Classic In the Pits--A Jack Colby classic car mystery (3 page)

‘Used to?'

‘Recent parting of the ways.'

That was enough about Peter. ‘And you?' I asked.

She looked amused. ‘We haven't met before, have we?'

‘I'd have remembered.'

‘Me too.' A smile, which told me a lot more than the earlier grin. It told me it was genuinely meant, and I had to pull back my imagination fast from the point to which it was racing all too quickly. I changed my mind about her having been in need of rescue, however. This was a lady in full command of herself.

‘I really am with the police,' I assured her. ‘Civilian recruit on specialist classic car cases. Otherwise plain Jack Colby of Frogs Hill Classic Car Restorations near Pluckley.'

‘Jessica Hart. Old Herne's deputy manager under Mike.'

Len had kept quiet about the gender of Mike's deputy, so this was a pleasant surprise and explained the delightful but determined chin before me. ‘That's quite recent, I gather.'

‘Two months. It's getting too much for Mike to do it alone. He's sixty-eight now.'

I didn't think age had a lot to do with it, because although Mike was the nicest chap around managing was clearly not his forte.

‘He told me you were coming to talk to him about the Porsche,' she continued. ‘How's it going?'

With that sleek brown hair bobbing around one of the most engaging faces I had seen in a long time, it was hard to think about anything else. I did my best though.

‘Every chance we'll get it back,' I said more confidently than I felt. Then I leapt right into it. ‘I heard a rumour that Old Herne's was under threat.'

She answered me straight away and frankly. ‘It's possible. We just don't know. The place needs a lot of cash spent on it. Mike doesn't have a bean; he's been pouring most of his salary into it, and we don't think Arthur will pay up any more. It's losing money hand over fist.'

It didn't take a great brain to deduce that Old Herne's finances were in a downward spiral, and a genteelly decaying club can only go on so long before the gentlemen, not to mention the ladies, tiptoe out of it. ‘How long does it have?'

She hesitated. ‘Yesterday it was looking as if it would close as soon as Arthur could sell it, most likely just for the land.'

‘And today?'

‘It depends on what happens in the next hour or two. Arthur hadn't said anything yet but we know he could well pull the plug on it. Swoosh is obviously its usual success, but he won't let that sway him. I'm due to join Mike and his wife for lunch with Arthur and his family, not to mention Ray, so the news will probably be broken then. Wish me luck. I may be jobless when I see you next.'

I liked that ‘when', and it would be as soon as possible. ‘Arthur will surely see your potential and give a stay of execution to the club.' I meant it. This lady was impressive. ‘Is he here yet?'

‘Yes. He'll have lunch and then go out on his usual trip round the track in his Morgan. That and the Thunderbolt fly-past are his big thrills of the day.'

‘What brought you to Old Herne's?' I asked curiously. ‘Cars or aeroplanes?'

‘Neither.'

‘You like management?'

‘Not sure about liking it. I want to do well here, if Old Herne's survives, but …'

When she stopped, I wanted to say: come with me to some place where we can be alone and talk. I wanted to know more about this lady, but being surrounded by several thousand people did not provide the best circumstances for getting to know someone. And I knew I wanted to get to know Jessica – in every way.

‘Can we meet later?' I said.

That smile again. ‘I'd like that.' Then she gave me a look which suggested I'd passed some kind of test because she continued, ‘I'm here because I like saving things. Does that make sense? Saving
good
things, which includes Swoosh, and I'll try my damnedest to do so. Just look at it all.'

She waved a hand and I saw her point because I shared it. I could see people chatting, children racing around, stalls with model cars, miniature and pedal cars for children to drive around, groups of war veterans chatting by the hangars, the bandstand erected ready for Jason Pryde, the usual fairground attractions and, beyond the track, the classics parked for the judges to choose the best car of the show. Which I hoped, of course, would be mine. Of course Swoosh would continue. It had to. And with someone like Jessica in charge there was every chance it would.
If
Arthur Howell saw sense.

‘
Can
Arthur close it down?' I asked her. ‘I thought Old Herne's was a kind of charity.'

‘Not really. It's a family trust. Arthur's still the owner; Mike has been its trustee ever since his mother died in 1991. Miranda and Ray first met Arthur in his World War II days. Arthur has the last word on Old Herne's though.'

‘How does Jason Pryde fit in? I didn't get the impression he was close to Mike and Boa— Anna Nelson. So why's he here? Does he have an interest in Old Herne's?'

I noted the hesitation, but then she said, ‘Arthur probably persuaded him to come. They get on well so he'll be at the lunch. But who knows what Jason thinks about anything.'

I had the distinct impression she was sorry she had said anything at all about Jason, but just at that moment Liz Potter arrived with a whoosh, as if taking the chequered flag, and threw herself into my arms. She's a small, lively woman to whom fashion is pleasantly unknown, a complete contrast to Jessica's stylish cool.

‘Glad to see you too, Liz,' I remarked, highly irritated at this inopportune display of intimacy.

‘I'll be off,' Jessica remarked airily. ‘Nice to have met you, Jack.'

I detached Liz and just managed to catch Jessica's arm as she strode off in a meaningful way. ‘Dinner tonight?' I asked feebly.

‘Too much clearing up. Bye now.' And she was off.

‘I'll help,' I called after her.

She briefly paused, turned round and shrugged. ‘Accepted.'

‘Thanks so much, Liz,' I said through gritted teeth, watching Jessica probably walking out of my life forever.

She giggled. ‘You can handle it.'

‘I bet Colin's not around,' I said. Colin is her nerdish husband who can't stand me – with no reason at all, since I had been out of Liz's life for well over a year before she even met him.

‘Minding the shop,' she said happily.

The shop is Liz's garden centre on the outskirts of Piper's Green, the nearest village to Frogs Hill.

I sighed. ‘Do you want lunch?'

‘Why else would I hug you?'

‘My manly attractions?'

‘You wish. Let's go eat.'

We non-invitees to the VIP lunch were stuck with the clubhouse café, which proved to be full, and so we headed for the burger stall. This turned out to be much jollier than I expected and I enjoyed the car chat buzz around us. I cheered up, and Swoosh turned into the perfect day again – or would have done if I wasn't still sensing that the situation at Old Herne's was a volcano gently rumbling away waiting to erupt.

S
till harbouring my wistful hope that the Gordon-Keeble would win the best in show award, I made my way back after lunch to where I parked it earlier with its fellow competitors on the far side of the track. Len and I had scrupulously checked each millimetre of my beloved car, polished it up to its Sunday best and cleaned its engine to the nth degree. Nevertheless there must have been a speck of dust left somewhere because it had only been awarded third place. I would have patted it in commiseration if I hadn't been worried about fingerprints on its shiny polish.

I had been wondering what had happened at the management lunch but there was no sign of Jessica or anyone else who could enlighten me. It must have been over because I glimpsed Arthur Howell in his Morgan whizzing round the track. The Morgan was a four-wheeler racing green original and it looked splendid. As I had been used to seeing the Morgan since my youth, only now did I wonder why this 1965 Morgan was so special to him rather than, say, a three-wheeler pre-war model which he might have driven during his wartime career here. That reminded me that I had to talk to Tim Jarvis, who was busy overseeing the laps of honour round the track. And there was still Sam Fenton to nobble.

The latter was the easier, as he had been watching the Morgan too, so I caught him after the crowd dispersed and explained my mission over the Porsche.

‘Bad show that. Tried the Porsche Club 356 Register, have you?' he asked.

This was a natural step, but the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency in Swansea was more likely. Dave had provided me with a short list of four 356 registrations there in the last month of which two were due to change of owner. That ruled them out of my reckoning because if they were stolen cars the Agency's records of previous owners wouldn't tally.

The other two were first registrations, which for a classic Porsche would imply that a car acquired overseas had now entered the UK and needed UK registration – all perfectly legal. Unless, of course, the foreign documentation required for registration and an old-style logbook, dating back to the year of manufacture, were forged, along with the number plates. So the DVLA line didn't look hopeful either, unless the engine and chassis numbers on Mike's car had been left unaltered, in which case they
would
show up in the Swansea records and set the alarm bells going. With today's class of criminal, however, that was unlikely, although changing figures with a number punch is not an easy matter.

Unlike the DVLA, with the Porsche Club 356 Register there was a chance that even if the numbers had been changed something would smell fishy to them, as, dealing with such a specific subject as the 356, every single number ever issued would be known to them. The drawback to this line of enquiry though was that the new keeper of Mike's Porsche would not stick his neck out by registering it with the club, or possibly not even with the obligatory DVLA, depending on what his intentions were for his new acquisition.

‘Might turn up something,' Sam said. ‘Good luck. I did hear a rumour that someone in the area was asking if there were any 356s in good condition for sale. Happens all the time, so probably nothing for you there, but you never know.'

It sounded vague but indeed one never knew. ‘Any idea
where
he or she was asking?'

‘Huptons. Know it?'

I did. It was one of the chain of garages that belonged to Harry Prince, local mandarin and millionaire who had his beady eyes on buying Frogs Hill and the Pits. I stored Sam's information in my mind for later evaluation, but it didn't look good. Harry Prince sails close to the wind and when it blows he is adept at heading instantly for harbour, leaving others to weather the storm.

Tackle Harry or Huptons? The latter, I decided. It was too indefinite a line to justify using up what little goodwill Harry had towards me. Meanwhile, there was work to do here today. I had to consider whether the car had been stolen for its monetary value or because it was Mike's car or because of its iconic status at Old Herne's, so the more I knew about those involved the better.

Top of the list was Tim Jarvis, Len's chum. I went in search of him – not easy in these crowds – and eventually I spotted him lovingly taking charge of the Morgan again after Arthur had finished his tour. I knew him through Len, so apart from a slight defensiveness he was willing enough to chat to me. He was about the same age as Len, in his sixties, but even more weather-beaten in the face, and they shared the same general air of the fanatic plus one of overall gloom and doom.

‘I looked after that car as if it were my own,' he told me truculently the moment I mentioned the Porsche.

‘And it showed,' I said to smooth him down. He had the kind of rugged independence that made me worry about him. What could he do to replace Old Herne's in his life if it closed? I asked him to fill me in on the details of the theft. It must have been well planned, even though I doubted whether security here was exactly state of the art. I'd heard the story before from Dave but there's no substitute for the horse's mouth.

‘What do you want to know?' He was still guarded.

‘Let's start with the outside gates. Locked?'

‘Eleven thirty, after the bar's closed. Found them open in the morning.'

‘CCTV?' I asked without much hope. I'd seen the said lock – which was merely a padlock, although a hefty one.

‘No need.' He glared at me defiantly. ‘The gates were always locked.'

‘Was the padlock forced?'

‘Gone. Had it replaced,' Tim added proudly.

All this told me was that it wasn't a chance theft – and I'd been sure of that anyway – but the clincher would be the access to the control tower garage. ‘Did you notice anyone odd hanging around?' I asked him. A daft question, but daft questions have to be asked and answered if one's to get the general feel of the situation.

‘Not odder than usual.' Tim was highly pleased with this witticism and readily agreed to accompany me to the Porsche's former garage.

The control tower was between the two remaining hangars from its earlier RAF days, and several hundred yards from the clubhouse. The hangars had been converted into archives or museums – however one terms such glorious collections of memorabilia, ranging from bits and bobs from old cars too precious to throw away to letters, photos, car and plane models – anything that spoke of Old Herne's past.

On the far side of the control tower, Thunderbolts Hangar (or Thunderbolts for short), so called in honour of Arthur, was devoted to aircraft, and the other hangar, predictably called Morgans, housed classic car memorabilia from 1896 onwards, and I loved both of them. Pride of place in Thunderbolts Hangar was given to the Crossley fire tender that meant a lot to Arthur Howell. Crossleys had served the RAF nobly during the Second World War, and the driver of this one had saved Arthur's life when his Thunderbolt crash-landed at Old Herne's in 1943.