Classic Calls the Shots by Amy Myers

a comforting sound at night. It had just struck two. I was dozing, and the engine woke me up. It is quite unmistakable. I looked down into the road and was not surprised to see I was right about its being an Auburn. A speedster.
Cream
,’ she added meaningfully. ‘A left-hand drive, I believe, as I had no clear view of the driver. I remember my father telling me about the car, when he worked in America in the 1930s. He was full of praise, stating that it symbolized the resurgence of America from the depression. Later he bought an old one himself.’
    I found this hard to credit despite the specific information she had. ‘You’re sure you weren’t still dozing?’
    Wrong step. ‘I may be old, Mr Colby, and I may be inexact on some memories but on cars I am never mistaken. My father taught me well, and my late husband ran a garage.’
    I felt duly abashed, and once she observed this she continued happily, ‘It was a moonlit night on a well-lit road, you see. Thankfully our taxes still seem to cover street lighting. I saw the car passed twice. This road comes to a dead end, with only a turning circle, and thus the car had had to return. It frequently happens that drivers lose their way and take this road by mistake. I mentioned it to my godson Peter, that’s dear Rob’s father, who was most interested. I had heard that there was an Auburn somewhere in Kent and there could scarcely be two. Rob is so knowledgeable.’
    Dear Rob, who could confuse a Mini with a Maserati without blenching, smiled demurely.
    I ate my way through several biscuits and a mug of coffee supplied by the blonde and we talked cars. I also heard more about Dear Peter and Dear Rob. Memory is an odd thing. On cars Clarissa was crystal clear, on everyday living she faltered. As I left, she said brightly, ‘Give my regards to your dear wife. Mary, isn’t it?’
    I agreed that it was.
    â€˜I thought so,’ Clarissa said complacently. ‘It was a woman driving the Auburn. Perhaps it was her?’
    It was Thursday morning, and I had three and a half days left before the Auburn had to be at Syndale Manor, plus several nights if needed. I wondered if Bill Wade would notice if the Auburn wasn’t there. His insistence on it might have been a knee-jerk reaction. There were formalities with any death, let alone one in these circumstances, and they might well take all the stamina that Bill possessed. Nevertheless Monday was a date I could not miss. Was I any further along having heard Clarissa’s story? A woman at the wheel? I could hardly take that seriously when she herself said she had no clear view of the driver, especially as she had lost the plot by that point of the conversation. Where did it leave me though? Only that the thief of whichever sex had been making for Ashford, or the nearby turn-off to Canterbury, or even Dover, and had taken the wrong road.
    Rob drove me back to Frogs Hill, and disappeared with my thanks and a flourish of his pudgy hand. I retreated to make some routine follow-up phone calls. Unfortunately no news is not always good news. Harry Prince had nothing to offer, nor did my London contact. All he did tell me was that there was a lot of movement in what he tactfully termed ‘the trade’, especially in Kent thanks to its proximity to the Channel and eager buyers in Holland and Belgium. That fitted in with an offhand remark from Dave that his unit was increasingly bugged by insurance investigators. That shook me. Perhaps I was wrong, and the Auburn had been a victim of a straight theft after all.
    Great. Back to the starting grid.
    I went round to the barn-cum-garage where I keep my Lagonda and Gordon-Keeble, a sight that always cheers me up. The Gordon-Keeble has only recently recovered from an accident in the cause of British justice. That it recovered at all is thanks to Len’s painstaking care in making good the damage. Specialists in fibreglass bodywork