Classic Calls the Shots (10 page)

Therefore the thief either walked back to the hotel after hiding the car or walked directly to the studios. Or, I realized glumly, he could have had his own car waiting for him near the hiding place. Or he took public transport. It would have been a tad memorable if he arrived at the studios by bike. Given the clocking-in time, buses were out and trains barely possible. Cars might draw attention if they were left unattended in a country lane while they awaited their owner. A handy empty barn? Unlikely for a non-local cast or crew member.

I sat down with the ordnance survey maps of the area and drew a neat circle in the area that public transport was available – namely the Ashford to London route. Rural stations on that route included Lenham and Harrietsham from where the walk to the studios would easily be possible. Even Headcorn might be conceivable, though X would arrive at the studios somewhat sleepy from the long walk.

The Lenham and Harrietsham line also stopped at Charing, however.
Near to where Clarissa had seen the car.
I was trying not to rush to conclusions, but honour demanded that I found Bill his Auburn in less than twenty-four hours. And then there was Louise. There was a seventeenth-century Kentish poet with the romantic name of Lovelace who wrote: ‘I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not honour more.' That sentiment strikes a trifle strange to modern ears, but it galvanized me. Auburn or bust.

I rang Len at home, which was normally off bounds, but that was immaterial. Len sounded thrilled in fact; perhaps he thought I was summoning him over to the Pits. He certainly seemed to lose interest when I mentioned the Auburn, but for once I didn't care.

‘Where would you a hide a car in a hurry, Len? Any car, not just an Auburn?'

A grunt came back. ‘Cows.' Or that's what it sounded like.

‘Sorry?'

Another grunt. ‘With cars. Other
cars
.'

‘Yes, but this is an Auburn, Len. It would stand out like a Bugatti in a boot sale.'

‘Wraps,' he said.

‘Which scene?' I got muddled with film jargon.

‘Covers,' he yelled. ‘Under covers.'

Even I got to the next step. ‘Private car parks.'

‘Worth a go,' he said, and put the phone down.

I rushed over to my maps again. Suppose Clarissa had been right on target. If the thief had mistaken the turning, it would suggest he was heading either for a house or road nearby, or for the main turning for Canterbury. From the latter he was less likely to get back to the studios in time without a taxi, which would be traceable. From Charing it would be only three miles or so to walk back to the studios. I could remember no suitable car park in Charing village, so I thought again about the estate where Clarissa lived. They were town houses, with no sign of their having their own garages. Residents needed somewhere to park, as would the shoppers. I began to feel sick again but with excitement this time. I remembered that breakfast with Louise had been a long time ago and forced myself to make a sandwich and eat it (ghastly though it tasted). Then I leapt into the Alfa and drove like a knight of old determined to win his spurs.

Coming from the Pluckley road, I had to turn right into the Gladden estate. Instead I turned before that into an inconspicuous entrance marked P which led – to my great pleasure – into a small underground car park. For a nervous thief coming from Lenham, turning into the estate would be a natural mistake to make.

A nice jolly-looking security guard wearing the by now familiar uniform of Shotsworth Security watched me take a time ticket from the machine. Then I got out and showed him my police pass and he became even more jolly, although I sensed a certain strain in the jolliness now. I parked the Alfa and as I got out I noticed that Mr Jolly had left his booth and advanced into the parking lot to check up on me. I waved to him, as I strolled around, but saw nothing of interest, so I went down to the next level in the bowels of the earth. There I found what I was looking for. Several cars tucked away – not together – and under a cover of some sort. I peered beneath one, and found a Jaguar XK150. Nice, but not the Auburn. Then I walked up to the next one, and tried that. Eureka!

I'd found it. The Auburn itself in all its glory.

I was conscious of a prickling feeling at the back of my neck and knew I was being watched. It was a sense I had valued ever since my oil business days, when it could mean the difference between life and sudden death. Maybe here too, but I was less worried when I saw it was only the jolly-looking chap from the security booth.

Only he wasn't jolly any longer.

Especially when I told him the police would be coming to take the Auburn away. It wasn't that he looked about to bash me – he was a lot shorter and flabbier than me anyway. But he did look extremely nervous.

F
or all my relief, recovering the Auburn seemed but a small victory in the context of Angie's death and I felt it would do little to dispel the shadows cast over
Dark Harvest.
I waited patiently by the car for Dave's team to arrive. Mr Jolly, whose real name I had forced out of him to be Nathan Wynn, had disclaimed all knowledge of Auburns or indeed of any other car in his domain. Guess what – he just worked here and the car must have come in on someone else's watch. Was the car park manned by night? With great relief, he agreed it was not. Was there CCTV? There was, but before I got too hopeful, he added, ‘Doesn't cover every corner of course.'

‘What about this one?' I asked, pointing to the Auburn's hiding place.

Guess again. ‘Not a chance.' Happy grin.

To Dave's team it was only one more stolen car and it was Sunday afternoon, as Dave had pointed out on the phone. The wait for his team was a long one, even though I knew he had been winding me up. Fair enough, I supposed. For me it presented a different scenario. One step had been accomplished, but the next foot forward was wavering around in mid-air. The Auburn was possible evidence in a murder case and so on Brandon's plate as well as Dave's, but without anything tangible to link the two Dave was in the driving seat for the moment. I was glad, because it helped me keep them separate, rather than trying to spot links where none might exist, for all Angie's cryptic words to Bill.

‘When will you be able to release the Auburn?' I'd asked Dave hopefully on the phone. ‘It has to be at Syndale Manor by six a.m. tomorrow.'

Brief pause. ‘Believe in miracles, do you? Think the entire Kent police force is going to turn out on a Sunday to check out the car overnight?'

‘I hoped—'

‘No way. Tuesday, Jack.'

‘Eight am. Monday,' I bartered.

‘Three in the afternoon.'

‘Ten in the morning.'

‘Eleven,' and Dave rang off.

It was his job to relay the news to Bill and for that I was duly grateful. Dave must have hidden powers of persuasion because no irate phone call from Bill followed. Nathan was still presumably in his booth, but I remained guarding the precious Auburn. I decided to leave the wraps as they were, save for the place where I had heaved them up earlier, though I longed to see the lady totally unclad with black tarpaulin.

The team arrived complete with a low loader an hour and a half later and watching them winch the Auburn aboard was nerve-racking. I felt personally responsible, and no doubt Bill saw it the same way. A 1935 Auburn Speedster was special.

The next morning an uncertain sun was doing its best to cheer me up as I drove the Auburn along the A20 towards Syndale Manor. Dave had told me I could have the honour of picking it up and returning it to the film set. On the whole, I'd have preferred them to do it on the low loader, but the word ‘budget' floated around, and I would be facing Bill in person. I comforted myself that this way I could realize my dreams and actually drive the stunner. The darling just seemed to float along, although if I'd been eight inches shorter, I might have had trouble seeing out over the bonnet. For me, though, it was a glorious moment, even though the lanes to Syndale Manor, once one has left the A20, are not wide. In places meeting another car involves contact with scratchy hedges, ditches and mud, but I had little choice of route. There are two ways of approaching the Manor and both of them involve stretches of single-track lanes that set classic car owners' hearts a-quiver. I took the Doddington road through Wichling, which is so small that you are past it before you recognize it as an independent village. Nevertheless it has an active church, which dignifies it by the name of village rather than hamlet. It is high up on the Downs and that whole area can be creepy, very creepy in rain or mist or low cloud. The Pilgrims Way, the ancient road from Winchester to Canterbury, runs along the Downs between Wichling and the A20 and its atmosphere suggests that the humble cars on the main road are a mere nothing compared with the ghosts of pilgrims past. Except, of course, for the Auburn, which is hardly a mere nothing. I was still savouring every minute of this drive, although the wipers were hardly efficient when I tried to remove some bird dirt that had blessed the windscreen.

With the weather still meditating on what mischief it might produce and my anxiety to avoid responsibility for the slightest mark on the Auburn, I was glad when, having turned down the even narrower lane to Syndale Manor, which boasted grass growing through the tarmac in places, I saw the Manor's open gates on the right. It lies in the Syndale valley, the better known end of which emerges near Ospringe, on the A2 to Canterbury. Smugglers, pilgrims, Templars, prehistoric traders – they have all used this valley and add their own history to that of the travellers on the Pilgrims Way, which is a relatively recent name for a track going back to prehistory. Like Dad in the Glory Boot, their ghosts still hang around.

As I proceeded up the Manor drive, a sign pointed to the field where cars were to be parked, and I was about to go in when a horrified security guard (Shotsworth Security, naturally) leapt out of nowhere and frantically waved me onwards.

‘You're
production
,' he yelled at me, goggling at the car. ‘They're waiting for you up
there.
'

Is
there
Heaven? I wondered, as I drove onwards. It was one form of it, I discovered. The guard had obviously rung the great news of my arrival through, because as I turned a corner I was greeted by an amazing spectacle. In the background against an unexpectedly blue sky was Syndale Manor. I'd seen pictures of it, but the real thing was stupendous. Georgian, mellowed yellow stone, dignified, huge, and with beautifully proportioned windows, it was a gracious sight to behold.

To my right in the shade of a line of trees I glimpsed the usual cluster of day caravans and trailers, and to my left was a field full of what looked like the catering vans and loos, together with an array of tables. All these I briefly registered, but what transfixed my astounded eyes was what lay ahead of me. It seemed the entire crew, cast and staff were lining the driveway for my triumphant arrival, or more probably the Auburn's. They were waving madly, and there was even a modest cheer or two. Striding towards me in the middle of the drive like a sheriff in a Western was Bill Wade.

He and I both drew up with about six feet left between us. I got out of the Auburn and indicated he could take over the driving, but he didn't move.

‘About time,' he grunted. ‘Hurt, is she?'

‘Not a scratch.'

‘Inside damage?'

‘None that I or the police could see.'

We looked at her together, admiring the cream paintwork, the four chromed external exhaust headers and all the other glories of this wonderful car.

‘That's bad news,' was Bill's remarkable conclusion, and not unnaturally it threw me off track. ‘It means someone had it in for Angie, not the car or film,' he went on to explain.

‘But you both loved it.'

‘Sure. It's part of my life.' He stared at it some more and then nodded – to himself, it seemed, not to me. Then he snapped into gear. ‘We're shooting arrivals,' he told me.

I thought for a crazy instant that included me, but I realized this probably meant the arrivals at ‘Tranton Towers' for the Jubilee ball weekend.

‘The Auburn's called for two o'clock. Be there, Jack.' He turned to go, and then stopped. ‘And thanks.'

‘Won't you drive her in?' I asked.

I thought for a moment he would refuse again, but if so he changed his mind. I left him to it, and walked behind as the Auburn, with its owner at the wheel, slowly made its way to play its part in what would surely become movie history, just as
Running Tides
had done.

The crew and a few cast closed around him and it was business as usual. Bill was surrounded by so many people that he was almost invisible. Not inaudible though, as his orders came over loud and clear. The professionals were at work. I waited for a while, watching technicians adjusting lighting angles on Syndale Manor's front entrance and the two four-wheel drives with their rear-mounted cameras manoeuvring their way through the mass of people.

I saw the other three classics driven up one by one, joining the Auburn now parked to one side of the forecourt. The Fiat 508S Tipo, the Bentley Silent Sports and the Horch were so distinctive that I expected the whole crew to stop in their tracks to applaud. They didn't of course. Nor did the various members of the cast I could see gathered in groups. I spotted Louise, dolled up in a slinky 1930s silver-grey suit. She'd told me that silver grey, highly fashionable in May 1935 because of the Silver Jubilee, was part of Bill's colour strategy agreed with his cinematographer. He'd been angling for some kind of effect such as Jack Cardiff had used for the Other World in
A Matter of Life and Death
,
but it hadn't worked. Hence the use of the silver-grey theme, which was a compromise – not something that Bill was used to. Compromise or not, it suited Louise.