Free Driving into Darkness (DI Angus Henderson 2) by Iain Cameron

a growing problem. Middle-aged guys usually got their first scrapes on a Honda 50 or a Vespa scooter, nothing more than a sewing machine on wheels, before moving up-market to a Yamaha or Kawasaki 125, zip-fast little machines which could out-accelerate the majority of saloon cars. For many, their burgeoning riding career came to an abrupt halt when a wife, children, and a crippling mortgage came along, and then an ugly people carrier that looked more like a van than a car, took the place of the sleek bike.
    Now in their mid-fifties and with money in the bank, they took one look at the latest bike catalogues and realised they could own a smart new machine, capable of knocking spots off top-of-the-range sports car such as Porsches and Ferraris for the same price as a Ford Fiesta.
    What many of them did not realise until too late, was the engines and equipment on all modern bikes were faster and more responsive than anything they had ridden before and in an emergency, all the training and perusing of manuals, would go out the window when they accelerated too fast, took a corner too sharp, or braked too hard, propelling themselves into a whole new world of trouble.
    ‘Have you a picture of Mr Young?’
    ‘Yes I have.’
    He reached into the folder beside him and handed over a sheet of paper. It was copied from his personnel file and included his age, address, and a list of his qualifications and medical history, and the colour photograph was clear and according to the blurb, taken only nine months before.
    He was a thin-faced man with a rutted, pale complexion, suggesting he spent too much time indoors or ate a poor diet. Large gold-framed glasses and an untidy mess of thinning brown hair made him look like Rogerson’s old English teacher but the eyes were dark and owl-like, giving the impression he would be a powerful adversary in a meeting and a difficult man to face in tense negotiations.
    ‘That’s perfect and I see we have his home address. Do you happen to have a spare key to his house?’
    ‘No, I don't.’
    ‘Not to worry, we’ll sort something out. Ok. I think we’ve got enough to go on.’ He placed his hands in his lap and looked straight at Mr Lawton. It was his turn to deliver a spiel he had delivered many times before.
    ‘As you can appreciate Mr Lawton, your Financial Director, Mr David Young has been missing a week now and at this stage, I’m inclined to believe that as he was a fit and active man, nothing unfortunate has happened to him.’
    ‘That’s good to hear.’
    ‘In cases like this, at least ninety per cent of missing person cases are resolved in the first three or four days, by which time the misps, as we call them, have got over their strop or whatever has been bothering them and decide to make contact, unaware their friends and family have been worried sick and are out looking for them.’
    ‘I see.’
    ‘What we will do now is take a look at his house and make sure he isn’t ill or lying behind a door. When we get back to the station, we’ll ask our colleagues to be on the look-out and call local hospitals and other agencies and ask them if they’ve seen Mr Young and if they haven’t, instruct them to inform us if he turns up.’
    ‘Thank you, that sounds excellent. It’s a large weight off my mind to know you are also looking for him, I can tell you.’ Lawton glanced at his diary. ‘This is Friday. David and I were due to play golf at West Hove this Sunday morning for our monthly match and I’ve never known him to miss it, as the loser, which is more often than not me, buys lunch. He’s such a mean so-and-so, he would never pass up the opportunity for a free lunch. If he still hasn’t turned up by then, I think you need to treat him as a bona fide missing person and pull out all the stops and try and find him.’
     

TEN
     
     
     
     
    The day started like no other and DI Henderson doubted it would get any better. He had spent the last hour at Malling House in Lewes, home