Classic in the Barn

On Monday morning I was prowling around the Pits, where Zoe and Len were still grappling with the Bugatti firewall, and trying to pretend I had a mission in hand. Not very well, as I knew Zoe’s sardonic eye was on me, whenever she could spare it from the far sexier firewall. Today not even the Bugatti was tempting me to stay. I had other wheels to spin.

‘Take her a picture to frame,’ she threw at me off handedly.

‘Good idea.’ I meant it. It was a brilliant idea, even though it raised another dilemma. ‘But I don’t think she’d be overwhelmed with the job of framing a print of Canterbury Cathedral.’ I’d inherited a house whose walls were full more of family memories than artistic jewels. ‘Have you any lying around? I’d pay.’

‘Nope. Haven’t seen any Rembrandts I fancy recently.’ Zoe relented and gave my problem all the attention that she normally reserved for work (or Rob). ‘You’ve got some yourself.’

‘I have?’

She regarded me pityingly. ‘The Glory Boot.’ She might justly have added, ‘dumbbell’. She’d be within her rights.

Glory be, I exulted, the Glory Boot. I went over to give her a hug and got a whiff of that indescribable smell which is the mix of petrol, grease and a bit of the wild outdoors that adds up to Zoe – and occasionally Len, but I rarely rush over to hug him. I sometimes wonder whether Zoe keeps a bottle of that smell at home so that she isn’t parted from it in the evenings. The wild outdoors in her case comes from her love of long walks, especially in the rain. Don’t ask – I don’t know.

Of course the answer to my problem lay in the Glory Boot. One of my father’s ‘finds’, of which there were many, had been a car artist called Giovanni Berazzi, who was struggling away in a garret in Milan painting out his vision of cars. He did very few on commission because classic car owners who pay up front tend to expect every loving detail of their Lancia or Lamborghini captured in paint, and Giovanni doesn’t paint that way. He’s more of an impressionist, so he likes to paint the cars in somewhat ethereal settings, thus blending the cars into particularly magical and mystical landscapes that would be in harmony with the subject car. Imagine a red Ferrari Testa Rossa on a misty Venetian canal, a Porsche floating through clouds, a Lotus in the midst of a Monet flower garden.

Dad had fallen in love with Giovanni’s work, which was unfortunate because it led to a tussle between them. Giovanni wanted to be sure that his beloved paintings were going to a good home, and what Dad told him of the set-up at Frogs Hill did not appeal to him. He had to be wooed, he had to be convinced, and the tears of sorrow at parting with his treasures had to be wiped from his eyes after he eventually agreed to sell Dad eight unframed.

That’s one of the reasons Harry Prince is hanging around for the happy day when I really can’t pay the mortgage. But I have news for him. Giovanni got the hang of what it was like to have money in his pocket and came to a compromise with an Italian dealer. The result? I’d have to sell everything I have to afford to buy just one more of them now, although occasionally Giovanni allows me to drool over them in his studio. Even I can see he’s a terrific painter.

So why didn’t I frame one and put it up for auction? Because I could almost hear Dad breathing down my neck in fury at the very idea. He’d made me promise never to part with them. Never? I’d queried dubiously. He’d glared at me. Never – unless you’re starving. I wasn’t yet starving, and, though Harry Prince didn’t know this yet, even if the worst came to the worst and I had to sell up, I’d be lugging those Giovannis into my one-roomed garret to gaze upon their glory, ignoring my hunger pains. So no auction room would be seeing them yet awhile. Framing one was a different matter, however. ‘Bless you, Zoe,’ I added fervently.

‘Pay me instead.’

Guilt consumed me at the mock stricken look of the girl in front of me. True, she had her usual grin on her face, but I had broken my strictest rule. I hadn’t paid either her or Len on Friday, and it was now Monday. Polly and Lagondas had temporarily sent me insane. While I was busy writing the cheques, Len decided to put his oar in. He came over to me, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. In his case, I think he does it to increase the smell, not get it off. He can’t bear to be out of reach of the heady scent of petrol.

‘That Lagonda you saw . . .’ A pause. ‘Drivetrain problems with that model. Wouldn’t mind checking it over.’

‘Fat chance,’ I said. ‘The lady won’t let anyone near it.’

A longer pause. More hand-wiping while he thought about this. ‘Something dodgy about that. Steer clear of it. If a woman’s got in her mind she’s not selling, she won’t be budged.’

‘Len, I’m an expert at budging.’

He considered this. ‘Number plates?’

‘Off, but could be lying around.’

‘Chassis number?’

‘No time. I was pounced on.’

‘Get back there.’

‘Give me time,’ I pleaded. I wanted to be ‘in’ with Polly before risking another run-in with Guy the Gorilla. I think I had some vision of sauntering down to look at the Lagonda hand in hand with her.

‘Harry Prince won’t,’ Zoe piped up.

I winced. ‘Look, how about I get on with the police job to keep the wolf from the barn door, and tackle the Lagonda step by step?’ Both ‘police jobs’ involved the theft to order of prestigious cars; the Rolls was a left-hand drive, and these were disappearing to the continent so fast that they were sometimes across the Channel before their owners knew they’d been stolen. This one belonged to a retired army officer living near Sandwich. The Merc was owned by a chap called Peter Winter, who lived in Holtham near Maidstone.

I get on well with Dave Jennings, especially as he’s a bit of a car buff himself and rather begrudges the fact that he has to farm out interesting cases to me because of pressure of other work. In fact, he looks more car buff than policeman, which is often an asset. He’s got a face like an eager wolfhound, sharp nose, fine features, hair sort of streamed back, as if the wind’s blowing a Force 10 gale, which makes him look as ready to take off as the Rolls Royce Silver Lady, Spirit of Ecstasy. He had rated the Rolls the more urgent job, since he thought the Merc a lost cause. Reported missing in April, it had disappeared without trace, even though Dave’s men had covered the usual channels themselves. So my job would be to think of any unusual ones that might be worth checking.

By the time I rang Dave, however, the Rolls had been traced, and I was to hold off on the Merc. So the wolf was back at my door, howling with a vengeance. On the other hand, Dave needed me at HQ to run through overdue paperwork with his team, which left me champing at the bit as to when I could call on Polly ‘casually’. I’d had a pretty full week booked anyway, with some spare-parts runs, visits to potential customers and a couple of car pick-ups and delivery (no, you won’t see me on the motorway entrance ramp with trade plates!). On Wednesday or Thursday I’d ring Polly and tell her I’d be dropping in shortly with my masterpiece – I would check which of the paintings seemed most likely to impress Polly and dig it out. Luckily, Giovanni hadn’t then got round to a Lagonda, because it might have been a tad obvious if I’d turned up in my Alfa with that.

I decided I’d leave the great day until after the weekend, partly so that I wouldn’t have to rush off anywhere if there was a chance of spending more time with Polly, and partly because Sunday was the classic car meeting at the Wheatsheaf, where I might pick up some interesting information about the Lagonda.

The Wheatsheaf was a fun pub, and its owner, Bill Mount, didn’t mind too much whether one partook of his cuisine or not. He was only too happy to see a couple of dozen classics improving the look of his establishment, while his staff (usually Mrs Mount) slaved over the Sunday roasts. For me this kind of event is the fair face of the classic car world. The auctions present a tougher one, for one needs to be wary of to whom one’s talking, and dealers are dealers, not just someone you’re having a pint with. Not-so-honest traders might be hovering around like sparrowhawks.

At the Wheatsheaf I could kill two cars with one stone. I’d seen Andy Wells there once or twice, although we’re not on close terms. He was just the sort of chap who could be useful for my police work, and he would also have been well in with the Davises as he’d taken over Mike’s business. If the day went well, then a mention of Polly’s Lagonda might conceivably bring forth fruit.

Pushing it? Maybe, but if I didn’t push I would get precisely nowhere, and somehow I felt my passion for Polly was in extricably linked with that wonderful car. I’d still feel the same about either if that link were snapped, but at present it was going strong.

There was another reason that I could never resist the Wheatsheaf meetings. It was a chance to show off my beloved and venerable 1965 GT Gordon Keeble. I’ve never flown a Spitfire, but I’m told that glorious experience is only comparable to sex. For Spitfire, read Gordon Keeble in my case. Over the years I’d had some great times with it – and some great companions in it. Now merely driving in it reminds me of happy days and former loves. Such is life.

It was a rare concession for her to agree to accompany me to the Wheatsheaf, and this fake helplessness was one way of showing it. She’s enthusiastic about her car detective role, but her methods and mine differ. She likes snooping around on her own, not arriving in state in a Gordon Keeble with the boss at her side – even if the boss is only me. Nevertheless, she had condescended to abandon her usual jeans for a posh mini skirt and matching cream jacket that went rather well with the orange spikes of her hair.

I took my revenge when I answered her. ‘Just look beautiful, my lovely.’

A scathing look as we drew up outside the pub, where a dozen or so cars had preceded us. My practised eye passed over several, but then the sight of Maserati Mexico cheered me up. Dan would be somewhere around, which could be good. He would be amiable company, without being inquisitive as to my doings. I wish I could record that there was a breathless stunned silence of admiration for the Gordon Keeble as it came to a standstill, but, as they say, it doesn’t work like that. It didn’t this time. I was going to have to fight for my admiration.

Zoe immediately marched off into the pub, so I raced after her to provide her with a glass of wine (as befitted the feminine outfit) and myself with a modest half of shandy. She immediately began work by buttering up someone I didn’t recognize – or maybe it wasn’t work, but mere pleasure. Who knows with Zoe? Anyway, I dutifully returned outside to start work myself. To my pleasure a Lagonda had now driven up, the one I’d seen here before. Post-war, but it was good news: a very rare 1950 DB 2.6, a car of considerable charm. The even better news was that Andy Wells was standing by it, talking to Dan Burgess.

‘Hi, Dan. Good to see you again. Hi, Andy. Nice.’ I gave a nonchalant nod of approval at the Lagonda, hoping to flatter him by assuming him to be the proud possessor, although it was clear neither of them was.

Andy did not reply.

‘Quite a lady,’ Dan agreed. ‘Not my cup of tea though. Make mine a Maser any day.’

I could see his point. His dashing dark handsome hero looks made him good Maserati material. I pressed on: ‘Always wanted one of these. Way above my price range though. I saw one advertised well into six figures.’ True enough, I’d been doing my homework on the Internet. ‘Lagondas are your cup of tea too, aren’t they, Andy?’

A nod. Andy, like Dan, is only in his thirties, but has even fewer words to spare than Len. He’s OK, but keeps himself so tightly spannered in that I doubt if even his wife can turn the right nuts and bolts. In the village he’s referred to as ‘good old Andy’, because he runs an efficient good garage out on the Pluckley Road and can be relied upon to help out – or, rather, his stooge Jimmy can. Andy’s most financially rewarding activity, however, must be online classics dealing – the business he bought from Mike – although quite a few classic beauties actually turn up in his forecourt, which sometimes allows me the odd drool as I drive by.

I’ve never quite hit it off with Andy, and that isn’t solely down to the fact that he is no Gordon Keeble fan.

‘I heard Mike Davis was a Lagonda aficionado,’ I tried again. Nothing like pushing the boat out before you’ve tried the water. I sank.

‘You didn’t hear it from me,’ was Andy’s reply.

‘Must have heard wrong. Perhaps it was Polly.’

Andy didn’t deign to reply, so I tried Dan. ‘Mike was a good chap. You know Polly, of course, Dan. Mike too?’

‘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.