Classic Mistake (23 page)

I should have guessed that Melody’s story was not yet over. It couldn’t have ended as peacefully as it appeared. I still had a way to go before the party, and I was returning from a depressing visit to Eva – depressing for both of us, as I still had nothing to tell her. I could almost smell trouble ahead. As I turned into the gates of Frogs Hill I could see it. To my horror the old Volvo was once again parked there, and once again Daisy was haunting my premises. She saw me coming, jumped off the wall, ran over to me as I opened the door of the Alfa – and burst into tears.

‘Justin?’ I asked, almost hopefully.

She shook her golden curls. ‘No.’

‘Then it’s Melody. Crashed her?’

‘No. She’s
gone.
’

‘
Again
?’ I couldn’t get to grips with this calamity. The story was not making sense. Then the pieces clicked into place. ‘Someone’s playing a joke on you, Daisy,’ I told her soothingly.

‘If so, it isn’t funny.’

I made a supreme effort not to laugh. ‘When did she vanish?’

‘During the night.’

‘How come you didn’t hear anything?’

‘We were still keeping her in the drive,’ she moaned. ‘No one would steal her
again
,
we thought. But Mum and Dad woke up and saw her being driven off down the street. They started yelling and half the street woke up, but they never caught her. She’s
gone
.’

‘Doesn’t she have a car alarm?’

‘No.’

‘Locked?’

‘Yes. It’s
not
a joke, Jack.’

I was beginning to think she was right. A pro could easily have unlocked Melody and started her up. Even so I could see what Dave was going to think. Merely a joker at work.

And then came the dreaded words: ‘What are you going to do about it, Jack?’

My duty, of course. ‘Try to find her,’ I said wearily.

‘Good. And this time,’ she told me severely, ‘I don’t want her stolen
ever
again. See?’

O
n the ninth of July I drove the Gordon-Keeble to Conygarthe Manor, the hotel where the lunch was to be held, determined that I would turn the day into a watershed for the Carlos case. The manor is on the far side of Canterbury, and although I had heard of it I had never visited it before. Nor was it likely to be home territory for any of the Charros, as it seemed a fair distance from any of their abodes. I had been impressed by what I had seen of it on its website. It looked my sort of place (when I can afford my sort of place). An old Georgian house of mellow yellowing stone, wisteria on its walls and the remains of a monastery in its grounds, which the website informed me stemmed back to Saxon times. That brought back King Egbert to mind and Ambrose’s vain quest to discover his burial mound and goods. Eastry was not that far away from Conygarthe Manor, but today I had to concentrate on Carlos, so a memorial visit to Eastry in Ambrose’s honour had to be put on the back burner.

When I reached the manor gates, I could see that the house lived up to its website. I was surprised to see a board posted outside, however, announcing that the restaurant was closed today owing to a private function. By my reckoning we would only be a party of ten at the most, or a few more with partners, although it was true I had had no such information from Belinda, who had reluctantly sent me an official invitation. I parked in the designated area to the left of the building and walked back to the entrance.

The door was open, and its guardian receptionist ushered me through the house to the gardens. My first shock. From my first sight of the group it seemed more like a large wedding party than a memorial lunch, both in size and attire. No funereal pomp for this anniversary. The women were dressed in all colours of the rainbow, and amongst the smart casual male attire I saw several white charro suits. One of which clad Jonathan Lamb, who came immediately to greet me.

‘Good of you to join us, Jack.’ There was no trace of sarcasm in his voice.

‘Thanks for inviting me.’ No trace of sarcasm from me, either – albeit with some difficulty.

‘Not at all,’ he murmured. ‘Let me get you a drink and introduce you. You won’t know everyone here.’

I doubted if he did either, although perhaps I did him an injustice. Were all these people – eighty or so at a rough guess – his customers, perhaps? They surely could not all be Neil’s relations and friends. Those I talked to over the next half hour while drinks circulated had varied connections, but they all shared one thing. They had all not only heard of Carlos and the Charros, but also seemed to know the band’s music extraordinarily well. Call me cynical, but I wondered whether Jonathan had provided all guests with a CD beforehand. If so, I had not been included in this freebie distribution.

This was a party organized in style. The white suits of Jonathan, Matt and Clive made a stunning picture, and Josie, in a gorgeous slinky white silk dress, was almost unrecognizable. The years fell away, and I could see what an impact she must have made twenty years ago. She was with her mother, but there was no sign of Tony, so either the guest list did not include partners or – I felt a rising excitement – Frank Watson might indeed be here. Tony would have recognized him, but even with the passage of time I had to acknowledge that Betty might not. Vic had only been to the May Tree that one night and so had Frank, according to Brian’s plan. I had not thought of that angle and my hopes rose slightly from rock bottom that Frank was indeed here.

‘Are you performing today?’ I asked Josie.

‘Any problem with that?’

I was taken aback by her return to belligerence. ‘None. I’ll look forward to it.’

I had been about to soothe her, but Jonathan came once again to join us – almost as if he wanted to keep an eye on me. ‘Do all these people come every year?’ I asked innocently.

A speedy answer to this. ‘No. It’s a special year.’

‘To commemorate the Charros because of Carlos’s death?’

‘To remember Neil
and
Carlos.’

What better way to hide Frank Watson than in a crowd this size, I thought. Most of them were strangers to me and possibly to each other. ‘
All
these people?’ I asked sweetly.

A smile was Jonathan’s only answer before he melted away in the crowd – taking Josie with him.

Nice one, Jonathan, I thought. I sipped my glass of wine and looked around at the group. The Sancerre was good, just right for the summer sun. But then Jonathan was in the business of getting things right. Today, I was too. I worked my way through to Belinda, who looked stunning in a primrose coloured outfit.

‘In search of someone, Jack?’ she cooed.

‘Pity the guests don’t have name badges,’ I rejoined merrily. ‘Why are there so many people here, Belinda?’

‘All of them remember Neil. Schoolmates, college friends, work experience friends …’

‘And his family too? His father, for instance?’

‘I wouldn’t recognize him even if he was,’ she countered offhandedly.

‘He’s central to two murders, Belinda. Three if you count 1978. Do try to keep an eye open for him.’

‘You’re still on the wrong side of the road, Jack,’ she warned me. ‘You’ll meet an awful lot of traffic coming right at you if you keep going. Get back on course.’

‘Very cryptic. Thanks, but I’ll choose my own route.’

‘Take care you don’t miss the countryside around you. Gorgeous here, isn’t it? Have you seen the monastery ruins?’ Belinda slithered smoothly out of the danger zone. ‘They’re over there, disguising themselves as rockeries.’

‘Not yet. I thought I should talk to
everyone
here.’

I did my best. By the time we were summoned to lunch half an hour later I had worked my way round half the guests at least. My small talk had been the smallest possible in the circumstances and it had got me nowhere. Several men fitted the criteria for Frank, but the fuzzy photograph I had copied from the police files proved useless, and unless they were lying as to their connections with Neil and their current employment and status, Frank Watson was not amongst them. How could I know for sure though? Any one of them could have been him. For a few minutes I felt lost as to what to do next – but that, I realized, was exactly what Jonathan wanted.

And that meant Frank
must
be present.

I still had the other half of the guests to work my way through, and as the party began to move indoors, I reasoned I might stand a better chance here. The stars were with me. It was a seated lunch, with a place arranged for each guest. Unfortunately, unless Jonathan had a sense of humour, I guessed I would not be placed next to Frank Watson.

I wasn’t, nor was his name on the table plan. On my right was Neil’s Aunt Lizzie and on my left Betty Wilson. Why? I wondered. So that she could report my doings to Tony and Vic or because she was a safe bet not to know what Jonathan’s plans were as regards Watson? I chatted amiably to Betty about how good Josie looked and to Aunt Lizzie about her memories of Neil. I did venture a question about Neil’s father, but it turned out that Aunt Lizzie was actually his landlady when he first came to university in Kent and
all
the students called her Auntie Lizzie. No, she had never met Neil’s father. I sensed Betty listening with interest but she must have been as disappointed as I was because she began to talk avidly to her other neighbour.

Looking around the table, I picked out five more contenders who might be worth investigating, and I decided I would give them a polite grilling before the party broke up. I would also talk to
everyone
here, male or female. After all, Joannie herself might be here, although Betty would hardly pass that news on to Tony.

The lunch was so good that I almost – but not quite – forgot my mission. At its conclusion, I expected Jonathan would make some kind of a memorial speech about Neil, but he didn’t – or at least only a very short one to announce that as everyone was here because of Neil, the company should move into the garden for the best memorial of all to him. The Charros would play.

And play they did. I was impressed, particularly by Josie. That shimmering silk dress, the hair and the songs had me captivated. They were performing on a platform erected in the gardens, with the audience gathered around, and even the staff came out to listen to ‘The Bamba’, ‘Beloved Mexico’ and ‘You Belong to my Heart’. Was Josie thinking of Neil or Carlos, I wondered. She certainly put her heart and soul into song, and if, as she had claimed, she had lost her voice over the years, it had miraculously been restored with only the odd glitch. It was, as Jonathan had said, indeed the best way of remembering Neil.

‘How are you faring, Jack?’ Belinda unexpectedly materialized at my side as I applauded.

‘On the trail,’ I said lightly. In fact I had by now no great hopes of the afternoon achieving anything, even from those last five prospects on my list. One of them was Neil’s uncle, a benevolent sixty-year-old plus who regarded me with mild curiosity, as did his companion, surely his wife – they had the same benign smiles as I introduced myself as a friend of Jonathan’s.

‘You’re Frank Watson’s brother?’ I asked with interest.

‘Brother-in-law Mike,’ he told me. ‘This is my wife, Neil’s Aunt Lizzie.’

‘I’ve already met one Aunt Lizzie.’

‘Right.’ A merry laugh. ‘Neil’s landlady. He used to joke about it.’

‘His father isn’t here, is he?’ I asked carelessly, as a friend of Jonathan’s might do.

‘Frank? Crossed out of the family Bible years ago,’ Lizzie informed me cheerfully.

‘Sorry to hear that.’

‘We’re not.’ She giggled nervously. ‘Blot on the family escutcheon. That’s what he was.’

‘Jonathan told me he was a clergyman in Dorset now.’

‘That’s right. Or was. Clergyman, anyway,’ Mike said defensively. ‘Don’t know where or even if he’s still in the land of the living.’

The answer had come back quickly – too quickly? – and somewhat threw me. Had I made a mistake over this clergyman business or was this whole gathering in on some kind of conspiracy to hide the existence of Frank Watson? ‘Are there more siblings, or are you the only one, Lizzie?’

‘Just me and Frank,’ she replied. ‘His getting mixed up with that hijacking at the May Tree was the last straw. Then he vanished, and good riddance.’

‘You’d have thought he would have come on a day such as this though, especially as he was a clergyman.’

‘Expect he would have if he was alive,’ Mike said firmly.

‘You really don’t know?’

‘No,’ they both told me in unison.

They were both watching me very carefully, I thought, but perhaps that was my imagination. ‘I’d assumed your brother was still living in South America with Joannie Wilson until Jonathan told me otherwise.’

Mike looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, he’s not.’

There was an air of finality in this that suggested I could now get lost. I did just as poorly with the other four candidates, with the result that as the afternoon ended I found myself caught up in a mass of people heading for the car park and kicking myself for having failed. Frank himself was not here, and no one was going to give me any clues on his whereabouts. I had duly paid my respects to Jonathan and resigned myself to joining the traffic jam.

Unexpectedly, the jam cleared, both the one in the car park and the fuzziness in my mind. At last! I reminded myself that
I was a car detective.
To be certain that Frank Watson was not here, I had only to hang around, take some photos, see which of my candidates took off in which car, note the number plates – then get the details of the owners from the Swansea licensing agency.

It’s always interesting to see who owns which car, and in this car park it was more than interesting. It was essential. Lizzie and Mike climbed into a Renault Megane hardtop; another candidate, who told me he was Frank’s brother (interesting, since his sister didn’t seem to know she had another brother), climbed into a BMW M3; one who said he had been Neil’s college tutor roared off in a Porsche Boxster, and another candidate in a Vauxhall Astra. One by one they all left, but despite the assurance of their car registrations being in my possession I remained a worried man. Why? Because Belinda, Betty, Jonathan, Clive, Matt and Josie all seemed remarkably
un
worried by my presence. Clive even gave me a friendly hello.