Classic Mistake by Amy Myers Page B

as casually as I could: ‘You were around these parts in ’seventy-eight, weren’t you, Len?’ I could see his eyes still on the Jowett, however. He was itching to get started.
    ‘No. At Brands.’
    He’d worked at Brands Hatch racing circuit for many years, but that’s in West Kent and quite a way in towards London. ‘But were you living around here at the time of the May Tree Shoot-Out?’
    He nodded. Len saves on words that way, so that he can get back to welding things that matter all the quicker.
    ‘What happened to the gang that carried out the raid? That was local, wasn’t it? I know Tony Wilson went inside for shooting one of them, but what happened to the wife and the others in the gang?’
    Len shot an agonized look at the Jowett. ‘Tried to tell you the other day that Vic Trent’s a mate of mine.’ That said it all, I thought. Take care. ‘There were four of them,’ Len continued, ‘and the missus. Vic did a shortish stretch inside, then opened a corner shop. The organizer, Brian Thompson, landed up dead, Tony went down for it, and Frank Watson did a runner.’
    ‘With the loot?’
    ‘That’s the story. And …’ Len paused and wiped his hands on the special rag from which he will never be parted and which must have more residual oil on it than a leaking sump. It’s his way of playing for time. ‘Took Wilson’s missus with him,’ he finished.
    The missus had to wait. I’d just done a belated U-turn. ‘Frank Watson? Any relation to Neil?’ If ever a breath was bated, mine was.
    ‘His dad.’
    I reeled at this connection, although I wasn’t sure why, save that it was a coincidence that might not be one. Did it get me anywhere? I’d no idea, but I’d run with it and see what happened. ‘Is he living round here now?’ Silly question, I suppose.
    ‘Ran as hard and far as he could get was the general opinion.’
    Or not, I thought. With his son Neil here, Frank could have been a lot nearer – at least at the time of his son’s death. I tried not to put jump-leads on my theorizing. What, after all, did this tell me about Carlos’s death? Not much, unless of course Frank Watson was still around and blamed him for Neil’s death. Could Carlos have discovered his presence and decided to make hay with a touch of blackmail? Carlos did not strike me as the soul of bravery, however, and he would not have risked going within a thousand miles of Frank if Neil had killed himself because Carlos had dumped the Charros. Nevertheless, the story of Watson and Son must have some mileage. Like those carsickness prevention strips that cars used to trail from the chassis to the road, there were trailing ends around – and my job was to pick them up one by one. This one was still attached.
    ‘What about Wilson’s missus?’ I asked, grasping another one. ‘Did she really go off with Frank?’
    Could Carlos have tracked her down? Had he met her alone, with a sob story about Frank having abandoned her? Sheer speculation, but there might be a glimmer of gold somewhere.
    Len considered my question while the rag received the last vestiges of oil. ‘Joannie Wilson,’ he said at last, ‘made off with the haul from the raid during the hullabaloo over the shooting, so Vic says. When the cops arrived, she wasn’t there, and nor was Frank.’
    ‘Doesn’t necessarily mean they went together,’ I pointed out.
    ‘Vic said Joannie had the stuff in the boot of her car, and she was thick with Frank all along. Planned. They’d have gone anyway, and the shoot-out was a bonus.’
    ‘Did they go in the same car, or was his car left in the car park?’ I asked.
    No reply. Len had finished communication for the day. No matter. I knew now that I wanted to make the early acquaintance of Mr and Mrs Tony Wilson. Especially Mrs, since she linked both eras, the shoot-out and the band. The theory about Carlos might have something to it, I thought hopefully, unless this was a red herring and the loot had in fact been