Classic in the Barn Page 5

  ‘Sure,’ Dan agreed. ‘Everyone knew Mike. Not well – I painted a couple of their classics.’

  I was in like a flash. ‘The Lagonda V12?’

  Engines have their own way of telling drivers they’re not happy, and so did my audience. There was an atmosphere that indicated that I’d landed on the hard shoulder without meaning to. Total breakdown. The way Andy was looking at me signalled all lights should be flashing, whereas Dan, a simpler soul, merely looked bewildered.

  ‘Wouldn’t know about that,’ Dan replied. ‘I remember doing an Alfa 1750 and a Porsche 356. Same time as I did paintings for a couple of others in Piper’s Green. Lorna Stack, for one.’ He caught me looking, well, let’s say quizzical, and grinned. ‘It was a commission.’

  For him or the picture? I wondered. Both, probably: art and artist in one haul. Fortunately, that grin of his suggested he was no dumb toy boy and could look after himself.

  ‘Give me Polly any day,’ I murmured. I meant it as a light aside, but Dan replied seriously.

  ‘You won’t hear Lorna saying that. There’s no love lost between them.’

  ‘I’ll stick to Polly then.’

  A rare guffaw from Andy. ‘Don’t get your hopes up, Colby. The lady’s not for sale.’

  He might as well have added, ‘And nor’s her Lagonda.’

  The bull terrier in the back of Andy’s car (which was the Aston Martin DB5 next to the Lagonda) had been slumbering peacefully, until he picked up his master’s voice, decided he had been mistaken about my intentions and woke up snarling. It was time for me to depart. As I made my way into the pub to touch base with Zoe again, I was aware that Andy was staring after me in a thoughtful kind of way.

  I was thoughtful too. If Andy knew all about the Lagonda, why was he so cagey about it? Fair enough, he could rightly have assumed that I was making plans for it, but he wasn’t in the restoration business himself, and if Polly did decide to sell it, he was in a much better position to make an offer than I was. A fact that, thanks to Harry Prince, must be no secret.

  I found Zoe still chatting to the same chap, who was pleasant-looking and in his mid-fifties. He didn’t exactly look the normal ball of fire that Zoe sought out. She noted my arrival and smiled graciously upon me, indicating that I could approach. I was impressed at this new Zoe. She was doing well with whoever her companion was, and presumably there was a reason for it.

  ‘Peter’s the lucky owner of a beautiful Lagonda,’ she cooed to me.

  I picked up on my cue. ‘Not that gorgeous DB 2.6 outside?’ I gasped.

  I’d hooked him. I listened patiently to his blow by blow account of how and when and in what condition he had acquired his beloved, and empathized with his obvious pride in owning one of only 510 ever produced.

  ‘Peter lives at Holtham,’ Zoe informed me as he handed me his card.

  Great! It was Peter Winter himself, the missing-Merc man, though I wouldn’t mention that now. He seemed a nice fellow, and with the Lagonda being his classic-in-the-garage, he might have known the Davises. Holtham wasn’t that far away.

  ‘I heard there was a drophead V12 still around in the Pluckley area,’ I remarked cautiously. ‘Someone told me it belonged to Polly Davis.’

  Peter looked surprised, but was cooperative, bless him. ‘That’s right. She and Mike went everywhere in it. It was her father’s. Tim Beaumont, Spitfire pilot. A ’thirty-eight, one of the last cars produced before the wartime hammer fell on civilian car production. Beaumont and that drophead went through the Battle of Britain at Biggin Hill.’

  ‘He flew it?’ I asked. Mistake. Don’t make jokes about classic cars unless you know your audience.

  ‘No,’ Peter replied with a puzzled look. ‘He used to pinch petrol and drive the lads to the pub in it.’

  Zoe was eyeing me as if I should take off right now, though not in the Spitfire sense. She clearly saw another line of approach in which I would be hindrance not help, so I meekly murmured my excuse and left her with her prey. No problem. I’d be seeing Peter Winter again shortly, and, besides, I could see some interesting prey for myself sitting in the window seat, although where Liz Potter was concerned prey was not the right word.

  FIVE

  Liz runs the local garden centre in Piper’s Green, and her other claim to fame is that for nearly a year after I returned to Kent she was the woman in my life. Inevitably, we split up, being far too alike in temperament for easy permanent togetherness.

  Unfortunately, our now platonic friendship comes with a price – the dreaded Colin, a forensic scientist in a chemical lab, whom she married a year or so ago. A train enthusiast, his eyes only gleam when he sees the Flying Scotsman or anyone attempting to approach Liz. He’s anti-cars and anti-Colby. Especially the latter.

  Liz just laughs, as fortunately she has a mind of her own and is quite capable of telling him to stuff it – or, alternatively, giving me the same message. Liz is intelligent, alert and attractive. When we met she had been going through the dreary process of a marriage break-up, something I knew about. I was well over my bout, however. Now I chiefly remember wedlock (what a descriptive word!) because of my lovely daughter Cara, who lives and works in London. She’s twenty-four now, older than her parents were when they so foolishly and tempestuously hurled themselves into marriage. Both Cara and I have lost track of Eva, my former wife. Cara was brought up by my beautiful Spanish werewolf until the age of twelve, when Eva promptly dumped her with her own parents and ran off to some remote Pacific Island with a Mexican bandleader. Occasionally, she has turned up roaring and bumping through Cara’s and my lives like a Formula 1 car on a grass track, but we’ve been left in peace for many a year now.

  ‘Here to car-spot, are you?’ I asked as I joined Liz, having made sure that Colin was safely at the bar.

  ‘You must be joking.’ Liz’s idea of a car is something that gets her from A to B without too much breaking down. She drives a Hyundai for choice.

  ‘Would I joke about cars?’

  She grinned at me, and just for the moment I wondered what was so special about Polly. Then I remembered, and the world tipped back to normal. Just as well: the last time Liz and I were on lover terms, there was china and, as I recall, a large teddy bear and his family flying all around me.

  ‘Polly Davis,’ I began. ‘Know her?’

  ‘Of course. That why you were talking to Peter Winter? He was a chum of the Davises. I wasn’t.’

  ‘You don’t like Polly?’

  ‘I might if I could get near her.’ She glanced at me sideways. ‘Don’t fall for her, Jack. Seriously.’

  ‘Too late.’

  She sighed. ‘Ever fancied yourself as a lemming?’

  ‘No. I like to see where I’m going. Did you know Mike?’

  ‘I met him a few times. He was a rough diamond. Polly is too, underneath that “don’t touch me” stuff. She adored him. He complemented her in some ways, and they suited each other like a pair of gloves in others. After his death she retreated into icicle mode, and it would take more than you to chip it away.’

  ‘You underestimate me, Liz.’ She was probably right though.

  ‘No, I don’t. But when Mike died, so did Polly.’

  ‘Wrong, Liz.’

  ‘I hope so for your sake, Jack. I really do.’

  I believed her, because Liz is like that. Unfortunately, my time was up, as stentorian tones rang out behind me:

  ‘Colby!’

  ‘Colin,’ I greeted him heartily. ‘Good to see you. Here to drool over the classics, are you?’

  He stared at me as though analysing a particularly noxious larva at a crime scene. ‘No. We picked the wrong day to come.’

  That ended that conversation, and I made a graceful exit – followed, I’m sure, by a suspicious scientific eye on me. My luck was out again, because I promptly bumped into Harry Prince. Like Colin, I’d picked the wrong day to come. He was just getting out of his monster canary-coloured American hardtop coupé. Just right for him. Bi
g, showy and guzzles too much. I could have done without this reminder that the day of reckoning could not be far off unless I cheered up Frogs Hill profits.

  Nevertheless, on a good day I can take Harry, and this, I supposed, could be reckoned a good opportunity. I’d been hoping for the low-down on a few subjects, and you can’t get much lower than Harry. had to be my main target. how-soon-can-I-get-my-hands-on-what-I-want smiles. Confident smiles. I had a fleeting thought of punching that smile right off his plump rosy face, but suppressed it. Harry’s a car dealer, but not just of classics – all cars, any cars, anything that spells money. He has a chain of garages, but that’s not enough for him. He’s always hankering to go upmarket and deal with the crème de la crème. He had that in mind when he married Teresa Clare, who is definitely a cut above him. As Polly with husband Mike, I can’t see what Terry gets out of marriage with Harry, but they seem contented enough.

  ‘Just the man I wanted to see, Harry,’ I said as cordially as I could.

  A chortle. ‘Heard you had a run in with old Guy the other day. Poking your nose into other people’s business, as usual.’

  ‘Other people’s barns, actually.’

  ‘Barns?’ He looked blank. Oh hell, I’d wrongly assumed he knew all about Polly’s Lagonda, as everyone else seemed to.

  ‘Bars,’ I speedily recapped. ‘You know, bar for drinks. It was a joke.’

  He looked at me oddly, but I seemed to have got away with it. ‘Polly Davis, you see,’ I added. ‘I met her at the art show.’

  ‘Ah. Now I’m with you, old chap. You can’t afford to keep that lady going, I can tell you. Ready to talk turkey yet?’ He poked me in the chest, and I wondered whether to poke him back a little more forcefully, but I would do myself no favours that way.

  ‘Not even the parson’s nose, Harry.’ I sounded more confident that I felt.

  ‘I can wait. You’ll be along some day. We can do a deal. How about you running the old place for me? Prince’s Restorations at Frogs Hill Barn. No breathing down your neck.’

  As the bishop said to the actress. ‘I’ll give it some thought,’ was all I replied. Why not lie through my teeth? He does. ‘You were a neighbour of the Davises, weren’t you?’ I added.

  It might have been my imagination, but I thought his face paled a little. ‘Near enough. What about it?’

  ‘What sort of chap was he?’

  ‘What’s that to you?’

  ‘Got an early Bentley in the shop that had been through his hands once,’ I lied. ‘Something smells wrong.’

  ‘Often did.’ Harry was playing for time, and he tried to make a getaway by strolling into the pub.

  No chance. I strolled right after him. ‘Was his business legit?’ I hissed in his ear.

  Harry’s a cunning man, but it’s a focused cunning. On money. He’s not too good on the finer shades of psychological perception. He leaves that to his wife Terry – whom I like a lot, incidentally.

  He stopped in his tracks, whirling round so suddenly that we were practically chest to chest. ‘Andy Wells is around here somewhere,’ he told me, looking very defensive. ‘Ask him. He’s running it now.’

  ‘Come off it, Harry. You can do better than that. Let’s put it another way. What was Mike’s illegit line?’

  He decided to give me full eye contact – suspicious in itself. ‘What illegit line?’

  He had told me enough. Now I knew there must have been an illegit side to Mike – simply because Harry hadn’t denied it – so Mike’s classics to order business had probably included stolen to order. No proof, of course, but I didn’t need it. After all, I knew the Lagonda was probably legit. Not stolen, anyway; I’d double-checked.

  Harry was looking shifty now, obviously wondering whether to speak or not. In the end he gave a nervous cackle. ‘Look here, Jack, there are some odd people around, so my advice is to shut it. I’d rather buy the Glory Boot and Frogs Hill farm off you, not off your executors. See what I mean?’

  I did, and it took me down a notch or two.

  ‘Take care where Mike Davis is concerned,’ he added conspiratorially. ‘Hate you to step into a minefield. You might forget you promised the Glory Boot to me. And forget where that Bentley had been, get rid of it fast.’

  ‘Bentley?’ I asked blankly, then remembered. ‘Sure, I’ll do that, Harry. Thanks for the warning.’

  The day suddenly had an extremely nasty edge to it, and I decided I’d think about pleasant things – such as Polly. Even the Lagonda was beginning to have a very dark shadow over it.

  I picked out one of Giovanni’s paintings, which could have been a Van Gogh except for the Lamborghini speeding past the haystack. The day had come. Not too soon, not too late. I wasn’t going to tell Zoe where I was going, but she guessed. I was wearing my best bib and tucker. Zoe had done some sterling work with Peter after my departure and had won a Lagonda friend for life, it seemed. It had transpired that he, too, had fallen in love with Polly’s inheritance from her father and had offered several times to buy it during Mike’s lifetime. Each time the offer had been refused. After Mike’s death he had tried again, only for Polly to tell him it had been written off after an accident. He would have taken this at face-value, but various rumours about it made him follow up this statement. It had been without success. However, as far as the Swansea Driver & Vehicle Licensing Agency was concerned, the car was alive and well and living in Kent. I should know – I’d checked.

  ‘Is that gear for the Lagonda or Polly?’ Zoe called over to me, having spotted my unusually smart attire.

  ‘Both.’ I tried to sound casual.

  ‘Want company?’

  She’d got me. ‘No,’ I yelled, at which she and Len both guffawed.

  That made me feel even more like a schoolboy. When I had telephoned Polly, I discovered I’d scored an own goal by telling her I was intending to ask her to frame my Giovanni. I would have to wait an extra day as she did not open her office on a Monday, in compensation for working on Saturdays. The amusement in her voice told me she knew exactly why I was coming to Greensand Farm in company with Giovanni. The office was, however, open on Tuesdays, and I nursed a vision of her breathlessly waiting for me.

  When I drove up the drive to Greensand Farm, the anticipation was making my mouth dry. The farmhouse itself was an old red-brick building from, I guessed, the early nineteenth century, and once I had reached the forecourt it was easy to see where Polly worked. In front of me was the house, to one side were what must have been the stables, now clearly a garage, and on the other was a barn, converted into what looked like an office and showroom. I strolled over to them, not wanting to seem in too much of a hurry in case she was peering out. I need not have bothered. Both doors were firmly locked, and there was no note to suggest where Polly might be.

  I hung around for three quarters of an hour, and then went over to the house. No answer there either. Had she forgotten? With some people that might have been all too likely, but with Polly that couldn’t have been the case. A deliberate no show? That, too, seemed unlikely. She had seemed friendly on the phone.

  I was going to give up, but then the Lagonda loomed up in my mind. If for some reason Polly had gone out without remembering our date, or had been delayed, then the Lagonda and barn would be unguarded. The perfect opportunity for a snoop. I seized a car blanket in case it helped, left my Alfa where it was in order to provide a legitimate presence, and walked back down the drive to the bridle path bordering the Lagonda barn.

  Being May, the path looked even more overgrown, but I was glad of its leafy cover. Ten to one, after my first visit, Polly had locked the barn up securely, or even – a nasty thought this – taken the car away.

  What the hell did I think I was doing? I wondered as I set off. I wasn’t sure. I’d checked through a police chum that the Lagonda had duly been registered to a Tim Beaumont until 1994, and then to Polly. Still was. Fair enough. But it was off-road, so why take the plates off? Maybe they’d just fallen off, along with th
e tax disc. Weird. And yet Polly had been anxious about the car itself, which hadn’t looked as if it had been used since her husband’s death. There must be something I’d missed. At the very least I wanted to check the VIN number and have a hunt for the missing plates.

  Every step made me more and more certain that I wasn’t going to turn back. Nevertheless, even though I could legitimately say I had business with Polly, I felt like a criminal, and I cursed my luck when I passed a dog walker. To her, I probably looked like a mad long-distance walker, except for my trainers, which weren’t exactly Wainwright ‘Coast to Coast’ path standard. They passed muster with her Alsatian, anyway.

  At first I thought the barn had vanished along with the car. Surely, Polly couldn’t have taken things that far? Then I realized I wasn’t far enough along the bridleway. One clump of trees can look remarkably like another to a man in a hurry.

  At last I saw the oak tree I’d stopped by before. Never since Charles II has anyone been more grateful to see one. I was sure it was the right one, even though the gap in the hedge had been filled in with fence posts. Fine. I’d scramble over the top this time. There through the leaves of the tree I could see the ivy-covered roof and glimpse the ragstone walls of the barn. I slithered across the ditch in preparation, stopped by the hedge to take my posh jacket off, and hoisted myself up the tree to decide my point of entry. Only then, from my elevated position, did I let my eyes go to the barn doors.

  They were indeed closed, but I had more to think about than that. My eyes were riveted on what lay at their foot. A body lay sprawled on its back, covered in blood and with the face half blown away. I had no trouble in identifying whose it was.

  It was Polly’s, and she was dead.

  SIX

  I know crime scenes. I’ve seen several before, but this one was different. I’d had ten minutes or so after my call to prepare myself for the first PCs to arrive. Prepare? How? I’d thrown up several times and tried to get my mind into some kind of shape. I hadn’t succeeded. My head seemed to be full of bees humming away to their hearts’ content while I stared helplessly at Polly’s body.