Classic In the Pits--A Jack Colby classic car mystery (2 page)

Even though he was over here, however, I couldn't believe deep down in my heart that Old Herne's would close. I would surely drive in through those battered wooden gates and find that all was well. Mike would be his usual affable self, ambling around saying hello to everyone and everything. Tim would be fussing around marshalling cars and visitors. All would be well. But then I remembered the Porsche and its disappearance. Coincidence? Or not? Len and Zoe say I have a nose for trouble, and I had an uncomfortable feeling it was not only twitching but building up for an almighty sneeze.

I could hear the cars already as I turned my 1965 Gordon-Keeble off the A20 into the lane that would – eventually – lead me to the hamlet of Old Herne Green on the crest of the North Downs. Hearing the comforting sound of engines growling and purring on a June summer's day – which for once was sunny – put all thoughts of Old Herne's closing into the realms of fantasy. Swoosh was a solid tradition, an unalterable event that was the highlight of the summer season for classic car lovers and their families.

The club was on the site of a former RAF advance landing ground, used for refuelling and for aircraft in trouble returning from missions, and which had served not one but two world wars. The two old runways still existed although now they were linked in a graceful curve at the ends to form a complete track circuit for classic cars. No aeroplanes landed nowadays, but the old control tower was still there, with its ground floor converted into a spectacular reinforced glass-fronted garage for the silver Porsche and for Arthur Howell's 1965 Morgan 4/4 Series IV, which was as dear to him as the Porsche to Mike. Arthur gets to drive it round the track at least once on every visit, and Tim Jarvis ensures it's kept in tip-top condition.

Air veterans from all over the world gather at Old Herne's for reunions, although the Second World War airmen were few in number nowadays – all in their late eighties or nineties, and most of them with carers in the form of friends or family members. But their enthusiasm is infectious, both for aviation fans and for classic car owners, who drop in on track days to drive their beloved cars in company with fellow enthusiasts or hold get-togethers in the bar. This is a lively meeting place for chats of races long ago or dogfights and bomber missions, and at Swoosh the two mingle with the joyous thrill of adrenalin at full power.

I drove through the familiar gateway underneath huge banners proudly announcing that Swoosh was in progress, and then followed the stewards' directions to the area earmarked for classics entered for the ‘best of show' competition. I fancied my chances with the Gordon-Keeble, and so I forgot the threat of danger (usually a mistake) and gave myself up to a day of sheer pleasure. I reminded myself that I had a job to do, but as that too involved chatting to classic car devotees, it could hardly be called heavy duty
and
I was getting paid for it. What's to worry about? I wondered.

I tracked Mike down to the clubhouse, where the first hint of unease returned to me. Looking at the paintwork and decor I realized that the facelift was more urgently needed than I had thought, which did not suggest the club was flush with money. Such was the animation all around me, however, that this qualm was quickly dismissed.

I saw Mike sitting by one of the windows in the large bar, wearing his beloved World War II bomber jacket with his cavalry twills. Glued to his side was his formidable wife Boadicea – sorry, I should say Anna Nelson. In classic car circles Boadicea is her generally accepted nickname except in her presence. Boudicca, the form of the name currently in use for the historic British queen of the Iceni tribe, doesn't do justice to the Amazonian fighting image that the name Boadicea conjures up. Today our lady was clad, in true aggressive style, in startling blue – the colour of woad that terrified (or so it is said) would-be invaders. She is Mike's second wife and bears heavily down on anyone she sees as a threat to her wishes. Occasionally, but not often, she can be as amiable as Mike himself, who murmurs defensively that she had a tough childhood as an orphan. Nevertheless, the consensus is that Jason Pryde, who was Mike's son by his long-divorced first wife Lily, made the right decision in his choice of birth mother. Mike usually lets all the hassle flow over him, but today his usual smile was absent and he looked his full age.

‘Good to see you, Jack,' he said without conviction.

‘Couldn't keep me away from Swoosh,' I said heartily. ‘Fixture in the calendar,' I added experimentally.

He did not reply, but Boadicea weighed in on his behalf. ‘Not for much longer,' she said grimly.

Time to plunge in. ‘I've heard the rumours—'

‘All nonsense,' Mike declared feebly.

Boadicea glared at him. ‘We'll know soon enough.'

Mike hastily changed the subject. ‘How's the Porsche hunt, Jack? The Car Crime Unit said you were looking into it now.'

‘Sniffing around. Only got the message on Friday.' It had been missing for three weeks, which was a long time for such a memorable car to have disappeared without a whisper of its possible whereabouts. The news would have spread at top racing speed through the community of Porsche dealers and owners, so my pleasant task today would be to talk to the dozen or so Porsche 356 owners that were booked in and get their take on it. There are hundreds of 356s registered in the country, but as this one was from such a rare breed – only four-hundred-odd ever built – its engine, history and provenance would ensure that if there was any news of it to be gathered it would have reached those here today.

‘The place isn't the same without it,' Mike said gloomily. His face without a smile was the nail in the coffin that convinced me that times were indeed bad. I wondered what Boadicea's ‘know soon enough' meant. Something to do with Arthur Howell's visit obviously.

‘It looks the same old dump to me,' Boadicea barked. ‘What are the chances you'll find it, Jack?'

‘Can't say,' I replied mildly. ‘The police think it's still in the country.' Dave had confirmed that no Porsche 356 had turned up at any exit in the country without being scoured for false identity and so far without any result.

‘I've had the insurance people on my back,' Mike grunted. ‘Their chaps haven't turned up anything either; it's been three weeks already and after another three they have to fork out, so they're getting anxious.'

You bet they would be anxious, I thought. That Porsche's pedigree and condition would skyrocket its value. Maybe £250,000? More probably, perhaps £300,000. A sum, it occurred to me, that would come in very handy for sprucing Old Herne's up, but I dismissed the idea. It might occur to Boadicea, but not to Mike. That car meant too much to him personally for him to even think of an insurance scam. He had won practically every sports-car trophy going in it, and the car was the best tribute to his past career that he could have.

That sleeping beauty had been in its glass-fronted garage, coming out for occasional excursions round the track, as long as I could remember. That was a long way back, because I used to come as a kid with my father to Swoosh and the silver gleaming curvy car (‘Not a straight line on it,' Dad used to say) had hooked me. If it wasn't on the track I would gravitate to its home and press my nose against the glass to admire it. The game I played with my father was to decide which of the two cars – as the Morgan lived side by side with the Porsche – was the finer car. I always got sucked into choosing first, and whichever I picked, Dad would convincingly argue the opposite.

I assured Mike I'd report back to him on anything I discovered during the day about the missing Porsche. I kept coming back to the word ‘coincidence'. It could just be chance that the threat to Swoosh had materialized at the same time as the theft. Sorrows, as Hamlet's villainous uncle had pointed out, come not as ‘single spies, but in battalions', so he might not have seen a link. But me? I keep my options open.

Before I left the clubhouse, I took one further step. ‘I heard Arthur Howell was over from the States, Mike. Is he around?'

Mike's face grew even gloomier. ‘We're all lunching together, but he's hopping mad about the Porsche. Sees its disappearance as a threat that his Morgan is next on the list.'

A good point. ‘Is there a Thunderbolt flying in the display? That'll keep him happy.'

Second World War Thunderbolts are so rare that it's a pièce de résistance if one joins the fly-past that usually concludes the Swoosh festivities. Nor are there many British World War II fighters still flying, but somehow Swoosh always manages to produce something very special.

‘Yes, and it's costing far too much,' put in Mike's personal thunderbolt, Boadicea.

‘But a wonderful tribute to Swoosh, especially as it will follow Jason's concert,' I said brightly. Nothing like putting a conversational cat among the pigeons. When I saw the look on Mike's face I felt a twinge of remorse, but if the missing Porsche had any link to the Old Herne's situation then I needed to know every angle. And Mike's son Jason was one of them. In the past he had gone through a much reported personal bankruptcy.

‘Arthur's arranged the fly-past,' Mike said abruptly, ‘and Jason—'

‘It's an insult,' Boadicea trumpeted.

This threw me. A Jason Pryde concert an
insult
?

‘That popinjay hasn't been near us for years,' she rampaged onwards, ‘and now he comes swanning back
telling
us – not even asking – that he'll be giving a concert at Swoosh. As if anyone wants to listen—'

‘Anna!' Mike interrupted, sharply for him. ‘It's a tribute to Ray and Miranda.'

On swept her chariot. ‘Arranged over your head by Arthur,' she snorted.

‘It's good to see Jason again,' Mike said quietly.

By which I gathered that there was still a family upset of serious proportions between Jason and Mike. I wondered whether Jason Pryde felt strongly about Old Herne's and whether the concert was because he'd heard it was likely to close. It could be his bid for a stake in the club by helping its funds. Even a takeover? A somewhat cynical thought on my part – I must be getting as pessimistic as Len.

Swoosh was a wonderland, even if it was under threat. There were classics here that brought tears of emotion to my eyes. Every so often I could see one or two of them take off on a lap of honour, spruced up for the Ascot of the car world. A De Dion Bouton driven side by side with a stately Lanchester and sporty Austin-Healey was a mesmerizing sight, even though strictly speaking my eyes should have been mentally focused on a Porsche 356.

There were so many motor clubs represented here this year that I wondered whether the word that this might be the last Swoosh had spread even further than I had realized. No, I thought, I surely must be imagining the slight air of a wake, socially jolly but with a somewhat forced determination to affirm that the land of the classic car was alive and well, Swoosh or no Swoosh. My fancy, I decided.

Time to do my job, and I threw myself in a general round of information gathering on the missing Porsche. It wasn't very productive. There were about a dozen 356s here and I tracked down most of the owners. They had all heard about the theft and had their own ideas, but none of them took me forwards, save that someone mentioned Sam Fenton, the owner of a local chain of burger take-aways, who might be able to help. I knew him by sight and by his Porsche, a 1972 911S, having seen it around for years. I couldn't find him though, so I made my way back to the general throng.

And then I saw her. It isn't often that the ‘across a crowded room' scenario, as immortalized in the song ‘Some Enchanted Evening' from
South Pacific
,
comes into play – certainly not in my emotional life, as the departure of Louise had left a hole that wasn't healing. I had thought we were on a golden path together, but she had followed her own star. Today, however, swap ‘morning' for ‘evening' as I looked up and caught the eye of someone chatting in the swirling throng some way away. Just as in the song, I knew this someone was for me. One can ignore such a moment, one can hesitate too long, or one can go for it.

I went for it.

Not that that was quite as cavalier as it sounds. I didn't forge a determined path through the crowds, pushing people aside left, right and centre in pursuit of my goal. I inched my way through to her: smart jeans and blouse, fortyish, dark-brown hair, arguing (from the body language) with a young man (thirtyish). A romantic row? No, a woman like this would never pick a grinning lout for a soulmate – even if he were a good-looking one, I conceded. I could see she needed rescuing as another great exchange of glances with me took place, and I could hear the lout taking advantage of the lull to sneer some more. Until I arrived, automatically checking the lady's ring finger – not that that tells one much now. For what it was worth there were no rings on either hand.

‘Jack Colby,' I greeted her enthusiastically as I arrived. ‘Good to meet you again.'

She grinned at this unsubtle ruse. ‘Peter, meet Jack Colby. Jack, this is Peter Nelson, Ray's other grandson.'

‘Who the hell are you?' Peter laughed, less delightfully than the lady. Perhaps the ‘other grandson' had riled him.

‘Police,' I remarked casually. ‘Looking for Mike's Porsche.'

‘Really?' he drawled.

Without even looking at him I flicked open my police ID and waved it at him. Strange the effect this can have. Occasionally, it has the opposite effect to that intended and one receives a mental – or physical – punch in the face. More often than not it works, however, as it did this time, and Peter slunk away leaving me with the lady. Excellent.

‘You probably know Ray and Miranda were the first managers of Old Herne's,' she explained. ‘Peter's the offspring of Mike's younger brother, who lives in New Zealand. Peter used to work here.'