Classic Cashes In Page 8

  Timothy wasn’t going to leave it at that. ‘I think you’d find he’s not interested, Jack.’ He seemed rather amused.

  No one seemed inclined to expand on this, which left me with one problem. ‘If I take it, I’d have to return tomorrow for the Packard. I’ve driven my Alfa here.’

  ‘Oh really, Mr Colby,’ Joan said impatiently. ‘One objection after the other. You can return for the Alfa. I want the Packard gone now and that’s all there is to it.’

  This woman really was single-minded, but I wasn’t going to give way. She’d make the decision for me, however. I couldn’t leave the car in her hands. It would be at the scrap merchants within hours.

  ‘Tomorrow, Miss Moxton,’ I repeated. ‘I’ll take the car at your request, but I have a business to run.’

  At this point Timothy intervened. ‘You take the Packard now, Jack. I’ll drive your Alfa back to your home. I can get a taxi over to mine.’

  ‘That’s good of you,’ I said gratefully, ‘but—’

  ‘Not that good.’ He laughed. ‘My car’s at home, not here. James gave me a lift but I live near Smarden and I gather you’re near Piper’s Green.’

  ‘I’ll run you back to Smarden afterwards.’

  It was a done deal, and we walked out to the cars together as I handed over the Alfa keys. ‘This murder must have hit you hard,’ I said. ‘You must have worked closely with Philip Moxton.’

  He considered this. ‘Yes, and we got on reasonably well, but he was chair and I’m CEO. Not an easy relationship.’

  A man with my bank balance could hardly chat about the higher echelons of banking today, and he seemed anxious to avoid that subject after we arrived at Frogs Hill and had a quick coffee together. That meant I was searching for common ground. Despite his aura of hail fellow well met and general air of affability, there was a sense of power about Timothy that made me think I wouldn’t want to work with him. He didn’t seem to be a classic car enthusiast and in order to get back to the subject of Philip, I had to force the issue.

  ‘I met Philip on one or two occasions. He must be a huge loss to the bank.’

  He shot a glance at me. ‘The founder – or in this case the founder’s son – is always a big loss. There are often compensations – in business terms, I mean.’

  ‘As in this case?’

  He smiled. ‘Perhaps. We shall see. The bank is on the brink of an exciting future.’

  ‘This rumoured merger?’

  I expected him to slither past this but he grasped the nettle. ‘Just so. Philip was a traditionalist so he was often up against the modernists.’

  ‘Such as yourself.’

  ‘Indeed, Jack. Such as myself.’

  He was frank enough about his differences with Philip then, but he would be used to putting as many cards on the table as possible in difficult situations. It didn’t alter the fact that he would have had plenty of reason to want Philip out of the way.

  Indeed, there seemed to be plenty of motives for people to want him removed. The arrival of a large fortune for the son and perhaps for the sister too could be motive enough. And then there was the Packard to consider. Could something that had arrived so close to his death and which was clearly of great importance to him be a contributory factor? If so I was now holding the baby and a very large baby it was. What on earth were Len and Zoe going to say? It’s one thing admiring such a car from afar. To have it on one’s doorstep for ever is another matter. It was like a puppy that was outgrowing the excitement of its arrival. But I was morally obliged not to sell it. What then? Put it in the next Women’s Institute raffle?

  Meanwhile Dave Jennings had asked me to call at Charing HQ. He’d called this morning and it was now past lunchtime, so he wasn’t too happy, when I arrived. ‘About that Golf, Jack.’

  Not the Packard. We were back to the Volkswagen. ‘Do you and Brandon really want me to go all out on that?’ I asked. ‘Your team’s far better equipped than I am.’

  ‘This case is different, worse luck. I’ve got my lot working the usual routes, but Brandon wants you nosing around on it too. You know why, don’t you? He’s up against it with the Met and is clutching on to you in the hope these cars will provide a line he can call his own.’

  ‘Fair enough. But you could tackle that, so why me? Not,’ I added hastily, ‘that I don’t want the job.’

  ‘You met Moxton over that Packard and, hey presto, Moxton is found dead. On the off chance you’re right about the cars being linked to the murder, he gets the credit, so that’s why he wants you on board and not sailing off to the Pacific for a seaside holiday.’

  ‘Very flattering.’

  ‘Not really,’ Dave said seriously. ‘He’s covering his back and hoping for a winner. Have you any leads on the Golf yet?’

  ‘No. I’ve put the word out to my best channel though.’

  ‘Could be an amateur job. Keep on trying the usual suspects if only for the look of the thing though. And get in with the Monksford locals. Brandon thinks you have charm in this respect. I don’t see it myself.’

  ‘I do my best,’ I murmured modestly.

  ‘Sniff, Jack, sniff.’ Dave dropped the banter. ‘For all our sakes. Brandon could be lost over this – and if he’s lost, we’re all gonners. Ta, ta, Jack.’

  I returned late from a briefing by Dave’s team over the Volkswagen and it was nearly dark by the time I reached Frogs Hill. I had something to eat and then went upstairs to blessed bed. And the doorbell rang! Last time it had rung this late in the evening …

  It rang again. The security lights were blazing and I could not only see the Packard but another familiar car parked at its side. An old Vauxhall. Wearily I made my way downstairs and opened the door.

  ‘Goodnight, Pen,’ I greeted her. ‘Good to have seen you again.’ I tried to close the door. It was a good try, but it failed.

  A foot encased in an inelegant trainer was put in the doorway. ‘Just passing, Jack. I did ask you whether you’d robbed any banks recently. I see you’ve taken my advice and brought the loot home. What a car, eh? You’ve been holding out on me, Jack. It’s payback time.’

  SIX

  ‘No comment,’ I answered briefly, ignoring the foot.

  ‘Oh?’ said Pen. ‘That sounds interesting. Here for a restoration job, is it? I don’t think so.’

  ‘No comment.’

  Once in a while Pen takes the hint and goes away. Tonight she didn’t. She stood there beaming, glasses slipping down the quivering nose and foot remaining firmly positioned.

  ‘A real story then.’ She said it with relish, and it wasn’t a question.

  This was a battle of wits, I realized. I had either to invite her in or tell her to get lost – and either choice would give her the whip hand, in which case I would be ceding the issue. I couldn’t risk that. She’d become the world’s most persistent stalker.

  ‘Police case,’ I told her, not budging an inch.

  She looked highly satisfied. ‘So it is Philip Moxton.’

  ‘What is?’ I asked guardedly.

  ‘That murder victim over in Monksford.’

  ‘Police case.’

  ‘Great,’ she said with even more relish. ‘The Met and the rest will be moving in. Best news I’ve heard in weeks. His Packard was it?’

  ‘What was?’ I’d been taken off guard so I hurriedly repeated, ‘Police case.’ This at last got through to her.

  ‘Understood,’ she said seriously. The good thing about Pen is that up to a point you can trust her. The bad thing is that you don’t know what that point is. As now.

  ‘I heard a whisper …’ she began reflectively.

  ‘And no doubt turned it into a clarion call of truth,’ I finished for her.

  ‘As if,’ she snorted. ‘I’m getting cold out here, Jack.’

  ‘Sorry, Pen. I’m knackered. And I can’t go any further anyway.’

  ‘You haven’t gone anywhere yet,’ she pointed out sourly. ‘Is it true that a Packard just like this one wa
s involved in a bank robbery once way back?’

  ‘The Ladykillers,’ I said promptly.

  ‘Not a movie. For real.’

  ‘Quite possible. All those thirties robberies in the USA.’

  ‘No, here in the UK.’

  ‘Here?’

  She had caught me off guard and she recognized victory. ‘Just wondered. Goodnight, Jack. Sweet dreams.’

  ‘What?’ Len grunted, ‘is this doing here?’

  The Packard was still standing outside the Pits. I hadn’t known where to put it for one thing, so I’d brazened it out. To me it gleamed of gold, it spoke of ages past, it conjured up fond memories of Alec Guinness, of old Hollywood films. True it looked out of place in rural Kent, but so what?

  ‘It’s back,’ I told him nonchalantly.

  ‘What’s wrong with it? Was it the wrong car after all?’ Zoe asked.

  ‘Right car.’

  I’d heard on the radio this morning that the truth was out. The murder victim in Monksford was now believed to be Philip Moxton. That should take the wind out of Pen’s sails, I thought, somewhat relieved. Pen likes an exclusive on whatever line she follows up. Whichever she chose, she’d have plenty of company.

  Len and Zoe had heard the news too. ‘But what’s it doing here, not where that poor chap was murdered?’ Zoe demanded.

  ‘He wasn’t so poor. And his murderer doesn’t have to have been someone who had it in for Philip Moxton. It could have been a spur of the moment attack on Geoffrey Green either for cash or his car.’

  This was ignored. ‘So they got him after all,’ Zoe reflected. ‘Didn’t you tell us Moxton was scared of being murdered?’ She gave a scathing look at the Packard. ‘How long’s it going to stay here?’ she demanded.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  My turn to receive the scathing look, then Zoe voted with her feet and returned to the Pits. Which left Len and me to sort out the Packard.

  We regarded it together, as I broke the news. ‘It’s mine,’ I told him.

  His head turned to me in disbelief. ‘You are going to sell it, aren’t you?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Len looked at me suspiciously, then turned back to the Packard.

  ‘Beast of a car,’ he finally growled.

  ‘Magnificent beast though.’

  I felt defensive. There it sat, over seventy years old. It had seen life, but what life? I wondered. Did Pen’s hint that this car had been involved in a UK bank robbery have any foundation? It was a right-hand drive, so it could have been here since it left the Packard company in 1936, according to Philip. Nevertheless why did Pen think it might be this car involved? Its registration number was comparatively modern. The chassis and engine numbers would be a giveaway, but they would have been beyond Pen’s powers to check. Besides she’d shown no sign of wanting to get closer to the Packard. My conclusion was that either she was on a fishing expedition or that she knew something about the car that her boss had seen for sale and that it must be this one.

  ‘Ever heard of a real bank robbery in this country using a thirties Packard?’ I asked Len hopefully. ‘Not just The Ladykillers?’

  ‘I wasn’t around in the thirties,’ he growled. ‘Or the forties.’

  ‘I’ve always imagined you were born with a monkey wrench as a rattle and that oil rag of yours in your hand.’

  Len gave a sniff, which could be taken either way and he too marched back to the Pits, where he didn’t have to take insults from the boss. On the other hand, now that Len and Zoe had both washed their hands of me and the Packard, I didn’t have to explain more fully how the car got here. That tricky tale could be postponed. I couldn’t see them taking kindly to the Packard becoming a fixture. Nice guest, but forget permanent lodger.

  Meanwhile I decided to remove the Packard to the safety of the rear barn, hoping the Gordon-Keeble and Lagonda wouldn’t be too snooty at the arrival of a shiny yellow Packard older than either of them.

  Once out of sight, I managed to put it temporarily out of my mind so that I could concentrate on the Volkswagen. It was almost a relief.

  Dave’s team had covered the ports and other obvious channels, but I had a feeling that the Golf was a lot nearer to home. All due respect but the stolen goods market in Volkswagens is not a high-powered one. I therefore pondered my next step, if, as I suspected, it was shut up in someone’s garage or barn until the fuss had died down. The hitch in that theory is that family and neighbours have to be in on the secret otherwise the arrival of an unknown car might occasion comment, even excitement. ‘Looking after it for a friend’ can also lead to complications. In any case, the key question for me was where to start. It was an unusual theft, because an opportunist thief would have to be desperate to break in and leave a trail of evidence behind. It still seemed to me that DCI Brandon and Dave Jennings were better equipped than I was to follow this trail, so they must really be keen on my uncovering a link between either one, or both, of these cars and the murder.

  My only hope was that the thief, amateur or professional, would want to rid himself of the Golf sooner or later and therefore my route had to be through the professional gateway. I’d told Dave that I had set my best contact on it and that was true. This is my chum Brian, a professional spider who creeps unseen into all the webs around him. My speciality, and his, is classic car theft, however, so I was less sure of my ground with him over a modern car. As the pace was speeding up, I decided to call him to see how it was going. As usual he picked up, asked my name and put the phone down. He does that every time. He can speak, but he likes to know to whom he’s speaking, so he prefers to call you back. Which he’ll do if he knows your number. Being a professional, he believes in order, if not law, so he rang back immediately.

  ‘Give me a break, Jack,’ he pleaded. ‘You told me it was a hot job, but I didn’t bloody realize it was this hot. No one will touch it now.’ He sounded almost aggrieved that I’d had to trouble him – despite the fact that win or lose he rakes in a tidy sum of money for being a nark. ‘Forget me,’ he continued. ‘Try the Volkswagen chap round your way.’

  ‘He does just Volkswagens?’

  ‘Naturellement, old sport. A specialist, you might say. Pinches anything from a Ghia to a Golf. Richie Carson.’

  My heartbeat became a thump. I’d been missing a trick. ‘John Carson’s son.’

  ‘Wouldn’t know. Nasty piece of work is Richie.’

  This was the second time I’d had this warning and that meant he was really bad news. I wondered whether Richie and John worked hand in glove with each other.

  ‘Any weevils around?’

  Weevil is the word Brian likes to use because it delicately avoids the term nark or grass or snitch. None of the latter go down well with interested third parties who might have joined us unheard.

  ‘Not known. You’re on your own with this lot. Good luck.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I put down the phone and wondered if there was anyone from whom I could call in favours. I was going to need them. Most of those who really owed me wouldn’t come into contact with the likes of Carson, although there was one who was worth trying. A lad who owed me for turning a blind eye when his mates were jumped on by Dave’s men. Highly irregular but I wasn’t sure he was guilty and while I was ‘looking the other way’ he scarpered. But he was guilty after all. It taught me a lesson but it didn’t seem to have taught him one.

  He was keen enough to repay the favour, and he knew exactly how to get hold of Richie Carson. It had surprisingly quick results, because Mr Richie rang back himself mid-afternoon. One might almost think my contact was working for him … Richie was amazingly keen to drop in at Frogs Hill but the mere thought of Len’s face if Richie’s reputation had spread to him made me suggest a pub. ‘Don’t want to bring you all this way,’ I said tactfully.

  ‘Too public, Jack me lad. Coffee shops are better.’ He named one in Ashford.

  ‘How do I recognize you?’

  ‘You will.’

  I did.
When I reached the meeting place, he was already there, sitting at the rear, smartly dressed in sober blazer and dark trousers. No tie, but then he wouldn’t want to look conspicuous, he told me. He had to be joking, of course. We stood out a mile in this conglomeration of suntanned youngsters and mums with pushchairs. But he was right in one way. No one took the slightest interest in us. I think I’d have known Richie despite his dress code. I have a feeling for the Richies of this world. They are with you and they aren’t. They don’t fit. They’re like Kipling’s cat. They walk alone. He was of medium height, medium build and at first sight inoffensive. So, no doubt, was Napoleon.

  ‘You work for the cops, Jack.’ It was a statement, not a question.

  ‘I do. The Car Crime Unit. Freelance on the classic car side.’

  Cards were on the table and this didn’t seem to bother him. ‘Just like to know where I am. What do you want with me? And whatever it is, remember it’s a favour.’

  ‘Noted. It’s just one Golf I’m interested in. All I need to know is whether it’s been through your hands or if it’s currently in them. If that’s the case we’ll need to have it back and know where it came from. No questions asked. It’s a murder case.’

  ‘What murder case might that be?’ He was taking a lot of interest in his coffee.

  Dangerous corner coming up, and I took it at full speed. ‘The Moxton case. He owned the garden where your father works.’

  He nodded. ‘Yeah. Killed at Monksford.’

  It seemed as if I had passed the corner, with a straight road ahead – I hoped.

  ‘Your father’s the gardener at Staveley House, right?’

  A long pause. ‘Dad’s OK, Jack. You just remember that. And ill winds and all that too. The gardens go to Moxton’s sister, so that’s my dad happy. Him and those gardens – don’t think of nothing else, does Dad. You remember that, Jack, and we’ll get on just fine. One track mind and let the rest of the world go by. So this car then. The Golf. The car that bloke went to and fro in from Staveley to Monksford. No reason I shouldn’t turn it back to you if it comes in, but you’d be advised to keep the details to yourself. If it’s already gone, I’ll tell you now. Deal?’