Classic Mistake (7 page)

‘Have you told the police?’ I asked. This sounded a crass question, but I needed to know.

‘No. What should I tell them? I’ve no doubt they are by now fully aware of Carlos’s past history with the band.’

‘They are, but they might not know how strongly
it
still feels about Carlos.’

Belinda shrugged. ‘They’ll find out quickly enough if they want to. None of the Charros has anything to hide.’

I felt I was driving into muddy lanes here. Had Carlos deliberately chosen to stir up old emotions, or had he not realized what he might be running into? But how, I wondered, could his erstwhile colleagues have known he was back in their area? Had he told them or had they learned through the professional grapevine? Neither ticked enough boxes.

Belinda seemed to be more fully involved than her detachment suggested, so I probed further. ‘Do the Charros still see each other?’

‘At least once a year.’

Did I imagine a slight hesitation – and did it mean anything if so?

‘On the ninth of July,’ Belinda continued. ‘That’s the day on which Neil killed himself in 1992, and Jonathan Lamb hosts a lunch in his memory for those who knew him well.’

‘That’s a
long
time ago,’ Daisy said in awe. ‘I wasn’t even
born
then.’

‘A happy day for us all when you were.’ Belinda smiled at Daisy.

I wasn’t going to get deflected – if that had been Belinda’s intention. ‘Do you take part in the anniversary lunch?’ I’d been watching her and reckoned it was worth a guess. To draw together friends – presumably all the Charros – to commemorate Neil was admirable from one point of view but surely strange from another. Why remind themselves so
formally
of an unhappy period in all their lives? It suggested that a wish for revenge might not be so unlikely after all. Not forgetting Neil was good, but not if it meant the Charros had not moved on in life.

‘I go every year,’ Belinda answered, ‘and Betty Gibson comes too.’ Her eyes dared me to ask why the barmaid and the late pub owner’s widow should attend, with its implication that the May Tree was more a home to the Charros than simply a venue.

I accepted their challenge. ‘Why? What’s held you all together for so long?’

‘I’m not sure I can answer that. Ask Jonathan. He’s the prime mover.’

The Charros had failed as a band for reasons beyond most of their control, and Neil’s memory was so treasured that it glued them together. Was the lunch just the loving remembrance it seemed or had it become a ritual that suggested more than that? I had an image of the weird suppers that a rich Parisian gourmet held centuries back for the mighty and wealthy of Paris. They began by entering a room in complete darkness from which they were ushered into another candlelit one, the central table of which was thoughtfully surmounted by a coffin. I couldn’t believe the Charros’ lunch was anything as way out as that, but nevertheless I wondered very much what did happen there.

I prowled restlessly around Frogs Hill after Belinda and Daisy eventually departed in Thunderbird and Volvo respectively – Daisy with much reluctance, not because she liked my company but because I was her only possible link to Melody. Belinda left me with a stern order to me to: ‘Find Melody for Daisy.’

I had honoured my word and taken them both to the pub in Piper’s Green for lunch, driven in state in the Gordon-Keeble. Daisy clearly thought the Gordon-Keeble was second-best to the Lagonda, but Belinda was truly hooked, and I allowed her to drive back to Frogs Hill, at her insistence. I reckoned that anyone who could handle a Thunderbird on the North Downs could cope with my beloved car. As I explained, I’m very careful with the Gordon-Keeble owing to its earlier accident, which, despite Len’s magnificent restoration job, left it vulnerable. Every year he toils away murmuring darkly that it’s touch and go whether it will pass the MOT, and every year it does. Of course it does, it’s a Gordon-Keeble – and Belinda had loved it.

She had not offered to give me the Charros’ contact details, but I was confident that I had enough information to track them down easily enough. I decided to leave Josie for the moment and tackle Jonathan Lamb, who was simple to trace because of the House of Lamb design business. An affable recorded voice informed me that the office was closed until Monday morning but that I could ring or visit then.

There was no news from Cara, which was disappointing, and no word from Eva, which was a relief. I don’t know quite what I was dreading, but somehow silence seemed a good thing. Len and Zoe were still working flat out on the Alvis despite the fact that it was well into the afternoon, and they didn’t need any interruptions from me – even if they’d noticed I was around. So I decided to seek out Liz Potter, who runs a garden centre on the outskirts of Piper’s Green. She and I are in the comfortable position of being amiable former lovers. The only snag would arise if her nerd husband Colin was on the scene, but with any luck he’d be chasing microbes in a lab somewhere. He’s some kind of scientist. Where Liz and I are concerned, it is a case of all passion spent, as Milton put it. Passion had reigned for a year and a half when I first returned to England from the oil trade, although that included passion of all sorts, including the occasional flying potted plant during the latter stages. Her garden centre includes a good café for lunch and coffee, so it is equally convenient for practical reasons, as well as for seeing Liz from time to time. Not too often, though, or husband Colin takes the hump. Liz wouldn’t care about that, but I did on her behalf. I am not his favourite person, even though she was not married to him or anyone during our affair and I, too, had been single.

I walked to the garden centre, deciding that the footpath route would do me good. I purposely left my mobile behind on the basis that any bad news could be avoided for a while longer. Liz is a busy person so I am never sure what my reception will be. Today, however, her wellington boots stopped in their tracks when she saw me. I hoped that there would be a grin of welcome but there wasn’t. Instead she looked anxious.

‘I’ve heard the news, Jack,’ she began alarmingly. ‘Come into the office if you want to talk.’

Even more alarming. Her office is a cubbyhole overlooking her attractive layout of tables, flower-beds and blooms, so it was a bad sign that she took me there and not, as usual, to the café. ‘It’ll be more private here,’ she explained with a look of sympathy that I did not like at all. Liz’s sympathy usually takes the form of ‘I told you so’.

‘What news?’ I asked. ‘About Carlos’s murder?’

‘Well, yes. Is it Eva?’

I went cold.

‘It was on the radio,’ she continued uncertainly, obviously having read my expression correctly. ‘They said a woman had been arrested, and as she was his wife I assumed it was her and that you knew.’

‘No,’ I said numbly. ‘I didn’t.’ All I could think was that it
could
be Eva and I’d been blithely ignorant of what was going on. Len and Zoe aren’t great ones for listening to news broadcasts and nor am I.

‘I’m sorry,’ Liz said. ‘Want to talk?’

‘I don’t think I can, Liz.’ My brain seemed to be a crazy carousel of stray thoughts spinning round and round and up and down. Why hadn’t Cara rung me? Why hadn’t Brandon? How was Eva herself? Did she have anyone with her? Why hadn’t
she
rung me?

‘Old feelings rising?’ Liz asked.

‘Yes –
no.
Liz—’

‘You feel involved? Responsibility?’

I managed to translate this into a coherent thought. ‘Because of Cara, yes. It has to be unlikely that Eva will be charged. She might have
wanted
to kill Carlos, but she’s too fond of her own skin to actually have shot him.’ I wasn’t sure I believed that, but I hoped it was true.

‘Anything I can do?’

I reached out for Liz’s hand. ‘You’re here, and that’s good. Carlos had some girlfriend over here, so Eva claims. Maybe she did it, or else … Liz, I’ll have to get going. Make some calls.’

‘Make them here. I’ll vanish.’

‘Thanks, Liz, but no. I walked here, and the way back will give me time to—’

‘To what, Jack?’ she asked, as I paused. I’d been going to say ‘time to think’ but I wasn’t sure it would work that way.

‘No idea,’ I admitted. ‘Get my emotional armour on?’

‘Knights of old galloping to the rescue? Pageboy here when required, Jack. You know that.’

I gave her a kiss and was halfway out of the door when she threw at me: ‘What did you come here for, anyway? To buy a dozen red roses?’

I groaned. I was losing my grip. ‘To ask if you know someone called Jonathan Lamb.’

‘Yes. Not well though. House designer. Did some work for a chum of ours.’

‘He was in Carlos’s band, I’m told. Does the name Neil Watson mean anything to you?’

‘No – wait a bit. There was some story about a lad in that band who killed himself.’

‘That’s it. What’s Jonathan Lamb like? I’m going to see him on Monday.’

‘Successful, smooth, likeable, clever, introverted, sharp – how much more do you want?’

‘That’s enough. Thanks, Liz.’

Once again I was already at the door when she called out: ‘Jonathan Lamb, Jack. He and this Neil Watson were an item. That’s why I remembered it. Jonathan’s gay.’

So the reason for the annual lunch was established. Was it the reason for murder too?

By the time I reached Frogs Hill I was in control again. Brandon first. Result? DCI Brandon was not available, I was told. It was his weekend off. I told the sergeant that DCI Brandon
was
available this weekend and that the true answer was that he didn’t fancy talking to Jack Colby. Try again. This time Brandon was there, a bad sign in itself, and I prepared myself for the worst.

He sounded remarkably human, however, and didn’t try any of this ‘can’t discuss it’ stuff. Well, not much. ‘Early days,’ he trotted out as usual. ‘But I’m afraid it’s true that Eva Mendez has been arrested.’

‘Enough evidence to charge her with?’

‘Waiting on the CPS.’ Fair enough. The Crown Prosecution Service is there to give guidance over charging. Then Brandon added, ‘Afraid there’s not much chance we won’t go ahead though.’

I thanked him – genuinely. Presumably, I had been and still might be on the suspect list and at the very least I was an interested party, and so Brandon was unlikely to keep me abreast of events from now on. Dave was another matter, however. Brandon could talk to him as a colleague in the Car Crime Unit, and Dave
might
talk to me. He knows by now that I can respect boundaries.

Dave and I get on well – and never had that been as important as now. He might know what was going on, espe-cially as they work out of the same HQ at Charing. Not for the first time Dave was on voicemail. He, too, tries to guard his weekends like most of us, but he rang back quickly.

‘Sorry, Jack. I know this must be a major headache for you. I’ve checked into it and at least Brandon isn’t after you as a co-conspirator. Where were you on Monday night, incidentally? Joke,’ he added hastily.

‘What’s he got on Eva?’ I asked. ‘He can’t seriously be thinking Eva got it into her head to rush out of the hotel to Allington Lock and murder her husband.’

‘Actually yes, Jack. He does. Your wife—’

‘No longer my wife,’ I replied automatically.

‘Don’t quibble,’ Dave said dismissively. ‘Mendez went out in his car that evening just before nine and the car was duly found parked near where he was found. Your former wife lied about not leaving the hotel. They’ve tracked down the taxi that dropped her at the lock itself at about ten fifteen. I gather that was on the other side of the river from the crime scene. Hotel reports they’d had a flaming row during dinner, loud enough to disturb the other customers and be heard by the staff. Another taxi picked her up on the crime-scene side of the river near the Kent Life museum at about eleven p.m. Hotel reports her return there at about eleven thirty. Estimated time of death for Carlos Mendez between nine and eleven p.m. Not too bright, your Eva.’

I thought furiously. There must be a flaw in this. Dave was right. It was a crazy story. For a start if Eva had been dropped at Allington Lock itself she would not have thought about crossing the river unless Carlos had specifically told her where he was due to transact his ‘business’. Then my heart sank as I thought that it would be just like Eva to forget the details and remember them too late, sending her rushing across … No, I’d go no further.

‘What about the pub?’ I asked. ‘Didn’t anybody there see or hear anything? There’s a large outside seating area.’

‘Apparently not. Brandon said the body was quite a way from the pub, on the far side of the bridge and sluice and hidden in undergrowth.’

‘Right. It was. And the noise of the sluice meant no one would have heard anything anyway. Of course. Very useful spot for a murder.’ My brain was spinning like a washing machine without its cleansing properties. ‘Did Eva pack a gun in her luggage?’ I still couldn’t believe that.

‘Don’t know, but no gun’s yet been found at the crime scene, although they’re still checking the river. Trouble is, Carlos himself was in the habit of packing a Smith and Wesson with his underwear. Evidence from the Mexican police is that he always carried one.’

That was cautiously good news. Eva wouldn’t have the nous to be clever over removing the gun and hiding it somewhere less than obvious. ‘Trace evidence?’ I asked. ‘DNA?’

‘Lab’s still working on it. But there was an imprint of a high heel or two in the earth. It doesn’t look good, Jack.’

He was right, and we both knew it. ‘What’s her story?’ I might as well know the worst.

‘Guess what. She thought Carlos was meeting a woman so she admits she dashed out to find him. She thought he was in one of the moored boats on the lock side of the river, but he wasn’t, so she crossed the bridge thinking he might have gone to one of those moored on the far side, but went nowhere near the point where he was found, and as there was no sign of him she then went home.’

Then went home.
If anything more was needed to convince me that Eva’s story was economical with the truth those words nailed it down. An Eva in pursuit of Carlos and a floozie would not have given up and just gone home. Never.