‘He sounds genuine,’ Bax said.
‘Yeah, looks like Lawrence was right. I’ve a feeling whoever nicked his wife’s car key from her handbag must have seen something with their address on it.’
‘Whoever nicked it must be connected to the blaggers,’ Bax remarked.
‘This is turning out to be a dead end here. I’ll check the paperwork then we’ll be off.’
Braun returned with a blue folder.
‘All the documents for both cars are in here, and this is my bank statement that shows the deposit of the pools money and purchase of the car.’
He handed it to the Colonel, who read out the details of the garage where the BMW was purchased while Bax wrote them in his pocket notebook. The Colonel looked at the inspection for the BMW and noticed the ‘GR Motors Ltd.’ inspecting stamp. He looked through the documents and found the inspection for the Cortina, which was also stamped ‘GR Motors.’
‘Is this a local garage?’ He showed Braun the inspection.
‘Yes, it’s in Lordship Lane.’
‘Do they sell cars?’
‘Yes, second-hand ones. They do repairs and servicing as well as inspections in a garage at the back.’
‘What sort of cars do they sell?’
‘Jags, Mercs, BMWs, Range Rovers — but it wouldn’t surprise me if the mileage was clocked.’
‘Do you know what GR stands for?’
He shrugged. ‘No, I only use the place for MOTs and servicing as it’s a lot cheaper than going to an authorized dealer.’
‘Both MOTs are signed by a G. Smith, who presumably examined the vehicles and passed them as roadworthy. Can you describe him?’
‘I’ve never met him and only used the place twice. Each time I made an appointment over the phone. I dropped the car keys off with the receptionist, Tina, and went back later to get the car.’
‘Do you mind if I keep the Cortina inspection?’
The Colonel handed Braun the documents folder.
Braun shrugged. ‘Feel free.’
‘Is Bruce Grove near the garage?’ Bax asked.
‘Yes, it’s just down the road. You think someone from the garage might have nicked our car for the robbery?’
‘I can’t say. And I’d ask that you keep this conversation between the three of us.’
‘No problem. And should you need me as a witness, I’m happy to make a full statement and attend court.’
Bax showed him the artist’s impression made from Fiona Simpson’s description of the man driving the Cortina.
‘Do you recognize this man?’
Braun squinted at the drawing. ‘No, can’t say I do.’
‘Fair enough. Can I use your phone to call our office?’ the Colonel asked.
‘Help yourself. I’ll put these back in the drawer,’ he said, leaving the room.
‘Looks like this wasn’t a dead end after all,’ Bax said.
The Colonel kissed the inspection.
‘You little beauty. This bit of paper is a bloody gold mine, Bax.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Dabs and Stanley entered the Bruce Grove Snooker Hall just after 11:30 a.m. It was already busy, with seven of the twelve snooker tables being used, and two of the six pool tables. At the far end there was a bar, behind which an attractive olive-skinned woman in her early thirties, with hazel eyes and long dark hair, was filling up the small refrigerators with bottles of beer and mixers.
‘How can I help you, gentlemen?’ she asked in a noticeable Spanish accent as they approached.
‘We’re thinking of becoming members,’ Stanley said.
‘You don’t have to be a member to use the tables, but it works out cheaper if you play a lot. The first hour is on the house, so you can have a game, see what you think of the tables, then decide if you want to join.’
‘Which table can we use?’ Dabs asked.
‘Help yourself to one. Would you like a drink?’
Stanley ordered a pint of lager and Dabs asked for a bitter shandy. As the barmaid was serving them a tall muscular man in his early thirties, with short dark brown hair and rugged features, came over and spoke to her. He was dressed in a black suit and white shirt and Stanley assumed he was the club bouncer.
‘Maria, Tommy wants a word wit ya in his office,’ he said in a distinct Irish accent.
‘Will you mind the bar for me while I go see him?’
‘Sure.’
‘These two gentlemen are interested in becoming members and are going to have a game before deciding.’
‘That’s great. I’m Aidan, the club manager. If ya want ta join let me know and I’ll get ye the forms ta fill in.’
As they set up the snooker table with the balls, Dabs whispered to Stanley, ‘Did you notice the cut on his forehead?’
Stanley nodded. ‘It looks recent.’
‘We found a blood trail in Woodville Road and on the passenger sill of the Cortina. Jane and I thought it was possible the man who shot at the police car injured himself on the dashboard or window when the Cortina hit a parked car, then braked sharply.’
‘The paddy is obviously Aidan O’Reilly and the barmaid Maria Fernandez,’ Stanley said, and Dabs nodded.
‘You’ve got to admit, this investigation is finally getting somewhere and it’s all thanks to Jane,’ Dabs remarked.
‘I know, but don’t keep looking over at the bar, you twat.’
‘Sorry, I’m not used to all this undercover stuff.’ Dabs got a coin out of his pocket. ‘Heads or tails for who breaks.’
He flicked the coin in the air and Stanley called tails.
Jane and Teflon had a wasted journey to Edgar House. The woman at number 42, who had seen a man visiting Elizabeth Smith, wasn’t in. With time to spare they stopped at an off-license so she could get a bottle of Jameson’s Irish Whiskey for Kevin Bottomley, the collator, as she’d promised. Then they went to Tottenham Police Station and had a light lunch before walking to Bruce Grove to look for suitable observation points and speak to Nick at the Bluebird cafe.
‘I don’t think using the cafe as an OP will work, Jane,’ Teflon said. ‘If the suspects park in Moorfield Road we won’t be able to get photos of them going in or out of the café. That newsagent’s on the corner would be better as it overlooks both the cafe and snooker hall.’
‘You’re right. We could see what Nick can tell us about the owner. The closed sign’s up, so let’s go and talk to him.’
Inside, a short, balding man in his late forties was picking up used plates with one hand, while using a cloth in the other to clean the table. He puffed on a cigarette that dropped ash on his food-stained chef’s coat. Jane and Teflon checked no one was coming, especially from the snooker hall, before knocking on the cafe door. The man turned and glared, stubbed the cigarette out in an ashtray, then put the plates down.
‘He looks like Friar Tuck,’ Teflon remarked.
He opened the door a few inches.
‘Madonna mia, can you no read the sign? It a say we are CLOSED!’
He started to close the door.
‘Is Nick in?’
‘Why you wanna know?’ he asked warily.
Jane showed him her warrant card.
‘I’m WDS Tennison and this is DC Jackson. We’d like to speak to Nick.’
‘You a lookin’ at him. My name is Nicola Bianchi, but I pay my taxes and don’t allow no stolen property to be sold on my premises. Che vuoi da me?’
She smiled. ‘It’s nothing like that. We’d like to talk to you about some men who use your cafe—’
‘You gonna take long, because I have to clean the place up, then go to the shops for supplies. This business doesn’t run itself, you know.’
‘We’ll try not to take up too much of your time,’ Jane said.
Nick opened the door and ushered them inside the cafe.