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
Chapter 2
We rang all twenty-six of the car owners on Friday, after looking at the addresses and working out a circular route. Two had on-sold their purchase as replicas, both to American buyers. All of the others were happy to see us, after we told them that we had located the manufacturer. We had our first meeting on Sunday afternoon, with the last on the following Saturday.
We packed for a week and Hassam took Lena to pick up a car on Sunday. She arrived at the office in an old Austin thirteen hundred, great on fuel but short on space. We loaded me up and I drove to her to her home, where she dashed in and came out with her case. We went off to Surrey and our first call.
The car owner was happy when we left. His turbocharged MG V8 with its modified chassis would be coming out on our first social run. He gave us a cheque for his first year of membership of a club we had yet to start.
There was another call in Surrey, this time an ordinary looking, but highly modified Austin Healey would be seeing the light of day on club runs. We carried on to Brighton and our hotel, the next two calls being near Arundel on Monday, followed by one at Petworth before our hotel. By the end of that day, a Jaguar XK150 and two Triumph TR6’s had been shown to us and another three members had joined.
We worked our way up to Shrewsbury, and then across towards Leicester, Peterborough and down to Oxford, our last call on Friday being near the University City. That one was the odd one out. By the time we had arrived there, we had twenty-two founding members who we left with smiles.
The man we saw on the Friday afternoon had bought an Alvis, one with a vee-eight and disc brakes. It was a very lovely motor car, though. After we had explained about the reason we were there, and the idea of the club, he became the twenty-third founder member. Then he sat us down to tell us what was on his mind,
“My daughter disappeared more than two years ago. She went into London and never came home. I went to the police and reported her missing, but they haven’t found a trace of her. Can you take a couple of weeks to see what you can find. I have her picture and the list of her contacts that I gave the police.”
We took the job, took his cheque, the list and a couple of photos. Her name was Veronica, and she was eighteen when she left home. Instead of heading to our hotel, we stayed in the area and spoke to her friends. It may have been that we were women, or it may have been that we weren’t the police, but we left the area with a lot of information that they hadn’t given earlier. Veronica wasn’t the perfect girl her father thought she was. She was early in becoming a cocaine junky, more of a slut than I was at her age, and was spending nights at a boyfriends’ flat, rather than with the old school friend that would cover for her if called.
We checked in late and just had snacks in our rooms. Saturday morning, we had one last call near Windsor, signing up the twenty-fourth member and gazing at a another shed full of wonderful cars. I dropped Lena at her home, and then stopped outside the office to put my bags inside, before locking up and heading to give the Austin back, with a sigh of relief. I called Hassam on the way, stopped to fill the tank, and he delivered me back at the office. Actually, we stopped at the Italian restaurant where we had lunch and I walked from there, around the corner.
It had been a very successful week. We had cheques worth twenty-four thousand pounds to be deposited into a bank account that we had to open, for a club that didn’t exist. We had two cheques for five thousand each, one for the completed job for Winston, the other for working on the Veronica case.
That afternoon, I caught up with my laundry and relaxed, wondering why Veronica ran away. From what we had been told, she had been a good student, had a secure future with one of her fathers’ businesses, was well liked by her friends, and was quite beautiful. I looked at the photos we have been given. She looked radiant in both, as if she could be a model. Her crowning glory was just that, glorious, shiny, cherry-red hair, similar in colour to the wig that Lena had.
When Lena came in Monday, she set to work creating the ‘Replicants Car Club’. She would have to talk to the overriding federation to register the name, then see the authorities about registering it as an association. When that was done, the cheques needed to be banked. The first thing she did do, however, was to design a logo, create a letterhead and business card with the office as the club address, then she did an email which went to all the new members, and our patron, to announce the club was being formed.
I spent my time looking for Veronicas’ boyfriend. All I had been given was that his name was Duane Shipman, and that he lived somewhere in London. After finding about fifty Shipman’s in the phone book, I decided to get the assistance of my friend at the Yard, George Hounslow.
When I rang the Yard, they put me through to Superintendent Hounslow. I congratulated him on his elevation in the ranks, and after some small talk, asked him if he could see if there was anything on the computer on a Duane Shipman, aged in his early twenties, and likely to have some link with cocaine dealing. He told me that he would put someone on it and get back to me.
On Tuesday, he rang me back.
“You can sure pick them, Maxie. That Shipman lad has a sheet a mile long. Mostly assault, but a few cases of having drugs on his person. He’s been quiet for a year, or two. From what the uniformed on his patch tell me, he’s now almost ready to burst if he doesn’t get his fix every day. They make sure that whenever he’s involved, they see him in twos.”
He gave me the address in South Ruislip and wished me well. I checked the address on the map. It was an interesting location for a dealer. There was a business park only a stone’s throw away, the train station a short walk, and the shopping centre and cinema complex on the other side of the train tracks. If you could invent somewhere that you could deal without being noticed, this was it. George emailed me his mug shot, and he didn’t look half bad, in a bad boy sort of way.
On Wednesday, I got Hassam to take me to the end of his road, and to go around the corner to wait for me. I walked slowly along the street until I got to his address. The houses were all triple-house tenements, with one or two being just semi-detached, to fit into the available space. I kept my eyes wide open until I saw the flutter of lace curtain in the front window of a nearby house.
I went up and knocked on that door, which opened to reveal an elderly lady.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for Duane Shipman, but I’ve forgotten the house number.”
“You don’t want nothing to do with that trash, lady. That man is bad news. If you’re after drugs, forget it, he looks like he can’t get enough for himself.”
“Oh dear, I was told that he could get me work, I’m a secretary and just got made redundant.”
“You poor girl. Come in and I’ll tell you the sort of jobs that he would be able to get you.”
Over a cup of tea, I found out almost everything I needed to know about Duane. He was a dealer, a pimp, and a violent man, although not as bad as his cousin, who hasn’t been around for a couple of years, thankfully. Duane had gone off the rails when the cousin stopped living with him, the bigger man seeming to be the leader. I also discovered that the endless stream of young girls that had been seen in the street had also tapered off, with me being the best dressed that she had seen.
I told her that I had been given the address by the daughter of a friend, a good-looking girl with gorgeous cherry-red hair.
“Her! She was in and out of that house for weeks, then I didn’t see her anymore. I expect that he passed her on to one of the brothels he supplied.”
“Do you know, for certain, that he supplied brothels with girls?”
“Angie, from four doors down, told me that her son had been to a brothel where he saw one of the girls that he lusted after. He had seen her in the street. Her son is doing time for burglary.”
When I left, I met up with Hassam and he took me back to the office. I called George again and got his direct email address, telling him that I was going to send him a picture of a girl, with the request that he ask Vice if she had come up in any raids. I gave him her name.
On Friday, I got an email from a Vice Squad at Ruislip. He sent me the sheet on Veronica, AKA Vonnie Red. She had been working at a brothel that had been raided due to an altercation with one of the clients. Veronica had been high as a kite when taken in, but wasn’t charged, as she wasn’t in any fit state to look after a client. That was the only time she was interviewed. The mug shot showed her looking a lot less beautiful than she had been less than a year earlier.
I contacted her father and organised a visit. I got Hassam to take me there on Saturday, taking my notes and the emails. The parents broke down as I gave them the news. There wasn’t any more that I could do for them. Their daughter was now lost to them, somewhere in the network of brothels or buried in a paupers grave due to an overdose. When they gathered themselves, they both thanked me for my work, saying that it did give them some closure, now knowing that she wouldn’t walk through the door.
He told me that he was looking forward to getting his car out and returning to a normal life, without the wondering. Hassam drove me home and I sat on my sofa, thinking that some girls throw so much away to get a fix.
The weeks went by with normal jobs that we were becoming used to. Retail crime, lost husbands, all the usual. Lena threw herself into getting the car club going, and we had our first social event on a sunny summer day. She had booked tables at a country hotel with a big car park. Hassam organised an old S-Type from his friend and drove us there.
It was the fulfilment of a dream for many that attended. The car park was an array of cars shining in the sun, and many spoke about how happy they, and their families, were, to be able to drive such a joy, without fear of being put down.
We had invited Grayson Smythe, and the owners all congratulated him on the engineering that went into their purchases. Many gave him a bit of complaint about his advertising methods, but it was all in good humour. He had notified a few of his customers about the event, and we had a few of the classic kit cars among the others. We had a good meal and Lena announced that, with the help of Winston, we would host a track day at Silverstone.
We left that lunch with five new members. Many telling us that it was nice to be able to appreciate the very special vehicles that they owned. The kit car owners must have spoken to their friends, because we had another ten members before the day of the Silverstone track day came around. Hassam took us there, wondering how many we would get.
What we didn’t expect on that day was the sheer numbers that turned up. We had charged a hundred a car to cover the cost of a few marshals and event insurance. I stood on the gate, taking money, as the cars streamed in, several on trailers, and some with families in cars behind them. By the time of the first open track came around, there must have been at least two hundred cars in the paddock. I shut the gate, putting a notice on it that the track was shut for a private event and to ring my mobile if anyone wanted to join in.
When I looked at what was happening, it was in amazement. Winston joined me and told me that the boys in the main car clubs had been talking about the Replicants, and that many of them had racing cars that only got out on big events, like the one at Goodwood. Not only was he not being pilloried by his fellow members for having a classic special, but he was also now being lauded for being the front man of such a laid-back club where the only intention was to have fun, not compete.
My mobile rang and I heard someone ask if they could come in, so I trekked up to the gate to find a familiar Aston Martin with a smiling Bertie in the driving seat. Behind him was a line of very expensive supercars.
“Hello, Debbie. Me and the boys from the bands are out for a drive. We had heard that there was to be a track day and wondered if we could join in.”
I opened the gate and took the money as he led another nine cars into the track. I closed the gate again, tearing the bit off the notice to call my mobile. Back in the paddock, the ones that had been to this kind of event were sorting things out. The order of the day was that there would be a forty-minute session for road cars, without the need for helmets but a hundred mile an hour maximum speed. Then one for cars with rollbars and proper tyres, helmets required and unlimited speed. Then one for pure race cars. After lunch it would be repeated until everyone went home.
I had two rides in the morning. One with Bertie in the Aston, with him driving for twenty minutes, with a stop in the pits to change seats and me letting it have its head for the next fifteen minutes. The other was with Winston in the XK special. That was a revelation, as he let me drive it for the whole session, and I had great fun. He had brought spare wheels with race tyres on, and it handled like a rocket. I found out that Grayson had installed rollbar mounts for just this sort of activity on all his cars, and the owners were having a ball, throwing their cars into corners.
We had lunch and I sat with Bertie, being told how successful the tour that he had organised went. The band members all had fun, the families enjoyed meeting them and there was a lot of joy and laughter during the day. In the afternoon, I sat, cuddled by Bertie, with him asking me why I wasn’t a blonde anymore, and why everyone called me Maxine.
I told him the truth that I had been under cover when I had met him before and was working for David and Dee. I gave him one of my cards to prove that I was a PI. I lied when I told him that I had been investigating one of the bookies for illegal insider dealings and possible horse doping. As we watched the cars go around, guys would come up and ask me about the club, with me handing out application forms that we had printed up.
I saw Lena in several different cars, having a lot of fun. It was good to see her so happy and enjoying life. While the last sessions were going on, she came over and I introduced her to Bertie, and she said that she recognised him from Ascot. He didn’t recognise her, as she had been Mauve Man at the time. I gave her the remains of the applications, and the bag with the money, and told her that I would see her Monday.
I don’t know why I felt the way I was feeling. I didn’t do boys the second time around, except for the soccer captain and Allan. It was weird sitting there with his arm around me, almost like being swaddled in a favourite dressing gown. I didn’t want to move, just sit back, and watch everyone have fun. That, in itself, was a feeling of contentment. I think that he may be feeling the same as he kissed my hair and whispered.
“I thought that I’d never see you again. I know it was a poor show to rush off, but that tour has been the making of me. There are others who want me to talk to them about tours, some up to five years away. I tried to ring when it settled down, but the number had been cut off.”
“A lot has happened since I gave you that number, Bertie. I have moved to a place in Soho with a first-floor office with living quarters over that. Lena is now my business partner, and we do a lot of retail investigating, as well as some special jobs. One of which led us to be where we are now. The man with the XK120 had bought it sight unseen, thinking that it could be an original. You can see by the way it goes today that it’s highly modified. He wanted us to find the seller, and we also found a couple of dozen others who had bought specials, thinking that they were genuine. Most of them are here today having fun and driving their cars as they should be driven.”
“And this Replicants club?”
“That was Lenas’ idea. We’ve registered it with our office as the home. Our original client is the patron, and, if today is any indication, the membership will be growing. It’s a thousand a year to be a member, and we organise socials. Lena has ordered a new-build Stag to relive her younger days, and Grayson is on the lookout for a Daimler Dart for me. I drove one that had been used as a motorway pursuit car when I was training for the police. I sold the Mercedes that I had when I met you, and we Uber at the moment.”
“Can I take you home, Lady Maxine?”
“You may, my Lord.”
I picked up my bag and we made our way towards his car. On the way, some of the band members came over and said how much they enjoyed themselves. One wanted to know where he could get one of those modified cars, so I pointed Grayson out to him. Another wanted to know where he could join up so I pointed out Lena, who, with her height and the very colourful kaftan she was wearing, couldn’t be missed.
Bertie said that he was leaving now, and they all gave me a hug and a kiss. It had been too long since that had happened to me. Bertie took us to the restaurant where he had taken me the first day we met. It was almost like coming home, as we were welcomed in. It didn’t seem like more than year since we were last here.
After that, we were back in his apartment at Canary Wharf, and not very long after that we were in his bed, and he was making me squeal with pleasure. There wasn’t any rush, and I wasn’t going anywhere else, even if he did snore. In fact, when he did go to sleep, he was quiet, just a snuffle or two. I cuddled into him and slept like a baby.
In the morning, we made love again before showering together. We had breakfast and he smiled.
“Did you notice the difference?”
“Only that you make wonderful love, and you don’t snore.”
“I took your advice and saw my doctor. I had a deviated septum, which didn’t take very long to fix. He told me that it could also lead to other sleep disorders of it hadn’t been fixed. Not only were you a lucky charm at the races, a lucky charm at that party, but you also improved my health.”
“My pleasure, my Lord.”
“Will you come back to me again?”
“I’m thinking about it. No more horse racing, though. That job I had to do last year was the last time I want to stand around watching horses.”
“When I met you, I had only gone to keep some friends happy. I wouldn’t mind if we could go to a few car races. When you do get your Dart, you can drive me. You can keep it here, if you want, I do have another car space to use.”
“That’s starting to sound like a more permanent situation. Is that what you want?”
His answer was to kiss me and lead me back into the bedroom. Just before lunch, and another shower later, we were dressed, and he took me to Soho. I guided him to Dean Street where we found a parking space, then took him to the office door. While I was opening up, he was looking at the toys in the shop next door.
I pulled him away and led him upstairs to show him the office, and then further up to see my home.
“This is impressive, all that talent confined to this space.”
“It’s a bloody sight bigger than the flat I was in before, and the two of us own it.”
We went back down to the street, and I locked up and led him to Little Italy, where we had our lunch. Afterwards, I told him that I had work to do before the morning. We arranged for him to pick me up on Friday evening, so I put together a small overnight bag with enough things to see me through to Sunday afternoon. He took it away when he left, after some prolonged kissing.
That evening, I sat on my sofa and did a lot of thinking. I was a girl who liked variation, yet I had just given him a bag with things of mine so I could spend forty-eight hours with him. I had felt happy when I saw him at the track gate, even more so as we sat, watching the cars. I felt relaxed, and at peace. Can it be love? Who knows, I certainly don’t, having never felt that way before. The earth didn’t move; should it? My heart didn’t go boombiddyboom. If it had I would have called for a paramedic.
On Monday morning, Lena came in with a big smile and gave me a hug.
“That event was a success in more ways than one, Maxie. We took over twenty grand at the gate, we already have ten new members, and you, my girl, looked as if you found love.”
“I’m not sure of that, Lena.”
“Tell me how many orgasms you had between then and now.”
I had to smile.
“I’m not sure, I lost count after the fifth, and that was only a couple of hours after dinner.”
Marianne Gregory © 2024
Chapter 3
During that week, we tidied up the aftermath of the track day. We banked the money and filled in the ledger of accounts. Lena did newsletters and receipts for the new members, and then started thinking about the next social, which we thought may be one that was only by invitation, with the meal at Saxmundham and a visit to the place where the cars had been created. When Lena rang Grayson with the idea, he was enthusiastic. Two dozen would be a nice number.
We made an appointment to see Janine at the end of the week, so that I could be perfect for my weekend. When we were there, Janine brought out a stunning wig.
“When the rep showed me this, I just had to get it in for you, Lena. That one you had for the races was good, with that green pantsuit. This one would be stunning with a green dress for Christmas.”
Lena stood when it was put on her head. She looked magnificent, the hair was like a mane down her back and almost glowed cherry red.
“It’s great, Janine. I bet that it’s expensive.”
“Not really. The rep told me that it had been in stock for more than two years. It’s a colour that not many women could make their own. He said that it was the last of stock that they used to get, but the supplier had stopped supplying. The hair is different to Asian real hair, a lot thicker, with more body and shine, if looked after.”
I spoke up.
“I’ll buy it for you, for Christmas. We can take it now and put it on my card.”
We walked out of the salon, two renewed women, with me carrying the bag with the wig. I put it in my wardrobe and made ready to be picked up by Bertie. With a spray of perfume and the bottle in my bag with other cosmetics, I was dressed to kill and waited in the office, looking down at the road. If I went outside to wait for him, I would get propositioned. I had an overnight bag with a change, or two. I was ready for anything, and if we ended up at his place, I could start to commandeer some of his wardrobe.
When he arrived, I locked up and got in the Aston.
“Where to, my Lord?”
“Tonight, my lady, we will be dining in Brighton, sleeping in Bognor, and will be looking at the Museum at Beaulieu on Saturday. Saturday night we sleep at Lymington, and Sunday we look at the motor bikes at New Milton before I deliver you back home.”
“Now, that’s my idea of a romantic getaway. Drive on, my Lord, and make this lady happy.”
We had a wonderful weekend. He drove steadily, unwilling to lose his licence again. The meal was good, the hotel cosy, the loving glorious. The next day we did one of the best car museums in the world, looking at the record-breaking cars from the previous century. The day was relaxed, and we had a lot of laughs. Sunday was a visit to the Sammy Miller motorcycle museum. I hadn’t been into bikes, but some of these had engineering that was way ahead of their time. I hadn’t seen a supercharged motorcycle that raced before the war before.
On the way back to London, I was driving the Aston and he started asking me about my days as a Private Investigator. I was telling him some snippets of old cases when something that I had seen came to the front of my mind. I didn’t say much more and concentrated on the drive. We stopped at a country pub for dinner. It had been a lovely time, and I was happy.
We stopped outside the office, and he kissed me and said that we could do it all again, next week. I told him that we could hang around Canary Wharf, and he smiled.
“That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”
I pretended to punch him, gave him another kiss and he got into the car and drove away. I was smiling when I went inside and had a bath before going to bed. I had lots to do during the next week.
Monday morning, Lena came in and I let her carry the office while I started with a phone call to Veronicas’ father.
“Tell me, Sir. When you reported Veronica missing, did either of you give a DNA sample to check against unidentified bodies?”
“My wife did. Do you have something new?”
“Just a hunch at the moment. You’ll be the first to know if it becomes more than that. Do you have a card from the investigating officer?”
He told me to wait and came back with the name and number. I thanked him as I wrote it down. I then called the officer in the Oxford station. When he answered I told him who I was and asked him if he would do a DNA test on a piece of hair that I would send him. He was hesitant but agreed. I took a few strands from the wig and put them in a sterile bag, addressed it to him and went out to the post office to send it priority.
I spent the rest of the week working with Lena. On the weekend I spent a lot of the time in bed with Bertie, or just sitting around his apartment, naked. On Monday morning, I got a call from Oxford, asking me if I could go and talk to them.
Hassam drove me to Oxford, dropping me at the police station. I had a bag with my copies of the information that I had given the father, and another with the wig. We sat in an office, and I was asked to tell them everything, while being recorded. If I showed them a paper, the officer would stop me while he described what the paper said for the recording. I told him about the girl that the parents never knew, and her boyfriend Duane. I told them about her sheet from Ruislip. Then he asked the question that my guess pivoted around.
“Why did you think that this wig is actually Veronicas’ hair?”
“I was thinking about old cases a week or so back. One that I was involved in took place in Yarmouth. It involved human trafficking of teenage girls. When the girls were released, all of them had been shorn. When I saw the wig, it took me a while to remember the picture I had seen of Veronica. Her hair was unmistakable. That’s why I sent you the sample, to see if my guess was right or not.”
After that, I had to wait while he checked with Ruislip and Yarmouth. When he came back, he led me to a much better room with his Superintendent sitting behind the desk. There, I had to go through what I knew. He took it all in and then asked me what I wanted to do now.
“I would like to speak to the girls taken from that boat. Hopefully, they would be more settled from the terrible experience. If we can’t speak to them, hopefully there would be statements that they had given. They might be in storage by now, it is a few years since that case.”
I was told to go off and have lunch but come back in the afternoon. I gave Hassam a call and he picked me up, taking us into the town centre and finding somewhere to get something to eat. He told me that he had explored the shopping centre while I was at the police station. I told him that he may have time to do a guided tour of the University during the afternoon.
The afternoon session was as long as I thought it might be. There was discussion, there were more questions, but there was, finally, emails with scans of the girls’ statements. One seemed more aware of her surroundings that the others. She described being with her boyfriend when someone grabbed her and put a rag over her nose and mouth. When she had come round, she was in a cell, in a group of other cells, with just a bucket and a bunk.
In her statement she told that she was bored and could just sit on the bunk and listen to the noises outside, knowing that she was a prisoner. She wasn’t asked what the noises were. Her statement said that her boyfriend was called Duane.
I was being treated as part of the team, as they had received corroboration of my involvement from Yarmouth, with another that came through from Lowestoft. I pointed out the name of the boyfriend that could be a link to Veronica, and they told me to go home. I would be contacted when the girl had been located.
I called Hassam and he picked me up, delivering me back at the office. Lena had already closed up by the time we got there. I nuked an easy dinner and sat thinking about where it will go from here.
Two days later, I got a call that I would be picked up and taken to see the girl. I stood outside and got into the back of the police car when it arrived. I was taken to the police station near Wembley. Inside, the girl was waiting. They allowed me to sit with her in an interview room, knowing that everything said would be recorded. I told her that she looked a lot better than the last time I had seen her, after she had been released from the boat.
“I’m told that it was you and your friend that saved us from a fate worse than death. It had been bad up until then, but we knew that once we were at our destination, our lives would be hell.”
“Tell me. When Duane knocked you out, where were you?”
“At a party. His cousin was there, a real brute. He was in the gang that was taking us away. He was the one who was shot.”
“Did you tell that to anyone at the time.”
“Nobody asked, they were just trying to make sure we didn’t melt down.”
“In your statement, you said that you could hear noises. Take your time and tell me what you could hear.”
“The constant sound was a railway. We must have been near a main line.”
“We?”
“It took a while, but the other girls were brought in a few days apart. It was always Duane or his cousin. We didn’t see the others until we were at the boat. We were cable tied and blindfolded when we were taken to a van. I know that it was the early hours because of the quiet.”
“Any other sounds?”
“One that sounded like a big shopping centre. There was a lot of traffic noise and then quiet.”
“How did they feed you?”
“A box of cornflakes every couple of days and bottles of water.”
“When was your hair cut off?”
“A little while before we were taken out, Duane said that it was his bonus, and that he knew a wigmaker who would pay well for it.”
“Did you go directly to the boat?”
“No, we were another couple of weeks in a cellar, first.”
“Thank you for your help, I think I know where you were.”
“Thank you for giving me my life back.”
We hugged and I waved at the two-way mirror. I was led back to the police car, and it took me to the Yard, where I was taken up to see my old friend George Hounslow, now a Chief Superintendent of the murder squad.
He had the pile of files on his desk.
“Maxie, I’ve been told that this is down to my squad to see through. Do you know where the girls were kept?”
“I think I do. Duane was also involved with Veronica. He lives in Ruislip. There is an industrial estate next to the main line by Ruislip station. On the other side of the tracks there is a large shopping centre and cineplex. I think that’s what the other girl heard. I have Veronicas’ hair, the thing that made me make a few assumptions. My salon told me that it was the last one left in stock from her supplier, as the wigmaker had stopped supplying him about two or more years ago, about the time the gang was caught.”
“How do we go about finding which building is where they were kept?”
“We need to see if there was anything in the contents of the cousins pockets that would help. A bunch of keys with an address tag would be good. Other than that, Duane may be able to help.”
“No joy there. He overdosed about three months ago.”
“Has his house been searched?”
“I don’t think so. It will stay empty until the file is closed. We may be able to have a look. I’ll check on that and give you a call.”
A police car took me back to the office, where Lena wanted to know what I was up to. It took a while to tell her about the way the old case fitted into the new one, and we were out in Little Italy before I got to the end of the narrative.
“Looks like you’re scoring more brownie points with the coppers, Maxie.”
“I just want to see it through, as usual. Any brownie points are a bonus.”
After another nice weekend with Bertie, I got another call, this time George would be picking me up and we would be meeting a team from Ruislip to search the house. I was picked up, sitting in the back with George as we went to Ruislip. At the house, I had my gloves on as the Ruislip team made their search. My wish came true when they searched the dead cousins’ room an came up with a key on a ring, with an address tag. They had also found a wealth of information which would move them forward with cases against local bad guys and drug dealers.
The address was a small place at the end of a dead end, right next to the railway line. When the key turned in the lock, we all held our breath as the door was opened. It was a good job we did, as the smell that wafted out was unmistakable. We all went and stood well back as extra help was called for, in the shape of a forensic team who got kitted up in the coveralls and breathing masks before they went in.
I waited with George outside, both of us dreading what we would be told. Eventually, one came out carrying a laptop, which he gave to George. He took off the mask.
“Three girls, all in advanced stage of decomposition. They must have starved to death and that would have been about a year or two ago. There is a lot of other stuff in there, one room is full of packets of cannabis, as well as about twenty kilo of what looks like cocaine. We’ll get the cells open and the bodies removed, but there’s no need for the Yard to waste any more time. I’d thank you for leading us here, but it’s going to be a very long day for me.”
George and I were quiet as we went to the Yard. I didn’t know about him, but I was sick to my stomach. He must have known what I was thinking.
“Don’t be hard on yourself, Maxine. Nobody knew they were there. There wasn’t any link to this place in the Yarmouth case. They could have been in those cells for another twenty years if it wasn’t for you. If I had my way I would offer you a job at the Yard.”
“I wouldn’t take it, George. Doing the humdrum work allows me to forget the bad times. But you never do completely forget, do you?”
“No, you don’t. You just tell yourself that solving a case is what matters. It is always someone else who commits the crime. Hopefully, this laptop will give us more to go on.”
Instead of going to the office, I asked them to drop me off at Canary Wharf. Up in the apartment, I interrupted Bertie at work on another tour, and he held me in his arms as I cried my eyes out. I wouldn’t tell him why, but we were sitting in front of the TV when the lead story came on the news.
“In breaking news, police have discovered a private prison in Ruislip. Inside, we are told that there were the bodies of three girls, locked in cells. It appears that they had been left there two years ago.”
I started crying again and he held me closely. We went to bed early, and he just held me until I went to sleep. The only thing that I told him was that the smell will be with me until I die.
He took me home the next day, and I had to suffer a grilling from Lena. She could understand what I was going through, having seen, and smelt it, and worse, in her time in the SAS. Eventually, real life helped me get over it. George came to see us in the office one day, to tell me what the laptop gave up.
“They had recorded the names of all the girls that they kidnapped, which is clearing up a lot of missing persons cases. Veronica is there, with her destination being one of the Gulf States. There’s no way we will be able to track her from there, as they trade the girls by number. We’ve told her parents the information, but what you told them earlier had deadened their feelings already.”
He went on to say that the laptop was also helping investigations by both the drug squad and the vice squad. When he left, Lena came over to me to give me a hug.
“More brownie points, Maxie. Just think of it that way. It’s passed and gone. I think we should go to lunch.”
Lena never got to wear the wig, nor did she want to. We gave it to Veronicas’ parents, and they had a small funeral, with the coffin containing the wig and pictures of their daughter in happier days. We attended and he thanked us for bringing part of her home, as it allowed them closure.
Between the two of them, Lena and Bertie worked together to help me come back to normal. Lena got her Stag, and Veronicas’ father offered her garage space. Grayson came good with my Daimler. As it was ex-police, he didn’t have to do a lot mechanically, just reinforce the chassis and replace the brakes with competition discs. After the seats had been reupholstered and the body painted in a high gloss black, I kept it in the spare space in the garage at Canary Wharf. I was living with Bertie now, like a couple of married folk. The doorman always tipped his hat when he saw me.
I had never wanted to be second fiddle to a successful man, but Bertie was contracted to organise band tours that would last for more than a year. He gave Max Force the contract to supply the security for them. The only way we could make that happen was to grow our business. I still went to the office in Soho to oversee both the PI business and the security business, which was now housed upstairs in what used to be my living quarters, with two girls keeping tabs on a large group of mainly ex-police or ex-military, many that Lena and I had recruited. The two rooms were now the nerve centre of Max Force Security.
Lena had a second girl in the lower office, to look after the car club. It was a very busy place, the security part of it being a seven-day operation when tours were on. I found myself jetting all over the world to manage the setting up of our operations at every venue. In Germany, Bertie proposed, and I accepted. We got married in a little church in Bavaria, just us and the crew. Lena was mad at me so we put on a party at the house of one of the band members, just so she could dress up.
We attended the track days when we could, with them now being major operations, with paid gatekeepers, paid track marshals and ambulance crew. The meetings got big enough to open up for the paying public and now went over a two-day weekend. They became very popular, and more enthusiasts joined the club so that they could play.
Over the course of a few years, Lord and Lady Woodward became well respected in the motoring family, as well as creating a family of our own, and a successful promotions company. I still help out with sleuthing, to keep my hand in. Who knows when I might need to use my superpowers again.
Marianne Gregory © 2024