Spillage

by Dave Cornford

  Chapter 4

  The little Lada pulled up close to Dr Bedrosian's house, and there was a white van parked outside.

  "Go past," said Craig.

  Boris drove slowly past the house, and once they got past the van they could see that there were a couple of men working on the heavy front gates that looked like they normally kept guard over the wide driveway. They were painted a dark grey colour, quite similar to the gunmetal grey of the car, and one was off it's hinges and looking a little bent. The automatic opening mechanism lay dismantled in the middle of the driveway

  "You'd have to be in a hurry to back into those on the way out in the morning, wouldn't you?"

  "Unless you in a hurry and can't wait them to open," said Boris.

  "And in a hurry to get them fixed. Com'on, let's go to the crash site."

  They drove in silence. The traffic was just starting to build for the afternoon rush hour. The address where Monahan had directed them was in a minor through street, and they parked in the next quiet cross street.

  Craig and Boris wandered past the bus stand that had failed to give the doctor much shelter that morning. They split up and looked up and down the street without needing to coordinate the search. Boris found some glass fragments, but any other signs had been washed away by the rain.

  Boris was about to drop the glass back in the gutter.

  "Bring that back, mate, we'll see if it's from the BMW." Boris shrugged and picked up another couple of pieces, holding them carefully between his thumb and forefinger to avoid cutting himself.

  They wandered back to the Lada. Craig got the street directory out of the glovebox, and they stood there with it open on the roof of the car.

  "OK, we're here, he lives here, and the surgery is . . . here on the next page. He wasn't going straight to work, was he?"

  "No. Other direction almost."

  Craig shrugged his shoulders and snapped the directory shut. "Guess we should just fix the car." Batmanov nodded, and they got back into his car.

  "This car ever been in an accident, Boris?"

  "No. Mint condition when I bought it, but lot of work done since then."

  Craig looked around the inside of the car. It was probably in better condition than when it emerged from a Cold War factory. It was certainly tight - there were no squeaks or rattles, things that were included "at no extra cost" when the car was made.

  "You obviously love it - it's amazing." Boris had driven Craig around often enough, but Craig had never asked him about it.

  "It has some new hidden qualities. Watch." Boris glanced in the rear view mirror, then leant under the dash to flick a concealed switch. He did a racing change down a gear, and the concealed turbo charger burst into life and the car seemed to take off. Boris threw it around a couple of corners at speeds that should have resulted in them landing in the front yard of a few different houses, or wrapped around a power pole. The demonstration only lasted a block or so, and Boris flicked the switch and returned his driving to his usual style.

  Craig didn't know what to say, and he started to take Pavel's theory that Boris was a getaway driver for the Russian Mafia a little more seriously.

  "That's amazing. Who did it for you? Who did the suspension?"

  "Friends. They like the anonymous projects like this."

  They drove back to the workshop in silence.

  "OK, Boris, that's all for today. See you tomorrow."

  "Sure." Boris pulled out into the traffic looking like the sad old car-obsessed immigrant he wanted people to think he was.

  Craig answered his mobile. It was Pavel.

  "Where are you, boss?"

  "Just outside. Boris just dropped me, I'll . . ."

  "Don't come up. Just head off for a walk for a while. Police here." Craig walked along a little, then crossed the road and sat down with a coffee at a table where he could see the entrance to the workshop.

  About ten minutes later, a man emerged from the workshop ramp, looked around, then got into a late model sedan and drove off. Pavel appeared at the bottom of the ramp, pulled the roller shutter down, locked it and returned up the ramp.

  Craig drained his coffee. "Detective," he said to himself as he got up to leave. He stopped himself as he was about to walk out of the cafe, noticing the sedan had come to a stop about fifty metres down the road. He stepped back into the cafe and rang Pavel.

  "You can come back, he's gone," he said without pleasantries.

  "No he's not, he's parked down the road. Who was it?"

  "It's that copper Halphen - remember from last year? He must have got a promotion. Anyway, he was asking about the BMW."

  "I'll come in the back way. Can you unlock the hatch for me? I haven't got my keys with me."

  Craig headed off in the other direction, crossing the road at a distance where he didn't think Halphen would be able to see him. He headed down the cross street, and along the parallel back street until he came to the business that backed onto his. It was a tyre and muffler centre run by a married couple whom he exchanged business with every now and again.

  They were sitting around waiting for their last customer to pick up their car.

  "Guys, how are you?"

  "Craig, we're good, although we would like to smell more rubber burning around here!"

  Craig was careful to only slow down rather than stop as he walked past their front office door. To pause would mean to ending up there for half an hour talking about customers who thought they could get another month out of a set of bald tyres. "Gotta fly - mind if I take the short cut?"

  "No, of course. Anytime you like. See you!" the man said cheerfully.

  Craig would probably take him at his word as he might have to come back through this way after they'd left. He knew his way out the back and past the piles of new and used tyres, and up the "fire stairs" that clung tenaciously to the crumbling back wall of his workshop. They ended at a little landing just below a thick iron door with a sturdy lock. It opened smoothly and silently, and Craig climbed into the storeroom next to his office.

  Pavel was sitting on a stool just outside Craig's office, drinking beer. He had one ready for Craig, and lobbed it expertly towards him.

  There was a stool handy. Craig sat on it and took a swig from the beer. He let out a satisfied sigh.

  "He was asking about the BMW. All about the BMW."

  "We're just repairing it. Or quoting on repairing it."

  "Told him all that five times. He seemed fixated on the fact that we were the first people to open the boot after the accident."

  "We might have been. Might have been opened at the scene. Monahan might have put his white chauffeur's gloves in there for all we know."

  They took another swig, throwing their heads back in a synchronised movement.

  "Did he look in it?"

  "Wanted to. I'd locked it up for no particular reason, and had the keys in my pocket. I fumbled around and told him you had them. It was the quickest way - I knew he had no right to look in it, but I wasn't sure what to do."

  "That's why he's parked outside waiting for me."

  The door bell rang. Pavel threw the BMW keys to Craig, who retreated with his beer to the storeroom. Pavel walked across to the top of the ramp.

  "We're closed for the day," he shouted.

  "Wondering if you found those keys?" shouted Halphen. "To the BMW?"

  As if Pavel wouldn't know which keys. At least he didn't have to lie this time. "No, Craig must have them. You'll have to come back in the morning."

  "Thanks anyway, Pavel. See you then." Halphen appeared to walk off, but Pavel didn't hang around to check if Halphen actually left the area.

  He found Craig still in the storeroom, thoughtfully drinking his beer.

  "He's pretty keen."

  Craig took another swig. "What are you doing tonight?"

  "Taking apart the BMW?" said Pavel with a grin.

  "Excellent idea, me old Pavel. You'd better piss off out the front gate so plod thinks you've
gone home, come back in from the fire stairs."

  Pavel grinned, took his backpack, and sauntered down the ramp.

  An hour later they were confident enough to start the engine. It ticked over without missing a beat. They left it running just long enough to move it onto the hoist.

  "Is this a four-wheel drive model?" said Craig, shaking his head. The underneath of the car was a mess, with soil and fresh vegetation jammed up between components, and nasty looking scrapes and dents. "No wonder the tranny's shot."

  "We could have got that quote wrong."

  "We'd have hoisted it tomorrow to double check anyway. What has this guy been up to?

  "Running away from someone?"

  "Or chasing someone. Who knows. Hey, want some food?"

  "We can't go out the front . . ."

  "I'll get it home delivered to the place over the back fence. Curry?"

  Pavel nodded. Craig went into his office, found the takeaway menu and rang the order through. Pavel lowered the car, and returned it to as close as he could to it's previous resting place. After setting up some bright work lights around the car, Craig left Pavel poking around in the interior to go back down the fire escape, and take delivery of the food at the front gate of their neighbours.

  By eight-thirty the curries and a six-pack had been polished off, and there wasn't a crevice that hadn't been looked in or a panel not looked behind. A little work on the front suspension meant that it might be drivable, but it was scant progress really. They slumped onto the stools.

  "That was fun."

  "Good curries, though."

  They smiled. They turned off the few lights they had on, locked up the BMW, set the alarm and quietly went out through the hatch, and down the fire stairs into the night.