“I expect he has a car phone,” Julie chimed in.
“Good idea,” said Diamond, and told the security man, “Better let him know we’re here. Is there anyone else about?”
“Two of the studios are in use. A band is making a recording right now.”
“Regular staff, I meant.”
“The chief sound engineer is in the control room with the studio manager, but they wouldn’t want to be disturbed unless it’s extremely urgent.”
“We won’t bother them in that case. You can show me what I want to see, Mr., em, Humphrey. Are you ex- police, by any chance?” On the principle that you get better service if you address people by name, he had gone close enough to read Cyril Humphrey’s identity tag.
The security man flushed crimson. “I can’t help you. I know nothing about the workings of the studios.”
“The studios don’t interest us,” said Diamond, in the knowledge that he was speaking only for himself, not Julie. “I want to see where you park your cars.”
“That’s round the back.”
“Then we’d like to look round the back.”
As it worked out, they had privileged views of the studios on their way to the car park, because the modern trend in studio architecture is for huge windows where soundproof cladding was once thought indispensable. The artists need no longer feel enclosed in a bunker. So the recording session and the rehearsal were on display to anyone passing the window; hence, presumably, the elaborate security. However, nobody in the studios seemed to be doing anything; long-haired youths lounged around looking bored, drinking from paper cups.
“The car park’s this way,” Humphrey informed them.
About ten vehicles stood on a square of tarmac with space for three times that number. Diamond flicked the flashlight across them. “Does the boss leave his car here?”
“Mr. Pinkerton? No, sir. He has his private garage round the other side.”
“We’d like to see that next.”
“No chance. It opens electronically.”
“From outside, you mean.”
“Yes, he has a sensor thing in his car.”
“It triggers the mechanism?”
“Yes. We don’t have a spare.”
“When the door has opened and he’s driven in, does it close behind him?”
“Yes, sir.” Cyril Humphrey seemed smugly satisfied that he had conveyed the principle-and the impossibility of letting them see inside the garage.
“So there must be an interior door,” said Diamond, “leading to his office, right? Then we’ll all go inside and get to it that way.”
“I couldn’t take responsibility for letting you into Mr. Pinkerton’s office. Not without permission.” This was becoming a battle of wills.
“The office doesn’t interest us,” said Diamond. “We want to see the garage.”
“It’s empty.”
“I said the garage, not the car.”
“You could phone him,” Julie reminded the man.
Faced with the prospect of informing Pinkerton that the police wanted to look inside his garage, Humphrey backed down. He admitted them inside the building, along a carpeted corridor hung with modern paintings, through a secretary’s office and into the sanctum, a room furnished like a set from a Wagner opera, all black and silver, with ironwork thrones (you couldn’t call them chairs), avast round iron table, braziers for lights and the walls hung with suits of armor.
They were shepherded across to a stretch of black wall where a door was artfully concealed. Then down some stone steps to Jake Pinkerton’s private garage, a clean, concrete place with space for four vehicles.
“You see?” said Humphrey. “Nothing here.”
Diamond made a short walking tour and then said, “Is this the only garage? What about the other top people? Do they have anywhere to leave their cars under cover?”
“This is the only one.”
“Thanks, then. What sort of security do you have outside?”
Humphrey looked uncomfortable. “What do you mean- the fence?”
“The grounds. Dog patrols? Lights? Alarms?”
He gave a guarded answer. “It’s an effective system.”
“Can I take a walk around the grounds without having a Doberman at my throat?”
Humphrey realized that he was dealing with a real eccentric. “You want to go outside, in the grounds? That’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“Well, for one thing it’s uncultivated. Thick woods.”
“We know. We walked around the fence. Let’s get on with it, Mr. Humphrey. We’ve got a deadline.”
“Nobody goes there,” Humphrey tried to reason with him. “There’s nothing out there.”
“There will be presently,” Diamond told him. “There’ll be Inspector Hargreaves and me with our flashlight and anyone willing to join us. You’ll need a torch if you’re coming. In fact, two torches would be even better.”
At a loss to understand why these people had come to torment him, Humphrey capitulated. He led them back to the security control room near the entrance to pick up the torches. “What exactly are you hoping to find?”
“The Lost City of the Incas,” Diamond muttered.
“Out there? There’s nothing there, I promise you.”
“How do you know, if nobody goes there?”
“Well…”
“Anything hidden six years ago is going to be well covered by now.” He led them around the building waving the flashlight until they reached the place where the bushes came within a few yards of the car park. Distances can be deceptive in the dark, but he estimated that the studio was sited in an area the size of half a football pitch, and most of the spare ground lay behind the buildings.
The undergrowth was a prickly, formidable barrier. Diamond picked up a stick and beat a space between two bushes. He plunged in, swore a little, and returned with two stout sticks that he handed to Julie and Humphrey. But before the expedition started, more people came from inside the studios wanting to know what was going on. The pop performers had decided that this was a “good laugh” and opted to join the fun. So did some technicians. Resourcefully Diamoned requisitioned three cars and positioned them with their headlamps lighting up the wood. It took on the character of a police search, with Diamond marshaling a line of helpers to make a sweep of the grounds.
The rustle of feet through scrub took over, punctuated by hacking and the occasional shout as someone discovered some piece of rubbish. It was cold, uncomfortable but good-humored work; the novelty of the exercise kept everyone going until there was a shout from one of the pop group on the far left side: “What do I do now?”
“What’s the problem?” Diamond called across.
“I’m stuck. Can’t go no further.”
“Why not?”
“There’s some kind of shed here.”
“I’ll come over.”
By the time he got there, others had converged on the place. It was indeed a brick-built shed with a corrugated iron roof, abundantly overgrown, quite impossible to have been seen from the recording studio or the perimeter fence. They had to rip away masses of ivy and convolvulus to get at the door. A heavily corroded padlock came away more easily than some of the creepers and the door split into two pieces as they tugged it open.
The torches probed the dark interior. Someone asked, “Is this what we’re looking for?”
The light was picking out a curved surface that enclosed the dented chrome rim of a car headlamp. The glass had been removed except for a few shards. Diamond stooped to wipe the center of the bonnet. The color was red and the octagonal MG badge was mounted over a black polyurethane bumper. His pulse beat faster. He bent lower
