Classic Mistake Read Online Free PDF Page A

formal, so I rounded it off with, ‘Anyway, I have an appointment this morning.’
    ‘A woman?’ she screeched. ‘But I am your
wife
.’
    Oh, how that brought back the old days. No point in reminding her she wasn’t my wife and that I was a car detective with several jobs to do. So …
    ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘A woman. She’s been kidnapped. Her name’s Melody.’
    After assuring Eva I hadn’t forsaken her and that I would contact her very shortly, I set off for Burchett Forstal with a pleasant, if temporary, sense of release. In my agitation I had initially found myself fastening the seat-belt in the Alfa and not one of my two beloved classics, but had decided to take the extra time and replace it with the Lagonda, which I guessed would be a hit with Daisy. Even so, it was Eva who was occupying my mind as I drove my beauty down the Frogs Hill Lane. Tackle the dirty fuel line first, son, my father would always advise. Polish your bonnet later. I’d take his advice. Turning off into the maze of lanes leading to Burchett Forstal, I began to calm down and think rationally about Carlos’s death.
    His murder, it seemed clear to me, was no random attack but something to do with the ‘business’ he had expected to transact in Kent. After Daisy had left me the previous evening, I had tackled the Internet to see what it could produce on Carlos. I had a feeling that good though Brandon was at his job, I was going to need all the background information I could get. I can’t say I hit pay dirt in my search but it was interesting. Carlos’s father Vicente had run a band in England in the 1970s, which is presumably how Carlos had learned his trade. The last mention of Vicente’s band was in 1981 – though that didn’t necessarily mean it wasn’t still active, either in the UK or South America. The only mention of Carlos and the Charros was in 1988 at a gig in Brighton. These were pre-Internet days, and records of them on the net would be scanty.
    Burchett Forstal is deemed a hamlet, not a village, because it doesn’t boast its own church, but it does have a farm shop and bakery. In Kentish dialect a forstal is open land bordered by farm buildings, and Burchett was a prime example. Its one through-street passes a stretch of grass rising up to the farm shop and a granary barn, flanked by terraced cottages. Daisy lived in one of these a little further along the street. I’d already passed the bakery. I couldn’t miss it. Burchett Bakery announced itself with flags, signposts and a parking area. Understandable, I thought. A bakery for a community this size needs to draw custom from a wide area.
    Driving the Lagonda was a treat, and as I parked in front of Daisy’s home I was conscious that my arrival had been noted. The cottage, in which she probably lived with her parents, had been built in the days well before people thought of better things to do with their gardens than growing fruit and flowers (such as parking cars). The front garden was a wonderful mix of spring flowers, trees coming into leaf and rows of vegetables – in short, a traditional country garden.
    As I drew up, Daisy emerged like a ray of sunshine. She’d asked me to come when she had an hour’s break from the early morning shift, and she screamed with delight when she saw the Lagonda. This is a 1938 V12 drophead in all its glory, and it came into my life with treasured memories. 1 .
    ‘Hey,’ she cried, ‘this is a real picnic car, just like Melody. Let’s go, Jack.’
    ‘Picnicking? I’m here on business, miss,’ I told her gravely.
    She promptly saluted me. ‘OK, Gumshoe. Let’s get going.’ No walking for her today. She jumped enthusiastically into the Lagonda and squealed yet more delight. Her high spirits deflated as we reached the scene of the crime. ‘It was there,’ she said dolefully as we reached the bakery.
    I glanced around. The bakery had a second storey, and across the road were two cottages set well back. ‘Did anyone hear