have had his insurance company look at it to say it wasn’t roadworthy.’
‘With a car this valuable, they’d want to look at it.’
‘If he described the damage as just a prang, would they pay for it to be crushed? Or would they pay for repairs?’
‘Depends on how bad the prang was. Though it wouldn’t really be logical to crush this. They’ve got beautiful steering wheels, nice big round ones, some made of wood, that would be worth salvaging; dashboard, even; ditto the hubcaps. It would make more sense to split it up, for resale of the spare parts.’
Anna nodded. ‘OK, let’s do it.’
‘Do what, exactly?’
‘Find out about the Mercedes that was brought here.’ She replaced the photograph in her briefcase. ‘It’s connected to a case I’m working on.’
‘Insurance fiddle, is it?’
‘More serious than that.’
White, intrigued, eased back the corrugated gate.
Wreckers Limited was far bigger inside than she had thought. The noise was deafening. A forklift truck was lifting a wreck from a pile of about fifty cars over to a massive dumper truck. It was released with a crash. Huge wheels gobbled up the rusted heap.
Rising twenty feet in the air on the other side came something that looked like a Big Dipper. Moving down the rods were cubes of metal: crushed cars.
‘You’d be amazed how many villains have departed this world inside those square remains,’ White said above the din.
Some distance from the pile of wrecks, a man wearing red braces over an open-necked shirt and a cloth cap stood on the steps of a caravan, shading his eyes to watch them. They headed towards him.
‘Good morning,’ Anna said loudly.
‘Morning.’
‘Is this your yard?’
‘What?’
‘I said, is this your yard?’
The man yelled to the driver of the forklift truck. ‘Turn it off, Jim. Turn it off!’
While they waited for the silence, Anna showed her ID. ‘Could I talk to you?’
He gestured for them to follow him into the caravan. Documents littered almost every available wall space, pinned up and clipped together. There were boxes spilling out more paper on to every surface: a moth-eaten sofa, two armchairs and a desk with one broken leg propped up with tatty old telephone directories.
‘This is Constable White. We’re here to discuss a Mercedes-Benz convertible.’ She gave the vehicle identification and registration numbers.
The man nodded. ‘You know, I had another copper enquiring about the same car two weeks ago.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘So how can I help you?’
‘Could you tell me who brought the car to you?’
When he removed his greasy cloth cap, there was a red sweat ring around his forehead. ‘Chap came. He wanted the car crushed. He paid his fifty quid and he left. That’s all there is to know.’
‘What was the name of the man who brought the car to you? Or was it towed in?’
‘No, he drove it in.’ He opened a drawer to remove a dog-eared wedge of a book, which he started thumbing through. He showed them the payment slip.
‘Mr Daniels. He signed for it.’ He passed over the receipt. ‘I faxed your lot a copy of it.’
‘So Mr Daniels was able to drive the car into your yard?’
‘Yes; then he paid his money and left.’
Anna hesitated. Gordon White leaned forward. ‘Hang on a second ? what was the damage?’
‘Look, it’s not up to me to estimate what the bloody damage is. He wanted it crushed, so that is what I did.’
‘All of it?’
‘What?’
‘I am asking you if you put the whole of the car through the crusher,’ White said flatly.
The manager pursed his lips. Anna noticed that his name, Reg Hawthorn, was printed on a plaque on his scruffy desk.
White sighed and hitched up his trousers. ‘Reg, I have a hobby. I do up cars; I buy spare parts. Now, are you going to tell me this Merc, with its hubcaps, its steering wheel, the bumpers, the tail-lights, not to mention the dashboard ? remember, I know what price these things go for — you just let it go?’
‘I did nothing that anyone else in my trade doesn’t do. It’s part of the perks, right?’ Hawthorn lit a cigarette. ‘To be honest, it did seem strange.’
‘What did?’ Anna interjected.
‘Well, it wasn’t that badly damaged. I’ve got to tell you, I run a legitimate business. I don’t do nothing without insurance and ownership documents left with the wreck. It’s more than my life’s worth. But he had all the papers. So who am I to turn down business, right?’
‘Before you put it in the crusher, did you strip it?’ she asked.
Hawthorn yanked open the drawer again. ‘Nobody asked me about this before. So there was no need for me to tell them, right?’
He brought out another dog-eared receipt book and with his gnarled thumb, flicked through the pages to his grubby lists of receipts.
‘I sold a number of items; stripped them out. Bought by Vintage Vehicles ? VV ? over in Elephant and Castle. The seats they didn’t buy, though, probably because they’re an unusual colour.’ He looked up helpfully — ‘They got a yard where they do up Mercs specifically’ — before flicking further on through his receipt book. ‘Seats were bought by Hudson’s Motors in Croydon. They’re real bastards to deal with, cheap buggers. Oh yeah, they also bought the hood.’
‘Thank you.’
Anna returned to her car. She refused Gordon White’s offer to take her to the VV company. ‘I really appreciate the time you’ve spent coming here.’ She asked if he knew the Croydon company. He trotted over to his gleaming Corvette and returned with a Greater London A to Z.
‘What’s the address again?’
‘I’ll find it, Gordon.’
‘I don’t mind coming with you.’
‘I may be on a wild-goose chase, anyway.’
‘Maybe you are. I doubt there’ll be anything left for you to see. It’s been a while.’ He leaned further in to speak to her through her window. ‘Mind me asking what it’s really about?’
She smiled. ‘I’m thinking of starting up a hobby.’
‘You’re kidding me!’
‘Yes, I am. Thanks again, Gordon.’
The interview room was stuffy but the noise of the traffic was too intrusive to open a window. Langton had loosened his tie. Beside him Mike Lewis, sweat plastering his hair to his scalp, had taken his jacket off. McDowell’s solicitor also looked very uncomfortable, but it was not the heat that was getting to her. The case was becoming a very serious one and she was woefully aware of her lack of experience. McDowell had been charged with possession of drugs, but it could get worse. She could find herself representing a serial killer.
The interview was being recorded on audio and videotape. Far from complaining of the heat in the room, McDowell kept repeating that he was cold. He was very subdued, lethargic. A doctor had given them clearance for the interview and given McDowell a vitamin shot. Although still suffering withdrawal symptoms, the prisoner was not shaking as much. He was wearing a police-issue tracksuit, his clothes having been taken to be checked for evidence. It was difficult to keep him on track. He chain-smoked and kept repeating the questions to himself before he answered. It was a very frustrating interview.
Langton’s patience was frayed. The mixture of cigarette smoke, the heat and McDowell’s body odour was
