Classic in the Dock Read online

  That was all there was to it, wasn’t it?

  By the next morning, my Chianti-fogged head had cleared sufficiently and Giovanni had a happy smile on his face when he descended for breakfast. Louise had already left, so we would have time to ourselves until he had to leave for Plumshaw after – he informed me firmly – lunch at the Half Moon, my local pub in Piper’s Green. That’s our nearest village, although it’s small and lacks a church, technically rendering it a hamlet. Pluckley is our nearest sizeable village, about three miles away.

  Before lunch, we had a happy chat about Alfa Romeos and a tour of the Pits with Len and Zoe. This is a great honour, especially as I’m (to them) merely the figurehead owner who is occasionally allowed to assist with a job if so permitted by my devoted staff. Devoted, that is, to their work. Their attitude to me is changeable, but in times of need they are staunch allies, good friends and an essential part of my life, as I am of theirs.

  This morning, Len and Zoe were more interested in the Ferrari Daytona than in work on my humble behalf.

  ‘Four cam?’ Len was overcome.

  Giovanni nodded. ‘The GTB/4. You drive it,’ he added generously.

  Did he mean me? No way. Only one of us was allowed to take the wheel, and that was Len.

  Giovanni is as unpredictable in life as he is in his art, and to single Len out was a good move. I thought Len would refuse, but he didn’t. Giovanni even let me accompany him, while he remained in the Pits with Zoe. It was a memorable trip. Even the tractor we met in the single-track lane obeyed the message about giving precedence to the Daytona. It was the tractor that drove off into the muddy field to allow us to pass in style, with its driver gawping at the red beauty gliding by. He would have doffed his cap if he’d been wearing one. We did a circular tour while Len clutched the wheel, muttering under his breath and clearly in complete communion with this wonderful car with its blood-red colour and matching upholstery as fiery as it was unforgettable.

  When we returned from lunch, Giovanni announced his departure, promptly throwing his luggage into the Daytona with a careless abandon that would have most classic car owners shivering in their shoes. Louise was already home for the day and Giovanni kissed her hand in farewell, which caused her to blush. She has to cope with a lot of adulation in her career, so the blush was quite a tribute to Giovanni, I thought somewhat uneasily.

  ‘Come and stay with us on your way home,’ I told him. ‘We all want to hear about the Alfa Romeo.’

  ‘I will, my friend, I will.’ A wave of the hand and he was off.

  I put an arm round Louise as we returned to the farmhouse. ‘What did you make of Giovanni?’ I asked, perhaps stupidly.

  ‘Great fun,’ she said quickly.

  I had to ask. ‘Had you met him before?’

  She seemed surprised. ‘No. I did think he looked familiar, but only because I’d seen his photo in the press.’ She looked uncertainly at me. ‘Why? Have I dropped a line or two from the script?’

  ‘Not from mine.’ So that was all. I laughed at my overactive imagination. ‘My stage directions command that we exit left and enjoy the rest of the day together.’

  ‘Good. No work to do?’

  ‘No.’

  Len and Zoe had given no indication that they couldn’t do without me, and I hadn’t anything else clamouring for attention. Most of my own work is for private clients hunting down the cars of their dreams, past or present, or freelance work for the Kent Car Crime Unit. Car crime has been decreasing in Kent, although I can’t claim any personal hand in this achievement, and as a result I hadn’t been called upon for some weeks. This was to the detriment of my ability to pay the mortgage on Frogs Hill, but it did mean that I was able to enjoy the most wonderful May. The fields and the woods were greener than I could ever remember, wild flowers were covering the verges and meadows, sheep were happily grazing, I was king of the world and Louise was my queen. The rest of the day lay before us.

  ‘Then let the trumpets sound,’ Louise announced gleefully. Giovanni was forgotten.

  Or so I thought. The very next day, however, my instinct that Plumshaw was not a happy village was reinforced when its local garage owner and restorer, Martin Fisher, popped into the Pits. He loves classic cars, but isn’t a specialist and so he consults Frogs Hill Classic Car Restorations when he gets a knotty problem. Such consultations are usually a trio, with Len and Zoe holding forth with their professional expertise, although sometimes I add my own gut instincts.

  Today he and I had the chance of a one-to-one after he had finished his high-tech discussions on a Bristol, so I interrogated him over the Compton family. I tried to sound casual since I could be treading on marshy ground.

  Martin’s younger than I am – in his mid-thirties – and passionate about his job. He has to be, as he’s an independent operator with only a couple of lads to help run Four Star Services. Mostly they deal with customers’ daily drivers, but that makes him all the more enthusiastic about the classics when he has the opportunity. That seemed to be now.

  ‘That Alfa Romeo, Jack. Quite something. The Comptons asked me to take a look at it – maybe they’ll let me restore it.’

  He shot a look at me, perhaps guessing (correctly) that I would consider this a job way out of his league. By the time he had extolled its glories, dust, rust and all, and I had been suitably impressed, I was able to ask him about the manor. I still couldn’t see laid-back Giovanni fitting, however temporarily, into a Kentish family grown from strong feudal roots and still firmly entwined with them. Martin was only too eager to talk though.

  ‘There’s an atmosphere about that place. Hits you as soon as you turn in the gates,’ he said. ‘That’s if the resident killer dogs let you. Weird they are.’ He grinned. ‘The Comptons, not the dogs. You won’t believe this, but Peter Compton still takes a daily feudal drive round the village. Expects his workers to doff any hats they might be wearing.’

  ‘And do they?’

  ‘If they’re wise.’

  ‘The son sounds more reasonable.’

  ‘They’re all weird if you’re a Makepeace. Makepeaces versus the Comptons is what Plumshaw is all about.’

  ‘That’s the traditional village feud I’ve heard about?’

  ‘Yes. Plumshaw is two villages,’ he replied. ‘There’s old Plumshaw, with the church and the Comptons and all that, and there’s new Plumshaw, with the housing estate, my garage, the hotel and a convenience store.’

  I understood what Martin meant. With so much building going on in the south-east this divide in villages is to some extent to be expected, but in some cases the growth sits like a massive carbuncle on one side of an ancient village so that neither is comfortable inside its skin.

  I made this point to Martin and he nodded. ‘New Plumshaw is run by the Makepeaces and old Plumshaw by the Comptons. Never the twain shall meet except in the church, or my garage, or the pub. Feelings are usually kept underneath the surface, but at the moment they’re surfacing in a big way. What with the Hop and Harry and all that.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The pub,’ he reminded me. ‘Legend has it that Henry VIII, good king Harry, courted Anne Boleyn there, but more likely Harry is just a shortened Harrow. Anyway, it’s stuck in the middle of a nightmare at present and there’s going to be trouble. You know there’s only the one road that really goes through Plumshaw, and it’s only a minor road at that. The pub stands at the point where the old Plumshaw meets the new.’

  I usually approach Plumshaw from the Ashford to Canterbury road, as the other direction involves such twisty and narrow lanes that driving along them means facing opposition from oncoming vehicles every few seconds. There’s a limit to the amount of fun to be had from manoeuvring on to verges, avoiding hidden ditches, or backing long distances for a passing place.

  As I recalled, from my direction the manor and the church are on the right, and on the left are some clusters of cottages and a narrow lane, the sort that boasts a signpost bearing name
s so enticing that Louise calls them ‘tomorrow lanes’, because you always think that next time you drive past you’ll stop and explore them. As one turns the bend to the south on the main Plumshaw road, the hotel, garage, secondary school and housing estates lie beyond it. The pub sits just on that bend.

  ‘So what’s the problem with the Hop and Harry?’ I asked.

  ‘There’s a plan afoot for more land to be developed behind it and to the west, a massive new housing estate and a big industrial one.’

  ‘Nothing unusual about that,’ I said sadly. Times move on, although in my opinion they don’t need to sprint.

  ‘This one depends on a new road to be carved out, which will take traffic in a jiffy to the Ashford rail terminal, the major A20 road and the motorway to Folkestone and on to Dover.’

  I saw where this might be leading. ‘And where would this road be?’

  ‘The Hop and Harry pub sits bang in the middle of the only possible route.’

  I hardly needed to ask. ‘Who owns the pub?’

  ‘The Comptons.’

  ‘I take it they don’t want to sell?’

  ‘No, especially to the Makepeaces or their developers. The Makepeaces own the farms that would be sold for the development. You’d think the Comptons would be only too keen to sell; their farm’s obviously struggling.’

  ‘Can’t they put ancient history aside?’

  ‘History is never ancient,’ Martin said gloomily. ‘It’s just beyond our fingertips and if we stretch we can touch it. Plumshaw’s stretching.’

  Plumshaw was indeed an unhappy village and Giovanni had driven blithely into it. Luckily, he was there for the Alfa Romeo only. Old village vendettas wouldn’t affect him.

  I was wrong.

  Giovanni had planned to be at Plumshaw Manor for about ten days, working on his masterpiece, and so I had not expected to hear from him until at least a week had passed. When, therefore, he rang that very evening, only a day after he had left, I was surprised to say the least.

  ‘A bed for the night?’ I merrily quipped, only belatedly aware of the tremor in his voice.

  ‘I have a bed, Jack. I am arrested.’

  I thought I’d misheard. ‘Arrested?’

  I hadn’t misheard.

  ‘I am in a police station.’

  His voice struck a chilling note and I was appalled. ‘For what?’ My mind flashed through the options. Careless driving? Licence out of date?

  ‘Murder, Jack.’

  TWO

  Eight-thirty on a May Friday morning. Events move in the fast lane when life switches into top gear, and that’s how it was now. Giovanni was being held at Charing HQ in connection with the murder of Hugh Compton. I still couldn’t take it in. I’d seen nothing on the news or in the press about any murder anywhere in Kent since Giovanni had left, and no mention of Plumshaw. I was so stunned that all I had been able to do on the phone last evening was to assure Giovanni I would sort out a solicitor for him right away. The first step was not hard. I had immediately contacted his agent in London (who had been about to depart on a weekend break when I rang and rapidly changed his mind). He said he’d summon the best solicitor for criminal cases in London, who would, I was informed, set off to rescue Giovanni immediately.

  Now Zoe appeared in my kitchen, demanding to know what I was doing about this nonsensical story. How on earth had she heard the news? From a neighbour who knew a policeman, apparently. Before I could make any kind of reply to her, I heard a car arrive outside – and I recognized it from its loud gurgling noise. I rushed to the door to see my favourite bête noire, Pen Roxton, journalist for the Kentish Graphic, drawing up in a cloud of smoke in her old Vauxhall, her nose quivering for an inside story.

  ‘What have you got for me, Jack?’ she yelled out of the car window, simultaneously opening the door and tumbling out in her eagerness to grab me (not in affection). ‘You’re not fobbing me off this time. This guy – he’s your mate, yes?’

  ‘Which guy, Pen?’ I asked sweetly.

  ‘That cocky artist friend of yours, Giovanni, full of himself and pumped up with hot air.’

  ‘Kind of you,’ I said drily.

  She grinned. ‘Tell me about it, Jack.’

  ‘You tell me – I only just heard about it and no details at all. Where was Hugh Compton’s body found?’

  She looked at me thoughtfully, which meant she was sizing up her best attack mode, not that she was giving any consideration to my feelings about the mess Giovanni was in. ‘It hasn’t been found – yet. Your chum was found though, found yesterday morning covered in Compton’s blood and out of his tiny mind. He found himself, he said, in King’s Wood. Challock way, isn’t it? Drove to Plumshaw Manor for help – he said. They called the rozzers.’

  Knowing Pen of old, I wondered how long she had been prowling around the manor before she found a victim to spill a few beans with which she could build up a delectable dish for her readers.

  ‘Why call the police?’ I asked. ‘I realize Hugh Compton couldn’t have been there when Giovanni returned, but why assume he’d been the victim of a crime? Suppose Giovanni merely took him to a station to get a train or to see a lady friend?’

  She regarded me pityingly. ‘Blood, Jack. Blood.’

  ‘Why is it presumed to be Hugh’s, dear Pen? Why not Giovanni’s own blood, or that of a passing stranger or a dead chicken?’

  ‘Waiting for you to tell me, Jack. Know Hugh Compton, do you? He wouldn’t dare have a girlfriend, not with that father. His wife fled long ago. Divorced. Anyway, any sensible chap would keep his mobile phone on.’

  Pen’s not daft. She had a point. ‘Did he have his with him?’

  ‘Immaterial,’ she said grandly. ‘The family believes their Hughie boy is missing and probably dead.’

  This wasn’t looking too good, even though the basic premise that Giovanni could have left here on Wednesday to stay with total strangers and decided to murder one of them within hours was crazy. As far as I knew, there was only one subject in which Giovanni and Hugh Compton had a common interest, though for different reasons. ‘Is the Alfa Romeo missing?’

  ‘Wouldn’t know. Giovanni was driving some Italian job.’

  ‘The Italian job is probably his own car – a rare and valuable 1972 Ferrari Daytona,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Whatever. He drove it to Challock woods, murdered Hugh Compton in it, dumped the body and drove the car back. Not too bright, your chum. Come on, Jack. You must know something.’

  ‘Giovanni told me nothing about what happened and there’s a limit to how much even I can find out in the thirty-five minutes I’ve been operational today,’ I shot back savagely. ‘All I really know is what you’ve just told me. So now tell me more.’

  ‘What’s it worth?’ She didn’t mean cash.

  ‘No pre-bargaining, Pen.’

  ‘Exclusive when he’s convicted?’

  ‘What I love about you, Pen, is your consideration for other people’s feelings. Giovanni won’t even be charged without a body.’

  She snorted. ‘Don’t bank on it. Still …’ She considered her position for a moment, as I knew she would. ‘OK, do your best for me. Usual terms apply though, so play fair, Jack.’

  ‘Always, Pen,’ I replied through gritted teeth.

  ‘That old wreck in the barn is what they quarrelled over, so everyone thinks. Blood everywhere in the barn too.’

  Subtract a lot for Pen’s love of overstatement, but it still didn’t sound good. ‘In the Alfa Romeo?’ I asked with horror.

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘But the car is still there?’

  ‘No idea, but if it is it’s probably full of blood too, like that red job of Giovanni’s. That’s why they’ve charged him.’

  ‘They’ve already charged him?’ There’s a big difference between arrested and charged.

  ‘Well, arrested anyway,’ she amended to my relief.

  ‘OK. Who says, Pen? Who’s your source for all this blood? The milkman? Someone’s a
untie in Scotland?’

  ‘Nope. Anyway, a witness saw your mate trying to scrub the blood off at King’s Wood. He’s glued to the frame all right, Jack.’

  For once I agreed with her. If the DNA matched, the story would go that Giovanni had killed Hugh, taken the body off in his car, concealed it in some secluded place and then tried to clear up the mess as he panicked. Conceal it where? The coast, a river, a quarry, the woodland? Why go back to the manor, however, unless he was a braver man than I’d given him credit for? He could be cocky, as Pen had said, but he was clever. Did that make him a cunning villain? Hardly.

  I made one last assault. ‘Any particular reason your informant thinks Giovanni would want to kill Hugh Compton?’

  She shrugged. ‘Simple, Jack. They came to blows over Compton’s Alfa Romeo, your mate killed him by mistake and then panicked. Hot-headed, these Italians.’

  ‘Is that your informant’s view too? And he or she is …?’

  She waggled a finger at me. ‘Sources, Jack. Can’t reveal them.’

  ‘To me you can. You made me a colleague, remember?’

  She hesitated. ‘Landlord of the Hop and Harry pub.’

  ‘He’ll be staying here?’ Louise looked appalled.

  I couldn’t blame her. She had come back at eight in the evening on Saturday to find not the relaxation she needed but Giovanni alternately shrieking and sobbing on my shoulder, almost literally. Usually she takes most situations in her stride but this one was a different matter. Being an actor, she managed to hide her reactions in Giovanni’s presence but when we were alone in the kitchen she let fly.

  I would not normally have been enthusiastic about a longish stay, as Giovanni’s idea of a quiet evening is that it goes on twice as long with twice as much alcohol, twice as much smoke and twice as much loud music. But this time it was different.

  ‘He can’t put up at a hotel in the state he’s in,’ I explained.

  Giovanni had been released without charge that afternoon. The normal twenty-four-hour period within which he should be charged or released had been extended by a further twelve, and then by courtesy of a magistrate’s court hearing yesterday evening for another twelve. He’d been warned not to leave the country and to leave an address at which he could be contacted, and had come straight to Frogs Hill. Sending him away had not been an option.