Classic Mistake (22 page)

Vic Trent lived above the shop – which was one of those invaluable convenience stores that sell everything seemingly every hour of every day of every week – although I gathered that his son now ran it. As I had driven through the congested roads to reach it I had half regretted coming, as it felt like a detour from the main path of the case. I reminded myself that the anniversary lunch was only two weeks away now, and I wasn’t going to get an invitation without some hard work. I needed more facts at my disposal before I could demand an invitation that the Charros couldn’t refuse. No Poirots would be welcome at their party, but if there was any chance of picking up a clue to Watson’s whereabouts I needed to be present. This detour could therefore be valuable. For all Tony knew, Vic could have been in contact with Frank or even sheltering him.

I found the shop, albeit with some difficulty. It was indeed a corner shop and buried in the heart of an estate in an area of Greater London that in the past had been notorious for its highwaymen, but none have been arrested recently. Not on horses with cloaks and masks, anyway. The estate looked as if it dated from the 1960s with rambling, neat identical houses. The shop was somewhat in need of paint, but it was very clearly part of the local way of life. It boasted a small post office within, and there was a wine department too, but even so it failed to enchant. The vegetables looked tired and so was the greeting from – presumably – Vic’s son.

‘Could I have a word with Vic if he’s about?’ I asked, buying a bottle of wine as an offering for Vic.

‘Who wants him?’

That wasn’t a good start. ‘Jack Colby. Len Vickers suggested I look him up.’

He disappeared into the storeroom behind the shop and reappeared so quickly with the man himself that I guessed Len as well as Wilson had already called Vic.

Central casting could not have provided a better stereotype for a semi-retired shop owner. Vic was a big man, almost as tall as me, and with a much fatter beer belly. He looked placid though, as if he had come to terms with his past life. He sized me up equally quickly, and I must have passed muster by whatever standards he was applying because he ushered me into the storeroom and then upstairs to his flat. I could hear a Mrs Trent (presumably) moving about but the living room remained our private domain. Slow and direct was Vic Trent, rather like John Wayne in his later film career; he was the sort that eyed his opponents carefully before drawing a gun. Metaphorically, I hoped, in Vic’s case.

‘Len said you wanted my take on Frank Watson.’ Vic’s face did not move a muscle. ‘Good sort, Len.’

‘Don’t I know it,’ I agreed. We chatted a bit about Frogs Hill while we took each other’s measure, then I plunged in. ‘I’ve been told Watson became a clergyman in Dorset.’

Vic appeared to think this over even though Tony would have passed this snippet on. ‘Pull the other one,’ was his verdict. ‘Who told you that load of cobblers?’

‘Jonathan Lamb, who was the partner of Watson’s son Neil, who died in the nineties.’

‘Heard about Neil. Never met him, even as a kid.’ A pause. ‘You know I was inside for a while over that job?’ And when I nodded, he continued, ‘Came out in 1984, started this place thanks to my wife and never looked back.’

‘Nor has Tony,’ I remarked. ‘Except with wistfulness at the missing cash from the Crowshaw Collection.’

Vic chuckled. ‘We’d all like to win the lottery. Me too. Doesn’t mean I can’t live without it. I’m with Tony though. If that skunk Frank is living back here, I’d like to ask him what happened to my share. Mind you, if he is here, he’s got another identity now but no dog collar.’

‘People do sometimes want a different direction in life.’

‘Not Frank. He’d have turned his life around with the help of the cash. Tony told me that if he’d been a free man when Frank’s son was mucking around with that band of his, he’d have had a few words with him. I’d have done so myself, but I wouldn’t go nowhere near the May Tree when I got out. Spilt milk, I tell Tony, but of course there’s the Joannie issue for him too. If Frank is back here, what happened to her? Is she still with him?’

‘Tony seems very happily married to Betty now.’

‘Sure he is, but he would still want to know what happened to Joannie. He wouldn’t forget her. He worshipped the ground she trod on, did Tony, and no wonder, she was a stunner. So he’ll be as keen as you are to find Frank.’

‘Did you like her?’

He shrugged. ‘Sharp eye for main chance, I always thought. I reckon it was her who planned the scam to scoop the lot, not Frank. She had an eye for men all right though, and Frank was one of them.’

‘Brian Thompson’s death wasn’t planned though.’

He looked uncomfortable. ‘Shouldn’t have said what I did. It’s a long time ago now. Still, now it’s out. I always thought that’s how Frank scarpered, and Tony worked it out too. The stuff was in Joannie’s car, so she just kept to the original plan for the four of us – five plus her. She’d go over to Calais and we’d all meet up there – only, the last bit didn’t work. She used her car when events hotted up, Frank followed in his – and they both went off in his car when they met at Dover, having loaded it with the swag. They must have had a different plan originally or we’d have been after Madam Joannie and Frank like a flash when we realized what was happening.’

‘That seems to add up.’

‘I’d plenty of time to think about it in the Scrubs. Well, it’s a long time ago and I’ve a new life now.’

‘Do you mind this talk about the old one?’

‘Why should I? It’s over thirty years ago, and I served my time. We’re happy enough here, with or without Frank Watson’s cash. That’s how Tony and I think of it, because you can bet your bottom dollar that the Crowshaw Collection has been smelted down or sold to some billionaire, so there’s no reason for anyone to go murdering folk over thirty years after the event. That’s what you’re here for, ain’t it? Carlos Mendez. What’s your angle on all this, anyway?’

‘Mendez ran off with my wife in 1991, but I’ve discovered he was at the May Tree on the night of the shoot-out.’

He didn’t look surprised. ‘Yeah, Tony told me that. So what? I didn’t
know
him just because he was in the pub. Joannie was in her element that night – I did notice that. Some cheeky young bugger was chatting her up – was that this Carlos? – and that archaeologist bloke was too.’ He paused. ‘The one who’s just copped it along with Mendez. That anything to do with you?’

‘It is. You’re sure it was Ambrose Fairbourne? Can you tell me more about him and Carlos that night?’ I waited interminable seconds until he replied.

‘No problem, Jack. I’ve gone over it enough times already. I was only ever at the May Tree the one night, so I know what I saw and when I saw it. Brian’s plan was that we steered clear of the May Tree before the actual day so that it wouldn’t be the first place that the rozzers would raid. We all came back to the pub in our own cars, but slipped in at the back entrance so as not to draw attention to ourselves. About six thirty that was. The band had just arrived, but wasn’t yet set up. The others were all busy piling the stuff into Joannie’s car, so I strolled into the bar to see what was what. This young chap was at the bar, and Joannie was giggling with him. Then this Fairbourne bloke turned up, went straight to the far end of the bar and made a dead set at her. Joannie played them off against each other. Favourite game of hers, didn’t mean nothing.

‘I went back later and Frank was with them. We took it in turns to see all was OK out in the bar and buy a drink or two. Joannie was quieter by the time I got out there and the conver-sation changed smartish as I arrived. Then it all speeded up – in my memory, at least. The band got going, customers rolled in, and Brian was making his pitch in the back room with us three about how he was going to take more. Brian was a good chap, but we’d already agreed who was having what so it wasn’t going to be changed. Tony started yelling at him, and I could see what was going to happen.

‘I was standing back, so was Frank,’ Vic continued, ‘then Frank moved forward, quick like, and Brian drew, thinking Frank was coming for him. He never did, but Tony made this lunge. Brian didn’t like that, the gun was trembling in his hand, and as Tony saw it he drew too – well, I rushed to stop him like a fool and caught Brian’s bullet in me leg, and the next thing I knew I was on the floor in agony and Brian beside me, blood everywhere.’

Vic grimaced. ‘All hell broke loose then. Tony was gobsmacked, couldn’t move, nor could I, and people were rushing in, calling the rozzers, women screaming. No sign of Frank. Tony rushed out and came back yelling that Joannie had gone and there was no sign of Frank. I told him Joannie would have gone to France like we arranged, but he wouldn’t have it. He was right. No word of Joannie, Frank or the loot since. When the police arrived, half of the customers had gone too.’

‘Including Ambrose Fairbourne?’

‘Must have done. I never saw him when I was carted off, though that doesn’t mean much owing to the fact I was on a stretcher. Last I saw of Carlos, the band – and of the blooming Crowshaw Collection too.’

When I returned from my visit to Vic, the current lady in my life arrived, and like Daisy she was a welcome one. It was Cara, and she was not happy. Cara is usually so sanguine about life, and so clear about her own path through it, that I was even more concerned to see her looking so down.

‘Can I stay a few days?’ she asked.

‘Of course.’

‘No lady friends I’d be embarrassing?’

‘I wish.’

That made her laugh. ‘We’re a fine pair, aren’t we?’

‘Are we?’ This sounded bad. I took her inside, settled her with a cup of tea and then asked: ‘Not going well on the Harry front?’

‘No.’

‘Harry
is
the problem then,’ I ventured when she said no more.

‘Only whether I’m really cut out for a life with nature.
And
Harry.’

‘Explain.’

‘I love him and he loves me, but his nose, eyes and mind are all focused on the land in front of him. I know that’s important but …’

‘You feel there’s more to life?’

‘Yes. People, for instance.’

‘Such as you?’

She giggled. ‘Yes. So a little time away could do us both good. I’ve got time off until after the weekend. OK by you?’

‘Very OK. Just don’t expect me to cook breakfast.’ A vision of the tray I once prepared for Louise came to me and had to be thrust back into the archive. ‘Is that what’s brought you here?’

‘Plus Eva.’

‘What news?’ I asked cautiously.

‘There’s a date for her trial. Fifteenth of January.’

‘That’s quick.’ It was almost July now, and those months were going to race by.

‘She’s not doing well, Dad.’

‘Her story’s changed again?’

‘No, but she has. I’ve never known her so quiet. Almost as if she was giving up.’

This didn’t sound good and tallied with my impression. ‘Do you think that’s because of the case, or because she’s lost Carlos?’

‘Mainly the former. The warmth had gone from their relationship, as they say. I don’t think it was all fantasy that she and Carlos were splitting up. Eva was banging on about some cousin in Spain whom she fancied years ago.’

‘Here we go,’ I groaned.

‘But she’s not even talking about him any more. Give me some good news, Jack. How’s your side of things going?’

‘It’s not good – not in the short term, anyway. They’re just bits and pieces.’

‘Can I help glue them together?’

‘Not unless you can find a man who’s been missing for over thirty years, plus get me an invitation to a party in just under two weeks’ time.’

‘Neither. Is it any particular party you have in mind and is it important?’

‘Yes.’

Cara listened as I explained the situation on both counts, then she fastened on to one point. ‘This Belinda, who’ll be at the party, does she come into the Carlos story?’

‘She’s Daisy’s grandmother.’

‘Who?’ Cara asked patiently.

‘She’s Melody’s owner.’

She gazed at me, and I grinned. ‘Melody’s a car, Daisy’s a client, Belinda’s her grandmother.’

Cara honed in. ‘Does this Daisy owe you?’

‘Yes and no. She depends on me.’

‘Make it yes and ask her to order her old granny to get you an invitation.’

‘She won’t,’ I said gloomily. ‘I’d be the cuckoo in the nest.’

‘Push it, Pa, push it.’

Daisy was the simpler part of the mission. She didn’t know what was involved, so she gaily replied, ‘Easy,’ when I put my request to her the next day. I had bent the truth and told her it might help find Melody, and she therefore saw no reason that Gran Fever would veto my presence.

I received my prompt comeuppance that evening in the form of an imperious phone call. ‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at, Jack?’

‘Playing at nothing, Belinda. It’s a murder case. It’s my job. I need to be there.’

‘For Melody?’

‘She’s part of it.’

‘You know full well you have no right to be at the lunch and that it could ruin it for those who still mourn Neil.’

‘I still need to be there.’

A long pause. ‘Any
real
reason I should talk Jonathan and Clive into it?’

More stretching of the truth. ‘I’m told that the case against Eva is collapsing. The people at that lunch are highly relevant to what happens next.’

‘So?’ she replied impatiently. ‘The guilty party could be tracked down. Why ruin the lunch?’

‘Because Frank Watson could either be there or someone have information about him.’

A pause. ‘And if he’s not present? Will you give up the hunt for him?’

‘No. But you could tell your friends that the police will have them in their sights for shielding Watson.’ I didn’t care how far I stretched truth now. The link between Melody and murder must surely be getting shorter, and it was time to shorten it even further. I had to be at that lunch.

‘You told me Frank was a clergyman in Dorset and might be dead by now.’

‘I did, but let’s assume he’s alive, shall we, Belinda? And that he is not a clergyman in Dorset.’

She didn’t laugh. She merely said, ‘I’ll see what I can do.’