Gravy Train by Tess Makovesky

Author:Tess Makovesky [Makovesky, Tess]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: All Due Respect, an imprint of Down & Out Books
Published: 2018-11-29T11:00:00+00:00

Twenty-nine

Frederick Baines. Restorer and Purveyor of Fine and Classic Cars.

The sign was small and half buried by a tangled mess of ivy, so much so Lenny had almost missed spotting it. It was only because he had the sense to look the bloke up in the phone book first that he knew the workshop was here. Otherwise it could have been any one of a dozen similar courtyards in the south-eastern suburbs, left over from the bustling days of trade. They’d learned a bit about it at school, some Victorian Birmingham project the one day in ten when he was paying some attention for a change. Dairies, stables, bakeries; the flurry of people and horse-drawn carts. Now most of them had been renovated to the nth degree, with brick mews cottages or modern flats behind electric gates. This was one of the few that still served its original purpose. And it didn’t have gates at all.

Lenny strolled in behind an elderly guy with a dodgy leg. Could this be Baines himself? It didn’t look as though anyone else would have business here. And the way his nose was tingling said it was. Sure enough the bloke produced a set of keys and unlocked the big sliding garage workshop door. Lenny was onto him before he’d even stepped inside. Knife out, arm round the neck, shuffle him in quick before anyone could see.

Jack’s info had come up trumps. Inside it was a typical chop shop. Nothing too obvious but the signs were there if you knew what you were looking for. A couple of discarded number plates, an angle-grinder for getting the serial numbers off. Nothing he hadn’t seen before. Nothing that would alert a casual passer-by. Unlike the strong-arm stuff he was using on the old man. Best keep that indoors and out of sight. He rattled at the latch, but the folding door stayed put. It was old; it probably took a knack. A knack he didn’t have. But there was someone here who would.

“Close the door, old man.”

“Wh-wh-eergh.”

Lenny realised his arm was compressing the victim’s throat. Never a good idea. They couldn’t talk if they couldn’t breathe. They couldn’t talk if he’d strangled them to death. And he needed this one to talk. He slackened the pressure a little, so the bloke could draw breath and move. And took out his knife as an insurance policy.

The door rattled closed again. Lenny risked a squint through a grubby pane of glass. Nothing and nobody about. That was good. He hadn’t lost his touch. He spun them round, propped the guy against a handy workbench and waved the knife under his nose.

“Right, let’s have it. Tell me about the bird.”

“Wh—what?” The guy wheezed and pushed weakly at Lenny’s arm.

“The bird. The woman who supplies you. Come on. Are you stupid? Or just deaf?”

“I don’t know what—”

Lenny’s patience was already wearing thin. The guy wasn’t quite as old as he’d first thought but he was still fifty-ish with his hair going grey and that knee should have made this a doddle.

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