Worthless Remains Read Free Page B

exactly how he remembered the original, he might well notice if I changed over to yet another substitute.
    â€˜That’s OK. I’ll make them last. What are you after? Nothing too dodgy, I did warn you.’
    â€˜Not at all.’ I simply relayed the whole story.
    â€˜Three-quarters of a million? That’s a nice nest egg. OK, if he’s on the database I’ll find him. Soon as I get a chance.’
    We were interrupted by the chime of my mobile. It was Jake, calling from his car restoration workshop.
    â€˜Honeysett . . .’ There was a sound as though someone was grinding a cat in half. ‘Get yourself up here.’
    â€˜Look, if it’s about the van . . .’ Opposite me Watt pulled a knowing face. He imagined my life to be a series of crises and wasn’t far wrong.
    â€˜Forget the van,’ Jake shouted over the background of workshop noises. ‘I never expected to see much of it again. Wouldn’t have lent it to you otherwise.’
    â€˜What, then?’
    â€˜It’s a surprise. You’ll like it. Some of it, anyways.’ He hung up.
    Watt widened his eyes expectantly. ‘Trouble?’
    â€˜Apparently not. Which is most mysterious. I’d better go and see what it’s about.’
    Watt checked his watch. ‘I’m due to clock on anyway. Got to hide these in my locker first.’ He lifted the bag and the bottles clinked their nostalgic promise.
    I watched him walk guiltily towards Manvers Street while I started up the Norton. The noise of the thing always turned a few heads, which was another reason why it was pretty useless for a private detective. So Jake had a surprise for me. I didn’t dare hope.
    Jake lived up near Ford, on the way to Chippenham, on a rambling smallholding. Originally the plan had been to breed ponies there and when that venture failed he had turned his hobby, restoring vintage cars, into a thriving business. Jake looked after Annis’s 1960s Land Rover and had for many years – and under protest – kept my equally ancient Citroën DS 21 alive. Jake specialized in British classics and professed to hate French motors. My last DS had literally rusted away beneath me and Jake had towed it to the scrapheap with many a told-you-so.
    It was another fine day and once I had left the tortuous traffic of Bath behind I opened the Norton’s throttle to an ear-splitting fifty miles per hour. The vibrations numbed my wrists, tickled the soles of my feet in their boots and it all helped to remind me that fifty years is a long time in motoring. Still fun, though. I turned into Jake’s yard and found a space to leave the hot, ticking machine. The fawn and rust of the Norton blended in well with the rest of the scenery up here. The workshop and the outbuildings surrounding it looked nearly as dilapidated as my own place, only with the addition of automotive junk of every description; whole engines, part engines, wheels and axles, car doors and bonnets. Neatly parked were a few whole cars inside lockups and under tarpaulin. There was a brown Rover in mint condition, just arrived or ready to be collected. Not far away stood the – to my eyes at least – unpromising remains of a pale blue Wolseley. You didn’t see many of those on the road.
    I found Jake in his workshop underneath a black 1940s Riley in the company of one of his mechanics, a factotum with white, electrified hair. They were making an awful racket and were swearing a lot. There were tools and oil rags on the ground around them. The air smelled of hot metal and burnt rubber. Give me detective work any time.
    â€˜You’ll have to wait until we’ve got this bastard sorted,’ Jake said to my legs.
    â€˜It’s probably the floggle-toggle,’ I said helpfully.
    The banging stopped long enough for Jake to growl, ‘Shut up, Chris, and put the kettle on.’
    While the clanging and grinding and swearing resumed I