, not a village, because it doesn’t boast its own church, but it does have a farm shop and bakery. In Kentish dialect a forstal is open land bordered by farm buildings, and Burchett was a prime example. Its one through-street passes a stretch of grass rising up to the farm shop and a granary barn, flanked by terraced cottages. Daisy lived in one of these a little further along the street. I’d already passed the bakery. I couldn’t miss it. Burchett Bakery announced itself with flags, signposts and a parking area. Understandable, I thought. A bakery for a community this size needs to draw custom from a wide area.

Driving the Lagonda was a treat, and as I parked in front of Daisy’s home I was conscious that my arrival had been noted. The cottage, in which she probably lived with her parents, had been built in the days well before people thought of better things to do with their gardens than growing fruit and flowers (such as parking cars). The front garden was a wonderful mix of spring flowers, trees coming into leaf and rows of vegetables – in short, a traditional country garden.

As I drew up, Daisy emerged like a ray of sunshine. She’d asked me to come when she had an hour’s break from the early morning shift, and she screamed with delight when she saw the Lagonda. This is a 1938 V12 drophead in all its glory, and it came into my life with treasured memories.
^1
.

‘Hey,’ she cried, ‘this is a real picnic car, just like Melody. Let’s go, Jack.’

‘Picnicking? I’m here on business, miss,’ I told her gravely.

She promptly saluted me. ‘OK, Gumshoe. Let’s get going.’ No walking for her today. She jumped enthusiastically into the Lagonda and squealed yet more delight. Her high spirits deflated as we reached the scene of the crime. ‘It was there,’ she said dolefully as we reached the bakery.

I glanced around. The bakery had a second storey, and across the road were two cottages set well back. ‘Did anyone hear anything?’ I coached myself into remembering that the seriousness of a crime from the victim’s viewpoint is totally different to that of the law’s.

‘No. Dad reckons it was a two-man job and they pushed it along there.’ She pointed to where the hamlet petered out into open countryside – not far, and so her dad could be right.

‘It would have been driven away, though. No gang would risk bringing a low loader here.’

Daisy regarded this as a marvel of detection. ‘I never thought of that.’

‘We sleuths have keen minds. I take it you didn’t leave it unlocked or a key in the ignition?’

End of admiration from Daisy. ‘You must think I’m nuts,’ she said scornfully. ‘No way.’

The bakery, from its display, catered for everyone, producing a range from Chelsea buns and doughnuts to quiches and interesting looking pies to tempt the palate. Two delivery vans were parked outside, which suggested there was a lunchtime delivery service.

‘Is there a pub near here?’ I asked, thinking that might be a rendezvous for joyriders.

‘Closed down.’

A familiar fate for small country pubs. ‘
Anywhere
near?’

‘Justie’s dad’s at Tickenden.’

I took it that ‘Justie’ was her own pet name for him. ‘Justin’s your boyfriend?’ Bad lot? I wondered.

‘He’s like – well – hopeful. Can’t make my mind up.’ She grinned conspiratorially at me, and I felt privileged – in a fatherly way. This was a game I was long out of. ‘His dad owns the May Tree Inn.’

‘I’ve been there once or twice.’ It’s famous now for being a pretty country pub with good food. I’d been there in my youth, before marriage and I had disagreed with each other, and again quite recently. In a previous existence in the late 70s the pub was chiefly famous for something completely different – as a well-hidden dive for career criminals, a role that culminated in the May Tree Shoot-Out. A priceless collection of early English gold brooches, and cups etc, had been hijacked while in transit from its stately-home owners to be sold on the continent. The villains retreated to the May Tree, where they proceeded to have a serious falling out. The then manager of the May Tree had disappeared into one of her Majesty’s prisons for umpteen years. The pub had abruptly been sold by the brewery and had forged a new life for itself.

‘I think I met the owner,’ I continued. ‘Gentle giant of a chap.’

‘Yeah. George is OK, so’s Justie – but a bit, well you know …’ She grinned sheepishly. ‘
Too
gentle.’

‘No such thing,’ I said sadly. ‘You’ll learn.’

She shrugged. ‘Got to see the world first, haven’t I?’

‘And what would constitute the world for you?’

‘Africa, China, Aussie, maybe America. That sort of place.’

I held my peace. Places are inhabited by people much the same as those she met in Burchett Forstal – good, bad, dull, interesting, gentle, fierce – but who was I to knock her dreams? I’d seen my ‘world’ in the oil business, and thankfully I was now back at Frogs Hill, determined never to move again.

‘Justie’s got some evidence,’ she told me.

‘About Melody?’

‘Yeah. Reckons he can get her back for me. But he hasn’t done it, has he?’

‘Why not?’

‘Says there are complications and he can’t split on a mate. I told him, stuff that. Just get Melody back quick. That’s why I came to hire you.’

I let this pass. ‘I’ll stand you lunch at the May Tree,’ I offered. It would be pleasant and would also, I thought guiltily, postpone Eva’s problem for another hour or two. I doubted if it would lead to Melody’s recovery though. ‘Is Justin the barman?’

‘No. He works in Canterbury at a supermarket, but the barmaid’s off on maternity leave so he’s filling in for her.’

Tickenden was only a couple of miles away, and if we’d been crows even less. As it was, the winding lanes were a delight in the Lagonda of which Daisy continued to show her appreciation with little whoops of pleasure. She insisted on having the top down even though it was spitting with rain. ‘Bet the Queen doesn’t have one of these cars,’ she said proudly, lifting her head back to the breeze and her face to the spots of rain.

‘Bet the Queen would like one,’ I replied happily.

The May Tree looked as innocent of crime now as Buckingham Palace. I could see its wooden tables outside, and a village green with a chestnut tree in full bloom. History alone knows what happened to the hawthorn that lent the pub its informal name. The idea of a shoot-out here now was incongruous; it was more like the idyllic Potwell Inn where H. G. Wells’s Mr Polly found his Shangri-La. Then I remembered that Mr Polly had had to fight for his paradise with the formidable Uncle Jim, who chased him with broken bottles all too vigorously. I comforted myself that Mr Polly had won by guile in the end, and in any case George Taylor, the licensee here, proved no such formidable opponent. Tall, well built and slow, the grin on his face reassured you that you were his favourite customer.

‘I’ll call Justin, Daisy,’ he told her amiably.

‘This is Mr Jack Colby,’ Daisy announced importantly. ‘He’s going to find Melody for me.’

George shot me a conspiratorial look of despair and disappeared to find his son. Justin, when he appeared, was not yet his father’s son where confidence and amiability were concerned. In his early twenties, he had a look of defiance in his eyes as he greeted me before turning them on Daisy in adoration.

‘Told you
I’d
handle Melody,’ he muttered sulkily when she did not return this sign of devotion.

‘Yeah, but you haven’t, have you?’

‘Suppose we all have a drink?’ I intervened hastily.

‘I’m on duty,’ he said obstinately, but his father took a firm hand.

‘You go, son. I’ll handle the bar.’

We ordered sandwiches and salad and adjourned to a table by the window. As Justin looked increasingly uncomfortable, I decided to take this head on. ‘Daisy tells me you have some information about Melody.’

He hesitated, despite my non-confrontational tone. The view outside the window was clearly fascinating him. ‘Think I saw her round here, but didn’t want to say nothing till I’d checked it out.’

‘And have you?’

‘Yeah. Well, sort of … . I reckon it’s in a barn.’

‘Where?’ Daisy was taking no prisoners. ‘Why haven’t you told me?’

‘Don’t know where. Somewhere.’ Justin had a hunted look.

‘Why not tell me? Why not tell the police?’ she persisted.

‘Wasn’t sure, was I?’ Justin grew even more defensive.

‘Does this barn belong to a friend of yours?’ I asked to help him out, wondering what on earth I was doing here when I should be chasing up every clue I could to Carlos’s murder.

Justin finally cracked. ‘Look, straight in your face, OK? I should have told you before, Daisy. I reckon I know where it is, but I don’t know nothing definite. But I’ll get it back for you. I will, I promise.’

I could see the hurt of anxious youth in his face, but even without that I felt there was something I wasn’t quite getting here.

Most girls would have shot back some cynical remark but not Daisy. She knew when to stop. ‘I know you’ll do your best, Justie.’

He looked at her with such adoration that my heart bled for him. Remembering that Daisy had to ‘see places’ before she would appreciate Justin, I only hoped he would wait long enough.

I wasn’t sure that I appreciated him too much myself at the moment, though, so I moved things along by making it clear that I’d had enough. ‘I’ll drive you back, Daisy,’ I said pointedly. ‘It’s a police job.’

‘Melody?’ Justin asked nervously.

‘No. A murder case.’

‘That one in Maidstone?’ Justin asked to my surprise. ‘Dad says the word’s going round it’s Carlos Mendez.’

Why should the word ‘go round’, I wondered. The police hadn’t released the name, so far as I knew, but why should it be of such particular interest? Even if George Taylor knew Carlos, Carlos was apparently in Maidstone only for a brief visit. I glanced over to see the Gentle Giant George carefully polishing glasses.
Too
carefully, so I strolled over to him. ‘Did you know Mendez?’ I asked.

‘Met him years back when I first got to know this place. I wasn’t running the pub then. He wasn’t too popular round these parts.’

‘Not with me, certainly. He ran off with my wife.’

That caught his attention and maybe loosened his tongue. ‘He started up a Mexican band with local lads in the late eighties – based here at the May Tree they were. Owner encouraged him. Mendez filled the lads’ heads with dreams of glory, dressed them up in white suits, built up their reputation, then left them in the lurch when he walked out on them. Band split up – the Brits were no use without the Mexican himself.’

‘Who was the owner of the May Tree then?’ It was news to me that Carlos was connected with the May Tree. My youthful visits here had preceded Carlos’s arrival, and it made me irrationally uneasy at the thought that it was in this very pub that Eva and Carlos had met and presumably cemented their relationship.

‘A chap called James Fever bought it when the brewery sold it after the shoot-out,’ George told me. ‘I bought it from him in the 1990s when he retired. He died a few years back.’

‘So quite a few people would have been interested in the news that Carlos was back in town. Apparently, Carlos was thinking of contacting them.’

George did not reply. The subject, he indicated, was closed.

For me too. Daisy came marching up as I paid the bill. ‘What are you going to do about Melody? Leave it to my Justie to sort out?’