Free Classic In the Pits--A Jack Colby classic car mystery by Amy Myers Page B

at least. Would I get the job of returning the car to its rightful owner? If so, who was that going to be? Boadicea? Jason? Or the insurance firm, if I’d been misled and it had already paid out? And how did that fit with my job for Arthur? I had run my arrangement with Arthur past Brandon yesterday and he hadn’t been pleased. Far from it. He had been within an inch of forbidding me anywhere near his case when he reconsidered, read me my rights and his rights, and then informed me he couldn’t stop me, but if I crossed his path on the way, I’d be obstructing justice.
    He drew breath, and then added, ‘And incidentally we found the greatcoat. Stuffed up in a bundle in the hangar storeroom, covered in blood.’
    A date with Dave on Thursday would leave me the rest of Wednesday to take Arthur’s challenge forward. No contest as to where to begin. Old Herne’s. I had to juggle as many aspects of this situation as I could, and if the theft was involved in the murder there could well be quite a lot to juggle there. As soon as I reached its car park it was obvious there was still a police presence, but when I walked over towards Thunderbolts Hangar I saw that the crime scene was now clear of cordon tape. Old Herne’s had a general air of desolation though, as if it were in mourning for the loss of its leader.
    As the clubhouse looked closed, I made for Morgans Hangar, where as I entered I could see Tim. He was engrossed in repositioning a splendid print of a
Saturday Evening Post
advertisement for a 1930 then-revolutionary airplane-type-engined Franklin for which – to quote their claim – riding is gliding. He straightened up as I approached, eyeing me (I thought) warily.
    We exchanged a few words and I asked if the police were still active in Thunderbolts.
    â€˜Off and on,’ he grunted. ‘Haven’t been there myself. Couldn’t face it, though the police said I can go in if I want to.’
    I was sympathetic. ‘You’ll have to face it sooner or later. Want to come over right now with me?’
    He hesitated, but agreed that my support would be a plus. When we reached Thunderbolts, I could see all too clearly that although the crime scene had been lifted, reminders of it were everywhere, including the chalk marks on the flooring where the body had lain. Somehow the whole place had lost its atmosphere of history; it spoke only of the aftermath of murder.
    â€˜Where’s the Crossley?’ I asked him, seeing no sign of it. The question was more for the sake of hearing a human voice in this depressing place than for information.
    Tim must have felt as I did, because he clutched at this opening. ‘Still with the Old Bill. What they expect to find I don’t know.’
    â€˜DNA of whoever was in that driving seat and wearing that greatcoat,’ I replied. ‘There might be trace evidence on the killer’s clothes or the seat.’
    Tim sniffed. ‘Plastic seat covers,’ he pointed out. ‘The coat was lying behind the seats, and the axe was around if you knew where it was.’
    If
you knew where it was … I caught Tim’s eye and he looked away.
    â€˜We all did,’ he muttered.
    â€˜No casual day visitors then,’ I said as lightly as I could. Doubler’s hit man was still on my mind – if not, then the killer was a lot closer to home. ‘Do many people drive it?’
    â€˜Not drive. But sit there, yes. Even Arthur. After the Morgan it’s his pride and joy. It’s the tender that saved his life when he crashed, so that’s natural enough. It’s the devil of a job to look after though. Kids clamber in and out all the time, putting their sticky hands everywhere, leaving me –’ a belligerent glance – ‘to clean up.’
    I knew he had a team of volunteer supporters so I kept a diplomatic silence on this point. There’d be an impractical amount of elimination prints for