Classic Cashes In Page 5

  But then Philip Moxton was not a usual man. I strolled over to the garage to try to get a glimpse through a crack, but I was foiled.

  ‘What be you doing here?’

  The lodge keeper had loomed up behind us, having either followed us or spotted us through the arch leading to the gardens. He did not look pleased. Far from it. That beard was quivering with rage.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘We took a wrong turning.’

  ‘What a lovely Rover,’ Cara said enthusiastically, and the look on our non-friend’s face that had said I would be shot at dawn softened a little. Cara has that effect on people.

  ‘She’s a beauty,’ he replied. ‘Runs like a dream.’

  ‘Packard running well?’ I asked cheerily.

  The softer look promptly vanished. ‘Ask the boss,’ he snarled.

  At least he was talking to me. ‘When I see Miss Janes, I will. I didn’t realize she was the owner of the Packard,’ I said brightly. ‘Mr Moxton must be one of the gardeners.’

  I’ve never seen a face purple so quickly. ‘He’s not a bloody gardener. He keeps to the house. The gardens be mine – and Miss Moxton’s,’ he added.

  Miss Moxton’s, eh? I was getting somewhere. For Miss Janes read Miss Moxton. The telephone receptionist must be Philip’s sister. ‘Ah yes, you did mention that Miss Janes … owned the house. I see she’s here today.’

  He seemed not to hear me. ‘These gardens –’ he announced to the world in general – ‘they’re a work of art, they are. The house – that’s just a load of old stones and bricks, but these gardens they’re living, changing all the time. That’s what we need here at Staveley. Take what nature gives and give something back to it. See? That’s gardens for you.’

  I thought about putting in an argument for the house too, but one look at this man made me agree that I did indeed see his point. He was obviously not just the lodge keeper but gardener too.

  Cara valiantly took up the baton again. ‘The best of gardens, like this one, live in people’s memories, like the Petit Trianon in Paris.’ She ignored my gurgle of surprise. ‘Yours is a masterpiece, Mr … er …’

  ‘Carson. John Carson. No one gets in the way of these gardens,’ he informed us. ‘No one. See?’

  I hastily saw. I was younger than him, taller than him, heavier than him, but there was something about his skinny pent-up frame that made me think twice about defying this edict.

  Cara departed next day, with plans for the wedding approved so far as they went. Cautiously I agreed they didn’t sound too expensive; wedding in the local church where Harry was a stalwart and the reception on the farm ‘with good farm fare’, she said vaguely, so provided this didn’t mean my feeding five hundred or so it sounded manageable. Besides, I remembered I planned to be rich by next year. Something to look forward to.

  I needed it. No jobs were offered to me, the phone line was silent both on my personal and professional life. The days ticked by until finally Len and Zoe took pity on me. They actually came up with the idea that I could help them in the Pits. They are seldom enthusiastic about this, but on this occasion we all thought it a good idea. Especially for this restoration job. It would keep my hand in. It was a blue Riley 1.5 litre and they graciously let me look after the retuning.

  At last the Packard began to recede from my mind. After all, what was there to mull over? Philip Moxton had said he feared to be murdered but there was nothing I could do about that and it couldn’t be anything to do with the Packard. Or could it? I wondered. The Herricks clearly knew Philip Moxton. Is that why he didn’t want his name revealed as the purchaser of that car? Were they the ones he suspected of wanting to murder him? If so, why have an open day when anyone could turn up, including the very people he suspected? Or was the plan to flush the potential murderer into the open? No, Philip Moxton didn’t seem the type to play games of that sort.

  I tried yet again to push the Packard out of my mind, but its buttery yellow grandeur still refused to budge. It was still on my mind on Monday morning when the owner of the Riley called in.

  ‘How’s it going?’ he asked.

  ‘Not sure I would like it painted black.’

  ‘Painted black?’ He looked aghast and I quickly came to my senses.

  ‘Not the Riley. Sorry. Had something on my mind. A Packard at Staveley House.’

  He grunted. ‘That’s where John Carson’s the gardener, isn’t it?’

  ‘Right. And he plays watchdog at the gates to make sure no one runs off with his petunias.’

  ‘You want to be careful of him.’

  ‘I got that impression too.’

  ‘Rumours.’ He tapped the side of his nose – why do people do that? Lips I could understand.

  ‘About what?’ I asked cautiously.

  ‘Moves with a doubtful lot.’

  I didn’t like the sound of this. ‘How doubtful?’

  ‘Very. He’s Richie’s father. Heard of him?’

  That rang an unpleasant bell, especially as this was Friday the 13th. ‘The one who fences a slick operation to the continent?’ And when he nodded, I added, ‘But his father’s not that sort. He’s a gardener after all.’

  ‘There isn’t a different sort,’ he said simply. ‘Watch it.’

  I’d no need to watch anything, I reminded myself. The Packard job was over, and so was my responsibility to Staveley House and its weird occupants. As if to confirm this, three days later on Monday morning Dave Jennings rang me at last.

  ‘Ever heard of the Car Crime Unit?’ he joked. He’d been out of touch for so long I was tempted to say no, but self-preservation made me hold it back.

  ‘Got a job for you,’ he said.

  ‘Firm?’ I added hopefully as pound signs flashed up before me.

  ‘Yes. Missing Volkswagen Golf.’

  ‘That’s not my field,’ I said, puzzled. ‘I do classics. What year?’

  ‘Four years since it drove into this world.’

  ‘Love the idea of a job, but why me?’ His team is perfectly capable of tracking down modern Volkswagens. It’s only classics where specialist knowledge is sometimes needed that bring me into the picture.

  ‘This is a special,’ Dave said seriously. ‘Brandon wants you in.’

  Brandon? DCI Brandon of the Kent Police and I have an uneasy working relationship when from time to time murder makes its entry on stage. ‘Tell me the worst,’ I said.

  ‘Murder case in Monksford.’

  The two sat somewhat oddly together. Monksford is a sizeable village buried south west of Ashford not far from Shadowhurst. Its centre is pleasantly olde worlde, but the new housing estates all round it have enclosed it so completely that it seems in a time warp.

  ‘A dodgy one?’ I asked Dave.

  ‘Not at first sight. House ransacked, car nicked, owner shot. By name Geoffrey Green.’

  ‘What does the second sight tell you?’

  ‘Couple of odd things. Brandon will explain when you get there. Which will be, like, now,’ Dave added, giving me the address.

  ‘Now?’ Why the urgency?

  ‘Forget whatever else you were planning to do today. Now.’

  ‘In that case, let’s get back to the root question,’ I said patiently. ‘I’m a car detective. Why me in particular?’

  A pause. ‘You really want to know?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your card was found in Geoffrey Green’s pocket.’

  FOUR

  What could be so urgent about this case that it demanded my instant presence? It’s true crime scenes move fast, but even so a card in the pocket would seem to merit a follow-up visit by the police rather than a summons to the actual scene. But if the great Brandon had requested my presence, far be it from me to deprive him of it. It was rare for a DCI to take personal charge of a crime scene so who was I to object? The question was whether he wanted my help or whether I was a suspect? I don’t give out that many Frogs Hill cards but enough that the odds were against the latter, whoever this vict
im was and whatever the motive behind his death. Theft seemed the most likely, but that wouldn’t have caught Brandon’s personal attention. Anyway, I told myself uneasily, it was far too soon to prejudge the issue.

  I patted my trusty steed (otherwise known as my Alfa) on her bonnet, and told her we were setting off for a date with the noble DCI Brandon, who I’d been told would be waiting for me at the murder scene.

  ‘Won’t you be there?’ I had asked Dave.

  ‘Thanks,’ he’d said, ‘but I’ll give this one a miss. Unless,’ he had added, ‘this case is bigger than both of you. I doubt that though.’

  ‘Then why the summons to me?’ I’d asked. I’m not particularly modest but I am aware that my services cost money, which automatically puts a case into the ‘special’ category.

  But answer had come there none.

  I wasn’t that bothered by the fact that my card was in Geoffrey Green’s pocket, but I did wonder whether it was the Frogs Hill Restoration business card or my private one. I’d asked Dave, but he had no idea. It might be an interesting point. If it was the business card, why would the owner of a fairly modern Volkswagen Golf be interested in classic car restoration? Perhaps he had wanted to buy one? That didn’t seem to fit either. So it remained a question to be dealt with at some point.

  The drive to Monksford was not a long one, once I had skirted Ashford. It’s a peaceful place where murder does not leap instantly to mind. Miss Marple might have plenty to do in such villages but in real life it’s less frequently encountered. I grew increasingly puzzled as I turned off the minor road to the centre of Monksford and then into the estate where the murder had taken place. There was such a sharp divide between the farmland and the edge of the estate that it looked as if development had come in relatively recently, perhaps ten years previously.

  As I drove round the corner into Spinners Drive, I saw a long row of similar, though not identical houses. Number 28 was hard to miss, not because the numbers were obligingly large on the doors but because of Brandon’s array of cars and vans which directed me straight to it. It was a small detached house in the midst of a row of semis as was the style along the entire road on both sides of it, and the gap between the detached houses and the neighbours’ garages was very narrow.

  What do these observations have to do with my summons to Brandon? Nothing, save that it made the question of what my card was doing in the victim’s pocket even more mysterious, since it would be unlikely that the victim would have had a rare Rolls-Royce or its ilk tucked away somewhere.

  Brandon wasn’t exactly waiting with arms akimbo for me, but I could see him in the small front garden bordered by crime- scene tape. This encircled not only Number 28 but Numbers 26 and 24 as well, perhaps because the gardens were open-plan.

  Once I’d navigated my way past the log-in at the crime scene access point and quickly donned scene shoes, Brandon proved his usual imperturbable self. Not that imperturbability denotes a laid-back approach to his work. It’s one of his most useful tools. It discomposes his witness or suspect, who then can’t wait to let loose a torrent of information in the mistaken hope of convincing his listener of its truth.

  ‘Thanks for coming, Jack,’ he said. ‘Want a look at him?’

  Brandon’s a hunting dog by nature. The slightest whiff of a scent and he’s off, but he doesn’t like wasting time on false leads. I followed him into the house somewhat reluctantly, but I knew better than to let him see that. I didn’t know Geoffrey Green and I didn’t want my first and only acquaintance with him to be his murdered body, but one doesn’t say no to Brandon.

  ‘Your card,’ he began, leading the way into the first room, a living room and, to my relief, with no sign of its late owner. I had time to steel myself.

  ‘For the restoration business, I imagine, but I’m pretty sure I haven’t met him.’

  ‘It’s your personal card.’

  That surprised me, but I still hadn’t heard of Geoffrey Green. Cards get around.

  ‘Green was late middle age,’ Brandon continued. ‘Travelled a lot – London mostly, several days a week and sometimes weekends according to the neighbours. Variable times. Thought to have had a flat in London. Other than that, the neighbours don’t know a thing about him. Kept himself to himself. No one heard anything for sure last night, although someone thought they heard a car about eight o’clock; Green invariably put the car straight into the garage, though.’

  ‘So no one would have seen it in the drive.’

  ‘Quite. No opportunist theft. Ready to look at him?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said bravely. ‘Was it a straight break-in or someone he knew? Presumably the former as the car was nicked. How did he die?’

  ‘You’ll see. Knife probably. We’ll know more shortly.’ Brandon glanced at me, perhaps reading my expression correctly. ‘Died during the night between nine and two approximately. Downstairs so more likely to be before midnight. Neighbours said Green was often coming and going and they were never sure whether he was here or not.’

  ‘Could he have come back and disturbed an intruder?’

  ‘Perhaps, but unlikely,’ Brandon replied. ‘There was an amateur attempt at window breaking at the rear. So it could have been someone he knew.’

  Brandon has the knack of making me feel instantly guilty. ‘Not me,’ I said firmly. ‘I’ve no idea why he had my card.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have left it in his pocket if you’d knifed him.’

  ‘Thanks.’ A compliment from Brandon? Treasure it. ‘What about this Golf that’s missing?’

  ‘Garage self-locked behind the departed vehicle. No keys found so far.’

  This was routine stuff, and it was time to get to the point. ‘Why was it so important to have me here now?’

  The piercing eyes gleamed at me. ‘It seems an odd scene. That coupled with your card was the reason.’

  I had to face it. I was going to have to view the body even though Brandon still showed no sign of wanting to escort me there.

  ‘The body was discovered at eight thirty this morning,’ Brandon continued, ‘when the cleaner arrived. She wasn’t expecting Green to be here, so it was a double shock. She’s been taken home. He’s in there.’ Hardly to my surprise, he indicated the double doors leading through to the rear room, but he still didn’t move.

  ‘What is it that strikes you as odd?’ I asked.

  He hesitated – unusual for Brandon. ‘The whole thing is too neat.’

  ‘The case or the scene?’ I asked.

  ‘Everything,’ he said obliquely.

  I’d already noted that the room we were standing in was spartan. There was nothing personal in it. Even the bookcase was impersonal in its book collection – Dickens, Christie, guide books and so on. The TV, gas fire, armchairs, sofa, table – all were immaculate but told me nothing about their user.

  ‘So apart from looking at the poor bloke what’s for me to do?’ I asked him warily.

  ‘Your field mainly. The Volkswagen.’

  ‘OK. That’s straightforward. What else?’ I was sure there must be something because otherwise Dave’s team would be on the case and not me.

  Brandon surprised me. ‘For once, Jack, I don’t know. Maybe your views on whether the car theft was the motivation for the murder or another attempt to make us think theft was the motive.’

  ‘OK. I’ll let you know my gut feeling when I’m further in. I’d better take a look at him, I suppose.’ I braced myself.

  Without another word, Brandon took me there, not through the double doors which were now being checked by the forensic team, but into the hallway and through to the dining room where sheeting covered what was obviously the victim. It couldn’t cover the carpets and walls where blood spatters were all too clear, however, and I had to steady myself for what was to come. I’ve seen dead men before, quite often, but cars are my line, not corpses, so I had a tight grip on myself as Brandon went over to lift the sheet.

  ‘It’s worth seeing if he rings any bells wi
th you,’ he said. ‘The face is OK, the knife or whatever it was took him in the chest. Several times.’

  I wondered why he needed any bells rung as he already knew who Geoffrey Green was, but I didn’t ask him. I was flattered in one way that he’d called me in, wary in another, even though all I had to do for the moment was to tell him whether or not I knew Geoffrey Green.

  As the sheet exposed the face, my stomach lurched. I did know Geoffrey Green.

  But I knew him as Philip Moxton.

  I’ve often wondered how Victorian ladies so predictably fainted on the spot after a shock. Tight corsets couldn’t always have been to blame. Now I knew the answer. I hadn’t fainted, but Brandon was concerned enough at my white face to take me back to the incident van outside and sit me down. I’m not sure ‘concerned’ is the right word, as what interested him was my reaction. The hunting dog had the scent in his nostrils and it wasn’t a false one.

  Tea’s better than coffee as a restorative and forget about brandy. I’d never tasted a cuppa as good as the one I was handed in a paper cup. After I’d blurted out who Geoffrey Green really was to Brandon, I fed disjointed scraps of information to him, while I wrestled with my own emotions. I’d come to like Philip Moxton on the brief visits I’d paid to him. What was worse was that he had told me he was afraid he’d be murdered and I hadn’t taken him seriously. For all I knew of the world of billionaires they all might have that at the back of their minds or security wouldn’t be such an issue. If he’d been that scared, he’d have drawn in the Met or hired bodyguards, wouldn’t he?

  ‘You’re sure that’s who it is?’ From looking rather pleased that his prediction that this case was an odd one was correct, Brandon now looked very bleak. ‘Not just a lookalike? Any doubts at all?’

  ‘None. I gave him that card you found some weeks ago, when I did a job for him.’

  ‘What job?’ he asked, instantly alert. I saw his team closing in around us like a pack of wolves, hungry for information.

  ‘He wanted me to find a Packard classic for him. One that he used to own.’