The Returned Dead. Rafe Kronos

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      I muttered something and put the phone down. I thought about the money Baxendale had given me and tried to work out how much of it I could hand over and how I could conceal it from Kate. Then I went back to the balcony, slumped down wearily and sipped at the coffee: it now seemed very bitter.

      I slept badly that night; dark memories kept resurfacing. I got up just after five, driven from my bed by those horrors. Work is the only palliative I had found for the guilt that throbbed like a tumour inside me. Well, I consoled myself, at least Baxendale had given me something to work on – and enough money to keep the hospice going for another few weeks.

      I got to the office early and as soon as they arrived I talked to three of my staff about their current investigations. We discussed what they were doing and in two cases I suggested new approaches. Then I called Kate, another early starter, and asked her to prepare some photos for me. She had them ready in a few minutes and grinned as she passed them over. I slid the photos into a folder and, just after nine, I drove the firm’s three year old Toyota to Beasley Ford’s main showrooms.

      It was time for a story.

      CHAPTER SIX

      I parked in the area reserved for customers, picked up the folder from the passenger seat, got out and locked the car. I felt a slight lifting of my sombre mood: at least I was starting a new inquiry. Maybe someone here would put me on the path of discovering what was going on.

      I stood by my car, apparently hesitating, then I let my attention fix on the row of shiny new cars along the forecourt. I walked over to the third in the row, a dark green Mondeo, peered through the driver’s side window and began to count. I’d reached thirty-eight when I heard the hurrying footsteps.

      “Lovely, isn’t she? You’ll enjoy her, you really will, she goes like a bomb and costs almost nothing to run.”

      He sounded more like a pimp recommending a Thai mail order bride than a car salesman. I straightened and turned to look at him. He was in his mid-forties, wearing a dark suit, a white shirt and a tie spattered with Ford logos. He was plump and sweating slightly and he was looking at me with an almost fawning air. Well, at least his age was promising: he could have worked there in Rankin’s time.

      “Here, let me open her up, you can slip inside and see how you feel.” I shouldn’t have thought about Thai brides.

      “Lovely,” he repeated.

      He was doing it all wrong. Excellent: the worse they are, the easier it is to manipulate them. He was being far too pushy; a better salesman would have tried to discover something about a potential customer before starting his pitch. This one was as eager as a teenager about to have his first shag: so much hurry was bound to leave at least one person unsatisfied.

      He came closer and stuck out his hand. I guess he’d been told it was important to make bodily contact. What he hadn’t understood was it was best to wait till he was sure this would not annoy the customer. However I took his hand and shook it; it was as soft and moist as cheap sliced bread.

      “Geoff Prentice,” he said and gave me a mechanical smile that went only half way up his face. I’d seen ventriloquists’ dummies do it better.

      “Mike Brown,” I lied, looking him in the eyes and nodding as if I was pleased by our encounter.

      “So, do you fancy a test drive?”

      “Perhaps later. Actually,” I leant slightly towards him to create a sense of intimacy, perhaps even a feeling of mild conspiracy, “actually I’m here on another matter. Is there some place where we can have a quiet word?”

      He looked uneasy for a moment. I wondered what he feared: did he think I was a debt collector or had he been working a fiddle and think he’d been found out? Then he forced another smile as he tried to convince himself that there was nothing to be worried about.

      “Let’s go inside. We’ve got a new customer lounge; it’s very comfy, very, extremely so.” Well, he was a salesman and it wasn’t his job to undersell anything about Beasley Motors. “We can talk there. I’m sure you’d like a cup of tea or coffee, fresh brewed of course, and we have excellent shortbread biscuits, really excellent.”

      He spoke proudly, as if buying decent biscuits was on a par with carrying out a heart transplant.

      “I’d like that,” I lied. He seemed slightly reassured.

      He led me into the boasted area and I let him get me a coffee. It wasn’t bad, though not as good as the stuff I make. When I refused a biscuit he looked like I’d run over his dog.

      I glanced around as if checking we could not be overheard. “The thing is, Geoff -- you don’t mind if I call you Geoff, do you? – I work for a group of insurance companies.” Well, in a way it was true: I am occasionally hired by insurance companies. “I’m trying to track down a number of people who’ve been buying cars. I can’t go into the detail. I’m sure you’ll understand it has to be kept confidential till the investigation is complete, but let’s just say they have caused certain problems with loan financing. Recently we’ve received info. that they may have been in this area, doing a sort of recce. before approaching dealerships like this one.”

      He nodded eagerly: I could see he was relaxing now that he realised that my visit was not about him.

      “Glad to help, Mike, glad to.” He tapped the side of his nose and winked; for a moment he looked like Arthur Daley. I wondered briefly if Beasleys used ‘Minder’ in the ‘how-not-to-do-it’ part of their training programme and he’d got hold of the wrong end of the stick.

      “Great, Geoff, thanks. I’ve got some photos here,” I had put the folder on the coffee table that was laden with brochures about various Ford models. Now I pulled it towards me and took out the A4 sized prints that Kate had prepared for me. They were all pictures of men, some were strangers secretly photographed in the street, some had been taken from our files. One showed our new client; Kate had taken it from the video recording.

      “Please have a look at them and tell me if you’ve seen any of the people in them or even if any of them has been asking about buying a car.” That was a lot of ‘thems’ but I thought he’d get the idea.

      I began to pass the photos across, one by one. He stared hard at the first then shook his head emphatically, keen to show me he was cooperating. The next two got the same treatment. I sensed he was getting disappointed because he had nothing to tell me: everyone wants to be a detective. I blame it on TV.

      The fourth one showed our client and I tried to stay calm as I passed it to him. He looked at it for a second and I saw his eyes widen. He stared at it for what seemed like a very long minute. Finally he gave a brief bark of laughter. I had no difficulty appearing interested in his reaction.

      “You’ve recognise him? He’s been in recently?” I made my voice eager.

      He laughed again and shook his head. “No, no, it’s just…” He grinned, “It’s just that this one looks very like my old boss, though his face is a bit fatter and he looks, I don’t know, well, older, I suppose. Yes, that’s it: the man in this photo looks very like Mr Rankin, only he’s several years older.”

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