The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [161]
This is where vehicles are towed if they’re involved in serious accidents, or abandoned, or used in crimes, or seized by the police or the courts.
The office has a staff of three, hardened souls with a thankless job—a twelve-hour shift full of abuse and insults from members of the public who find their cars have been towed from red routes or double-yellow lines; or because they are unlicensed, uninsured, untaxed or being driven by a drunk. Thank you, sir/madam, that’s two hundred pounds—we accept cash or credit cards. No American Express.
The guy behind the counter is black, six-two, and has granny glasses perched on the edge of his nose. It’s like seeing Mike Tyson wearing a pinafore.
“I need to look at a car,” says Ruiz.
“You got the plate number?”
“No.”
“Was it towed under your name?”
“No.”
“Registration paper or owner’s license?”
“It’s not my car.”
His eyes move from Ruiz to Luca. “Are you guys taking the piss?”
“It was towed here two days ago from Earls Court. It belonged to a Colin Hackett.”
“Are you a copper?”
“Not anymore,” says Ruiz.
“A private detective?”
“Not as such.”
“Can’t help you. You’re not authorized. Move aside. I got people in the queue.”
Ruiz can hear a scraping sound inside his head like a blade being sharpened on a stone. Holly has been missing for nearly eight hours. Getting further away. There must be four hundred cars on the lot—each with a number and grid reference. Even if they could get past the security, it could take them hours to find Hackett’s car.
Through a reinforced window, he notices a mud-streaked truck pull up at the boom gate. The driver jumps down from his cab to sign paperwork. He tucks the pen behind his ear.
Ruiz tells Luca to wait in the Merc. “I won’t be long.”
He leaps a low fence and walks towards the gates.
“How’s the Pekingese?”
Dave looks up from the clipboard.
“Shitting all over my carpets, but it’s still better company than my wife. What are you doing here?”
“I’m looking for a car, but the lads behind the counter aren’t being very helpful. I don’t have any paperwork.”
“Not official business.”
“Just as important.”
Dave glances across the lot where cars are lined up in neat rows. “Is this going to get me into trouble?”
“It could save someone’s life.”
He makes a decision. “Jump in the cab. Stay out of sight until we get inside.”
The truck passes beneath the raised boom and then through a sliding electronic gate. Dave takes a series of turns before stopping in a warehouse. He leads Ruiz to an outer office where the drivers have a tearoom with a jug and chest fridge. Page Three girls with arched backs and melon-like breasts gaze down from the walls, some of them yellowed by age and aged even further by their hairstyles.
Dave makes a call. Asks about a car towed in from Earls Court. Moments later they’re walking between rows of vehicles. Colin Hackett’s Renault is at the back of the lot parked against a brick wall. A common make, a common color, it was chosen to blend in with the traffic when Hackett was tailing unfaithful husbands or insurance cheats. There are fast-food wrappers on the floor, along with separate bottles—one for water, the other for urine—clearly marked to avoid confusion on long stakeouts.
“You got the keys?” asks Ruiz.
“It’s already unlocked.”
“Can you hotwire it?”
Dave is shaking his head, holding up his hands. “You wanted to see the car—you’ve seen it.”
“I’m not going to steal it, Dave—I need to see the satnav.”
The driver squeezes his hands against his temples, unsure of what to do next.
“A young woman was abducted a little while ago,” says Ruiz. “I was supposed to be looking after her. If I don’t find her in the next few hours I don’t know what could happen to her.”
“Abducted?”
“Yeah.”
Dave scratches his jaw and finds a pimple to squeeze. He takes a pen-torch from his pocket. “Here, hold this.”
Opening the door, he leans into the footwell of the Renault and reaches