SEVENTEEN

Next morning, I had a rude awakening to reality as I looked down from the bedroom window on to the forecourt of my beautiful house and battered barn, and at the track leading up to them. In years to come the major highway that Frogs Hill Lane could by then be might have a subsection called Burnt Farm Corner. Not if I could help it. The Pits was going to be rebuilt quicker than the barn-raising in Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. And it wouldn’t have a canary-coloured horror in front of it, with Harry Prince patiently awaiting my appearance inside it. I don’t like my breakfast being ruined, so I went down right away.

‘Thought you’d flown the country, Jack.’

‘Just working for my living, Harry.’

‘That’s good,’ he said cheerily. ‘I popped along to remind you of my offer, in view of this . . .’ He waved a pudgy hand at the remains of the barn. ‘Must be hard to keep going, waiting for the insurance and so on. You can bank on me to be generous when we talk terms.’

‘If we talk terms, Harry,’ I answered equally cheerily, ‘we’ll go on market value, shall we? Much the best way all round.’ If was as far from the truth as when, so far as I was concerned, but there was no point getting on Harry’s wrong side, and I’d already had to turn down his offer of space as gracefully as I could.

‘Just selling me a couple of those Giovannis would set you up nicely. I could broker a deal—’

‘You’re a dealer in cars, Harry, not fine art.’

He wasn’t offended. He even laughed. ‘Where fine art concerns cars, I reckon I know my market.’

Did he indeed? I’d remember that in view of what Dave had told me. ‘Mike Davis, Harry,’ I said, anxious to change the subject in case I was forced to tell him point-blank that those Giovannis weren’t coming his way.

‘What about him?’

‘Any gossip at the time of his death that it was no accident?’

The pause was a shade too long. ‘Suicide, you mean? No way.’

‘Come off it, Harry. Murder. Like Polly’s.’

He emerged from the canary-coloured monster a trifle shakily and came right up to me to convey his message.

‘Remember I told you to watch a few Ps and Qs? You’ve forgotten to watch, Jack.’

‘Sometimes the Qs get a mite too interesting.’

‘But the answer could be a lot hotter,’ Harry said grimly.

‘So there was gossip.’

Harry was white-faced now. ‘Never reached Polly, I’ll swear. Quiet corners only, and it died out. Leave it that way, Jack. I beg of you.’

I was shaken and dropped my guard, because he seemed genuinely worried. ‘How can I?’

‘Easily. What’s the point of raking up Mike’s death all over again?’

‘There’s a point if it’s linked to Polly’s.’ I’d gone further than I meant to.

‘Then I’d be very careful indeed, Jack.’ There was no sign of a grin on his jovial face now. He was sweating with something that looked fear, not the last of the summer sun. ‘Look,’ he almost bleated, ‘why would anyone have wanted to murder Mike? He was a greedy conniving rogue, but murder? No.’

The pot calling the kettle black? ‘That’s why, Harry. Mike was a rogue.’

‘He wouldn’t have double-crossed anyone.’ He was getting defensive.

‘There are rumours he left a stash of cash behind that Polly either didn’t know about or didn’t care to use.’

‘Rumours,’ he said uneasily, ‘don’t mean a thing.’

Not in my experience. ‘Try this one, Harry,’ I said without much hope. ‘Car cloning.’

‘What about it?’ He looked very cautious, which was interesting. After all, everyone who has a TV knows about car cloning.

Where to go from there? I spoke without thinking twice. ‘Heard of a chap called Mason Trent?’

This time I thought he’d pass out. When he recovered enough breath to speak, he was already running for his car. ‘Get lost, Jack. You’re not bad, but you’re mad, and you’re bloody dangerous to know.’

It was a good morning, as soon as Harry Prince had rushed for his canary monster and accelerated down Frogs Hill Lane. By good, I mean that not only did no one cosh me, but also that I had a call from Brian Woollerton. Not only had I not expected to hear from him at all, but it was also actually in the time limit I had mistakenly promised Dave.

I hardly recognized Brian’s hoarse and nervous whisper. ‘Barton Lamb, village off the A12, and you didn’t hear it from me.’ The phone was slammed down, but I didn’t care. Brian had come up trumps.

Dave heard the news in minutes, as I risked Brian or his informant having pulled a fast one on me. I didn’t have to wait long before he rang back with an invitation to join his team on the raid, but I turned it down as he had a better job for me. I could now collect Peter Winter’s stolen Merc from a pound in south London and drive it back to him, with the proviso that I didn’t mention where it had been found or why it was there. The fewer people who knew about a case in which Mason Trent was concerned the better, he told me. No problem. This job was much more to my taste, since I could take the glory and press Peter some more over Mike Davis.

I didn’t warn him, and Peter goggled in amazement as early on Thursday evening I drew up in the Merc with a flourish at his door, complete with trade plates since his own were missing, having arranged with Zoe to drive over and pick me up. He recovered his savoir faire quickly and drove the Merc immediately into his garage as though the next car thief were lurking up in the nearest tree, checking the security three times and double-locking the garage doors. I told him as much of the story as Dave had permitted me to tell, and that didn’t include ruining his day with stories about the nefarious purpose to which his beloved car had been put.

‘Come in and have a drink,’ he said, beaming. ‘My wife’s abroad, so it’s a good opportunity to talk.’

I graciously accepted, as Zoe would be arriving shortly to drive me back. I was wondering how and when to broach the subject of Mike’s death, when he gave me the perfect opportunity.

‘Incidentally,’ he said, ‘I’ve been thinking further about the money Mike was rumoured to have had.’

This sounded good, and I put the matter of his possible murder on one side. ‘So have I,’ I said encouragingly.

‘If there’s anything to the story – and, of course, with stories of buried treasure there rarely is – have you given any consideration to where it might be?’

‘Not in the bank, that’s for sure. Not a British one, anyway.’ I wasn’t going to mention the Lagonda pocket. The Lagonda was a goner to anyone but Bea, Zoe, Len, Dave and myself. ‘Bea would have found the loot if it was in the house.’

‘I believe it would still be in England. Mike wasn’t the type to invest in foreign banks. He was more the money under the mattress type. So I wondered if you’d searched the barn.’

For a moment I thought he meant mine, but then I realized he was back to Polly’s barn again. ‘Not specifically. But there was no sign of anything other than the car itself. Anyway, the police would have searched.’

‘That’s true, of course. All the same, I can’t help feeling it’s close at hand. Much as I dislike thinking of Mike as a casual crook, it would explain why someone would want Polly out of the way.’

My cue. ‘Could it also imply that his death wasn’t a natural one?’

This was clearly a shock to him. ‘Surely there’s no evidence to suggest that?’

‘Some, and it might help explain Polly’s death.’

He looked very distressed. ‘I certainly never conceived the notion at the time, and nor did Polly.’

‘But then it also didn’t enter your head that he was a crook.’

‘That’s true, but murder . . .’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Who? Some gangster?’

The easiest answer was yes.

On the drive home, I thought over what he’d said. That barn . . . I knew I shouldn’t put Bea through any more traumas, but I had at least to ring her to put her in the picture. There was a short pause as Bea took in what I proposed – even if not why I had this sudden desire to visit the barn – but she had no problem with my doing so. I even mentioned buried treasure to her, which greatly amused her.

‘Dad? If he’d ever had two pennies to rub together, we’d have known about it, or at least Mum would. He’d have boasted to the skies about it, so it’s unlikely there’s anything to be found in the barn.’

‘Someone thought there was,’ I pointed out. ‘They broke in.’

‘For the Lagonda – no, you’re right. It was afterwards. That’s strange. Anyway, search all you like for the missing millions. I’ll keep the line clear for the good news.’

It wasn’t so good when I got there. The barn door was open, and Tomas Kasek was already inside. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ I roared.

He flushed. ‘Beatrice said—’

‘No, she didn’t. She’s not given anyone but me permission to be here, and certainly not you. Get out.’

‘Mr Williams said—’

‘And he didn’t either. What are you looking for, exactly?’

His mouth was set obstinately, and he was clearly weighing up the odds of punching me – or, a nastier thought, stabbing me. But he couldn’t take the risk. On the one hand, I might be a lot older than him, but on the other, I was taller, sturdier and trained. I told him this, but he barely flinched.

‘You touch me, and I say you attack me. Mr Williams believe me, not you.’

I had two options. I could turn the little pipsqueak round in an armlock and make him sorry he’d left home, or I could be sensible. With Bea in mind, I tried the latter for once. It was quite an effort. He’s just the sort of cocky type I dislike.

‘I’m actually on your side, Tomas.’ I didn’t coo, but I didn’t do too badly at neutrality. ‘At least I am if you’re innocent of Polly Davis’s murder. I’m trying to find out who really did kill Polly and why. Mr Williams thinks you’re innocent and, believe it or not, I think so too – probably,’ I added.

He looked doubtfully at me and said nothing.

I sighed. ‘If I thought you were guilty, I could call my chum at police HQ right now and put you right back inside. Bet Mr Williams doesn’t really know you’re here.’

Bullseye.

‘OK,’ I continued, ‘now tell me what you’re doing here.’

‘I – the car.’

‘Gone. Burnt. You know that. Why come back here?’

‘Business.’

‘What business?’

‘Something that might be here. Money. I need it.’

Progress at last. ‘Whose money?’

‘Andy Wells’s,’ he muttered. He looked at me defiantly, as though this ended the discussion.

For me it began it. I didn’t trust him one inch. ‘You’re on bail for Mrs Davis’s murder. If you’re innocent, you’d better start talking. And talk the truth.’

Some hopes. There was silence, and I could see he was scared. But what could be scarier than the idea of serving life for murder? Only murder itself.

‘Mason Trent?’ I suggested.

His face was all the answer I needed.

‘Where did you get the key?’ I continued.

‘In the lock.’

‘Feeble, Tomas. I’ll take it. Mr Williams’ key, I presume?’

He handed it over so quickly, I guessed he’d copied it and no doubt had another one. Duly noted.

‘Bea will get an alarm system and new locks put on it, just in case you decide to check this missing money out again.’

I watched him until he had disappeared well along the track, then went inside again myself. Tomas had obviously had a good look and found nothing, and my attempts achieved the same negative result. Even though Tomas had heard the same rumours of money as I had, it wasn’t there.

What really gave me the jitters was that Tomas had had Mason Trent’s number in his mobile, dead or not. My work for Dave could be heading on a collision course with the Lagonda and Polly’s murder.

That night I was dreaming of racing round Brand’s Hatch track in a Ferrari. I was humming away merrily, gunning the engine, passing Paddock Hill Bend, certain that I was going to win the race, despite the fact that I appeared to be the only car competing in it. I was vaguely aware of people waving furiously from the stands and urging me on – or so I assumed. I didn’t appear to have a helmet on, but nevertheless the sun was out and I was doing 140. Then I cornered Druid’s Bend – only to see what appeared to be the entire line-up of a Formula 1 race coming towards me. Towards me?

I woke up sweating in terror, wondering what on earth had put that into my dreaming mind. I have no great ambitions to be a Formula 1 driver or even Formula 3. What I like is the whole motoring experience – without the bad bits, of course. The halcyon days of yore as one gently motored through villages able to explore interesting minor roads and stop at pubs that took one’s fancy are long since past, but nevertheless on a good day one can recreate them very satisfactorily even in overcrowded southern England.

I tried to put my dream-cum-nightmare behind me, had some breakfast, and duly rang the security people about Bea’s barn, after having suggested this to her. I said it was urgent, and for good measure, since I knew their rep well, I asked him to come to Frogs Hill too, ostensibly to quote on the Pits’ refit, but actually to improve security on the barn that now sheltered the Lagonda. We’re so remote here that if there’s no answer to the doorbell anyone could all too easily wander round the back of the establishment – and that went for anyone with a particular interest in checking that the Lagonda really had disappeared.

Then the nightmare resurrected itself. Dave rang.

‘Barton Lamb, Jack. No go. Sure you got the right place? There’s only a garage right out of Heartbeat.’

He didn’t sound pleased, and I could hardly blame him. It wasn’t like Brian to pass on duff info, however. His team prides itself on its professionalism. ‘Any chance they did a runner?’ I asked. ‘That’s Mason Trent’s specialty.’

‘Possible,’ Dave said grudgingly.

The nightmare then continued when I began to open the mail. My mortgage company was pointing out that I was in arrears – only just, I yelled in silent indignation – and what did I propose to do about payment? If their Customer Services line could be of any help . . . The next piece of mail was better: the promised invitation from Rupert Stack to the private view of Giovanni’s paintings. It was cutting it fine, as it was taking place that evening. I’d intended to go anyway, and it now seemed a sensible move. I remembered Harry’s lustful hopes of getting his hands on my Giovannis. No way. I’d rather the paintings went on the open market. Nevertheless, I had to face facts, and perhaps that was what my dream had been subtly reminding me. Stark reality was racing down the track towards me and about to obliterate me. Or rather obliter ate Frogs Hill Classic Car Restorations.

With Mason Trent leering at me from all directions, not to mention the BMW job for Dave, plus avenging Polly’s death, I’d need satnav to navigate through the next few weeks.