Ian Rankin - A Cool Head

‘A man in his late fifties, actually. At least, that’s what we think. Can I take a look inside your shed?’

Mason nodded and led the way. He unlocked the shed and pulled open the door.

‘Nothing’s missing,’ he said.

‘What time did you leave work yesterday, Mr Mason?’

‘Usual time. Five o’clock.’

‘Do you work here alone?’

‘I’ve got an assistant. I call him Gravy.’

‘Gravy?’

‘Short for graveyard. He was always hanging around this place. Never seen someone so pleased to be offered a job.’

‘Was he here when you left?’

Mason nodded again. ‘It’s his job to tidy up and lock the gates.’

‘So what time would he finish work?’

Mason laughed. ‘He’d be here all hours if you let him. Gravy lives in a hostel. They sometimes have to come and fetch him. Time doesn’t seem to mean anything to him…’ Mason paused. ‘He’s not in trouble, is he?’

‘I’ll need to talk to him. Can you give me his address?’

‘He’ll be here in an hour or so. He’s mad keen to get started in the morning.’

‘I’ll still need his address.’

It was in a folder in the hut, along with a telephone number. Jane punched the number into her phone. It took a while before anyone answered. She realised she didn’t know Gravy’s real name.

‘Can I talk to Gravy, please?’ she asked.

The sleepy-sounding man went away, but was back within thirty seconds. ‘His bed’s not been slept in,’ he said, ending the call.

Jane stared at her phone. Mason asked if she was all right.

‘Fine,’ she assured him.

She wasn’t so sure about Gravy, though.

‘What’s his real name?’ she asked Mason.

‘Jimmy Gray. Gray and Gravy, not so very different when you think about it.’

‘He didn’t go home last night.’ She watched to see what kind of reaction she would get. Mason just made an O shape with his lips.

‘Do you know a man called Donald Empson?’ she asked. Mason shook his head. ‘How about George Renshaw?’

‘Everyone knows him, at least by reputation.’

She nodded and wandered back in the direction of the car. It didn’t belong to Empson, so why had he been driving it? And what kind of car did he usually drive? Jane reckoned it was time she had a word with Mr Donald Empson.

When she drove out to his home, however, the place was empty, the curtains looking as if they hadn’t been shut the previous night. No sign of a car. It was a nice house, detached, modern. Husbands in suits were passing in the road, just starting to go to work. They must have wondered what she was up to, but none bothered to ask. Jane got back into her own car and decided on her next stop, Renshaw’s scrapyard.

Jane at the scrapyard

A trailer was delivering two cars when she arrived. They had been involved in a crash of some kind, bonnets crumpled, radiator grilles smashed, windscreens shattered. She had been to plenty of accidents in her time. It was one of the worst things about the job. She gave a little shiver as she followed the convoy into the yard. There were a couple of dogs barking nearby, but she couldn’t see them. All she could see were dead cars. But then a man emerged from one of the buildings. He was chewing on a cigar. There was a scowl on his face as he neared the car. He had a shaved head, and gold rings on his fingers. Jane got out to meet him.

‘I can smell bacon a mile off,’ he growled.

‘You must be Mr Renshaw?’

‘Haven’t seen you before.’

‘I’m DI Harris.’

‘Bit young.’ He looked her up and down. Another man had emerged from the same building. He wore torn jeans and a red tartan shirt. He gave Jane a little whistle as he walked towards a nearby crane.

‘I wonder if I can talk to Donald Empson,’ she told Renshaw.

‘He’s not here.’

‘Do you know where I could find him?’

‘At home, maybe.’

‘I’ve just come from there.’

Jane was staring at him. The nickname ‘Gorgeous’ was obviously a joke. He was one of the ugliest customers she’d ever met.

‘What’s this all about?’ he asked. He had moved the cigar to a corner of his mouth, and bit down hard on it.

‘A routine inquiry.’

Renshaw rolled his eyes. How many times had he heard the same line? The crane’s motor was coughing into life.

‘Will he be here later?’ Jane shouted over the noise.

Renshaw just shrugged.

‘Can I ask you what kind of car he drives?’

‘Isn’t that the sort of thing your computers can tell you?’

‘Easier if I ask you.’

‘That’s what you think.’ Renshaw gave a grin. Jane could feel that her phone was vibrating in her pocket. She took it out and held it to her ear, pushing a finger into her other ear to block out the noise. It was Bob.

‘Got some news,’ he said.

‘Go ahead.’

‘Door-to-door got lucky. They were talking to one of the neighbours and he asked them if they could do anything about the car that was blocking his skip. He’s got a lorry coming this morning and it needs space so it can haul the skip away.’

‘With you so far.’ Jane had turned away from Renshaw so she could concentrate on the call.

‘Well, the neighbour doesn’t recognise the car. It’s bright green, some sort of sports model. It’s legally parked, and most times we wouldn’t bother, but this particular team is sharper than most. They ran a check. Car belongs to Mr Benjamin Flowers.’

‘Don’t tell me you know him?’

‘I’m better than any computer, Jane, and I’m looking forward to that box of chocolates. Soft centres only, please.’

‘I’m on my way to buy them, just as soon as you tell me who he is.’

‘He’s known as Benjy. He’s Don Empson’s nephew. And he works for Stewart Renshaw. Guess whose brother he is…’

Jane raised her eyes towards the sky. It was hard to take it all in. She saw that George Renshaw was looking up too. There was a huge magnet hanging from the arm of the crane. A large car swung from it. And though she could see mostly its underside and wheels, she thought she recognised the make. Ignoring Renshaw, and still holding her phone to her ear, she marched towards the crane.

‘Shut it off!’ she yelled.

The driver ignored her. She stuffed her phone back in her pocket and lifted out her warrant card, opening it and holding it up in front of the crane.

‘I’m ordering you to shut it off!’ she yelled. Then, turning towards Renshaw, ‘Tell him!’

Renshaw hesitated, then waved a hand. The crane driver saw him and stopped the arm. Jane had just turned back to Renshaw when there was an explosion next to her. The car had landed not five feet from her. Dust and stones flew up. The car’s windows blew out. Its tyres burst on impact with the ground. Her eyes blazed as she turned towards the crane operator.

‘Thought that’s what you wanted!’ he yelled.

Her hand was shaking a little as she took out her phone again. She hadn’t ended the call and Bob was asking what all the noise was. ‘I need a forensics team at Renshaw’s scrapyard,’ she told him, as she circled what remained of the car. Quite a lot of it remained, actually. They made Bentleys to last. She was relieved that she’d ID’d it correctly. And now that she could see it, the licence plate matched the car taken from Raymond Masters’, the murdered man’s, garage. She wondered whose prints would be inside. She wondered what else might be in there. Nothing that she could see, but there was always the boot…

‘So that’s one forensics team still busy at the garage,’ Bob was saying, ‘another wanted at the graveyard, and a third at the scrapyard. Tall order, Jane.’

‘And while you’re at it, how about checking the whereabouts of Mr Flowers?’