Chapter 1

As the year moved towards another Christmas, Lena and I didn’t have to worry about the jobs, as we now had enough of our own money to live on. We didn’t go mad, but worked on the jobs that came in, keeping the income ticking over. With the work that Helen Harding and her constituents were giving us, we went to see Hassam’s friend in the auto trade.

We negotiated a daily fee for him letting us drive one of his cars, with us topping it up with fuel when we took it back. We would get Hassam to drive us there and call him when we were coming back. When we had worked for Helen, she had provided the transport and we had spent a lot of nights in hotels, so had loyalty cards from the chain, which made our expenses a little less.

We had met a lot of well-off people in those days, and it was one that called us in November. He wanted us to go and talk to him, but refused to say anything until we were there. We organised a car, packed overnight bags, and was soon off to rural Bedfordshire and his manor between Turweston and the airfield. It wasn’t a big house, as manors go, but had an addition in the shape of a large garage.

At the door, he welcomed us and took us inside to the sitting room, where his wife insisted on giving us tea and cake, before leaving us with her husband, who told us to call him Winston, as Earl Courtney was such a mouthful. He seemed more embarrassed than worried as he sipped his tea and gained the strength to tell us what was on his mind.

“Anyone will tell you that I love cars, my garage is evidence of that. I love Jaguars, especially the old ones. I have a restored SS from the early days, a drop-head and a hardtop E-Type, and my everyday cars are modern saloons. I’ve always wanted one of the early fifties sports cars. A good XK120 can fetch up to a quarter of a million, and when I saw an advert on the internet with one for sale at under a hundred thousand, I just had to follow it up.”

I nodded and Lena smiled.

“I love those as well. I had a Triumph Stag drop-head when I was younger. Now, that’s what I call real motoring.”

Winston, now seeing that he had a fellow enthusiast to talk to, concentrated on Lena and it allowed me to watch his body language.

“I looked at all the pictures and decided that I would contact the seller. He assured me that the car was a good runner and registered. He said he had a lot of interest in it and that I needed to act soon. I told him that I would take it and he emailed me where I could pick it up and pay, with the payment to be a bank draft.”

“Sounds dodgy, to me.”

“I know, but it was just what I wanted, in the racing green as well. My wife drove me to the place he had nominated. It was a garage this side of Cambridge. The car was sitting in the yard, and I was looking at it when the salesman came out and told me it had been sold. I told him who I was, and he took me inside to give me the paperwork and take my money. He gave me a proper receipt and the keys to the car.”

“So, what’s the problem?”

“The problem is that I waved to my wife to go, and when I sat in the car and started it, something didn’t seem right. It started easily, too easily. Out on the road it went like a supercar, not a car nearly seventy years old. I got it home and had a good look at what I had bought. The engine and gearbox were from one of the much later cars that used the same twin cam motor, with the carbies only there for show, and the fuel delivered by injection. From the inside of the engine bay, I could see that the body was fibreglass.”

“So, can’t you ask for your money back and return it?”

“The thing was that when I looked closely at the registration papers, it was listed as a 2023 Jaguar replica.”

“What about the garage?”

“I went to see him, and he assured me that I could have seen the details if I hadn’t been so eager to take the car away. I asked who the seller was, and he told me that the car had been delivered by a transporter and the bank draft had been paid into an offshore account. The seller was listed as a Mister Smith of Stratford and that everything was above board.”

“So, what’s the problem?”

“I’m well known in motoring circles. I now have a vehicle that I can’t show, I can’t compete in, and if my fellow enthusiasts find out, I’ll be the laughingstock of the Sporting Car Club.”

“What do you want us to do?”

“I want you to see if you can find this Smith fellow. He did not sell the car as a replica, but as a genuine model. I also want to make sure that others haven’t been sucked into buying something that’s lovely to drive but stays under a sheet in the garage. I’ll show you the car if you’ll take on the case.”

“You have to know that we cannot guarantee anything. We may not be able to track him, given the cut-outs that he used with you. We charge five hundred a day, or two and a half thousand a week, no return if we don’t get anywhere. We will do all we can to solve the problem.”

“Helen told me that you two are the best around when it comes to unsolvable problems. I can’t see anyone else who would take this on and remain discrete. I’ll get my chequebook. Can I have your time for ten days?”

“You certainly can. It’s ten working days, we do weekends free of charge if we need to be on the job.”

He left the room and came back with a cheque, which he gave to Lena, then led us to the door to his treasure trove. I thought that the old SS was truly beautiful, as was the forties Mark Four, three and a half litre, with the huge headlights, that he hadn’t mentioned. Lena looked lovingly at the two E-Types. I don’t know; why spend a fortune on a car that you can’t put two big cases and a couple of friends in. I liked driving sportscars, but this supercar stuff that they rave on doesn’t do much for me as an everyday transport. The XJ12 that he had was more my style.

The XK120 was truly glorious when he took the sheet off it. It was a soft top and looked like it was doing a hundred just sitting there. I could see why Lena liked her Stag; this a was a Sunday drive car, to a country pub by the twistiest roads you could find. It was the fifties version of a big four Kawasaki, or so a few of my boyfriends had told me.

“Is it well built?”

“It certainly is. I have to admit that it’s beautiful to drive. It looks good, goes like the clappers, and stops on a sixpence. If I used it and everyone knew that it was just for fun, I think that there would be a lot who would admire it.”

“What about the engineering?”

“The chassis is all new, a copy of the original with some extra strengthening. Whoever built it knew their stuff. The engine has about twice the output of the original, and I guess it would overtake an original on the M1 while still in third gear. The brake drums look original, but they hide modern racing discs and double callipers. Hit the brakes and you’d be banging your head on the windscreen if you weren’t well buckled in. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining about what I bought, or the money I paid for it. It’s just the ignominy of getting sucked in that rankles.”

We told him that we would see what we could find out and got in the Skoda that we were driving to head for the garage near Cambridge. On the way, Lena drove and enthused on that collection, chiding me when I told her that the E-Types were for show-off nutters.

At the garage, we spoke to the manager. He was defensive.

“There was nothing wrong with that car. It was advertised at a good price for what had gone into it. If the buyer had wanted an original, he would have to pay double, or more for a good one. I took that car for a spin, and I wish I could have held on to it, but a deal is a deal.”

“Look, Sir. We are not here to cause you, or the seller, trouble. The new owner told us how wonderful it is to drive. His problem is that he has had it up on a hoist and really wants to have the engineering clearance from the original registration in case he has to show it. All he knows is that the car was registered in his name, and at his address, by the seller, who has only ever given his name as Mister Smith of Stratford.”

“All I can tell you is what I have in the records.”

He took us through to his office and pulled out a file, marked ‘XK120 sale on commission.’ He put it on his desk and opened it so we could see the papers. The selling details was just Mister Smith, and the address was Stratford St. Andrew, Suffolk. The transport copy was from Top Deck Transport of Saxmundham, Suffolk. I took pictures of the papers, and we thanked him, to go towards Saxmundham.

We stopped at a hotel in Bury St. Edmunds, having a good meal and some bad TV before getting a good sleep. In the morning, we had breakfast, paid our account, and headed east to Saxmundham. We found Top Deck Transport in a small factory area on the edge of town. There were no trucks in evidence, but there was a young girl in the office.

When we asked our questions, she got on the phone and asked for someone to come and help. Ten minutes later, a large woman got out of a four-wheel-drive and came in. It took us a while to calm her down, but she eventually saw that we weren’t there to cause trouble. She looked up that particular transaction.

“That customer is a regular. He carries on a business building kit cars for people who buy them but can’t work on them at home. He does regular business with those Caterham sports cars, as well as the odd AC Cobra. We don’t see any of those, as the customers pick them up from his shed. The ones we do see are the replica classics he does, on the side. He only builds two or three a year. We’ve been transporting them for a good ten years now.”

“Do you have the records of where they were taken?”

“They all went to garages, all over the south. I’ll show you the file if you tell me why you want to know.”

Lena spoke up.

“What we’ve been asked is to find the manufacturer of the classic replicas, and to see the owners. We are looking into starting a new club, one which will have those owners as founding members, and then attracting those AC and other owners as it goes on. Our client bought one of his cars, recently, and is frustrated that he would be laughed at if he took it to a classic car event. The club will organise track days and rallies for just these cars. The only address he gave was Mister Smith from Stratford. Is it at Stratford St. Andrew?”

“It is, he has sheds next to the farm sheds off of Tinker Break, on the left as you go south. The signpost points to Blaxland. Here is his file. The name is Grayson Smythe, and I believe he is a grandson of the farmer. You can’t miss him. Take your pictures, there are twenty-seven deliveries.”

On the way south, Lena remarked that we should have to give him some money back, seeing how easy it had been.

“Not so fast, you gave me an idea back there. We have an office, you have a liking for old cars, and I’ve gone through a police track driving course. The lad that you saw me with at Ascot had a lovely new Aston Martin, which I drove. We could start a club for these owners. I bet that most of them regret being sucked in and are sitting on cars they’re too embarrassed to take out. It would fill out our days and also create a huge clientele who may want our investigation services.”

“You do know that you’re devious.”

“That has been said before.”

We followed the directions and turned onto the rough road that led to Blaxland. The place was difficult to miss, at a sharp turn there was a farm with several sheds. Two were open and we could see cars. We parked next to others, and walked into the first shed, asking for Grayson. We were pointed to a man sitting in a small office. We went over and he beckoned us in.

“What can I do for you, ladies?”

“Mister Smythe, we are here on behalf of Sir Courtney at Turweston. He bought a Jaguar XK120 from you a little while ago.”

“Isn’t he happy? That car was a delight to build. Anyone would be happy to own it!”

“He’s happy enough with it but is unhappy that he was duped into buying a replica, rather than a genuine one.”

“No-one else has complained. Any fool can see that the price is nowhere near what a genuine one would cost. The paperwork clearly shows that it was a 2023 build.”

“That may be, Sir. But your advertising does not show that it’s not genuine. That’s a breach of the trading practice. I’m sure that all your customers for kit cars know who they’re dealing with, but the buyers of your specials are going to be sitting on cars they can’t use. Winston is a well-known Jaguar man and can’t take the 120 out to official rallies or social days, he doesn’t want to be any more embarrassed than what he was when he had discovered what he had brought home.”

“I don’t do refunds.”

“He doesn’t want one. What he wants, and what the government wants, is for you to advertise the specials in the accepted way, clearly stating that they’re replicas. That will suffice for the future.”

“Is there anything else?”

“There is. We were discussing a club that is dedicated to this general sort of car, not a one-make club. It would allow your customers to drive their cars with the knowledge that they will be accepted by the others they meet. It would help your kit car owners as well, especially the ones who may buy most of a kit for a classic, like a GT40.”

“What about my past advertising?”

“We are not worried about that, if you allow us the list of those other customers, it’s twenty-six, I believe. That way, we can talk to them all and put some out of their misery. If their cars are built as well as the Jaguar, they are likely to keep them to enjoy. We are also not the tax men. So, your little offshore account is of no interest to us – for the moment.”

“You have me over a barrel. I’ll give you the client list and upgrade the advertising. Was there anything else?”

Lena smiled.

“Can you show us around and tell us how you choose what you build?”

He took us around the shed, which was mainly building four Caterham kits. In the next shed was two cars, half-built, with parts and body panels all over the place. Lena looked at what looked like a pile of scrap and gave a little squeal.

“Your building a Stag! Do you have a buyer?”

“Not yet. It’s about another four months before I’ll advertise it. Why, are you interested?”

“Yes, I am. As long as I get to choose the colour. I see that the seats are still frames, do you have a good upholsterer?”

“We do, he has a business in Norwich. What colour would you like?”

“The one I had was dark blue with tan seats. I had a lot of fun with it but had to sell it when I was deployed overseas.”

“I haven’t all the parts, yet. I usually start with something that’s written off and the replace all the bad parts. With the Jaguar, I built it as a modern version. Would you like this one modernised?”

“If you can make it look standard but has the sort of things the Jaguar has, yes, I will.”

“If we rebuild it from the ground up, it will be about six months and around eighty thousand.”

“If you write me an invoice, with a proper bank to pay it to, I’ll put a quarter in when we’re back in London.”

He looked at me.

“Is there something I can build for you, Miss?”

“I don’t normally do sports cars, but a nice Daimler Dart SP250 like the one I drove on a police track would be good. I think that it would be nice for the two of us to be on a track, trying to go faster than the other.”

He grinned, and led us to the office in this shed, where I photographed the names and addresses, both home and email, of the other twenty-six owners. From what I could see, they were all over the place and it would take a good trip to see them all. When we left him, we shook hands and he looked relieved at being let off so easily. He took my card and told me that he would get in touch if he found a Dart for me.

On the way south, I was driving and turned to look at Lena.

“You do realise that if we both get these cars, and start the club, we are going to have to be the original organisers? On top of that, we’re going to have to find secure parking for them.”

“I know, but just think of the fun and games we can have. I know that I said that I can do without toffs, but being on an even level with them on a racetrack is something else. Now, what are we going to do?”

“We’ll go and see our client in the morning. Give him a ring and tee it up. Then we go home and start our trip on Sunday afternoon, after we’ve worked out the best route and phoned them all for an appointment. We will need to talk Winston into allowing us to use the rest of his money to do all that, considering that we may end up giving his car places to go.”

We cut back up to Bury St. Edmunds and then to Cambridge, where we stopped for the night. Lena had told Winston that we would visit in the morning, about ten, and we were there within five minutes of the time.

He welcomed us in, and we sat in the sitting room, with his wife staying with us this time. Lena told him of our success in tracing the trail back to the maker, and what we had discussed with him. Then she pitched the idea of a club for owners of classic replicas, with us offering our office space and some of our time. She talked about a newsletter, hiring of tracks for social days, visits to places of interest, and even getting space in car shows, where the modifications would be appreciated.

It was a Lena that had taken the bull by the horns, a Lena who was more energised than I had seen her before. What made him smile was when she asked him if he would be the club patron. I just sat back and sipped my tea, while his wife started to smile. When Lena finished and while Winston was thinking about it, she spoke.

“Winston, darling. If we go ahead with this, you can buy me that Cobra that was in the magazine last week, and we can go out in our own cars. That will mean that you would have to know the way there or follow me. I won’t be sitting beside you, juggling a map.”

He bowed to female logic and agreed to be the patron if we set it up. The Soho office would be the official home of the club, which, after some discussion, would be registered as ‘The Replicants Car Club’.

After that, we looked at the details of the other owners. He whistled when I read out some of them.

“I would never have known that those chaps would get sucked in like me. They all bought cars that they’re known experts of. If those chaps can be caught out, I don’t feel so bad.”

I suggested that, as our patron, he wouldn’t mind us using his remaining seven days recruiting our membership core. I asked him what he paid in membership of the main club he was in, and we set the yearly fee for membership at a thousand pounds, with only track fees on top, and socials to be organised. If we could sign up the others, we would have twenty-five thousand to get things moving. Enough to cover a dedicated landline and a separate laptop.

After we had dropped the Skoda off, and Hassam had driven us back to the office, we sat and made a list of what we needed to do. There would be hoops to jump through to register the club at this address, a constitution to write, and official sanction from the tax office as a not-for-profit organisation. Lena went off, with the cheque to deposit, her small case in her hand. I nuked my evening meal and ate it, wondering what the hell I had jumped into.

I liked driving, I loved the A-Class when I had it, and owning a Dart would be fantastic. With what I had in the bank after the racetrack affair, fifty to eighty thousand wouldn’t be too hard. I thought about hammering the Dart into corners at Silverstone and realised that I really wanted this to work. It would be time out of the sleuthing. But the contacts that we would make could make up for that. Those who could afford great cars could also afford Max Force to help them out of their problems. It would be better than finding shoplifters.

Marianne Gregory © 2024