Yet she could hardly rock up in front of Chief Superintendent Vaughn, two months after being instated as a fully fledged DCI, asking to forgo a major investigation so she could resolve a relationship hiccup. If she went to the DCS for anything, it would be for extra resource to manage what was already starting to look like a potentially complicated case.

She tried to focus on the task at hand, looking back to the garage, where activity remained at a low ebb. No cars had arrived or left since Mr Speedyparts’ exodus, and as if to emphasize the lull, two young guys in stained overalls emerged from the shadows, propped themselves against one of the cars and lit cigarettes. They chatted for a moment, both glancing up and down the street before their collective gaze settled on Hawkins.

Realizing that her presence had clearly drawn attention, she grabbed her bag off the passenger seat and stepped out of the Giulietta.

‘Hello, gentlemen.’ She crossed the pavement and produced her warrant card. ‘Who’s in charge here today?’

Frowns were exchanged before the taller man jabbed a thumb at the rickety, windowed structure just inside the garage, a reconstituted conservatory with the word Reception stencilled above the door.

‘Vladimir,’ he said in a flat Baltic drawl. ‘He take dump at moment. You wait in office if like.’

Hawkins discounted the gratuitous level of detail. ‘What’s his surname?’

The question silenced her initial responder, either because he didn’t understand or because he saw no reason to tell her, but after a few seconds his smaller colleague replied, ‘Kask.’

‘Thanks.’ She left them and wandered in, making the fragile structure wobble as she yanked open the door. Inside she ignored the stained seating and turned to assess the better view she now had of activity inside Streatham Motors.

Beyond the dirty glass, three car pits dropped below ground level in the once-red concrete, two of which were occupied by a vehicle. Somewhere beneath the nearest one, a mechanic was banging at the underside of a small white van, and opposite it was an abandoned dark blue Fiesta with non-matching alloys. The back wall was almost entirely obscured by stacks of tyres, a few posters hung here and there on the breeze-block walls, corners flapping in the breeze, and through the open shutters Hawkins could see the smoking mechanics. Otherwise the place was deserted.

After a few minutes a stocky, bearded man emerged through an open door. Hawkins placed him immediately as the boss, partly because he was appreciably older than the other mechanics – somewhere in his forties – and because as he walked across to join her in the conservatory, he was still fastening his trousers.

He paused in the doorway as Hawkins turned, fixing her with a look suggesting he preferred to deal with husbands and fathers.

‘Can I help you?’ The accent matched his mechanics’; but his English was far more precise.