‘Finally,’ the man muttered, his bulky shoulders hunched in a tweed jacket.
‘Sorry about that,’ Pye retorted, briskly, ‘but you might be pleased to hear that we’ve found your car.’
Sullivan’s eyes widened. ‘You have? That’s good news.’ His accent was Scottish, Edinburgh rather than East Lothian. ‘Is it in one piece?’
‘It is, but it’s been damaged, I’m afraid.’
‘Have you caught the sod that stole it?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. Your vehicle was involved in an accident and the man who was driving it ran off. We’re still looking for him.’
‘Well, you got the Beamer back,’ the owner conceded, ‘that’s the main thing. Not that it was worth a hell of a lot. I’m a car dealer; I specialise in classic vehicles. That one’s a long way short of being classic, it’s only a runabout, but I’ve just sold on the Daimler that I’ve been driving for a couple of years, and I switched my personalised plate to it until I find something that I like. When can I pick it up?’ he asked.
‘As soon as we’re finished with it,’ Haddock replied.
Sullivan frowned. ‘What does that mean?’ He paused, as if for thought. ‘Wait a minute,’ he murmured, ‘a chief inspector and a detective sergeant, on a car theft; that’s a bit heavy-duty, is it not? Has it been involved in a robbery or something?’
‘We’ll get to that,’ Pye said, tersely. ‘When did you discover the theft, Mr Sullivan?’
‘This morning, when I went to my garage in Kingston: I keep some of my lesser stock there, and I do some refurbishment there too. The rest,’ he continued in explanation, ‘my best cars, are in a showroom on the way into Haddington, off the dual carriageway.’
‘How did the thief get in?’
‘Through a side door.’
‘When was the last time you saw the car?’
‘Saturday. I had a guy interested in a Bristol; it was in Kingston being prepared for the showroom. It’s not street legal at the moment, so I took him there to view it. The Beamer was still there when I locked up.’
‘What time would that have been?’
‘About half four.’
‘Did you make the sale?’
Haddock’s question drew a scowl. ‘No. Nowhere near. The man was a time-waster. He told me he’d phone me back on Sunday with a decision, but he didn’t. Nor will he; I could tell at the time he was a chancer. You always know, don’t you?’
The DS nodded. ‘Yes, we find that too, in our line of work. What was the man’s name, the time-waster?’
‘King; that’s all he told me. No first name.’
‘Can you describe him?’
Sullivan frowned. ‘He’s about my age, give or take a year or two. I’m thirty-seven,’ he added. ‘He had a beard, glasses with dark frames and he was wearing a Barbour. That’s the best I can do. Why are you interested in him anyway? Do you think he came back and stole the BMW? If he did, he’s got no bloody taste. I’ve got better cars than that in the Kingston garage. If you’re going to suggest he was looking for a getaway vehicle, that was one of the slowest in the place.’
‘We’re looking at all possibilities,’ Pye said. He broke off as the PC came into the room, carrying two coffees in takeaway beakers. She placed them on the table, laying a five-pound note and a few coins beside them. As she left, the DCI continued. ‘Did Mr King give you a contact number?’
‘No.’
‘How did he get in touch with you?’
‘He rang my mobile: he said he’d seen my ad for the Bristol in the East Lothian Courier; the number’s on that.’
‘Do you have your phone with you?’
‘I do,’ Sullivan told him, ‘but if you’re thinking you might find his number on it, you’re out of luck, lads. I deleted all my recent calls last night.’
‘Is that a regular practice?’ Haddock asked.
‘Pardon?’
Pye sighed. ‘Do you do that frequently?’
‘Every so often. Like I said, I’m sorry. I’d love to help you but it’s just bad luck.’
The DCI nodded. ‘As you say. That’s life; some you win, some you lose.’
‘Good. We’re agreed on something. Now, can I leave here?’ Sullivan asked. ‘I’ve got a business to run.’
‘Not yet,’ Pye said. ‘We’re not finished. When you called this morning to report the theft of the BMW, which phone did you use?’
‘The mobile.’
‘Where were you when you made the call?’
Sullivan stared at him. ‘What do you mean? I was in bloody Kingston. I was looking at the empty space where my motor had been.’
Haddock cut in. ‘Do you have a landline in your garage?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why didn’t you use that?’
‘I just didn’t, okay?’
‘No it’s not. Can you prove you were at Kingston when you made the call? Does anyone else work there? Do you have a mechanic?’
The dealer shook his head. ‘No, I don’t need one full-time. When I have to, I use a guy at Fenton Barns. So no, there was nobody else in the garage, only me.’
‘Therefore,’ Haddock continued, ‘as far as we’re concerned, you could have been anywhere when you reported the theft.’
‘I suppose.’
‘You could even have been standing beside the car.’
Sullivan’s eyes widened. ‘Why the hell would I want to do that?’ He paused as a possible answer presented itself. ‘Are you thinking this was an insurance scam?’
‘No,’ Pye replied. ‘One, if that was the game you’d have totalled the car. Two, any insurance claim would arise out of the subsequent collision, and you weren’t driving when that happened. There is a third scenario where you’d give the car to someone else to take away and write off, but we don’t believe that one either.’
‘Good for me,’ the dealer drawled.
‘Maybe not. Do you know, or know of, a child, a wee girl, aged around five, by the name of Zena?’
He frowned. He stared at the two detectives, from one to the other. ‘No, I don’t. Means nothing to me. What’s a five-year-old lassie got to do with my car?’ He laughed, a short, barking sound. ‘Do you think she stole it? Is that what you’re getting at?’
‘No,’ Haddock said quietly. ‘When the boot of your car was opened, after the collision in the Fort Kinnaird car park, and after the driver had absconded, Zena’s body was found inside.’
Sullivan gasped and sat upright in his chair, his hand knocking over his coffee beaker and spilling what was left of its contents across the table. His eyes were wide, and suddenly very frightened. ‘You’re kidding me,’ he exclaimed. ‘You’re making this up. It’s ridiculous.’
‘Oh, but it’s not,’ the DS retorted. He took a small iPad tablet from his jacket and switched it on. ‘Take a look. There’s a photograph to prove it. That’s Zena, or so says a label in the jacket she’s wearing, and she’s dead. In: your: car.’ He ground out the last three words.
‘Can I get a better look at her face?’ the other man croaked.
Haddock scrolled through the photographs in the tablet until he found a close-up.
‘Oh my!’ Sullivan was close to tears. ‘It’s not . . . I’ve got a daughter myself. Kayleigh; she’s five and she lives with her mum. Sorry, I just had to be sure.’
Pye nodded. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘So you see now,’ he continued, ‘why we need, for the purpose of our inquiry into her death, to establish your whereabouts. Okay, you say you called us from the garage. I’m inclined to believe that, but I need to corroborate it. Who was the last person you saw before you found the theft of the car?’
The car dealer gazed at the table, as if he was looking for the answer in the small streak of cold coffee, ‘My neighbour,’ he replied at last. ‘Her name’s Beth McGregor. I left the house just after nine. Mary had gone to work by then. My car was in the drive, and as I went to get in I saw her through her kitchen window. I waved to her and she waved back.’
‘Thanks, that’s a help. We’ll confirm it with her for the record. Now, let’s move on. What sort of work do you do in your garage?’
‘Like I said, repairs and renewals mainly: if a vehicle needs engine work and it’s drivable, I take it down to Fenton Barns. If not, the mechanic comes to me. The other main thing would be upholstery. With a classic car you’ll find that the leather lasts forever but the seats degrade. I’ve got another bloke that comes in to renew them when I need him.’