5

Hawkins drummed at the steering wheel, waiting for the octogenarian resident to steer his car clear of the space. The fourteen-point manoeuvre encompassed high revs, a nudge into the Ford behind him and a perilous lurch around the old Jag in front, but at last it crept away, gifting Hawkins the only gap on the crowded little street.

She parked her Alfa Romeo Giulietta and sat for a moment, staring through the raindrops lightly dusting her window at the business on the opposite side of the road. The reason for her visit.

Streatham Motors.

The garage consisted of two run-down buildings crammed into a right-angled corner plot. Wide, shuttered openings dominated both fascias, and the painted walls which had probably been white at some point now wore a thick layer of grease.

Hawkins’ decision to park out on the road was due partly to the multiple tired vehicles littering the on-site parking, and partly to her desire to get a feel for the place before she went marching inside.

Despite her difficulty in finding a space, the road wasn’t a busy one. Most vehicles appeared to be bound in some way for the garage itself, some pulling up outside, others driving straight in, most either customers or delivery vans like the one pulling up as she watched.

The young Speedyparts driver was tanned and athletic, more surfer than glorified postman. He abandoned his red combi van blocking the road, leaving his door open with reggae music blaring, and grabbed a parcel off the passenger seat before disappearing inside.

Seconds later he was back, swinging his dreads, joining Bob Marley loudly in chorus and tugging at the crotch of his overalls as he swung himself back into the seat.

Hawkins watched him take off before turning her attention back to the business, noting the gaps where two letters were absent from the large sign above the main entrance, thinking about the evidence that had led her here.

STREA HAM M TORS was the sole regular depositor of funds into the largely inactive current account of J. Kowalski, erstwhile occupant of the third decaying body discovered that morning in a condemned Brixton flat. Having no more to aid their search than the debit card found in the pile of his discarded clothing, the team had gone straight to the corresponding bank, and after a faltering start, Santander had finally coughed up some details about their customer.