Classic Calls the Shots

Table of Contents

Cover

Recent Titles by Amy Myers from Severn House

Title Page

Copyright

Author's Note

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

CLASSIC IN THE BARN

CLASSIC CALLS THE SHOTS

MURDER IN THE QUEEN'S BOUDOIR

MURDER WITH MAJESTY

THE WICKENHAM MURDERS

MURDER IN FRIDAY STREET

MURDER IN HELL'S CORNER

MURDER AND THE GOLDEN GOBLET

MURDER IN THE MIST

MURDER TAKES THE STAGE

MURDER ON THE OLD ROAD

MURDER IN ABBOT'S FOLLY

APPLEMERE SUMMER

CATCHING THE SUNLIGHT

QUINN

SONGS OF SPRING

THE STATIONMASTER'S DAUGHTER

TOMORROW'S GARDEN

TO MY OWN DESIRE

THE WINDY HILL

WINTER ROSES

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

First world edition published 2012

in Great Britain and in the USA by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

Copyright © 2012 by Amy Myers.

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Myers, Amy, 1938-

Classic calls the shots.

1. Detective and mystery stories.

I. Title

823.9'14-dc23

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8150-2 (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-233-7 (ePub)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This ebook produced by

Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

Jack Colby has his own website and blog (
www.jackcolby.co.uk
) although my husband, James Myers, runs it for him. Jim plays a large part in writing his novels too, because without him the novel's engine wouldn't be going anywhere. With his extensive knowledge of classic cars, he has collaborated with me throughout on the creation of Jack Colby and Frogs Hill Classic Car Restorations and the cases in which they are involved, and I'm greatly indebted to him.

That Jack Colby sees himself in print is due to my agent, Dorothy Lumley of the Dorian Literary Agency, who kept her hand on the steering wheel, and to my publishers Severn House, who drove the novels past their finishing post. Along the way Jack was spurred on by Amanda Stewart, Gaynor Banyard, Tom and Marie O'Day, to whom many thanks. For specialist information I am grateful to Ian Stanfield, works manager of the National Motor Museum at Beaulieu, and to Roy Dowding of the Gordon-Keeble Owners Club and editor of its magazine
Keebling
. Among other sources, a Classic Cars for Sale web article on the Auburn; The Auburn, Cord and Duesenberg Museum in the US; and, for the story of Ramble,
Secret Service
by Christopher Andrew and
Blackwood's Magazine
were particularly helpful.

The plot and characters of
Classic Calls the Shots
are fictional, as are many of the specific locations in the novel, including Piper's Green, Stour Studios, Syndale Manor, the Gladden and Helsted estates and car parks, and also Shotsworth Security, Oxley Productions and Jack Colby's Frogs Hill Classic Car Restorations. Lenham, Charing, Pluckley and the Syndale Valley, however, are real Kentish villages, as timeless as the North Downs themselves.

‘
N
icked from a film set? You're joking, Dave.'

He had to be. No crook in their right senses would steal a 1935 Auburn, even to order – especially from such a high-profile location. This Auburn is so rare and so beautiful that car lovers all over the world would faint in ecstasy if they were lucky enough to see one. As for stealing it: no way, for the same reason no one would pinch a Leonardo da Vinci. A slight exaggeration perhaps, as this car can still be bought, provided you've just had a lottery win in the six-figure range. But stealing such an eye-catching stunner is a breathtakingly risky job.

‘No joke,' Dave's voice said gloomily at the end of the line. ‘It's Bill Wade's – or was.'

Detective Superintendent Dave Jennings heads the Kent Police Car Crime Unit, and calls on the services of Jack Colby of Frogs Hill Classic Car Restorations, namely myself, whenever he sniffs something out of the ordinary about a classic car theft. As now. An Auburn 851 SC Boattail Speedster? I was hooked.

‘Tell me about it, Dave.' I'd pay
him
to get this job. I knew about US film director Bill Wade. Who didn't? He lived in Kent for part of the year, no doubt living off the fat of the profits of his blockbusting
Running Tides
, which burst upon the world ten years ago. There'd been films in between, of course, but the one currently in production,
Dark Harvest
, was tipped to be its successor.

‘Pinched from Stour Studios, near Lenham. Know the place?'

I did, because
Running Tides
had been shot there. I was still working overseas in the oil industry then, but Dad had been as excited as a boy with his first Dinky car because he'd taken a shine to the film's star, Margot Croft. He had caught a glimpse of her while the filming was in progress, but then his heart was broken because she committed suicide not long after it finished.

‘I take it you've checked the usual channels?' I asked Dave. That Auburn must have broken all speed records on its way to its new owner if Dave was calling me in. His own team was excellent.

Dave likes talking in sound bites when there's something major afoot. ‘Yup. Waste of time. Not a pro job.'

‘Joyriders?' I asked. This was looking weirder by the minute.

‘Went last Thursday night. Now Monday, so would have shown.'

A sigh of relief from me. That meant there was indeed a case and it was mine. ‘When do I start?'

‘Now. You're booked in with the bereaved. At his request.'

‘Bill Wade himself?' This was turning into a
very
good day.

‘Get your old jalopy on the road, and Jack . . .'

There had to be a snag. ‘Tell me the worst.'

‘If I knew what it was, I wouldn't need you. But I don't like the sniff of this case. There's something wrong somewhere.'

I've hired my beloved 1965 Gordon-Keeble out to film production crews on several occasions, so I've visited film sets before. Not so often that I wasn't looking forward to visiting this one, however, despite Dave's dire predictions. Usually there's a combined mass of cast and crew milling around together with a forest of technology in the form of cables, sound equipment, lights, cameras, dollies, boom arms, Steadicams etc. Amidst this, they are chatting, rehearsing, shooting, preparing, sipping coffee, studying scripts, call sheets and storyboards or adjusting make-up, hair or costumes – you name it. Humdrum workaday stuff, or so it seems, but at the magic words ‘Going for a take' they spring into action like a Ferrari from the starting grid, and humdrum turns into magic.

I was looking forward to visiting Stour Studios, which are on the outskirts of Lenham village in the Headcorn direction. I once went to a recording of a TV show in the famous Maidstone Studios at Grove Green, but when I arrived at Stour Studios in my daily driver Alfa, they proved to be a different kettle of fish. They were not nearly as big as Grove Green, they were privately owned by Oxley Productions, and it was clear that at least currently it was entirely devoted to
Dark Harvest
– and therefore to Bill Wade. I checked in at the security gate, returned a friendly grin from the guard, swept into the car park on the right and wended my way to reception with high expectations.

I knew that the studios had been converted from a farmhouse and its outbuildings, because I had visited the farm as a child with my father and been entranced by the baby piglets running about. It looked rather different now. The former granary, barns and outbuildings now made a compact complex round a central court; some had been converted, some torn down and rebuilt from scratch. Even so they'd made a good job of making the studios easy on the eye and the huge canteen I passed looked welcoming.

A large sign pointed to reception in the Georgian red-brick building that used to be the farmhouse, but now had a more businesslike air. The ground floor had been converted to provide a large modern entrance area – one that needed the word ‘cold' before reception, however. At the desk to my left a grey-haired man in perhaps his late fifties and a severe-looking woman probably a few years younger were deep in what I would term ‘animated discussion' of which the only words I caught were ‘cow' and ‘serve her right' apart from the accompanying F-words. On a better day she might have been attractive, and the man rather jolly, but today was clearly not a good one.

‘Yes?' the woman snapped.

‘Police,' I said curtly, in as good an imitation of Rebus as I could manage.

She stared at me as though this confirmed some long-felt suspicion.

‘Here to see Bill Wade,' I added.

‘Sign in.'

I signed.

‘Upstairs – turn right, first door,' the man told me. ‘Sooner you than me,' he added gloomily.

The directions were redundant, because as I went up the stairs the noise emanating from Bill Wade's office indicated where the action was. A woman's shrill voice produced the only distinguishable words through the closed door.

‘I don't want him around.' A pause, then an emphatic ‘Him or me, Roger!'

I was flummoxed. I'd never heard anyone produce that particular cliché before. Maybe that wasn't Bill Wade's office and this was a rehearsal, a script read-through – or had Hollywood really reached rural Kent?

Then I heard a low distressed murmur of men's voices. Two, I thought. ‘Honey' was the only word I caught. This was getting better by the minute. Surely it was a script-reading.

‘It's no good, Bill. You're ganging up against me. I won't have my professional judgement disregarded,' Mrs (or so I deduced from the ‘honey') X continued in a higher pitch.

‘Angie . . .' Both male voices provided this chorus.

‘Is he staying or going?' Angie demanded.

‘Goddammit, Angie, give me a break. I've got a car to find.' One of the males seemed to have reached breaking point.

This was a man after my own heart. Settle the car question first. It's usually easier. If that was Bill Wade, he deserved both his Auburn and my best efforts to find it.

The door was pulled vigorously open and a woman swept out. She was a shining processed blonde of about forty, and would have been a stunner if it hadn't been for the compressed lips and angry red flush. She was immaculately clad in stylish jacket and trousers, but there was no camera tracking her. This lady's anger was for real. She honoured me with a sideways look as she stalked past me, which implied that if this had been a better day there might have been a second look. She need not have bothered with the first because she wasn't my type.