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?’