Flowers for Mercedes, Page 2

PART TWO

  A Close Call

  Mercedes was taking a long, hot shower. The water was cascading from the top of her blonde head and running in rivulets down her naked body, flooding between her firm young breasts and streaming across her taut belly before spilling down her long legs and pooling round her feet in the shower tray. Bliss. The bruises on her shoulder and hip from the hit and run accident she'd been the victim of a few days previously were turning interesting shades of blue and yellow, but they no longer hurt. She turned her face towards the gushing shower head and let the water course across her features. Perfect bliss.

  There was a ringing in the distance, which she chose to ignore until it's insistent sound destroyed the moment completely. Grudgingly she turned off the water and, with some annoyance, made her way to the front door wrapped in a white bath towel and leaving a trail of wet footprints along the hallway.

  Detective Inspector Des Flowers realised that it had been a mistake to call unannounced. He was uncharacteristically tongue tied as he confronted the dripping form of Mercedes Drew through the narrow gap she had opened in the door. It would be difficult to say which of them was the more embarrassed. The brightly coloured bunch of garage forecourt flowers he had purchased en route from work burned like a red hot poker in his hand and he wished both they and he could disappear.

  "Hi," said Mercedes, wishing she'd picked a bigger towel.

  "Hi," replied Flowers. "I saw your bike outside, so I knew you were in."

  "I was just … ." They both spoke simultaneously and trailed off as they realised they were talking across one another.

  "I'd better …," began Flowers, backing away from the door. "I can see it's not … ."

  "Yes," agreed Mercedes. "I mean, No. It's … ."

  There was a moments silence before they both saw the absurdity of the situation. Flowers began to grin. "You look … ."

  "Well, I wasn't expecting … ." He had a kind of nice grin, she decided. Oh, what the hell. "Why don't you come in. I'll put something on."

  Flowers was about to say, "Don't bother on my account," but, wisely, kept the thought to himself. Mercedes caught the appreciative look in his eyes, however, and his words would have been superfluous in any case.

  She showed Flowers through to her untidy kitchen. "Make yourself some tea or coffee, if you like. If you can find it, of course," she added, as though seeing the chaos that was her kitchen for the first time. "There's milk in the fridge. Check that it's OK," she added as an afterthought.

  She disappeared down the corridor to her bathroom, or bedroom, he supposed and he took great interest in those parts of her not covered by the white towel. She was certainly striking.

  Flowers realised that he was still clutching the bunch of garage forecourt chrysanthemums. He was embarrassed by their gaudy, cheap look and was tempted to push them into the overflowing waste bin by the back door. Had there been any space left, he might well have done that. Instead he rinsed out an empty jar and made a pathetic attempt to arrange the flowers in it. They looked as though they had been dyed.

  More searching revealed clean mugs in a cupboard over the sink and instant coffee in a glass jar. He grimaced at the thought, but beggars can't be choosers. By the time Mercedes re emerged there were two mugs of coffee on the breakfast bar waiting.

  "I don't know how you like it," he said.

  A wicked thought passed through her mind, but she desisted and simply said, "White, no sugar, please." She noted that he took his black.

  "The flowers look nice," she said.

  Flowers looked at her and then back at his floral arrangement. "I don't think so," he said. "Not exactly my forte."

  "You're right," she agreed. "They're crap. But thank you anyway. It's a long time since anyone's bought me flowers."

  She was wearing tight fitting blue jeans and a check shirt. Her long blonde hair was still wet and occasional drips formed on the ends. Her feet were still bare.

  "I'm sorry," said Flowers. "I should have phoned. I just wanted to tell you that we've got your hit and run driver. The chap who tipped you off your bike the other morning."

  "I knew who you meant."

  "Yes, of course." Flowers was stuck for words momentarily. "It was the guy who was robbing the Meteor warehouse. There was paint on the bumper, like you said there would be."

  She nodded. He was disconcertingly cute, she decided. Especially now he was clearly out of his tough cop comfort zone.

  "I see that the bike's OK," he added.

  She nodded again. "It was mostly superficial. A busted mirror and a paint job. My good friend Mike fixed it for me."

  Flowers wondered how close a friend this Mike was, but he didn't ask. Just found himself nodding back to her as she had to him.

  "It's a fine bike," he said. "Not the usual choice for a girl, I wouldn't have thought."

  She arched her eyebrows. He realised that he'd said the wrong thing and tried to back track. "Not a girly bike, I mean. More of a … ." He stopped before he dug himself a deeper hole. "Nice bike," he repeated lamely.

  She laughed. "It was my Dad's. He taught me to ride on that old Triumph and I guess I just grew to like it."

  They both sipped their coffee for a moment. Another drip fell from her hair and she ran her hand over her head. "I need to dry my hair," she said unnecessarily.

  "I should go," said Flowers, standing. "I just wanted to tell you about the hit and run." And see you again, he thought to himself. Blew that one, anyway.

  "Thank you," she said. "I don't actually know your name."

  "Flowers," he said. "D.I. Flowers."

  She glanced across to the jar of blooms on the breakfast bar. "Don't you have a first name?"

  "Desmond. Des for short, but pretty much everyone calls me Flowers. What do they call you?" He wondered for a second if he'd overstepped the mark, but she smiled.

  "Well," she said. "I guess I've been called pretty much everything in my time. Some of it not very complimentary. At school, of course, I was Mercedes. My mum used to call me Mercy for short, but I always hated it. I called myself Amy for a while when I was a kid, but now I'm mostly called Drew."

  "How strange," thought Flowers, "that we're both called by our surnames."

  "I should go," he said for the second time. There was a pregnant pause as they both wondered what to say.

  "There's a bottle of red here somewhere," she said finally. "If I can find it under the mess. You could help me drink it. Maybe you could find it while I dry my hair?"

  Flowers wondered briefly whether he was still on duty or not and convinced himself that his visit here was more social than official. He took a look at the pile of unwashed dishes in the sink and rolled up his sleeves.

  There was a muffled call from the bedroom. "Do you like Chinese?" she asked. "Why don't you phone for a takeaway. There's a card on the fridge door."

  "Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea coming here after all," thought Flowers. He turned off the hot tap and plunged his hands into the soapy water. He started to whistle softly to himself as he began work on the dishes.

 

  The courier arrived with the Chinese food about an hour later. He looked to be about thirteen years old, but Flowers gave him the benefit of the doubt and tipped him a pound. The kid wobbled off back into the night on his moped.

  He took the bag into the kitchen, which was already looking tidier since his assault on the washing up. Mercedes had still not reappeared from drying her hair, though periodically she shouted down the hallway to him with instructions about where to find wine glasses, corkscrew etc. When she did appear they were both left open mouthed.

  Flowers caught his breath at the sight of Mercedes with her hair now piled up on her head. He had no idea what the style might be called, but the effect was magical. She had also applied the lightest of makeup, which in his opinion was unnecessary at all. She'd changed into a white blouse and blue slacks, but not denim he noticed. On her feet she had simple black ballet pumps. The clothes w
ere simple, but the result was sensational.

  She was equally impressed with the job he had done in the kitchen. The sink, which had earlier been filled with unwashed dishes, now sparkled. The breakfast bar was clear of debris, though what he had done with it all was a mystery. Instead of the heaps of bags and papers, there were now two place settings, with cutlery and wineglasses already filled with red wine. The jar with the flowers was at one end and there was even a candle in an empty wine bottle. "Best I could find," he laughed.

  The takeaway food was still in the foil containers lined up along the middle of the table. "Better get stuck in," he added, "before it gets any colder."

  "I'm impressed," she replied. "Why haven't you been snapped up by now?"

  "Oh, I was. Snapped up, wrung out and then hung out to dry."

  She was about to ask more, but his body language, as he passed the serving spoons to her, suggested that the subject was closed. For now, anyway.

  "Well, Mr Flowers. Something to find about for the future," she told herself.

  Flowers' mobile phone rang in his pocket. He tried to ignore it.

  "Aren't you going to answer it?"

  "It'll be work." Reluctantly he removed the phone from his pocket and looked at the number on the screen. It was his boss, Chief Inspector Webb.

  "There's been an incident, Desmond," said the C.I. "A derailment."

  "Sir, isn't there anyone else available?" pleaded Flowers, looking at the uneaten food and the beautiful young woman in front of him.

  "Sorry, Desmond. Yours was the first name to come up. Now get yourself over to the level crossing at Wells End. A freight train's come off the rails."

  "Is there anyone hurt?"

  "We've no report, but the other emergency services are on their way, so get moving."

  Sadly, Flowers replaced the phone in his pocket. "Sorry," he said. "Occupational hazard. Apparently I'm the only available policeman in the county."

  As he left, Mercedes followed him down the hall and pulled him towards her when he opened the front door. "I'll keep everything warm for you," she said as she kissed him lightly on the cheek.

  "Did she mean the food?" he wondered as he hurried to his car. "Or did she mean more? Damn. " He cursed his boss as he sparked the engine into life.

  At Wells End there was a scene of general chaos. About a hundred metres beyond the level crossing was a freight train, the front half of which was leaning at a crazy angle and off the rails. The back half of the train looked to be intact. There was no sign of any fire or casualties.

  There was already a fire engine and one ambulance on the scene and more arriving as Flowers got out of his old Mondeo. There was also a uniformed police car, with it's blue light flashing, pulled up across the road, blocking off the crossing.

  "Anybody hurt?" asked Flowers, flashing his ID to the patrol man, who he didn't recognise.

  "I don't think so. There was only a driver and an engineer aboard. The rest is just empty freight wagons. The two of them are OK. A bit shaken, that's all."

  "Do we know what happened?"

  "It looks like they came off at the points. Either they shot the light, or the points weren't set properly."

  "Or the light was wrong," thought Flowers.

  More people were arriving, including a second patrol car and another fire appliance.

  "You'd better put up a tape barrier and keep the gawpers back," said Flowers as the curious locals began to arrive from all directions.

  Once it was clear that there were no injuries, the ambulances and fire appliances left. Some senior managers from the railway arrived, along with a representative of the Railway Police. There was little that Flowers could usefully do, but he took a walk around the site and wandered along the line for a hundred yards or so ahead of the train and back up the line behind. It wouldn't be the first time that an injured person had been thrown clear of the immediate scene and not noticed for hours. This time there was nothing significant to see.

  He spoke to the Railway Police representative who confirmed that they would take control of the scene and be carrying out the investigation. There seemed little point in staying longer and he phoned his boss with an update before heading home. It was too late to go back to Mercedes now, he decided.

  Mercedes ate her Chinese food alone. Part way through her solitary meal there was a clattering at the back door as a scraggy black cat pushed through the cat flap. "Hello, Mr Bun," she said. "I hope you like Chinese. We appear to have a surplus." She sighed gently at the thought of Des Flowers. "Just when it was starting to get interesting," she thought.

  Flowers was in the office early the following morning. Before his boss for once. The C.I. did a double take as he strode past Flowers' office and saw him sitting at his desk. "Good morning, Desmond," he said. Not for the first time did Flowers wonder why his boss was the only person to call him Desmond. Even his mother had called him Desi.

  "Nothing more about the derailment, I suppose?" asked the C.I.

  Flowers shook his head. "The Railway Police are taking charge of it themselves. I'll give them a ring this afternoon as a courtesy, but I don't think we'll need to get involved any further."

  "Well, keep me up to date, Desmond."

  Flowers nodded as his boss turned away towards his own office. He picked up the coffee cup from his desk and discovered it was already empty. "Hmm. Must've drunk it," he thought absent mindedly.

  He was saved the trouble of phoning his equivalent number in the Railway Police, when a call came through to him about mid morning.

  "Hi, Flowers. It's Jim Fisher. Just thought you'd like to know what caused the crash last night."

  "You know already?"

  "Yeh. It's cable theft. Some bugger's removed about a kilometre of signal cable. It's no wonder the train didn't stop. The lights weren't working."

  "Don't they fail safe to red?" asked Flowers in surprise.

  "They should. But that's a technical issue for someone else to follow up. I'll be looking for the thieves. I don't suppose you've had any reports about metal thefts recently?"

  Flowers couldn't recall anything recent, but metal thefts were increasing everywhere. It was on the news almost every day. Copper prices were going through the roof and even common metals like iron and steel seemed to be worth nicking these days. He promised Jim Fisher that he'd do a bit of digging and get back to him.

  In fact he found something interesting almost immediately. There had been a theft from St Stephen's only two days previously. Lead this time, from the roof.

  "Maybe it was time to make an unannounced visit the local metal dealer?" he thought.

  Mercedes set off for work on her 1969 Triumph Bonneville T120. It was a big bike for a girl to manage with it's 650cc air cooled engine, but it had been her father's pride and joy and he'd taught her well. As usual she was dressed from top to toe in black leathers with a full wrap around helmet. Her father had stressed the importance of good protective gear to her and a few falls had reinforced the message should she ever have needed reminding.

  She kicked the engine into life. Her good mate and mechanic Mike maintained the bike in superb condition for her and she loved him almost as much as she loved the bike.

  As usual, and contrary to all her father's careful advice, she was weaving her way through the traffic on her way into town. The traffic was heavy, as always, and it was too late when she saw that the manhole cover had gone. For the second time in less than a week she was spread across the junction with her bike spinning away from her.

  This time the bike was not so fortunate. A buckled front wheel and twisted front fork. Mercedes bounced and slid her way across the junction picking up more scuffs on her leathers as she went and adding to the bruises remaining from the previous incident. She came to rest with her head lodged against the central reservation. Apart from the bruises, she was pretty much unharmed. She was, though, very annoyed indeed.

  Flowers looked up the price of copper on the internet out of curiosit
y. He was astonished to see that it was selling for more than four pounds a kilo. "That's £4,000 a tonne," he whistled. "No wonder it's being nicked in such quantities." He wondered vaguely how much a kilometre of cable would weigh, but he hadn't the faintest idea. "They would have needed a vehicle, though, that's for certain," he thought.

  He made his way through the admin office. "I'll be out for about an hour, Janet," he called. "If Webb wants me he can get me on the phone."

  He pushed through the double doors at the back of the Police Station and walked over to his Mondeo. It was still looking remarkably clean. Even he thought it was an improvement from it's normal state.

  It took about twenty minutes to cross town and make his way into Sid's Metal Reclamation. There was a short queue of vehicles waiting to enter the yard including a couple of big trucks loaded to overflowing with scrap metal, from gates to washing machines, and some smaller pickups similarly overloaded. He decided to park in the street outside and walk in.

  Sid, as usual, was directing the vehicles into the yard himself and onto the weighbridge. After a short discussion with the driver and when the loaded vehicle had been weighed, they were sent through to the appropriate area of the vast yard. There were mounds of scrap in all directions and a couple of mobile cranes were picking up grab fulls of metal and piling them yet higher.

  Towards the rear of the yard was a veritable mountain of scrapped car bodies waiting to be crushed. At the exit end of the crusher was a somewhat neater wall made up of cubes, each of which had once been a car or van.

  There was a sound of screeching metal ringing and screaming over the noise of the diesel cranes. It was a scene of organised chaos over which Sid was king.

  "Business is good," said Flowers as he walked up to the man mountain that was Sid.

  "Mr Flowers," said Sid, beaming an unfelt smile of welcome. "Can't complain. Can't complain." He sent the next truck on it's way and beckoned it's follower onto the weighbridge.

  "What brings you this way, Mr Flowers? Not trouble I hope."

  "Depends what you've been up to, Sid," said Flowers, extending his hand.

  "Me, Mr Flowers? Just trying to earn an honest crust, as always."

  Flowers was sceptical, though he'd never actually caught Sid doing anything underhand. He put that down to bad luck on his part. He was convinced that Sid was as big a rogue as he looked.

  "Has anyone been in with a load of lead recently?" asked Flowers.

  "We get lead in almost every day, Mr Flowers. What exactly are you looking for?"

  "I'm looking for what came off St Stephen's roof."

  "I heard about that. You don't think I'd touch something like that, Mr Flowers, do you? Not if I knew where it had come from."

  Flowers snorted cynically. "I suppose it's still all paid for in cash?"

  "That's the nature of the business, Mr Flowers. It's always been cash and I hope it always will be. It's bad enough the paperwork we have to keep already."

  "You know the government is talking about making it illegal to deal in cash for scrap metal?"

  "Well, let's hope they don't succeed."

  "Do you mind if I have a wander round?"

  "Help yourself, Mr Flowers. There's nothing to hide here. Just mind out for the cranes. Wouldn't want you getting injured now."

  Flowers had his doubts about that, but he'd take the advice anyway.

  He spent the next ten minutes walking round the muddy yard. It was pretty much impossible to see anything amongst the tangled scrap. If St Stephen's roof was here, there was no way he'd find it just by aimlessly looking. He watched as one more car body was dropped into the crusher and listened to the squealing metal as it was crushed into yet another cube to be added to the wall. The machine compressed the car body as easily as a hand screwing up tissue paper. It was fascinating to watch, but also somehow slightly unnerving.

  He made his way back to the entrance. He was aware that Sid, despite feigning indifference, had watched him during his entire circumnavigation of the yard. Sid was not as innocent as he would like people to believe.

  "Didn't find your church roof, then?" Sid quipped as Flowers approached.

  "Didn't really expect to, Sid."

  "Was there anything else you were looking for? I could take that old Mondeo of yours, if you like. I saw you were still driving it. I'm paying fifty for car bodies today."

  Flowers ignored the jibe. "You could look out for anyone bringing in copper wire for me. Someone pinched about a kilometre of it last night from the railway."

  "That's terrible, Mr Flowers, There ought to be a law against it."

  "Oh, there is, Sid. There is. And someone will feel the full weight of it, don't you worry."

  Mercedes called Mike on her mobile. "Sorry Mike. It's not even driveable this time." She gave him directions and sat on the verge with the bike propped up beside her until he arrived.

  "We must stop meeting this way," said Mike, when he pulled up with his trailer. "That's twice in one week, Drew. What's going on?"

  "Some idiot has removed the drain cover. My front wheel went straight in."

  Mike took a quick look at the bike. "Front wheel's completely buggered and the forks. I don't know where I can get spares from."

  He remembered that she'd also been part of the accident. "What about you, Drew? Are you alright?"

  "I'll mend," she said, rubbing her sore shoulder. "I reckon I've got a full set now. Both shoulders and both hips, not to mention a sprained ankle."

  "A sprained ankle? Are you sure it's not broken?"

  "I said not to mention the sprained ankle." She looked at him with mock seriousness, before they both began to laugh.

  "You know I worry about you, Drew."

  "I know you do, Mikey, but I'm big girl now. I love you for it anyway."

  Mike loaded the bike onto the trailer and they both climbed into his tow van. "It's gonna take a while, this time, Drew. I'll have to search for parts."

  "Can I borrow the scooter again, Mike? I reckon I could manage that even with my sore foot."

  Fifteen minutes later she headed away from Mike's garage on the twenty year old Vespa scooter he'd lent her before. It may not have much street cred, but at least it went.

  Flowers had wanted to call Mercedes all day. He wanted to apologise for being called away the previous evening, but he also wanted to make another date before the opportunity disappeared entirely. He was torn between ringing too soon and appearing too eager and leaving it too late and appearing indifferent. In the end he held out until just after midday before phoning. He was almost surprised when she picked up straightaway.

  "Oh," he said in surprise. "I thought you might be at work." It occurred to him that he had absolutely no idea what sort of work she did, or if she even had a job, come to that.

  "Is that why you rang now, because you thought I wouldn't be here?"

  "Um, No. No, not at all. I just meant … " Flowers cursed himself silently. Why on earth was he getting tongue tied around her. He wasn't normally like that.

  She saved him further embarrassment by laughing down the phone. "I was kidding, Flowers," she said. "It's good to hear from you."

  He filled her in on the train derailment from the previous evening and then she told him about her accident.

  "Not again," he said, in surprise. "Are you hurt?"

  "Just a few bruises, but the bikes a bit smashed up."

  "Where's the bike now?"

  "Mikey's got it. He rescued me."

  Mike again. Flowers wondered how deep was the relationship between Mercedes and him. "He sounds like a good friend," he ventured.

  "The best," she said. "The absolute best."

  Flowers contemplated the answer and decided he still didn't know exactly what the relationship with Mike was. He decided not to pursue it further. "What made you come off?" he asked.

  "Some bastard had taken the drain cover."

  "What do you mean 'taken'?"

  "Stolen, filched, nicked, rem
oved, pinched. Whatever you want to call it. Took the drain cover and just left a hole in the road for some mug like me to fall down."

  Flowers pondered what she'd said for a moment. "What makes you think it was stolen, exactly?"

  "Cos they don't blow away in the wind or dissolve in the rain. Have you ever lifted one of those things? They weigh a ton."

  "Couldn't it be, I don't know, something to do with needing repair?" That sounded lame even to himself.

  "I rang the Highways people, Flowers, to complain. They told me that someone is nicking drain covers on a regular basis. It's been just the odd one or two up to now, but they've lost over fifty in the last few days. I'm surprised you don't know about it. They must have reported it."

  Actually, Flowers was also surprised that he didn't know about it. He decided to check it out once he was off the phone.

  "I was wondering," he said. "If we might finish off that Chinese meal?"

  "Too late, I'm afraid. I shared it with Mr Bun after you'd left."

  "Who the hell was Mr Bun?" wondered Flowers. "It couldn't be that Mike again, could it?"

  "Oh," he said with an air of resignation.

  "You could bring round another bottle of red, if you like. I could make us a spag bol or something."

  "Spag bol sounds good," said Flowers. "What time?"

  Despite the bruises, Mercedes paced about in her little terraced house like a caged tigress. She was damned if she was going to let some petty crook get away with damaging her bike. She made her mind up to do a bit of investigating on her own behalf. Mike's old Vespa scooter was parked out front and she decided to ride it in to the Council Offices and find out a bit more about the drain cover thefts.

  The Highways department was located in some temporary buildings at the back of the main council offices, though it looked as if the temporary buildings had been here almost as long as the main building itself. There was a small sign directing her to the reception, which turned out to be simply a window at the side of an office with half a dozen people sat at paper covered desks.

  "Do you have an appointment?" asked a girl with a stud in the side of her nose.

  "Yeh," lied Mercedes. "I spoke to your chief engineer this morning. He told me to call in."

  "Which engineer exactly?" asked the girl suspiciously.

  "I don't remember the name," bluffed Mercedes. "Peter or Paul someone?" she tried.

  The girl with the stud looked worried. "We don't have a Peter or a Paul," she said. "Are you sure that was the name?"

  "Who do you have?" smiled Mercedes. "What's the boss's name?"

  "John," said the girl. "John Bishop."

  "Yeh," agreed Mercedes. "That's him. I remember now. John Bishop."

  A few minutes later a harassed looking man in his shirtsleeves joined Mercedes in the small interview room next to the reception area.

  "How may I help you?" he asked tentatively, after they'd shaken hands. "Miss ?"

  "Drew. Mercedes Drew. But most folk just call me Drew."

  "Well, Miss Drew. How exactly can I help you?"

  "I had an accident this morning. Came off my bike on one of your drains with a missing cover."

  A look of alarm spread across John Bishop's face. "That's one for our legal department," he said hastily. "If you get your insurance company to write to the legal department, they'll handle it. I hope you weren't hurt by the way."

  "Just some bruises, though the bike's smashed."

  "Oh dear," he said. "Anyway, if you contact the legal department."

  "I didn't come here to complain. I want to find out who took the drain cover."

  "We don't know. Someone's taking them faster than we can replace them. We've almost run out of replacements."

  "Don't you have any idea? Don't you have cctv? I thought everywhere was covered by cctv these days."

  "Not everywhere, I'm afraid. But we do have some recordings. We've handed them over to the police already, though."

  Mercedes was disappointed. "Do you really have no idea? When did it start?"

  "The first ones went about two weeks ago. It was just the odd one then, but it's really started to accelerate in the last few days. Last night was the worst ever. More than twenty in one night. Some councils are going over to plastic ones. We might have to do the same."

  It was clear that she wasn't going to find out more here. She said her goodbyes and left. Maybe Flowers could help?

  Flowers was making his own enquiries. He tracked down the person who was following up the drain cover thefts and found him in the little viewing suite working his way through a stack of cctv recordings.

  "Anything?" asked Flowers.

  "Not a lot. The quality of these isn't up to much. I think there might have been something on one of them. That one," he said reaching across the desk and pushing the tape towards Flowers. "It's pretty indistinct, but it looks like a couple of blokes in hoodies doing something, can't see what because it's behind their van, but they're carrying something heavy when they come back into shot."

  "What about the van?"

  "The usual. White Transit. Can't read the plate and no obvious distinguishing marks."

  "How many more tapes have you got to look at?"

  "Another dozen or so. Take me a couple of hours, I reckon."

  "Thanks, Frank. Let me know if you find anything else."

  "What's the interest, if you don't mind me asking?"

  "Someone's been taking cable from the railway. Just possible it's the same crew."

  Flowers made his way back to his office and decided it must be at least an hour since his last coffee. He was about to go and fetch water for the kettle when his desk phone rang.

  "Hi, Flowers. It's Jim Fisher. Just thought you'd like to know that we took a look at the only cctv camera that was anywhere near the accident. It's on the level crossing, really, aimed at the road so it doesn't show anything of the accident itself, but there is a white van that looks a bit odd."

  "Odd? How?"

  "Well, it comes into shot just after eight o'clock, but instead of driving straight across the crossing it goes down the lane just before the crossing. It goes out of shot, but a few minutes later two men in hoodies come back down the lane and walk off down the track. They go out of shot again almost immediately."

  "But they're heading in the direction of the accident, yes?"

  "Yeh."

  "Do they appear again?"

  "Yes. About an hour later. They're dragging something. Can't see what, but it's obviously heavy."

  "Could it be cable?"

  "It could be, but it's too dark to see clearly."

  "What happens then?"

  "Well, the white van, or at least a white van, comes out of the lane and drives off."

  "Is it the same van?"

  "Can't tell. It's too dark and the recording's not good enough. Seems likely, though."

  Flowers thanked him for the information. Two possible sightings, one linked to the cable theft, maybe, and one linked to the drain covers. Both involved two men in hoodies and a white van. Coincidence? Who knew? Flowers hated coincidences. They made him feel uncomfortable.

  The rest of the afternoon he spent on other cases. He called Frank in the viewing suite before he quit for the day, but there was nothing on any of the other tapes.

  Flowers went home before driving round to Mercedes. He contemplated his meagre wardrobe. What did he have that looked casually cool, or effortlessly suave? He decided that the answer to the question was, nothing. He selected a black shirt and black slacks, but decided it made him look like a poor impersonation of batman. He searched through his T shirts but they were mostly of the 'not to be seen in unless on a foreign holiday where no one is likely to recognise you' sort. A suit would be too formal. A check shirt and jeans? Too country and western.

  He paired up a maroon and white striped shirt with a pair of grey pants. Looked like a refugee from an old folk's home. Shit! He was no good at this.

  Finally, after ag
onising for ten minutes, he went back to the original black combo, but decided on putting a white T shirt underneath. He completed the outfit with a pair of 'old look' leather boots in antique brown.

  After showering came the next big decision. Shave or not shave? Not shave looked a bit more cool, but he remembered his wife complaining of stubble rash. Who knows, he might get lucky. He decided to shave. Although he didn't normally use either, the ensemble was topped off with aftershave and deodorant.

  Feeling anything but effortlessly suave, he set off for Mercedes' house, calling via the Tesco Express for a bottle of red wine. He chose Californian, mostly on the basis of the picture on the label. He bought two. He hoped she would approve.

  Mercedes was having similar wardrobe dilemmas. She wanted to wear a dress, but the bruises on her shoulders were flashing like traffic lights. She swapped for a skinny jumper and skirt. Skirt length was a problem. Too short might look too keen. Too long might look frigid. Mid knee might be right, but the colours didn’t match. She opted for the shorter skirt with black tights and a rust coloured sweater with sleeves that hid the bruises. She was undecided about heels or not, when the door bell rang. She hadn't even started thinking about the spag bol.

  "Hi," she said, eyeing the man in black on her door step. "Hi," he replied. There was a moment's awkward silence. "I bought wine," he said, holding up the two bottles. "To go with the spag bol."

  "Shit!" she replied. "I completely forgot about the spag bol."

  Half an hour later, Mercedes was on her third glass of wine. Flowers was wearing an apron he'd found behind the kitchen door and was well into the cooking. "Do you have passata?" he asked.

  "Unlikely. What exactly is it?"

  "Um, a sort of tomato paste."

  "I've got ketchup."

  "Fresh tomatoes?"

  "Maybe one or two. In the bottom of the fridge."

  He found a half dried out tube of tomato puree in the door to the fridge, along with a couple of fresh tomatoes. He also discovered several miscellaneous spices in the cupboard and some carrots. Eventually he produced something that approximated to a spaghetti bolognaise. He even grated some cheddar cheese over it. Mercedes was impressed. Actually Flowers was pretty impressed himself. He was still on his first glass of wine.

  He served two meals into large soup plates and for the first time asked her about the accident. She gave him the short version and asked him whether he had any leads on the train accident.

  "A possible sighting of two men in a white van," he said. "Not much to go on."

  "I went to Highways to see if they knew anything about the missing drain covers," she said.

  "Hmm. Interesting thing," interrupted Flowers. "There was a possible sighting of two men in a white van there, too."

  "The same men?"

  "No idea. The cctv pictures aren't good enough in either case. There was a theft at St Stephen's, too. Lead off the roof."

  "Could they be linked?"

  "Maybe. Hard to tell at this stage."

  The wine was going to Mercedes' head. They'd finished the first bottle and were half way through the second.

  The conversation drifted away from thoughts of metal theft as they began to find out a little more about each other. They migrated to the sofa after the spag bol and Mercedes was pretty soon nestled up to Flowers, who, somewhat self consciously, had his arm around her.

  "You smell nice," she said. "Black suits you."

  "You too," he said. "Smell, I mean. Not black. Nice." The words were coming out in something of a random order, but Mercedes hardly noticed. Her head drooped onto his shoulder.

  "I'm going to find them," she said suddenly.

  "Find who?"

  "The drain thief bastards," she slurred. "No one breaks my bike and gets away with it."

  "Leave it to the Police, Drew. They'll get them sooner or later."

  "Sooner," she said. "Sooner."

  It was a while before he realised that she'd gone to sleep.

  Just after ten, the phone in Flowers' pocket began to vibrate. He managed to extricate it without waking Mercedes and saw that it was Jim Fisher from the Railway Police. He slipped from under Mercedes without waking her and made his way to the hall before ringing back.

  "There's some activity on the track," Jim said. "Care to join us while we go and take a look?"

  He met up with Jim near the Wells End level crossing. "I see that you've come dressed for the part," said Jim.

  Flowers glanced down at his all black outfit and shrugged.

  We think there's someone on the line about half a mile up," Jim said, pointing. "Someone phoned in. Said they'd seen two blokes in hoodies acting suspiciously."

  "Could be our guys," agreed Flowers. "It's a bit cheeky coming straight back after last night though, isn't it?"

  "Actually, it might be quite smart of them. The line's still closed while we clear the accident and all the attention's focused on rewiring the section that was stolen. I guess they figured that no one would be looking further up the line. They were probably right. It was just luck that someone out walking his dog was public spirited enough to report that he'd seen something odd."

  They set off together up the track, accompanied by two of Jim's colleagues. No one spoke and they walked without lights.

  "Someone's been here alright," said Jim after they'd walked for about ten minutes. There was a very visible cut cable draped across the rail. "Reckon we must have disturbed them."

  "Reckon they've gone, though," said Flowers. "Something must have spooked them."

  Mercedes woke among the debris of the dinner about three hours later. Flowers had gone. There was a short note propped up against the kettle. It said, "Thanks for a lovely evening. Work calls. Ring me tomorrow. xxx Flowers." His mobile phone number was scrawled across the bottom of the message.

  "Shit," she said. "Shit. Shit. Shit." She looked at the clock and decided it was too late to call him now. He'd be in bed. She toyed with the idea of calling him anyway, but in the end simply keyed the number into her own mobile phone.

  She began to clear the dishes but was suddenly seized with the idea to go out and look for the drain thieves. She changed into her motorcycle leathers, which she had to admit were a bit OTT for riding a Vespa scooter, but would have the advantage of being nearly invisible at night. She rocked the scooter back off it's stand and kicked it into life.

  She had no plan other than to cruise the streets and look for someone who might be stealing drain covers.

  Two men in grey hoodies sped away from Wells End in a battered, white Ford Transit van. "That was close," said the driver. "Bit of luck you saw them."

  "Do you think they saw us?"

  "Nah. They'd have made more noise, otherwise."

  "Reckon that we'd better lay off the railway for a bit."

  "Yeh. You're probably right. Pity, though. Sid's paying well for copper wire at the moment."

  "What about another church?"

  "Maybe, but we'll need to scout out something."

  "We could get some more drains?"

  "Maybe. Pity about the copper, though."

  There was very little traffic about as Mercedes cruised the streets. It was a bit unlikely she had to admit that she would come across someone openly stealing drain covers, but she was angry about her bike. She was also cross with herself for falling asleep and wasting the opportunity with Flowers. At least the fresh air was helping to clear her head. She was probably way over the alcohol limit she realised. Her Dad would have disapproved. Flowers would probably disapprove. She even disapproved of herself, but the drive to find the bastards who'd caused the damage to her motorbike was stronger than the desire to stay within the law.

  A solitary police patrol car passed her travelling in the opposite direction. Apart from a quick glance her way, the driver ignored her.

  She turned off the main road and into the Trading Estate. It was eerily quiet, unlike the hectic activity that was normal in the daytime. She spotted the
first missing drain cover almost immediately and turned the scooter through a three sixty degree circle to peer into the uncovered void as though it would somehow give her a clue about who'd taken it.

  "Was this newly removed?" she wondered, but the answer was surely 'yes', otherwise it would have been replaced or covered. "They're here," she told herself. "The bastards are close." A small shiver ran through her, whether fear or excitement even she couldn't tell. She continued to cruise slowly through the dark streets of the estate.

  Flowers made his way back to his car and thought about Mercedes. He glanced at his watch, almost two a.m., too late to go back there now. He wondered if they'd ever get an uninterrupted evening together. "A policeman's lot," he thought. It had a lot to do with why his first wife had left him. Was it happening again before he'd even begun a new relationship? He couldn't get Drew out of his mind as he drove himself home.

  Mercedes followed a trail of missing drain covers through the Trading Estate. She saw a white van cruising slowly ahead of her in the distance. It had no lights on and she decided to douse hers, just in case. The van stopped and a figure jumped out from the passenger side. It was too far away to be sure what he was doing, but she was almost certain he was trying to lever up the drain.

  She killed the scooter engine and coasted to a stop about a hundred metres from the van. There were no street lights, just the occasional security lamp on the side of some of the buildings. She crept along the edge of the road, keeping in the shadows. With her all black leathers, she thought she'd be pretty well concealed.

  The figure in the distance succeeded in raising the drain cover and opened one of the van's rear doors to lift it inside.

  Mercedes took her mobile phone from her pocket and tried to photograph the van. It would be too far away and too dark to show much, but it might be evidence. There was a flash and she realised she'd forgotten to turn off the auto flash mode. "Shit," she said, ducking behind the low car park wall. She decided to phone Flowers.

  He was sitting in his kitchen when she rang, nursing a cup of black coffee. He didn't recognise the number that came up on the screen.

  "Flowers."

  "Flowers, it's me."

  "Who's smee?"

  "It's me, Flowers. It's Drew. I've found them."

  "Found what?"

  "I've found the drain thieves."

  "Where the hell are you, Drew?"

  "I'm on the Trading Estate. Trusham Road. There's two guys in a white van and they're taking drain covers. I'm following them."

  "Drew. Don't do anything stupid. These guys could be dangerous."

  There was no answer.

  "Drew ... Drew … Can you hear me?"

  The line was dead.

  "Shit!"

  He grabbed his keys from the table in front of him and ran out of the house to his car. He gunned the Mondeo into life and the tyres squealed as he accelerated down the road. He reached the junction before remembering to put on his lights.

  Mercedes' struggles were in vain. The man who had grabbed her from behind while she was phoning Flowers was just too big and too strong. She kicked him in the ankle but he simply kicked her back to add to her existing bruises.

  "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

  "I could ask you the same," she replied, defiantly.

  He kicked her again. "I asked you what you were doing here?"

  "Xmas shopping," she said. "You?"

  "What are you going to do with her?" asked a second voice.

  There was a moment's hesitation before the big man said, "Stick her in the van. We'll sort her out later."

  "But who is she? Is she a cop?"

  "Have you ever seen a cop on a twenty year old Vespa, son?"

  "What are we going to do with the scooter?"

  "Just leave it. Some kid'll probably nick it later. Save us the trouble."

  Mercedes began to struggle again. "I've called the police," she said. "They're on the way."

  "Stupid bitch," said the big man. "You'll wish you hadn't."

  The two men dragged her kicking and yelling all the way to the van. Finally the big man had had enough. He punched her in the stomach and she doubled over with the pain. "Now will you shut the f*** up?" he said.

  The younger man opened both the back doors of the van and found a length of rope. "Shall I tie her up?" he asked.

  "Yeh, and make it tight. Stuff something in her gob, too. Don't want the stupid bitch screaming the place down. And get a move on. If she did phone the cops we've got about three minutes, max."

  Flowers sped through town to the Trading Estate. He was spotted by a police patrol car that was parked up, which didn't recognise his Mondeo and immediately gave chase. Flowers was aware of the blue flashing light coming up in his rear view mirror, but merely reached into the glove box of his own car and pulled out his own blue light, which he activated and put onto the dash in front of him. Without slowing, the two cars sped into the heart of the estate.

  He spotted her Vespa scooter near the start of Trusham Road, but there was no sign of a white van. The patrol car pulled up behind him and the young patrolman jumped out.

  "Sorry. Didn't recognise the car," he said when he clocked Flowers.

  "Get on the radio and put out a call to stop all white Ford Transits," said Flowers.

  "What are we looking for?"

  "Two guys in hoodies with a load of drain covers."

  "Is that all?"

  "They may have kidnapped a girl," added Flowers.

  Mercedes was being bounced around in the back of a van that was speeding away from the Trading estate. Her legs and arms were tightly bound with a blue nylon rope and there was a dirty rag in her mouth, held in place with duct tape. There was something hard digging into her back. She supposed it might be a drain cover. She cursed herself for getting caught. She'd been so intent on calling Flowers that she hadn't seen the big man come from behind the van and slip down through the shadows on the far side of the road, alerted by the flash from her mobile phone. She'd even dropped the phone when he grabbed her. At least Flowers had answered his phone, but would he come looking for her and if he did, how would he find her?

  The van slewed into a yard behind a row of lockup garages.

  "What are we gonna do?"

  "Nothing for the moment. We'll just sit it out for a few hours. If the silly bitch did call the cops they'll stop looking after a couple of hours. We'll dump the van later."

  "What about her?"

  "What about her?

  "What are we going to do with her?"

  "Dunno yet. I'm thinking about it."

  Flowers prowled about in the vicinity of Trusham Road. There were half a dozen drain covers missing, but it was too dark to see much else. He walked back towards Mercedes' scooter and thought he'd better get someone to recover it. It could be evidence if anything bad happened to her. "Drew," he thought. "Why couldn't you just leave it?"

  There was a small car park just beyond the scooter, fronted by a low brick wall. He stepped over the wall to look around and was surprised to find a mobile phone. It's screen was cracked. It looked as though it had been dropped.

  He picked it up using his handkerchief to avoid adding his own fingerprints and took it back to his car. In the glove box he had scene of crime plastic gloves and he put a pair on, before examining the phone more closely. Despite the cracked screen, it lit up when he turned it on. He looked at the menu and pressed the call history option. He was surprised to see that the last call had been to himself. "Mercedes' phone," he realised. It didn't look good. He shook his head sadly and put the phone into an evidence bag, before driving back to the station.

  The police stopped a dozen white Transit vans in the following hour, but none of them contained drain covers and none of them contained a kidnapped girl.

  At six a.m. the driver of the white van told his passenger to go home.

  "What are you gonna do?" asked the younger man.

  "I'm gonna get rid of the van."<
br />
  "Where?"

  "You don't need to know. If you don't know, you won't be able to tell, will ya?"

  "What about the girl?"

  "Goodbye, son. I already told ya. You don't need to know."

  "What shall I do at home?"

  "I don't f***ing know. Whatever you usually do. Have a kip. Watch the telly. Just bugger off. And don't do anything stupid. Keep your head down and don't attract attention."

  "Shall I ring you later?"

  "No. Just do what I told you. Go home. Do nothing. Say nothing. I'll get in touch in a couple of days. Alright? Comprenez?"

  "What?"

  "For f***s sake. Just bloody go will you."

  The young man pulled up the hood of his jacket and shrugged. "I was only asking," he mumbled as he walked away.

  Sid arrived to open up the scrap metal yard at six thirty as usual. They didn't open for normal business until seven, but he always got in early. There was sometimes a little off the books activity before the regular day's business began.

  Sure enough, there was a familiar white Ford Transit van waiting outside when he arrived. He opened one of the big metal gates and nodded it through before pulling the gate shut behind him.

  "What have you got?" he asked the driver. "I hope it's not more cable. You could have killed someone when that train came off. That was you, I take it?"

  The big man driving the van simply said, "I need to dump the van. There's a few drain covers in the back, but I need the van crushed."

  "I can't just crush the bloody van like that. It's gotta be stripped first."

  "OK. Just take the plates off and strip it then, first. It needs to disappear, that's all."

  "I can't give you anything for it," said Sid.

  "How did I guess?"

  "You can give me a few quid for the drains, though."

  "Too hot, mate. The cops have been round here already this week."

  "You're a f***ing rogue, Sid."

  "Takes one to know one. You can always take the van away. No skin off my nose."

  The driver, despite being a big man himself, was dwarfed by the bulk of Sid. He snorted and threw the keys to him. "I was never here, right?"

  "Haven't seen you for months," said Sid, climbing up into the van cab.

  Flowers sat at his desk looking the worse for wear. He'd missed a night's sleep and, despite shaving the previous evening, he had a heavy beard shadow. He was nursing an empty coffee cup in his hands. He's lost count of how many he'd had during the night.

  Mercedes' scooter had been recovered to the station on a low loader and a patrol car had called twice at her home during the night, but the doorbell was unanswered on both occasions.

  He put his forensic gloves on again and turned her mobile phone over in his hands for the hundredth time. "Where are you Drew?" he worried.

  He'd checked the call history, in and out, a dozen times. There was only one call out overnight, which was the call to him. There were earlier calls to various numbers. He checked his watch and rang each of the numbers in turn. No one had seen her since yesterday. He discovered that she'd rung Mike several times during the day, but Mike confirmed that all the calls were in connection with repairs to her motorbike. He sounded as worried as Flowers when he discovered the reason for the call. "You will tell me if you find her?" he asked.

  Flowers noted the use of the word 'if' not 'when', but he assured Mike he would call him. Not for the first time did he wonder exactly what was the relationship between Mike and Drew.

  While turning the phone over in his hand it crossed his mind to see what photos were on it. He couldn't decide whether this was a professional enquiry or a personal one. Perhaps it was both.

  There were photos of various people he couldn't identify as well as several pictures of her Triumph motorbike, both in it's damaged and undamaged state. The most interesting photo, however was the last one. It was a night time shot of a street. The scene was generally very dark. Although it appeared the flash had fired, it was far too feeble to illuminate more than a few feet of pavement. In the gloom, though, Flowers could see a white van in the distance. He selected the data option for the picture and was rewarded with a time and a date. The time was only a minute earlier than her phone call to him last night. "Bingo," he said, cursing himself for not having thought to look sooner.

  Using the touch screen on her Smartphone he enlarged the photo to maximum, but it was still impossible to make out much about the van. The cracked screen didn't help either. He picked up his desk phone and called an internal number. Moments later he was standing by a computer desk on the floor above. "Can you do anything with that picture, Derek?" he asked the young technician. "It could be evidence, so wear your gloves and don't alter anything."

  Derek had the image on the screen within seconds.

  "How did you do that without connecting it?" asked Flowers in surprise.

  "Bluetooth," replied Derek, as though that explained everything. It took him only a few seconds longer to blow up the photo on his computer screen and enhance the image quality sufficiently for them to be able to see the rear number plate on the van. The letters and numbers were still indistinct, however.

  "Pity this isn't TV," said Derek, "or we'd be able to do an infinite zoom and quality enhancement."

  It took Flowers a few moments to realise that this was just a cynical comment. "Is that the best we can do?" he asked.

  "It may be possible to do a bit more if you send it to Forensics, but it's the best I can do," Derek confirmed. "You can make out some of the numbers."

  Flowers put the numbers they had, or thought they had, into the Swansea vehicle license database, along with the vehicle type and the local post code. To his disappointment it came back with almost fifty possible matches. Nevertheless he put out the supplementary information to the patrol cars, without much optimism.

  His phone, however, rang just a moment later. It was from a patrolman who had picked up his last message. "Don't know if it's your man," he said, "but I noticed a white van waiting outside the scrap yard when I cruised by this morning. It was a Transit. A bit battered. Didn't get the number or any sight of the driver, I'm afraid."

  Flowers was out of the door almost before the call ended.

  Sid had parked the van up towards the back of the yard amongst the row of vehicles waiting to be stripped and scrapped. He'd empty it later. He did remove the license plates, however, and junked them into a container of mixed scrap waiting to be shredded. The big crane swung round overhead and picked up another car body for the crusher.

  As Flowers pulled up outside he saw Sid was in his customary position by the gate, ushering in the waiting vehicles anxious to offload their metal scrap.

  "Mr Flowers," he said as the detective approached. "To what do we owe this pleasure? Twice in one week."

  "Has anyone been in with a white Transit, this morning?" asked Flowers.

  "Mr Flowers, you don't expect me to remember every vehicle, do you?"

  "Don't piss me about, Sid. I'm looking for a white Transit that was seen here earlier this morning."

  "I don't recall, Mr Flowers," said Sid, a little anxiously.

  Flowers went to walk past him. "Don't mind if I take another look around, do you Sid?"

  "Actually, I do Mr Flowers. It's not a good day to be walking around on your own, today. We're very busy. Health and Safety and all that."

  Flowers gave him a sideways look. "When did you ever bother with Health and Safety?"

  "If you come back tomorrow, Mr Flowers, I could take you round myself," said Sid ignoring the question.

  Flowers went to walk by him, but Sid moved his bulk across to block his way. "Unless you've got a search warrant, that is," he added.

  "If you don't get out of my way, Sid, I might just arrest you for obstruction of a police officer in the course of his duty. If I have to get a warrant I'll tear this place apart."

  Sid looked over his shoulder anxiously. The crane was hovering above the row
of vehicles waiting to be stripped. It picked up a silver Vauxhall Astra, partially crushing the roof in the process, and placed it on top of the row of cars behind.

  "Mr Flowers, you know I run an honest business here. Why would you want to cause trouble?"

  Flowers gave a derisive snort. "Are you going to let me in or not?" he asked.

  They had to move aside as an empty truck pulled away from the weighbridge. Sid wiped his grimy hands nervously on his even grimier overalls. "I don't want any trouble, Mr Flowers."

  "So I can look around, then?"

  "I don't see every vehicle that comes in, Mr Flowers. I do have to spend time in the office, you know. Paperwork an' that."

  While they were talking Sid had shifted round so that he could see the crane over Flowers' shoulder. As he watched it grabbed the roof of the white Transit van and dumped it on top of the row behind, beside the silver Astra.

  "Help yourself, Mr Flowers," he said resignedly. "I don't see every vehicle," he repeated.

  "The hell you don't," thought Flowers as he walked down towards the lines of cars waiting to be scrapped.

  As Flowers walked down the yard, Sid took a mobile from his pocket and called the crane operator. "Put the Transit in the crusher, now," he said, as soon as the call was answered.

  "Which one, boss?"

  "We've only got one bloody crusher!"

  "Which Transit? There's two of them."

  "The white one. The one you just moved."

  "But it ain't bin stripped yet, boss."

  "Don't bloody argue. Just do it."

  He watched as Flowers moved down through the yard. The crane swung over the lines of vehicles waiting to be scrapped and dropped it's grab onto the roof of the white Transit. Flowers saw what was about to happen and ran down the yard, shouting.

  Sid watched anxiously as the Transit was hauled off the heap. Flowers continued to yell as he ran, but the crane operator either couldn't hear him or didn't want to. As the van swung off the heap and dipped down momentarily, Flowers jumped and grabbed at it's underside. His right hand caught something, he didn't know what, underneath the van and he was hoisted clear of the ground with it as it swung towards the crusher.

  Despite himself, Sid blanched at the sight. Crushing the van was one thing. Crushing a policeman was something else. It was the difference between a suspended sentence for interfering with evidence and life. He might not be all good, but he wasn't that bad.

  He called the crane operator again as the van was suspended over the crusher with Flowers still hanging beneath it. From the crane operator's viewpoint, Flowers was invisible. "Stop!" yelled Sid. "Don't release the grab. For Christ's sake. Don't release the grab."

  "How did you know I was in there?" asked Mercedes when she was freed.

  "I didn't," said Flowers, holding her more tightly than the normal police protocol would have suggested. "I didn't."

  Sid was ashen faced. "I didn't know she was in there, Mr Flowers. I swear it. I didn't have any idea."

  For the moment Flowers continued to ignore his protestations. He was shaking gently as he clutched Mercedes to him. "Drew," he said. "Don't ever do that again." He kissed her on the top of her head.

  "It was almost worth it," she thought, enjoying the moment despite the way he was crushing her bruises.

  Back at the station Flowers made himself another black coffee, a strong one and slumped into the chair behind the desk as Chief Inspector Webb strode in without knocking.

  "Well done, Desmond," he said. "I gather you've solved three crimes in one."

  Flowers wondered which three he was referring to.

  "St Stephen's, the rail crash and the drain covers, eh?"

  "Not to mention, kidnap and attempted murder," thought Flowers, but he kept the thought to himself.

  "I gather Sid Shelley is being cooperative."

  "Yes sir. Eventually. I think he saw that it might be to his advantage."

  "Quite. Quite. Well … Well done, anyway. Yes … Well done."

  "Thank you, Sir."

  "What's next then, Desmond?"

  "Bed, I hope, Sir. I think I need a few hours sleep."

  Mike rang Mercedes' number for about the hundredth time and, finally, she picked up.

  "I was worried about you," he said.

  "I'm fine, Mike. I'm fine. It's nice that you care, though."

  "You know I care about you, Drew."

  She could feel him blushing, even through the landline. "I know, Mike. Thank you."

  "I've had a bit of luck with the bike, too," he added quickly. "I was on the internet last night and I've found someone who's breaking a bonny. He's got a front wheel and front forks. Same model as yours, just a year different. Should have them by the weekend. Reckon I can get the bike back to you within a week."

  "You're a wonder, Mike. I love you."

  "If only it were true," he thought. "If only." For now, though, it would have to be enough.

  It was several hours before Flowers woke. The first thing he did was to ring Mercedes.

  "I hope I didn't wake you," he said.

  "I wouldn't mind if you had."

  "I was just checking."

  There was an awkward pause while they each wondered what to say.

  "We could open another bottle of red if you like," she said eventually.

  "I could pick up a takeaway," he said. "Do you like Indian or would you prefer pizza?"

  "Flowers," she said. "Just bring anything and maybe I'll think of a way to say 'thank you' while I'm waiting."

  "I'll be about an hour, I need to shower."

  "Make it forty five minutes, Flowers. I'm ravenous."

  He made it forty four.