Chapter Twenty-Six
Josie
No one is surprised the comic turns out to be worthless. It’s damp, torn and smudged with footprints, and whatever hope there was of finding DNA is gone.
Dario and I do a slow circuit of the area where it was found. The factory buildings are crumbling relics, with windows boarded up, bricks cracked, steel doors rusting on their hinges. A few workers are gathered outside a warehouse, cigarettes glowing in the dusk.
One of them calls out: ‘You two cops?’
I turn. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Just wondering. Is this about that white van the other afternoon? I thought about calling it in.’ He shrugs. ‘But didn’t want the hassle, you know?’
‘What day was that?’ Dario asks.
‘You asking me?’ the guy snorts. ‘My memory ain’t what it used to be, but… Wednesday, maybe.’
‘Well, that must have been the bastard who smashed my car,’ Dario says smoothly. ‘Ripped the back clean off and came tearing through here. I couldn’t follow as the engine was dead.’
I glance at him, impressed. ‘Off the cuff?’ I murmur.
He nods. ‘Yeah.’
‘Impressive.’
The guy steps closer, exhaling a plume of smoke that curls around his face like fog. He flicks ash to the ground.
‘You’re not cops, then?’
I scoff. ‘Tried them. About as helpful as a chocolate teapot.’
He chuckles.
‘Tell me about it. Anyway, the guy in the van looked nervous. Real twitchy. Sat there for ages. You’d think he’d bolt after hitting someone’s car.’
‘Maybe he knew I couldn’t chase him,’ Dario says.
‘I thought he was eyeing up the warehouses. I figured he was waiting to break in. I didn’t hang around. I’m not paid enough to get jumped by some psycho. Maybe his van was busted and he was waiting for help. Who knows?’
‘Could be a different van, darling,’ I say lightly, slipping my arm through Dario’s.
He raises his eyebrows at the word darling, but doesn’t say anything other than, ‘Yeah, maybe.’
‘We get lowlifes here all the time.’ The guy shrugs. ‘Could have been anyone.’
‘Thanks anyway,’ I say.
‘Welcome.’ He throws us a casual salute. We’re halfway down the road when he calls after us: ‘Don’t you want the number plate?’
Dario sighs. ‘Jesus. Why is he only mentioning that now?’ He turns back. ‘Yeah, it would help with the insurance claim.’
‘Only… don’t mention me,’ the man says quickly.
‘Of course not,’ I say.
He pulls a scrap of paper from his pocket. ‘There you go. Good luck.’
Back in the car, I remember. ‘Wasn’t it a white van that was reported missing a few days ago?’
Dario nods.
‘We’ll check it when we get back.’
I catch him watching me as I start the engine. ‘Darling?’ he quips. ‘Off the cuff?’
‘Yeah,’ I mutter, cheeks warming. ‘Right off.’
He smiles. We drive back in silence.
Later, at the station, we ran the number plate. ‘There’s no match,’ I mutter, deflated. ‘Doesn’t link to the stolen van.’
‘The guy said it was white,’ Dario says.
‘He could have got it wrong. It may have been cream.’
‘Could be a false plate,’ he suggests.
I rub my tight neck muscles. ‘Could be, but I think it’s most likely been dumped by now.’
‘It’s too suspicious not to be connected, though. Right place, fake plate, driver loitering, white van.’
‘If he is our guy,’ I say, ‘then how do we find him?’