Free Crunch Time by Nick Oldham Page A

Mondeo.
    Walking past a lovely display of MG TFs, the two-seater sports cars, he went into the salesroom and spotted the guy he’d done the deal with almost ten months earlier.
    The salesman – Ken (how many car salesmen were called Ken? he wondered) – was chatting to a colleague by a coffee machine; as Henry closed in, Ken spotted him and cut away from the chit-chat, affixed his salesman smile and greeted Henry, who realized that he had not been recognized.
    â€˜Hello, sir, can I help you?’ Ken eyed Henry’s face and general appearance, then looked past his shoulder and clocked the Nissan on the forecourt.
    â€˜It’s Ken, isn’t it?’
    A slight cloud of doubt scudded across Ken’s honest visage as he speculated what he’d done – or not done, perhaps. ‘I’m sorry, do I know you?’
    â€˜I part-exed a Mondeo for a Rover 75 about ten months ago?’
    â€˜Right.’ Ken squinted, still not having put a face to the transaction.
    â€˜You did the deal.’
    â€˜Oh, I do hope there’s no problem, sir.’
    â€˜No, not at all … you don’t recall me, do you?’
    â€˜I’m afraid …’ Ken bit his bottom lip. ‘We have so many customers.’ He peered closely at Henry, then recognition dawned. ‘You’re the cop!’ he said delightedly, jabbing a finger towards Henry’s chest and coming a little too close. Henry caught a whiff of stale alcohol on Ken’s breath. ‘Now I remember.’
    â€˜Yeah, that’s me.’
    â€˜So, is there a problem?’
    â€˜Not with the Rover, which I love and everybody else hates …’
    â€˜Such is the way of the world with that make and model, I fear. You either love ’em or hate ’em.’
    â€˜What happened to the Mondeo?’
    â€˜Why, do you want it back?’
    Henry thought he saw something in Ken’s eyes. Caution or worry, something like that. ‘I’d just like to know what happened to it.’
    â€˜Err, not sure actually … I’m presuming we sold it or it went to auction … let me look up the records.’ He indicated for Henry to follow him and then walked to a glass-fronted office where he plonked himself down behind the desk and told Henry to grab a seat. Ken then proceeded to flick through the lower drawers of a filing cabinet next to the desk. ‘What was the name again?’
    â€˜Christie.’
    â€˜Here we go.’ He extracted a slim file, tipping out the contents after clearing away a copy of the
Racing Post
. Henry recognized copies of some of the forms he had signed in triplicate. ‘Part-ex,’ he muttered. ‘Mondeo for Rover … um … I recall you drove a hard bargain …’ Ken raised his face from the documents. ‘I know! It went to auction … simple as that.’ He gathered up the paperwork. ‘Beyond that, I don’t know.’
    Henry looked at him, slightly puzzled – because he got the impression that Ken seemed to be hiding something, but couldn’t say what. ‘OK, did anyone show any interest in it before it went?’
    â€˜Not that I know.’
    â€˜Anyone come and test drive it, anything at all?’
    Ken shrugged. ‘Not through me.’ He looked suspiciously at Henry. ‘Why, has it been used in a job?’
    â€˜Sort of,’ Henry said. ‘Linked, shall we say?’
    â€˜How ironic.’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜Ex-cop’s car being used in a blagging.’
    â€˜I didn’t actually say that.’
    â€˜No … literary licence … but, back to your question, I don’t know if anyone came to look at it. Another sales person might have dealt with them, if they did.’
    Henry had noticed that CCTV cameras were dotted around the forecourt. He pointed at one. ‘Do they work?’
    â€˜Sure do.’
    â€˜How long do you keep the recordings