True enough: the front of the Golf had become concertinaed on impact with the venerable oak tree. They made their way past the torn fencing and down the slope. The driver from the flatbed jutted out his chin in greeting but otherwise wasn’t about to ask who they were or why they were there. Clarke carried a folder, which was good enough for him—meant they were official, and therefore probably best avoided.

“Is he okay?” Rebus asked.

“He’s a she,” Clarke corrected him. “Car’s registered to Jessica Traynor. Address in southwest London. She’s in the Infirmary.”

Rebus was walking around the car. It was less than a year old, pearl-colored. From what he could see of the tires, there was plenty of tread on them. The windscreen was gone, driver’s-side door and boot gaping, both airbags deployed.

“And we’re here because…?”

Clarke opened the folder. “Mainly because her father seems to have friends. Word came down from on high: make sure we’ve not missed anything.”

“What’s to miss?”

“Hopefully nothing. But this area’s notorious for boy racers.”

“She’s not a boy, though.”

“She drives the kind of car they like.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“I think the Golf still qualifies as a ‘hot hatch.’”

Rebus wandered over towards the flatbed. The man from the scrap yard was reeling out a cable with a large hook on the end. Rebus asked him how many Golfs ended up in the compactor.

“A few,” he conceded. He sported oily blue overalls under a scuffed leather jacket, and dirt was ingrained on his palms and under his nails. The baseball cap he wore was so grubby the lettering on it was indecipherable, and a thick graying beard covered his chin and throat. Rebus offered him a cigarette, but the man shook his head.

“Roads around here used as racetracks?” Rebus continued.

“Sometimes.”

“You on a diet or something?” The man looked at him. “Cutting back on your vocabulary,” Rebus explained.

“I’m just here to do a job.”

“But this isn’t the first crash like this you’ve seen?”

“No.”

“How regular?”

The man considered this. “Every couple of months. Though there was one last week, the other side of Broxburn.”

“And it’s cars racing each other? Any idea how it gets arranged?”

“No,” the man stated.

“Well, thanks for sharing.” Rebus walked back towards the Golf. Clarke was peering through the open door, examining the interior.

“Take a look,” she said, handing Rebus a photograph. It showed a brown suede boot in what seemed a woman’s size, framed against the floor of the car.

“I don’t see any pedals.”

“That’s because it was in the passenger-side foot well.”

“Okay.” Rebus handed the photograph back. “So you’re saying there was a passenger?”

Clarke shook her head. “It’s one of a pair of Ugg boots belonging to Jessica Traynor. The other was on her left foot.”

“Ugg?”