an accountant whose figures won’t add up right. When
he saw Gristhorpe coming, he got to his feet sharply.
“What are you going to do about it, then?” he asked.
Gristhorpe looked over to Sergeant Rowe, who raised his eyebrows and shook his head, then he led the man to one of the downstairs interview rooms. He was in his mid-thirties, Gristhorpe guessed, dressed neatly in a grey suit, white shirt and blue and red striped tie, fair hair combed back, wire-framed glasses, and his chin thrust out. His complexion had a scrubbed and faintly ruddy complexion that Gristhorpe always, rightly or wrongly, associated with the churchy crowd, and he smelled of Pears soap. When they sat down, Gristhorpe asked him what the problem was.
“My car’s been stolen, that’s what. Didn’t the sergeant tell you?”
“You’re here about a stolen car?”
“That’s right. It’s outside.”
Gristhorpe rubbed his brow. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. Can you explain it from the beginning?”
The man sighed and looked at his watch. “Look,” he said, “I’ve been here twenty-two minutes already, first waiting to see the sergeant back there, then explaining everything to him. Are you telling me I have to go through it all again? Because if you are, you’ve got a nerve. I had trouble enough getting this time off from the office in the first place. Why don’t you ask the other policeman what happened?”
Gristhorpe kept his silence throughout the tirade. He was used to impatient, precise and fastidious people like Mr Parkinson and found it best to let them carry on until they ran out of steam. “I’d rather hear it from you, sir,” he replied.
“Oh, very well. I’ve been away for a while. When I—”
“Since when?”
“When what?”
“When did you go away?”
“Last Monday morning, a week ago. As I was saying, I left my car in the garage as usual, then I—”
“What do you mean, ‘as usual’?”
“Exactly what I say. Now if—”
“You mean you were in the habit of doing this?”
“I think that’s what ‘as usual’ means, don’t you, Inspector?”
“Carry on.” Gristhorpe didn’t bother to correct him over rank. If the car turned out to be a useful lead, it would be important to find out how many people knew about Parkinson’s habit of leaving his car for days at a time, and why he did so, but for now it was best to let him finish.
“When I returned this morning, it was exactly as I had left it, except for one thing.”
“Yes?”
“The mileage. I always keep a careful record of how many miles I’ve done on each journey. I find it’s important these days, with the price of petrol the way it is. Anyway, when I left, the mileometer stood at 7655. I know this for a fact because I wrote it down in the log I keep. When I got back it read 7782. Now, that’s a difference of one hundred and twenty-seven miles, Inspector. Someone has driven my car one hundred and twenty
seven miles in my absence. How do you explain that?”
Gristhorpe scratched his bristly chin. “It certainly sounds as if someone borrowed it. If you—”
“Borrowed!” echoed Parkinson. “That implies I gave someone permission. I did no such thing. Someone stole my car, Inspector. Stole it. The fact that they returned it is irrelevant.”
“Mm, you’ve got a point,” said Gristhorpe. “Were there any signs of forced entry? Scratches around the door, that kind of thing?”
“There were scratches at the bottom of the chassis I’m positive weren’t there before, but none at all around the door or windows. I imagine that today’s criminal has more sophisticated means of entry than the wire coat- hanger some fools are reduced to when they lock themselves out of their cars?”
“You imagine right,” said Gristhorpe. “Keys aren’t hard to come by. And garages are easy to get into. What make is the car?”
“Make. I don’t see—”
“For our records.”
“Very well. It’s a Toyota. I find the Japanese perfectly reliable when it comes to cars.”
“Of course. And what colour?”
“Dark blue. Look, you can save us both a lot of time if you come and have a look yourself. It’s parked right outside.”
“Fine.” Gristhorpe stood up. “Let’s go.”
Parkinson led. As he walked, he stuck his hands in his pockets and jingled keys and loose change. Outside the station, opposite the market square, Gristhorpe sniffed the air. His experienced dalesman’s nose smelled rain. Already, clouds were blowing in from the north-west. He also smelled pub grub from the Queen’s Arms, steak-and- kidney pie if he was right, and he realized he was
getting hungry.
Parkinson’s car was, indeed, a dark blue Toyota, illegally parked right in front of the police station.
“Look at that,” Parkinson said, pointing to scratched paintwork on the bottom of the chassis, just behind the left front wheel. “Careless driving that is. Must have caught against a stone or something. Well? Aren’t you going to
