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

which was engaging, but I warned myself not to underrate him. Children, after all, are a lot more intelligent than we often assume. Jason’s own family life had been and still was dysfunctional to say the least. With Mike, Boadicea, Ray and Peter possibly lined up against him, it was hardly surprising that an outsider like Arthur Howell, who had Old Herne’s interests at stake, should be a good ally for Jason. It had been Jason who’d told Liz that Old Herne’s was closing – was he glad or sorry that it’d had a reprieve? That, however, had been before Mike’s death.
    â€˜Arthur wants to meet you again,’ Jason added.
    This was a surprise. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’
    Jason stood aside as I got into the Gordon-Keeble. ‘I’m glad I met you,’ he said.
    â€˜Do you want my mobile number in case you want to get in touch?’ I asked politely.
    He confounded me yet again. ‘I already have it.’

FOUR
    F rogs Hill was a welcome haven after the events of the day. It was dark as I drove the Gordon-Keeble home. The winding lanes from Piper’s Green have no street lighting and I felt an idiotic splurge of gratitude as my security lights blazed out in their friendly way as I arrived. My farmhouse and the Pits seemed a refuge. Frogs Hill had been my childhood home until my university days, my oil career and my early (brief) marriage took me away. When my father’s illness had brought me home some years back, living at Frogs Hill had cured any remaining wanderlust for ever. I was here to stay (hefty mortgage or not), which meant that Frogs Hill Classic Car Restorations, begun by my father and Len, was a permanent fixture. I doubt if Len or Zoe would even notice if I said it was closing. They’d just carry on working. Correction: they might feel differently if Harry Prince took it over. His eyes are permanently fixed on acquiring Frogs Hill not only for the business but for the Glory Boot, housed in an annex to the farmhouse, and it was there that I decided to take a belated snack when I returned.
    My father’s priceless collection of automobilia varies from the nut bolt that fell off a Liège–Rome–Liège winner to a collection of paintings by the now world-famous Giovanni, who still blows in once in a while to re-examine his surreal works of glory. This task usually reduces him to tears of admiration at his prowess, which are only dried by a bottle or two of the finest Chianti.
    I don’t exactly chat to Dad in the Glory Boot but I undoubtedly feel his calming (or reproving) presence there. I certainly did tonight as I perched on an old leather rally seat, still punch-drunk from the combination of Swoosh’s magic and Mike’s murder. The two just did not fit. I’d be the last person to say that the classic car world doesn’t know the seamier side of life but events such as Swoosh are their showcases, when everyday life is put aside for a while. The fact that it had intruded with such violence took some readjustment on my part – especially as I’d liked Mike and felt his death personally.
    Dad would have felt the same way, which is probably why I could sense so clearly what he would have had to say about my problem. I had been at Swoosh on a straight car job for the Kent Car Crime Unit to find a stolen Porsche and I still had to carry on with it. Brandon, moreover, had suggested that I hang around Old Herne’s, implying the theft was connected to Mike’s death. Was I comfortable with that? Not entirely. I’d liked Mike, I loved Old Herne’s and I fancied Jessica Hart. Did these ingredients glue together? I wasn’t sure, even though they could give me an entrée into the Old Herne’s world behind the scenes. On the other hand, there could be a possible conflict of interest, as Jessica would be at least the temporary successor to Mike. There was also the question of the Porsche’s