Bulman stared at the screen, then punched the Cancel button to get his card back. Nothing happened.
Not only was the machine refusing to give him any money, it had decided to keep his card! There was nothing wrong with the account, he was sure of it. The last time he’d looked, he’d had over four hundred dollars in it. Someone must have vandalized the ATM, some lout who’d had too much to drink.
He’d have to find another cash machine and use his credit card for a cash advance. He walked only a block before finding one. Very cautiously, he typed in his PIN, taking care not to make any mistakes.
The same thing happened. A blank screen. A stark white message. His card was swallowed up.
He swore. A couple of people had lined up to use the same machine and they were looking at him with a sort of pity, as if they imagined that he was broke, that there was nothing in his account. What was he to do now? He was angry, humiliated, and hungry—he needed breakfast. He had no money and no way to travel.
Unless, of course, he used his car. Bulman had a secondhand Volkswagen parked around the corner from his apartment. He didn’t often use it during the day—there was far too much traffic in London for his taste—but he sometimes drove it at night, and he kept a spare twenty-dollar bill in the glove compartment for emergencies. That wouldn’t buy him much, but it was better than nothing and he could use it for breakfast while he waited for the bank to open. He’d feel better with a bit of food inside him. Then he’d go in to the bank and shout at the silly fat girl behind the teller’s desk. (In his experience, bank tellers were always silly and fat.) And once it was sorted, he would get on with his day.
He found the side street and strolled down to the spot where he’d parked.
The car wasn’t there.
Bulman stood on the sidewalk, blinking. He had the beginnings of a headache. He had definitely parked in this spot. He might have had a few too many drinks that evening—and, yes, he was probably well over the limit—but he was certain this was where he had left it. Now there was a blue Volvo in his space. He looked up and down the road. There was no sign of his Volkswagen. He forced himself to think. Dinner, pub, slot machine, one last drink, then home around midnight. The car had to be here.
And yet it wasn’t.
It had been stolen! Cars were always being taken in this part of town! A lot of the residents had those clumsy- looking locks that fit over the steering wheel . . . but he had never bought one.
He shook his head. What a day this was turning into! He’d be in a bad mood when he caught up with Alex Rider later this afternoon. It would be their first session together—but even so, he was going to give the boy a hard time.
First things first. Bulman took out his mobile phone to call the police. He wondered what number to use. This wasn’t really an emergency, but he decided to call 911 anyway. He thumbed the buttons and held the phone to his ear.
Nothing.
It wasn’t ringing. There wasn’t even a dial tone. Bulman brought the phone down—it was a brand-new BlackBerry—and examined it.
This was ridiculous. He was in the middle of the city. There was always a signal here. He walked a few paces up the sidewalk, held the phone up, tried it at a different angle. The message remained the same.
He squeezed the phone so tightly that he was almost crushing it.
He forced himself to calm down. There was an old-fashioned telephone booth at the end of the road. He wouldn’t need coins to make a 911 call. He would contact the police from there.
He retraced his steps and entered the phone booth. It was plastered with advertisements for models and smelled of cigarette smoke and urine. At least the phone itself seemed to be working. He balanced his briefcase against the glass and made the call.
“Which service do you require?” the operator asked him.
“My car has been stolen,” Bulman said. He was almost relieved to hear another human voice. “I need to speak to the police.”
There was a pause and he was put through.
“I’d like to report a stolen car,” he said. “I parked it on Chilton Street last night and now it’s gone.”
“Can I have the license plate number?” It was a woman’s voice. She didn’t sound very concerned. She also spoke with a foreign accent, making him wonder if he’d been rerouted to a call center abroad.
Forcing himself not to lose his temper, he gave the license number. “KL06NZG.”
“KL06NZG?”
“Yes.”
“Is that a green Mercedes SLR Coupe?”
“No!” Bulman shut his eyes. His headache was getting worse. “It’s a silver Volkswagen Golf.”
“Can you give me the license number again?”
Bulman repeated it, pausing between each digit. Whoever was at the other end of the line obviously didn’t have much skill with computers.
“I’m sorry, sir.” The woman was adamant. “That number is registered to a Mercedes. Can I take your name?”
“It’s Bulman. Harold Edward Bulman.”
“And your address?”
He told her.
“Could you hold a moment?” There was another silence, longer this time. Bulman was about to hang up when the woman came back on the line. “Mr. Bulman, how long have you had this car?”
