Classic Calls the Shots (24 page)

Not exactly surprising news, and nor was Dave's response when I asked him how his budget was looking.

‘Bust,' he told me. ‘Sorry about that.'

I believed him but so was I. The mortgage was due. I murmured about my last invoice which was as yet unpaid and he murmured about these things taking time to process. He did kindly add that he'd do his best. Apart from the Pits income (if any) all I had in the way of work was my obligation to Bill, which in the present circumstances can't have been high on his agenda.

The prospect of living with Louise, however temporarily, was both delight and torment. It had been a long time since I'd shared living space with anyone. Four years ago crocks and pans had flown across the room as Liz Potter had thrown me out of her house, and I was fearful of something similar happening again. That Saturday evening, however, daily life looked suspiciously easy, and I could grow used to Louise's help over dealing with dishwashers and conjuring up pastas. It was even easier as regards the romantic side of our relationship. Made in heaven it seemed, and living it was paradise. Too easy? Well, why knock that?

‘It's good to be here,' Louise said happily. ‘First of all, there's you. But you
here
is even better. I felt like I was living in a goldfish bowl at the studios and hotel,' she confessed. ‘The eyes of the world are on us now, expecting us to be picked off one by one.'

‘Not all journalists are like Pen.'

‘If we were picked off one by one, no one would turn down a story like that,' she pointed out mildly, then managed a laugh as she saw my face. ‘Don't worry. I'm not going to turn into a murdering serial killer or be a victim of one. It doesn't help that Julia Danby is the villain of
Dark Harvest
though. I could do with a spot of being whiter than white. Brian feels the same way as the duplicitous Lord Charing. We saw the rushes of our flashback sex scene this afternoon. Torrid stuff. They weren't good and we both knew it. So does Bill.'

‘It'll be OK in the end,' I said, without much conviction I fear. ‘You all feel bad, but you're pros. What comes out will be your best work.'

‘I hope you're right,' she replied fervently. ‘It's not just me. Tom's arrest really was the last straw.'

I couldn't tell her the true situation. ‘He might be free by now.'

‘Let's hope. It's hanging over us like a thunderstorm about to break. It's as though misfortune were stalking us, giving us little jabs and big jabs alternately, and we can never shake it off. We won't until it's too late and we're all caught in the trap. Does that sound crazy?'

‘No.'

‘I was stalked once, someone who had a grudge against me because I got a part that they wanted.'

‘That rings a bell. Some Victorian murderer. Can't place it.'

‘It'll come back.'

‘Like Pen.'

She laughed. ‘I think we've seen her off for a while.'

‘Do you?' I said politely. ‘Ever optimistic, aren't you?'

‘It's not funny, though,' she said soberly. ‘We're none of us giving our best. The audience won't know that, but Roger does, and so does Bill. And yet they can't just postpone filming till we all feel better. It would cost the earth to get us all together again, even if it's practically possible. The end of next week is the absolute limit for me. It's not just the murders, it's this horrible feeling that some dark shadow hangs over us all. Whether that comes from the film or from somewhere else, I can't tell. It's like being in a cage.'

This sounded bad. ‘Even at Frogs Hill?'

‘No, thankfully.' She smiled at me.

‘We've got tomorrow to ourselves.'

‘At a car show?'

Louise had insisted that we take up Zoe's suggestion – she wanted to beard my fantasy about Nigel, as she called it, in a suitable den. Besides, she liked making up picnics, she told me.

‘Classic car enthusiasts only have eyes for cars. They won't even notice you,' I assured her.

She giggled and the
real
evening began.

Fun Day at Marsham Hall is an annual event, and probably because of its name, I hadn't been here before. One look at it and I kicked myself for prejudice. Firstly, classic cars were going to loom large judging by the numbers and quality of those I could see in the parking area. Secondly, the hall itself was a marvel to behold. I'd looked it up on the Internet but nothing prepared me for the real thing.

It was built by an eccentric artist in the late nineteenth century who not only designed the house but the gardens as well. Fantasy was his line, so turrets, fairy-tale crenellations and towers abounded on the hall's exterior and the gardens looked an idyllic paradise of waterfalls, streams, and glades mixed with a child's fantasy world of witch houses, giant mushrooms, and ponds with delightful large frogs painted bright green. It sounds garishly awful, but it had been done with such taste that it wasn't.

The hall is now run by a charitable trust, and inside, apart from the private apartments in which the family still lives, is mostly devoted to displaying the eccentric collections of its successive eccentric owners. Events loom large in the trust's calendar, of which Fun Day is only one. Classic cars were awarded a large field adjacent to the gardens, which was gently sloped so that it could clearly be seen from the gardens if the admiring owners could detach themselves for long enough to join their families picnicking there. If the weather had the ill manners to rain during the day, we were told that visitors could make for the nearest pub or the restaurant in the house – or as third and best choice owners could sit proudly in their beloved cars.

Luckily for Louise, who did not reap the same pleasure as I did out of car-fancying, it was relatively sunny and would be possible for a welcome few hours to pretend that the world of Nemesis and murder was in some other galaxy.

Louise had decreed that we would take the picnic of our dreams, which thanks to an early opening supermarket was a dream that didn't turn into a nightmare. There had only been one awkward moment as we set off to drive here. Louise thought to ask me whether I would have bothered to come if it hadn't been for my fixation on Nigel.

‘I've no idea if he'll be there or not,' I answered truthfully enough. ‘Zoe could be wrong.'

She made no comment, but had snapped the lid of the picnic basket shut with considerable force. She and I had decided to drive to Marsham Hall in the Lagonda and Zoe told us vaguely that she would see us there.

‘I'll leave you to your twenties replay,' she said.

‘The Lagonda is a 1938.'

‘Let's pretend,' Louise suggested. ‘The twenties are more romantic, and I'm beginning to be heartily sick of the thirties.'

We had duly roared in about noon to admiring glances from aficionados. There was a great turn out. Talk was in full flood, with small groups standing admiringly by some cars, others ignored. I took a quick tour around and saw Zoe's Fiesta. I didn't expect to see Len. Mrs Len isn't a car person, but Zoe said he might turn up with his ‘missis' later. I have rarely met ‘the missis' or his children, who are now grown up with families of their own. That makes Len a grandfather, but to me his children are the classics he has serviced regularly for more than one generation.

As I looked around, I felt this was a world away from Stour Studios and despite my ulterior motive in wondering whether Nigel might be here in his possible role of spotter or organizer of a car theft gang, I was determined to enjoy it.

Picnicking was already under way in the gardens and indeed in the car park area where proud owners often prefer to sit in chairs to talk cars while they eat. My lingering here would hardly be fair on Louise, however, and having polished a tiny bit of dust off the Lagonda in the hope of winning Car of the Show award, I tore myself away from my second beauty in the interests of escorting the first.

We found a secluded spot by a small artificial stream with a particularly attractive frog, only to find that it wasn't secluded enough. Hidden by what we thought was a large bush, we found Zoe and Rob munching what looked like cold pizza. I hoped for Zoe's sake that I was wrong. They greeted me without enthusiasm.

‘Hi,' Zoe said.

‘Hi,' said Rob, just a second short of rudeness, as he decided whether to acknowledge our presence or not. ‘Someone's looking for you, Jack.'

‘Nigel?' Louise asked sweetly.

‘Right. He's giving Clarissa a day out,' Rob told me. ‘He knows the owner of this pile and thought she'd enjoy it. Cyril's a nice old fellow. Chum of my dad's,' he added.

‘Of course,' I said. ‘Who wants me?'

‘Clarissa.'

‘What for? About the Auburn again?'

‘No idea.' That said, Rob returned to his pizza.

Louise and I retreated, found a Rob-free place to sit and threw ourselves into enjoying the day. She had dressed up in a floaty summer dress for the occasion, and though her outfit didn't run to a parasol I felt that the eyes of any Impressionist artist who wandered by would light up at the sight. Mine did.

This had all the signs of a great day for dads, mums, children – and sweethearts. There was a pleasant mingling of petrol smells, grass, and faint whiff of hamburgers in the air. Perhaps Nigel and Clarissa were taking their ease dining with Rob's Cyril in the hall, because I could see no sign of them in the car display area when I went back there. It would be tempting to enjoy the day for itself but even leaving Nigel out of the equation both Louise and I were conscious of the nightmare that hung over the studios. I had to keep a tight rein on what I could tell Louise about Joan's death, but in fact Louise told me rather more than Brandon had.

‘It seems Joan had had a call to meet Bill at Nemesis, because she'd told several people about it. It seemed a reasonable arrangement if annoying for her that Bill should want to see her, because it would be for an exterior shot the next day and shadows in the dying sun would be important, especially as Joan would be in black. Bill denies making that call and so does his PA.'

‘Who were the other people who knew about it?'

‘I don't know.' Louise saw what I was after and didn't like it. ‘I didn't, but Graham says that Joan wasn't making any secret of it. Anyone could have heard about it.'

‘Including Nigel?' I forced myself to ask.

She flushed. ‘Probably.' A pause. ‘You really do have a vendetta against him, don't you?'

‘Strong words, Louise. It's my job, remember? I work for the police.'

‘Sorry.' But she didn't sound it, and there was an atmosphere between us at odds with the pleasure of the day. I went back to the subject of Tom.

‘Do you think he invented that call?'

‘No, but he might be scared that Bill murdered her,' Louise said defensively. ‘After all, in theory Bill could have been hiding when Tom arrived at Nemesis, awaiting his chance. Loyalty comes first with Tom. He'd never voice any such suspicions.'

Why would Tom think that Bill might want to kill Joan, though? I was sure Pen would have her answer ready. Louise was tight-lipped, however, and we dropped the subject. We wandered around for a while and then I proposed to go back ‘to work', although the array of cars here made that no hardship at all. She said she would prefer to find a place by the stream and wait for me with a good book. I had some breathing space for doing my job without having to feel guilty over darling Nigel.

Every age of cars from the twenties to the sixties was here, and such a mix of cars brings aficionados together in comradely fashion. Get a collection of classic Porsche owners together or MGs and there's a totally different atmosphere. In wider gatherings there's a general rejoicing that such wonders as classic cars exist for the common good.

At last I saw Nigel doing the rounds of the assembled beauties. It was still hard to think of his being bent on some criminal task on a summer's day such as this, with everyone wearing their best bibs and tuckers. Nevertheless I noticed he was inspecting a Sunbeam Tiger very closely and jotting down a few details.

‘Hi,' I greeted him.

He didn't look in the least bit guilty. Again he looked pleased to see me, dammit. ‘Is Louise here?' he asked.

‘Somewhere around,' I said vaguely. ‘I heard Clarissa wanted a word with me.'

He looked blank. ‘Did she? You'll probably find her up on the terrace in her wheelchair. It's an electric one so she can drive up and down there giving herself what she calls a majestic overview of the proceedings. She likes it because people come up to talk to her without any effort on her part.'

I made my way over to the terrace, where I did indeed find her, complete with sunglasses, sun hat, and a book. Someone else was just leaving her, so I took the vacant chair at her side. Losing her memory or not, she remembered who I was, which was flattering.

‘Ah, Mr Colby, how nice.'

I replied that it was equally nice to see her. ‘I heard you wanted to speak to me.'

She looked puzzled. ‘Did I? What about?'

‘The 1935 Auburn?' I suggested.

‘Do you have one? Lucky you.'

‘No. I was looking for one when I came to see you and you were very helpful.'

‘Oh yes,' she said triumphantly. ‘I saw it one night. And dear Nigel tells me that you then found it in Gladden car park.'

‘That wasn't hard after your tip.'

‘I'm pleased to have been of help,' she said grandly. ‘It's all very interesting,' she continued. ‘That's why I wanted to see you. One of the car park guards who does odd jobs for me was telling me . . . I wanted to tell you . . .'

She looked puzzled.

‘Tell me what?' I asked hopefully.

‘That he likes crumpets. He came to tea one day.'

‘Who? The guard?'

‘No. Mr Shotsworth. Rob brought him. And of course, as you know, dear Nigel now owns part of the firm.'