Classic Calls the Shots (15 page)

‘Gone,' came the sullen reply. There was a certain satisfaction in his voice.

‘Where to?'

‘Dunno.'

‘Left the firm?'

‘Dunno. Boss likes switching us around. Safer.'

‘Who for?'

A pause. ‘Business.' He did look rather puzzled, however, as if he too wondered why business was safer without job continuity.

I poked a little further. ‘Best not to be guarding Stour Studios, eh?'

It got a reaction. ‘What's up with Ken? Had another murder there?' He looked at me suspiciously.

‘You know him?'

‘Sure. Works for the same firm. Used to be here before Nathan.'

Did he indeed. I drove off to find myself a parking space, wondering whether this location turnover was an interesting fact or normal for a firm in a restricted locality. I parked on the lower level again, clambered ungracefully out of the car and walked over to where the Aston Martin had been. It wasn't there today. Nothing else seemed to have changed; it looked as it had when I came here last. A motley collection of modern and recent cars plus two under wraps. The Renault still greeted me, perhaps hopeful of an end to its solitary life here. Which was the second car? The Aston Martin had vanished, and the second car proved to be not Dave's missing Bugatti Type 57, but a Morris Minor.

Dave had had no record of a stolen Aston Martin on his list and presumably that meant the one I had seen was legit. Not necessarily, though, but with no proof to the contrary there was no use my wasting time on it. My wistful hope that Dave's Bugatti might have been the Auburn's successor in whatever scam was taking place was dashed. I would be driving into Syndale Manor on Car Day with a body full of aches and a mind empty of theories. Except, I grudgingly admitted, the possibly interesting fact that Ken Merton had once worked here. The car park where the Auburn had lain hidden.

I
t was time to pay my overdue visit to Ken Merton. I can't say I was eager, as my body was crying out for rest, but with Car Day looming over me, I had to keep going. I had not seen him at Syndale Park and presumed therefore that he was still working at the Lenham studios, crime scene or not.

When I checked in at the studios the police presence was still strong, although it was over a week since Angie's murder. I could see vans in the car park, and police cars by the entry barrier, and the police had to clear me for entry. On the basis of Nathan's swift move, I had an uneasy feeling that Ken might have followed suit, but I saw him installed in his cubby hole, looking morose. I smiled at him genially as the police checked me through, but decided to view the crime scene activity first.

I walked unchallenged into what had once been a humble farmyard with chickens, dogs and the occasional pig. No one even looked surprised to see me. White-suited figures flitted to and fro like ghosts in a sci-fi film, mingled with one or two uniformed and several plain-clothes police. It made an odd contrast to the colourful scene here last week. This was the unvaunted side of policing, the careful painstaking work that few ever saw, the sifting inch by inch, the poring over every detail, any one of which might be the vital clue to the truth. Len Vickers could well have learned his trade here.

The farmhouse and the paved yard that continued beside it to the garden gate were still cordoned off. There was no one stationed there to repel unwanted entrants, but from the point where I was standing I could see all I needed to be sure this was no opportunist murder. It had been planned even perhaps down to using the same model of gun as Bill's, a Smith & Wesson .38, although that was a common enough model. Brandon would be following that up if he thought it had significance. I knew he'd established that it wasn't Bill's. The second problem I considered as I stared from the cordon tape down to that open gate. What was Angie doing in the garden? Had she been in Roger's office with him, or merely used that door because the regular one was locked? Unless the murderer was Roger himself, it was reasonably certain that the killer had come in through the garden gate, and since this part of the yard faced the post-production block, he was unlikely to be noticed by curious eyes there. The reason Angie had come down from her own office was still a mystery. It would be an odd place and time for a meeting. I remembered Clarissa's comment about ‘a woman driving . . .' Connected? Too tenuous. The gardeners had been ruled out, and the most likely explanation was that someone had called Angie on her radio, with which all crew and cast seemed to be equipped.

I would get no further here, and so I walked back to have my word with friend Ken. He wasn't in his booth. Instead there was a lad who looked wet behind the ears, and the police on duty thought it suspicious that I wanted to speak to Ken in person. Their looks implied that being under contract to Dave Jennings was no guarantee that I wasn't the murderer come back to view the scene of his crime, especially when one of them remembered I was the chap who found the body. ‘Always first suspect,' he told me jovially.

I replied equally jovially that in that case policemen must often be in the same position. Smiles promptly disappeared and no one wanted to tell me where Ken was. Luckily my powers of detection hadn't deserted me. I saw his car still in the car park and deduced that he was probably either in the loo or the canteen. I checked the first unsuccessfully and the second proved but a poor shadow of itself as I had first known it. All it offered was one lady to serve tea, coffee and some uninteresting buns and sandwiches.

I found Ken by the window, gloomily regarding a dry-looking sandwich. He must have noticed something odd about the way I was walking towards him – rather like the Tin Man in
The Wizard of Oz –
because he fixed distinctly wary eyes on me.

‘Been in the wars, have you?' he enquired.

I joined him uninvited with my mug of coffee. ‘Several of them at the same time,' I told him pleasantly. ‘Beaten up in a car park – strangely enough the one you used to work in.'

‘Oh yeah?'

It was clear this was not news to him.

‘Gladden car park at Charing,' I added.

‘Yeah. Think I did once,' he said carefully. ‘They shift us around a lot.'

‘Nice cars there,' I observed.

I'd hit a nerve. ‘That's what car parks are for,' he mumbled.

‘It's where I found the Auburn.'

That wasn't news either, but he took it on the chin. ‘I weren't there,' he said in an end-of-subject tone.

‘Of course not. You work here now.'

That established, he became friendly. ‘Our job's to guard cars from being nicked; we don't mind 'em being found.' He might have thought this dry wit would establish his honesty, but he'd have to work harder than that.

‘The coincidence of your being here and the Auburn being found where you used to work is unfortunate.'

Not so friendly. ‘Aren't many car parks like Gladden round these parts.'

I pounced. ‘So you recommend it to people? Did anyone ask if you knew of one?'

‘Not that I recall,' he said speedily. ‘What's it to you anyway? The blasted car's been found.'

‘The police haven't dropped the case just because it's back where it belongs.'

He took that on board. ‘Word gets around in this place,' he said uneasily.

‘Why should it? There's a car park here and transport laid on. Why should anyone be interested in one several miles away in Charing? Look, Ken –' I dropped out of the sparring match – ‘do you recall mentioning Gladden to anyone – innocently of course?'

He looked relieved that he didn't seem personally in the frame. He was, in fact, but he needn't know that for the moment.

‘Look, mate, I've been working here best part of a year,' he told me virtuously. ‘How can I remember who I've chatted to? Anyone who's local is going to know about Gladden anyway, aren't they? And anyone who isn't has their own transport, like you said.'

That sounded reasonable enough, I conceded. Then I had some inspiration. ‘What about Mr Biddington? He's the car adviser on the film. Did you talk about Gladden with him?'

‘No reason to. He's local.' Ken pondered. ‘He was in here a couple of weeks back with that Joan Burton. Nice piece of flesh that.' He leered. ‘Something to get your arms round . . .'

‘Nigel Biddington,' I reminded him as he went off into a lustful dream. ‘And Gladden.'

‘That's right, mate.' Ken looked pleased. ‘He was talking about getting cars for Friday. I might have said there used to be some nice ones parked in Gladden on my watch. Expensive little estate that.'

I wouldn't claim total victory over this one. Nigel could easily have mentioned the car park to anyone he came across if the subject came up. It didn't even mean he was involved in any dirty work. After all, why on earth would he want to pinch the Auburn, thus giving himself a headache in his role as car adviser? Theoretically it was possible he might have a lucrative deal signed up with another Auburn owner to hire his car in the event of Bill's not being available but it was highly unlikely in practice. Nor did Bill's reaction to my suggestion of replicas imply Nigel would have an easy passage on that route.

No, not a victory, but one small step forward.

Saturday. Car Day. Why did I wake up with dread in my heart rather than a sense of anticipation at the prospect of seeing thirty classic cars or so gathered together, looking their best with their polish and glitter on, and surrounded by ladies and gents in elegant thirties' gear? I tracked the answer down to the fact that I didn't know what to expect. Furtive figures in homburg hats pulled down to hide their faces, exchanging bundles of pound notes for some scam to do with classic cars? Or that a hawk-eyed Jack Colby would stroll around and deduce what Angie's worry over cars had been, simply by studying the assembled cars and owners? For example: My dear Watson, it is surely obvious that the lady had noted that a crank handle for a 1935 Auburn would not be a very useful accessory. I'm no Sherlock, alas. I do believe you can tell a lot about the owners from the cars they drive, but I wouldn't bank on its counting as hard evidence in a court of law. Or did I expect to be able to clap my hands on Nigel Biddington with a triumphant ‘son, you're nicked'? So far he appeared a perfectly innocent citizen, and I was forced in fairness to consider that he could be. On the other hand, he was in such a good position to be the organizer of some sort of classic car scam.

When I arrived at Syndale Manor at 5.30 a.m., it was hard to believe that a murderer was probably skulking here and that I had a job to do – catching a car thief at the very least. The early dawn in summer is a beautiful time. Birds are boasting of their good parenting in song, the flowers are unfurling their petals for a beauty contest, blades of grass are shaking off the dew and all in all the day seems full of promise.

What the day was promising me was still to come.

For this special day, I decided on a special car. I was wary of taking my Gordon-Keeble any great distance for fear it might meet with another accident, and in any case its heavy clutch would be tough going with my body still aching from its encounter with the heavies. That meant it was hats off to the Lagonda for this summer's day outing. At my suggestion, Zoe and Len had been roped in by Nigel to be ready to provide emergency help for any cars in need – and to watch out for spies, as Len put it. They were like kids at the seaside at the prospect of a drive in the Lagonda. Len was in the passenger seat and Zoe curled up in the rear seat. All we needed was a picnic basket strapped to the back and off we would motor into the idyllic summer sunshine depicted in Dad's Glory Boot collection of old railway posters.

It wasn't quite the idyllic scene I'd hoped for when we arrived. It boded well, but it was still damp and a bit chilly. Moreover there were nowhere near thirty classic cars drawn up in the compound allotted to them. True it was only five thirty in the morning but so far a mere dozen or so had arrived. I parked in the general car park, clambered out of the Lagonda – with some difficulty owing to my bruises – and saw Nigel in a floppy canvas sun-hat checking off cars at the entrance to the classics compound. I'd hoped that I could sneak my Lagonda in to join the other classics, but it was three years too young for a 1935 film. Nigel was looking worried, probably at the poor showing so far. I'd gathered that the cars were needed for two scenes. In the afternoon they were going to shoot a day for night scene of the cars looking lonely in the dark while the Jubilee ball was in progress in the bright lights of the Manor. This morning they would be allotted to costumed extras and shot in a series of scenes of cars arriving for the ball. The cinematographer and Nigel would be arranging them. The four star cars would also be taking part.

‘Hi.' Nigel gave me a cursory look, as I walked over to him, and then he gave me a closer one. ‘I heard about what happened to you. You look awful.'

‘Thanks,' I said drily.

He grinned. ‘My pleasure. Thanks for bringing your team over.' A pause. ‘What do you plan to do today?' Was his question just a little too casual?

I had my answer ready. ‘The police want me to make sure the thief doesn't have a second go at the Auburn.'

Nigel didn't buy it. ‘Fairly unlikely, isn't it?'

‘Very. But we detectives like nothing better than watching cars that
don't
get pinched.'

He looked at me doubtfully, trying to make sense of this. ‘What were you doing in that car park to be beaten up like this? You'd already found the Auburn.'

‘True, but with my job I have to keep a broad spectrum,' I said grandly and deliberately vaguely. ‘Like you, I presume.' A good idea to pretend we were co-fighters against crime. ‘Whoever took the Auburn,' I continued, ‘either had local knowledge or heard about the car park from someone at the studios. You know Ken Merton used to work at Gladden car park?'