Mercedes Drew the collection

Mercedes Drew (the collection)

(volumes 1 - 3 in the Mercedes Drew Mysteries Series)

by

Barnaby Wilde

Copyright 2014 by Barnaby Wilde

Barnaby Wilde asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Published by Barnaby Wilde at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Visit www.barnaby-wilde.co.uk for the author's blog and more information about the world of Barnaby Wilde.

Contents

(Book One) Flowers for Mercedes

Part One ….. Flowers for Mercedes

Part Two ….. A Close Call

Part Three … A Burning Issue

(Book Two) Free Running

Part Four …. A Window of Opportunity

Part Five ….. Flowers Has a Good Day

Part Six …… Free Running

(Book Three) Flandra

Part Seven ... Flowers Gets Lucky

Part Eight … Operation Nightjar

Part Nine …. Flandra

(Book Four Preview) Smile For the Camera

prologue

Part One (Festival) sample chapter

Other works by the author.

PART ONE

Flowers for Mercedes

The ebay clock ticked inexorably down towards the end of the auction. With five minutes to go, the bid activity finally began to increase. There was a flurry of action in the last fifteen seconds as the snipe bids kicked in and the auction ended at two hundred and sixty three pounds. Both buyer and seller would be reasonably happy with the outcome.

Detective Inspector Des Flowers parked his battered silver Mondeo in the only remaining parking space and rested his head in his hands momentarily before killing the engine and wearily trudging up the shallow grey concrete steps at the back of the Wembury Road Police Station. He swiped the pass, which was hanging on a chain around his neck, through the magnetic card reader and pushed through the glass door when the green LED lit.

He passed through the inner door and made directly for the coffee machine situated in the hallway, fumbling in his pocket as he went for a fifty pence coin. The coffee, when it came, was as bad as ever, but it was, at least, hot and cheap. He scalded his mouth, as he did every morning, by taking his first mouthful as he walked along the brightly lit corridor towards his office.

As he passed through the admin office he was hailed by one of the civilian secretaries. Boss wants to see you, she called.

What's new? he replied. What time did he say?

He said to tell you as soon as you came in. She glanced up at the wall clock. That was about half an hour ago, she added.

He looked down at his own watch. Five past nine. Thanks Janet, he sighed. He put his three quarter full coffee cup on the secretary's desk. Keep it warm for me. One day I'll get to drink a whole cup.

As he walked back down the corridor towards the Chief Inspector's office, a voice from behind him said, I see Daisy's as happy as ever today.

Shhh! said Janet, glancing after the detective. He'll hear you.

D.I. Flowers, snorted quietly to himself. Still calling me Daisy are they? He shook his head. Could be worse I suppose.

Come, came the muffled reply to Flower's knock on the Chief Inspector's door.

You wanted to see me, Sir?

The Chief glanced at his watch before answering. Ah, you're in at last. Traffic again?

Flowers knew better than to answer and waited for more.

The Chief took off his spectacles and waved them vaguely in Flower's direction. I've got a rather delicate matter that needs your attention, Desmond.

Flowers groaned inwardly. If the boss was calling him Desmond it could only mean that he had some dirty little job that needed doing.

Sir? he said, hoping that he sounded more enthusiastic than he felt.

I need you to go and interview someone.

About?

The Chief Inspector looked a little embarrassed and moved a few papers on his desk before answering. He put the spectacles back on and pushed them further up the bridge of his nose.

Um. It's a missing cat.

A what?

It's a missing cat.

You aren't serious, are you sir? A missing cat? Surely that's not a police matter?

I did say that it was a delicate matter, Desmond.

But, with respect Sir. A missing cat? How can that be delicate?

It's not the cat that's delicate, exactly, Desmond. It's the connections.

Flowers waited for more information. If the C.I. was embarrassed then he sure as hell wasn't going to help him by un-embarrassing him.

This has come directly from the Superintendent's office, Desmond. Apparently the cat belongs to a friend of his wife's and he's promised her that he'll get someone to follow it up.

Flowers snorted with barely concealed contempt. The C.I. busied himself with papers on his desk, which seemed momentarily to have assumed great importance.

Sir, he said. Couldn’t we just send someone round from uniformed, if we need to send anyone at all, that is?

The C.I. removed his spectacles yet again. Ordinarily I'd agree with you, Desmond, but the Super has asked me to put someone I can trust on it.

Why, Sir? It doesn't make sense. We're supposed to be cutting budgets, aren't we, not looking for stray cats?

That's why it's delicate, Desmond. You see, the woman who's cat is lost is the sister of John Wescott.

The name seemed familiar to Flowers, but he didn't immediately recall why. Wescott? he said.

Yes. John Wescott. Magistrate and member of the Local Police Authority.

… and general pain in the arse, thought Flowers. Fortunately he kept this thought to himself.

I see, Sir. So this is about politics, not cats?

Yes, Desmond. Well, no, not exactly. It's just that we don't want to do anything to upset Tom Wescott. It's just better that we're seen to be attentive, that's all. These are delicate times. Delicate times.

That word again. Delicate, thought Flowers. Fortunately he kept this thought to himself, too.

The Local Police Authorities in the United Kingdom are responsible for ensuring efficient and effective policing of an area and each L.P.A. is made up of a mixture of elected members, who reflect the local political makeup and so called Independent members drawn from the local community, which must, by constitution, contain at least three magistrates. John Wescott was one of the so called Independent members, who seemed to have made it his mission in life to be as big a thorn in the side of the local police force as possible. The L.P.A.'s responsibilities are fourfold: Setting strategic direction and priorities, Scrutinising performance, Achieving results through community engagement and Ensuring value for money. John Wescott chaired the sub committee charged with scrutinising the police budgets, which he did in detail and with obvious relish.

These thoughts flashed through Flower's mind in an instant. He could see why the C.I. considered the matter 'delicate'.

Don't cock it up, Desmond, added the Chief Inspector. For all our sakes. Please don't cock it up. Just be nice to the woman and find her bloody cat.

Flowers headed back towards his own office, pursued by a secretary bearing a cold cup of coffee. I did cover it up, she said. But it got cold anyway.

Two miles away, across the city, the worst of the rush hour was over. Traffic was marginally lighter and speeds had picked up from almost static to approaching sluggish. Nevertheless, it was moving. A black leather clad motorcyclist was weaving skillfully through the slow moving cars and vans. The red lights ahead changed to amber and the stopped traffic surged forward just as the motorcyclist reached the front of the queue. A white van coming from the left shot the red light and streaked across the intersection. There was a squeal of brakes and horns as the newly released traffic stream came to a sudden stop again. The motorcyclist, unsighted by the people carrier in the left lane reacted a little too slowly and, despite swinging the bike sideways, was clipped by the offending van. The rider was tipped to the ground, but fortunately bounced clear of the bike and the other traffic.

Three mobile phone calls were made simultaneously to the emergency services from drivers in the stopped vehicles. In the event, the ambulance was not required.

Flowers looked at the stack of folders on his desk and sighed. There were at least half a dozen cases he should be working on and he was being sent off on a wild goose chase. Or maybe that should be a wild cat chase. Well, he was damn well going to get a coffee before he left. He flicked the switch on his kettle, which almost immediately switched itself back off as the over heat control kicked in. He looked at the transparent gauge on the side and saw that it was empty. He closed his eyes momentarily and wondered, not for the first time recently, if his heart was really in policing these days. Perhaps it was time for a change. Problem was that he couldn't think of anything else he wanted to do either.

He decided to grab a coffee from the machine on his way out and drink it in the car. Maybe stop by the canal and watch the ducks while he drank it. He scrabbled for change in his trouser pocket and came up with thirty pence. Perhaps Janet could change a tenner for him? Sadly, no one in the office had change for a tenner and Janet, not for the first time, lent him the extra twenty pence for the machine.

Inside his dirty Mondeo, Flowers pulled out the cup holder and inserted the cardboard cup of steaming coffee. He had no lid for it, but decided it would be OK if he drove slowly. Unfortunately the road down to the canal was well provided with speed humps and by the time he stopped half the coffee was dripping from the cup holder to the carpet. He scarcely noticed the spilt liquid and gazed morosely over the canal to the allotments beyond as he drank what was remaining. Leonard Cohen's Greatest Hits was playing on the CD unit as it had done for weeks, but he was barely aware. He tossed the empty cup into the passenger foot well to join the others already there before restarting the engine and heading for his time wasting interview.

Mrs Woolly was looking anxiously through her sitting room window for a sight of her missing cat. She didn't notice the silver Mondeo pull up a little further along the road and was startled to see a slightly dishevelled man in a grey suit approaching her front door. She waited until he had rung the bell three times before gingerly opening it on the safety chain.

D.I. Flowers, ma'am, he said, holding up his police identity badge for inspection. I understand your cat is missing.

Have you found him? she asked.

Inside Mrs Woolly's home everything was neat and tidy, in a rather chintzy way. There were several photos of a white cat on the mantle shelf. There was also a strong coffee aroma permeating the atmosphere.

I hope I'm not keeping you from your coffee, said Flowers, in hope.

Oh, no, Sergeant. She seemed a little flustered. Would you like one? she added as an afterthought.

There is a god, thought Flowers to himself. If you're making one, he said, gratefully.

It's Kenyan, today she replied. My husband used to like Kenyan, you know.

That sounds wonderful, said Flowers. Perhaps we could talk about your cat over our coffee.

I know who's got him, she said suddenly. It's aliens.

Do you mean foreigners? he asked in surprise.

No, she said. Aliens.

Flowers was puzzled. Did she mean immigrants? You don't mean Martians? he joked.

I don't know where they come from. I've just seen their lights. From their space ship I presume.

He felt his heart sink. It was bad enough having to waste time pretending to be interested in an old woman's cat. But this old woman was clearly as batty as they came.

Mrs Woolly led the way into the kitchen. The coffee aroma was strong and coming from a cafetiere by the cooker. There was an open packet of Kenyan beans beside a small grinder.

I see you grind your own beans, said Flowers.

My husband said it was the only way to get the real flavour.

I presume that Mr Woolly is no longer with you.

He passed away over three years ago, now. She cast a sad look towards Flowers. I miss him every day.

Flowers shifted his feet, searching for something to say.

This was his little ritual, she continued, saving him the trouble of finding some suitable words. Every morning he'd grind fresh beans and make us coffee. We had every type. She pointed to the shelf behind Flowers and he noticed for the first time a row of jars labelled Kenyan, Colombian, Costa Rican, Brazilian. We'd have a different one every day, but Kenyan was his favourite.

A man of taste, said Flowers.

Thank you, sergeant.

Inspector, corrected Flowers.

She ignored his comment. How do you like yours? she asked.

I'll take it black, please. No sugar.

He watched as she poured his coffee into a small mug.

I think I like Colombian best, she said, picking up her own mug. What about you, Sergeant?

Costa Rican for me, he replied, warming his hands on the mug and savouring the aroma. He was beginning to warm to Mrs Woolly, too. Anyone who cared about coffee as much as she did couldn't be all bad.

When did your cat disappear? he asked after a few moments.

Two days ago.

Has he disappeared before?

No. He always comes in for his food.

She looked directly at Flowers. You probably think I'm just a silly old woman worrying about a cat, but he's all I've got since Joe went.

Is that your cat in the photos in the sitting room?

Mr White? Yes, that's him.

That's an unusual name. Is there a story behind that?

It was Joe's little joke. It's after Quentin Tarantino. Reservoir Dogs.

Flowers smiled. When did you last see him? he asked.

Three years ago, she said sadly. The day he died.

Sorry, said Flowers. I meant the cat. Mr White.

Oh. I thought you meant Joe. It was a moment before she spoke again. Tuesday night, she continued. When the space ship landed.

Flowers felt himself sinking again. What makes you think there was a space ship? he asked.

I saw the lights, she said. Over there, on the roof. Blue lights.

She was pointing through the kitchen window and for the first time Flowers took notice of the large industrial building beyond the end of the garden.

What's that building? he asked. I don't recognise it from here.

It's a warehouse. It's that big electrical store. Meteor.

Now that she had prompted him, Flowers realised that the road they were in ran along the back of the Meteor Distribution Centre. It's main entrance was around the opposite side. He was about to ask if the cat ever went into the warehouse site, but the information was volunteered before he could ask.

Mr White used to go over there all the time. Sometimes I could see him from here lying in the sun on the bare concrete.

Do you think he could be locked inside somewhere? Cats do poke their noses in everywhere.

No. I definitely think it was the Aliens. I often see them, you know. They land on the roof.

Flowers finished his coffee. He'd spent enough time here.

OK Mrs Woolly. I'll put out a description and we'll keep a lookout for the cat. Mr White. Could I take one of the photos, please, for identification? He thanked her for the coffee and gave her one of his contact cards before he left, with instructions to call him should the cat turn up

A uniformed constable took a statement from the leather clad motorcyclist at the scene of the hit and run accident. Details were scant, but the driver of the people carrier at the front of the traffic queue had waited for the police to arrive and volunteered what little description she had of the white van that had caused the accident. The constable duly noted names and contact details and asked the motorcyclist to call in to the Police Station later with insurance documents before himself heading back to base.

Ten minutes later Flowers found himself walking along a narrow, overgrown lane which ran between the ends of the gardens and the Meteor boundary fence. In fact it was more of a track used by animals than a path for humans. Probably made by foxes, thought Flowers pushing his way past a clump of nettles. Through the boundary fence, which was partly overgrown with brambles, he could see the loading docks and several Meteor delivery vans.

He emerged from the far end of the track onto a wider tarmac path, which clearly ran down to the main road, and was almost knocked over by a man in a grey hoodie hurrying along the path.

Sorry, he said automatically, before recognising the man. Well, well, he said. If it isn't Tommy Wheeler.

The man stopped and looked at Flowers. I ain't done nothin', he said defensively.

I didn't say you had, said Flowers. But if you ain't done nothin' as you say, then you must have done something.

I ain't, Mr Flowers. Honest. I ain't done nothin'.

Bit out of your way aren't you? Or are you looking for something to nick?

No, Mr Flowers. I don't do no nicking no more. I'm straight now.

More double negatives, thought Flowers. So what are you doing here? he asked.

I'm just coming off shift, Mr Flowers. I work here. At Meteor.

Flowers regarded the weasel faced man in front of him. Something about the name Tommy Wheeler and the word 'work' didn't quite compute. And what 'work' do you do here then Tommy?

Night watchman, Mr Flowers. It's long hours. Twelve hour shifts, but it suits me.

Night watchman? said Flowers incredulously. With your record?

Don't make trouble, Mr Flowers. I need the money.

You didn't tell them, did you?

I may not have told them everything, Mr Flowers, but no one tells the truth on their CV do they?

Flowers laughed. The idea of Tommy Wheeler having a CV at all was quite amusing, unlike the criminal record, which he certainly had.

How long have you worked here?

Nearly three months now, Mr Flowers. Don't mess it up for me.

No need, thought Flowers. You'll do that all for yourself. He turned to walk back to his car. You haven't seen a white cat? he asked as an afterthought. Answers to the name of Mr White.

Two more auctions ended on ebay, netting a little over five hundred pounds between them. Not enough to get rich on, but useful.

Flowers drove back to the Police Station wishing he'd visited Mrs Woolly's toilet before he'd left and wondering about Tommy Wheeler.

Tommy Wheeler was hardly in the big league. He was the habitual petty criminal. Mainly robbery. Small scale stuff. Houses and shops. Flowers shook his head gently in disbelief that a company the size of Meteor would employ someone like Wheeler without making a few background checks. Still, it wasn't his problem. Not yet, anyway.

There was a note stuck on his computer screen when he got back to his office asking him to report back to the C.I. when he'd interviewed Mrs Woolly.

He sighed in frustration but walked round to his boss's office anyway. The door was open and he was beckoned in without knocking.

Total nutcase, he reported. Says the cat's been abducted by Aliens.

I hope you didn't upset her, Desmond. You didn't, did you?

No, sir. I was tact and diplomacy personified. We shared a rather nice cup of Kenyan coffee in her kitchen and she told me about her late husband.

As long as you didn't upset her.

I've got a complete description of the cat, sir. What would you like me to do about it? Should I put out an all points bulletin?

The C.I. ignored the sarcasm. What did you tell her?

I told her we'd keep an eye out for the cat.

Is that all?

No. I told her we'd check out the Aliens, too.

Why is she talking about Aliens?

I told you. She's a fruitcake. Claims she saw Aliens land a spaceship on the roof of the Meteor warehouse. Blue lights in the sky on the night the cat disappeared.

The C.I. looked nonplussed. Keep me informed, he said. If you find the cat, I mean.

Flowers turned to go. You won't believe who I bumped into this morning.

The C.I. waited for him to continue.

Tommy Wheeler. Tommy Wheeler is working for Meteor as their night watchman. Now that's what I call living dangerously.

Hmm. Should we be saying something to them?

Flowers shrugged. Says he's been there three months. Needs the job. Maybe he's turned over a new leaf.

Neither man believed that for a moment, but they shrugged and left it.

A black leather clad motorcyclist was standing by the enquiry window showing documents to the desk sergeant when Flowers walked through later in the day.

She had blonde hair down to her shoulders and a full helmet under one arm. She turned to glance at Flowers as he walked past. He caught his breath as she smiled at him. She was truly beautiful. He did a double take. Slim, about five six, probably around thirty to thirty five years old and no wedding ring. She was clad from neck to ankle in tight fitting black motorcycle leathers. The leathers might have provided protection, but they certainly revealed at least as much as they concealed.

Flowers nodded in response to her smile. He suddenly felt somewhat scruffy and ran a hand through his hair as he walked by. He couldn't resist looking back as he passed through the door to the admin office and caught her glancing in his direction. Half an hour later he made an unnecessary trip back past the enquiry desk and took a look in the desk log.

The entry was brief. A name, Mercedes Drew, an address and phone number and a comment that she had presented her driving documents, which were all satisfactory, following a hit and run incident involving a white van.

Flowers spent the rest of the day attacking the folders piled on his desk. He made a few phone calls and was able to close off one file completely. Not much to show for a day's work, he thought. The name Mercedes Drew kept coming to his mind, like one of those irritating tunes that goes round and round in your head and won't go away. He'd taken little interest in women since his wife had left him more than a year ago but this one had certainly got to him.

In point of fact it wasn't so much that Flowers had shown little interest in women over the past year as that there hadn't been any woman who'd interested him sufficiently to want to pursue things beyond a first date. He ran his hand through his hair again. Must get a haircut, he thought.

Around six o'clock he called up the day's reports on his PC. He scanned the brief summaries quickly for anything interesting and noted the entry relating to Mercedes Drew's Hit and Run.

There was little information beyond time and place and the name of the witness. The incident description simply said 'Collision between motorcyclist and white van (possibly Meteor?) allegedly due to van shooting red light. Van did not stop.'

That name again, thought Flowers. Meteor. Twice in one day. Just coincidence he assumed.

Mercedes pulled down the long zip on her one piece leather outfit. She noted the scuff marks on the leather of the right hip and shoulder and decided that they would have to be regarded as 'character'. She peeled the close fitting suit carefully from her and regarded herself in the mirror. She was wearing nothing underneath but a pair of extremely brief cream lace pants. There was a bruise developing on her right hip and another on her shoulder. She touched each in turn lightly with the fingertips of her left arm and flinched slightly.

You got away lightly, girl, she said to herself. Pity the bike didn't.

She continued to look at herself for a moment, doing a slow turn to check for other bruises and for some reason thought about the policeman she'd eyeballed earlier. At least, she assumed he was a policeman. He'd been wearing a suit, but he looked as though he worked there. She smiled to herself when she recalled his double take as he'd walked past. Wonder if I'll ever see him again? she thought.

She put on a silk dressing gown and made a phone call to her mechanic.

Some bastard shot the lights, she explained, and tipped me off the bike. No, No. I'm fine, Mike. Bike needs a bit of attention, though. Mostly cosmetic, but it'll need a new wing mirror and a bit of love. Is it OK if I bring it over in the morning?

After the call she thought back to the accident. I'll get you, Mr Meteor. I'll find you, don't you worry.

Tommy Wheeler arrived ten minutes early for the start of his night shift. The last thing he wanted to do was to attract attention to himself by being late. The handover from his day shift colleague was straightforward and took only a few minutes as usual.

He settled back into the well worn chair in the security office by the main entrance to the Meteor site and cast his eyes over the six black and white TV screens in front of him. There were views of the main vehicle entrance itself, the front of the warehouse, the car park, the loading bay and two views of the main floor inside the warehouse.

His duties essentially consisted of keeping an eye on the six screens and making a series of inspection tours on foot around the outside of the building at two hourly intervals. He was also required to walk through the main warehouse several times on each shift. It was hardly taxing work. In fact the main problem was not going to sleep. There was also a microphone and switch bank on the desk, which allowed for messages to be broadcast over the loudspeaker system, but he'd never had to use it during his permanent night shift rota.

To aid him in staying awake he had a radio and a tiny portable television with a five inch screen. The radio was allowed, but the TV was a definite breach of the rules. Fortunately it was small enough to be kept in his padlocked locker during the day and the chances of anyone catching him overnight were minimal.

During his walkabouts Tommy was required to key into various time clocks around the warehouse which recorded his comings and goings. He was scrupulous about the timings and frequency of his inspections. With the exception of the little TV, as far as the rest of the world was concerned Tommy was an exemplory employee and lived within the rules.

Mrs Woolly was fretting about Mr White. There had still been no sighting of the cat and that nice policeman, Mr Flowers, hadn't rung back either to say that they'd found him.

She got out of bed for the third time that night, woken by a real or imagined small noise that might just have been Mr White letting himself in through the cat flap, but there was no sign of him in the kitchen and his food was still untouched.

She peered out of the kitchen window towards the Meteor warehouse. It looked as though they were back. She could see lights moving about on the roof, but even as she watched the lights went out again. She found Flower's card and wondered whether it was alright to ring him in the middle of the night. In the event, she needn't have worried about disturbing him. The number she rang went straight through to his answering machine.

Inside the Meteor warehouse a shadowy figure made it's way along the top layer of the floor to ceiling industrial racking. Tommy Wheeler sat in his night watchman's office watching his flickering five inch TV, with the six screens of the cctv system glowing behind it. He noticed nothing untoward. But then, he didn't expect to.

For some reason Flowers took a little more trouble than usual over his normal morning ablutions. In addition to his customary shower, he took a mite longer than usual to shave. The result was not unpleasing, complementing, as it did, the new haircut he'd managed to get on his way home the previous evening.

He was about to re-don the blue shirt he'd worn the previous day, but decided on a fresh one, even taking the trouble to iron out the worst of the creases as he made his first coffee of the day. He also transferred the contents of his suit pockets to suit number two, which was no younger than suit number one, but at least it hadn't been worn for a few weeks and most of the crumples had fallen out.

He found an instant shoe polish, which had not completely dried out, and buffed over his scuffed work shoes and even with all the extra attention to his personal presentation, managed to leave the house a full fifteen minutes earlier than yesterday.

He was disconcerted by the food wrappers and empty coffee cups residing in the passenger foot well of his car and pulled into the lay-by beside the recreation ground to empty the litter into an already overflowing bin.

If you asked him why he was doing these things, he would have been unable to give a rational explanation, but the truth is that Flowers was looking forward to going into work today more than he had on any day since his wife had left him.

His joy was short lived when he saw the red light blinking on his office answer machine. The disembodied voice informed him that he had one new message. He pressed button one to listen and was rewarded by the breathless voice of Mrs Woolly.

Mr Flowers. They're here again. I can see the lights. Oh dear. I know they've got Mr White. I don't know what to do. Can you hear me? Oh dear. Oh dear. … . There was a click as she replaced the receiver.

Flowers was just debating with himself whether to ring her back when his phone rang of its own accord. It was the Chief Inspector. Flower's boss.

Desmond. Have you found that bloody cat yet? I've had Wescott on the phone already this morning asking what progress we've made.

Good morning, Sir, replied Flowers. Exactly how many men would you like me to assign to this man, sorry, cat hunt?

Don't get arsy with me, Desmond. I told you this was sensitive. Just find the damned cat.

Flowers replaced the receiver and shook his head wearily. Perhaps today wasn't going to be that great after all.

Tommy Wheeler clocked off following his night shift and walked out of the main gate. A white Meteor delivery van pulled alongside him and the driver asked if he'd like a ride.

Don't mind if I do, he replied, smiling.

Mercedes dropped her bike off at her mechanic's workshop and asked him if he had a ride she could borrow while hers was being repaired.

All I've got is this old Vespa at the moment, he said. Not quite your style, I'm afraid.

She looked at the elderly scooter propped up in the yard and laughed. Don't think I've ridden one of those since I was about thirteen, she said. Are you sure there's nothing else?

Sorry, Drew. I've usually got a couple of bikes, but it's all I've got today.

I feel a bit overdressed, she said looking down at her full leathers. But beggars can't be choosers I guess. Thanks Mike. I need some sort of wheels, so that'll have to do. How long do you reckon to fix the bike?

I can get a new mirror delivered by tomorrow morning and the rest is just a bit of painting. I can straighten the foot rest. You could have it back tomorrow evening if it's urgent.

I feel naked without her, Mike. You're a sweetie.

She leaned across and kissed him on the cheek. They'd known each other since they were at school together. He savoured the moment and for the briefest of time contemplated the thought of her naked. If only all his customers were as desirable as her, he sighed. This would be a swell job.

Flowers returned Mrs Woolly's call and reassured her that they were still looking for Mr White. Have you called the RSPCA? he suggested. Someone might have handed him in.

He decided to take a closer look at the Meteor warehouse site. He was intrigued by the thought of Tommy Wheeler holding down a regular job. It didn't compute somehow. He could ask about the cat while he was there.

Four more items were listed on ebay to join the thousands already on offer. These were mobile phones. Brand new, latest models, still in sealed boxes.

Mercedes felt ridiculous riding a twenty year old Vespa scooter wearing full motorcycle leathers and went home to change into something more appropriate. She chose blue denim jeans, a check shirt and a denim jacket. She also swapped her full motorcycle helmet for a white open face one. She left her hair loose.

After she'd changed her outfit, and feeling rather less conspicuous, she donned some dark shades and headed round to the Meteor warehouse site.

There was a small parking area at the front of the building, with spaces marked off for visitor's cars, with one bay marked off for motorcycles. She parked the Vespa and hung the helmet over the handlebar. Experience had taught her that you were far less likely to be questioned if you were carrying something and she'd had the foresight to take a small package and a clipboard with her. If anyone asked she'd be delivering the package.

She avoided the main entrance and walked down the side of the building where she could see several delivery vans parked and took some time examining the front offside bumper of each. There were a few scuffs and marks on most of them, but none with a paint colour that matched her bike.

Disappointed, she strolled back to where she'd left the scooter.

Flowers pulled into the visitor's parking area and left his dirty Mondeo in the only remaining vacant space next to an old Vespa motor scooter and made his way towards the main entrance just as Mercedes rounded the corner of the building. They looked at each other in partial recognition, each thrown momentarily by the unexpected encounter. Flowers smiled in her direction automatically before making the connection with the black clad girl from the previous day. She nodded in return, taking a moment to compute that this was a slightly smarter version of the policeman she'd noticed yesterday.

Flowers opened his mouth to say Hi. But she was almost past him, when she turned her head back and smiled. Small world, she said and continued walking.

He wondered what she was doing there and watched her walk back to her vehicle. She knew he was watching her and made a show of putting on the white helmet, taking time to check him out further in her wing mirror. He didn't move until she'd driven past him and back out of the gate. She gave him a wave as she passed. He waved back, but too late for her to see, and then she was gone.

Too many coincidences, he thought as he pushed open the main door.

It took ten minutes to locate the warehouse manager and Flowers waited in his office while tannoy calls echoed around the building. A harassed looking bald man in a white shirt and tie bustled into the office.

Terry Smith, he said extending his hand. I'm the manager here. Or one of them, anyway. Is there a problem?

Flowers introduced himself and showed his identification.

There was a hit and run incident yesterday morning that may have involved one of your vans, he said. I wondered if any of your drivers had reported anything.

Not that I know of. Hang on a sec. He dialled a three digit number and was answered a few seconds later.

Did any of our drivers report an accident yesterday? he asked.

Flowers waited for him to finish his call, but it was obvious from his body language that the answer was negative.

They discussed the accident for a few moments, but Flowers didn't pursue it. There's cctv on those lights, he said. They should be able to see the van's number and if it is one of yours, someone will be back.

He paused for a moment before asking the question he'd really meant to ask. Have you had any incidents in the warehouse recently?

What sort of incident?

Thefts, pilfering, break ins. Anything like that.

"Not that I'm aware of. We're having a bit of trouble with stock control, but we