Classic Calls the Shots by Amy Myers Page A

had to be called in for serious consultations over their patient. Under its postoperative care in the Pits, however, its metallic maroon finish now glows out to the world again. Every time I slither into the driving seat of this car it feels like coming home. Like the Glory Boot, it welcomes me with its own special smell.
    It needed a run so I decided to take it over to the studios to see if Ken Merton was anywhere around. It was a gorgeous day and the Gordon-Keeble purred its majestic way through the back lanes with its usual spirited oomph. Once the Lenham Heath road, which the Auburn must have taken last Thursday night, was the main route to London, but it was hard to imagine that stage coaches, wagons and horses once filled it.
    When I reached the studios, there was no sign of Ken. This was a crime scene indeed, and the outer cordon was in front of the security barriers. I cursed, but at least the Gordon-Keeble sounded pleased that we’d come out. Its V8 rumbling burble was music to my ears as I drove my stately way back to Frogs Hill. Where I hit pay dirt. There was a car outside that I recognized. If I was right, it meant that dreams sometimes come true. Louise was somewhere around.
    I found her in the Pits, examining the inside of a gearbox at Len’s side. She had a smudge of black on her right hand which suggested she had been given a practical role in the proceedings, voluntarily or not. She looked up and grinned.
    â€˜Have you joined the payroll?’ I joked. It was a feeble effort, because it was the first time I’d seen her on home turf and for a moment she seemed a stranger.
    â€˜Considering any offers – but I’d hate to sabotage your business. I don’t know a gearbox from an axle.’
    Len was looking protective and didn’t want to let her go before he had explained every single cog and shaft to her, so I suggested I made coffee all round in the farmhouse. Len, as I predicted, couldn’t bear to be parted from the smell of the Pits, and said that, thanks, he’d take his in here. Louise thankfully got the right message, as did Zoe. Louise sat at my kitchen table looking completely at home. In jeans, white blouse and overshirt she looked a far cry from the famous film star image beloved of the press.
    â€˜Am I holding up your search?’ she asked. ‘I had to get away from the hotel – it was beginning to get to me and the press have winkled out where we’re staying.’ This was at the Buckhurst Hotel, which was hidden deep on the Downs towards Faversham further east than the Manor.
    â€˜You’re not holding up anything. The search is stalled, with only one slight lead. How’s Bill?’
    â€˜Not good. He’s staying with Roger and Maisie – they live at Headcorn, which is handier than his own home and he gets company.’
    â€˜It doesn’t seem very likely that the film will begin again on Monday.’
    â€˜You underestimate Bill. The film will go on, even though he adored Angie and even though the police are daft enough to think of him as a suspect.’
    â€˜Men have killed adored wives before now,’ I pointed out. ‘There was an implication that the gun was his.’
    â€˜It wasn’t. The police found it safe and sound at his home. Anyway, Angie knew how well off she was. She wouldn’t step out of line one inch, because Bill gave her all she needed. Devotion, money – and power. That sounds tough on her but that’s how it was. I can’t spin you a yarn about how wonderful she was, Jack. She was fine on a good day, but from my angle she was far from fine.’
    I had to say it. ‘Because of the issues between you.’
    She looked me straight in the eye. ‘Yes, but without reason. Bill and I got on well but no sex.’
    I decided not to comment. ‘Could Tom have been involved? He had plenty of reason to dislike Angie.’
    â€˜Don’t go there, Jack. You’ve met