‘Yes, the car I’m delivering. The one with the tracker you found today. If you took it, just tell me, because if you didn’t, I have to call Rags.’
‘Aidy, I didn’t take the car.’
‘Don’t lie to me. If the theft is your way of getting some time with the car to check it out, I get it. Just don’t keep me in the dark.’
‘Aidy, I swear I’m not lying.’
I could hear the truth in her voice. A flicker of panic singed her words.
‘Shit,’ I murmured under my breath.
‘Where are you?’ Claudia asked.
‘Strasbourg.’
‘When was the car taken?’ Claudia asked.
‘We stopped to eat, so I don’t know for sure, but it can’t be more than thirty minutes ago. I’ve called the police.’
‘OK, let me take it from ’ere. I’ll get back to you. Stay put for now. Call Rags with the news.’
She hung up on me before I could say anything else and left me out in the cold with an unenviable job to do. I dialled Rags. The phone rang and rang and I thought I was going to receive a stay of execution, but he finally picked up.
‘What is it, boy?’ he said, sounding jovial. That wasn’t going to last.
‘Rags, the car’s been stolen.’
‘What?’ The word came out as hard as flint.
‘I stopped to eat and when I came out, the car was gone.’
‘You are fucking joking, right?’ Rags’ voice rose from a growl to a bark.
‘No. I’m so sorry, Rags. The car was locked and we just stopped for a few minutes. I called the police. Hopefully, they can—’
‘Do you like fucking up?’
‘No, Rags.’
‘Do you like screwing me over?’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘No.’
‘Well, you do a fucking outstanding job of it. You have a fantastic talent for calamity. I give you the simple job of delivering a car to impress a new sponsor and you turn it into the balls-up of the century. That’s a talent. I’m sure the UN could use you in the Middle East, because you’d give all the factions a single source of irritation and take the pressure off the rest of the world.’
I listened to the tirade. There was no point interrupting to apologize. I’d just be pouring petrol on the firestorm. I closed my eyes and let him burn himself out while the evening breeze cooled the heat of my shame.
‘You know what’s bad about this, don’t you? It isn’t the loss of the car, which is a pain in the arse all by itself, but that the car belonged to a new sponsor. First impressions count and this is one impression no one is going to forget in a hurry. Is any of this getting through to you?’
‘Yes, it is.’
Rags was silent for a long moment. All I could hear was his exhausted breathing. When he spoke again, resignation replaced the rage. ‘You really have fucked up this time.’
‘I know.’
‘You’re damn lucky you’re not here in front of me.’
I thought of Nick Ronson dangling by his duct-taped hands from an engine hoist.
‘I’m going to take care of this mess with the sponsor. You could try and impress me by handling things from where you are.’ Rags underlined his point by hanging up.
‘I’m in Strasbourg, by the way,’ I said to a dead line.
A police car pulled into the car park. I introduced myself in French and took them into the restaurant. One of the officers spoke pretty good English, certainly better than my French, but Mathieu took over the translating duties and it helped speed up proceedings.
But that all ended when we reached the ownership issue. I didn’t need Mathieu to translate the shift in body language from sympathetic to suspicious. I didn’t have any documentation on the car since everything I had was in the glove box. Driving from England to Germany to deliver a car to a man I didn’t know sounded distinctly suspect. Suddenly, I faced a sticky situation. The cops would have to take it on faith that everything I was telling them was on the up and up. I saw that I was talking myself into another jail cell and this time I was dragging Dylan with me.
I gave them the phone numbers for Rags and the sponsor in Germany. I explained that we were delivering the car and nothing more.
The cops retreated to their patrol car and Mathieu returned to his customers.
Dylan waggled his phone at me. ‘I clued Steve in just in case this goes sideways on us and we need someone to find us.’
‘Good thinking.’
‘What was the great revelation that sent you scurrying out the door?’ Dylan asked.
I looked over Dylan’s shoulder at the cops in their car talking on the phone. ‘I wondered if Claudia had the car lifted.’
‘Did she?’
I shook my head.
‘That would be too convenient,’ he said. ‘Some tosser is going to be a very happy boy if they find something is hidden in that car. Can you believe our dumb sodding luck?’
I couldn’t. What were the chances of a car under surveillance getting stolen on route to its potentially dubious destination? I stood more chance of winning the lottery. The improbability snagged my thoughts and I couldn’t shake it loose. Before I could make any more of it, the police officers returned. Both men looked grim-faced.
‘This doesn’t look good. It could be handcuff time,’ Dylan said, watching the cops approach. Then he grinned. ‘I haven’t spent a night in a French police cell before. Possibly another first picked up from hanging out with you.’
‘Never a dull moment.’
The second the cops returned, Mathieu rejoined us to offer his translation skills and support.
‘Monsieur Westlake, we have spoken to the vehicle’s owner and he has confirmed your story,’ the English-speaking cop said in such a heavy accent it squashed every word. It made me long for Claudia’s crisp tone. ‘Monsieur Schöenberger has also confirmed your account and has asked that you act as his representative here in France. OK with you?’
‘Oui.’
‘Bon. We have a report of a car fire. Can you come see?’
I nodded. That was the icing on the cake.
The cops drove us a short distance across town to a scrap of wasteland by the canal that fed into the Rhine. Firemen stood over the smoking husk of a car. We pulled up next to a fire engine and got out.
The acrid stink of burnt plastic, oil and petrol stained the air. Not even the soap powder scent of the suffocating foam used to extinguish the fire did anything to mask the stench.
The policemen conferred with the firemen as we approached the burnt-out husk. The firemen shot Dylan and me commiserating looks. As a people, we loved our cars and seeing one destroyed was never a fun sight.
We stopped a safe distance from the wreck. It was easy to tell it was a black Honda Accord under the blanket of foam sliding drunkenly off the carcass. The number plates were missing, but what were the chances of there being another black Honda Accord stolen this close to ours? The thieves had stripped the car before torching it. It sat lopsidedly on bricks, missing its wheels. The front seats were gone. The windscreen was split, but that could have been from the heat of the fire.
I circled the car. One circuit told the story of how the vandals had done their work. They’d doused the car in petrol, stuck a rag in the open petrol tank fill spout and let the flames do the rest. The fire had been total in its devastation.
A fireman popped the boot with a crowbar. Cinders replaced our overnight bags. We’d be walking about in the clothes we had on as we left France tonight.
The bonnet had been opened at some point. I peered into the engine bay. The engine was intact, although anything non-metallic wasn’t. That would include the GPS tracker if it hadn’t been removed beforehand. At least the cops would be able to identify the wreck from the chassis number.