Page 128 of Making a Killing

Yep, here we are. Pick up at five fifteen.

CG:So you’d have dropped off at Hescombe around five thirty?

JT:Probably – it’s not far.

CG:Do you remember the fare? Young Irish woman with long red hair?

JT:Yeah, now you mention it, I do remember her. Quite a looker. I gave her a card so she could call me when she wanted to be picked up later.

CG:Did she? Call?

JT:No. Just as well I didn’t turn down a big job or an airport because I never heard from her again. I assumed she was going to see some bloke and then ended up staying over, you know, they made up.

CG:Made up?

JT:Well, she was in a right state in the car. If a woman’s that worked up, it’s always about a bloke, right?

CG:One more thing – if you had some rubbish you wanted to get rid of round your area, where would you go?

JT:Well, there’s a household dump in Pershore – recycling and that. Or do you mean like fly-tipping?

CG:I’m thinking more those industrial-size dumpsters. Somewhere you could leave stuff after hours.

JT:Oh right, I get it. Well, there’s the Charlton Lane industrial estate in Evesham for starters – no probs getting in there after dark. Assuming that’s what you’re asking.

***

Adam Fawley

1 August 2024

17.15

‘You know it’s Lily’s ballet thing at seven?’

Alex is trying hard not to sound naggy but I can hear the anxious undertone, even on the phone.

‘I’ll be out of here in half an hour. Tops.’

‘Good – she really wants you to be there.’

Even though we all know she’ll be in the back row the entire time. Lily adores ballet but mainly because of the dressing-up; she’s not very good at it and rather endearingly doesn’t seem to care. Not that Alex or I ever say anything. In Alex’s case, as an absolute article of faith, because she still remembers a teacher saying ballet classes would be wasted on her because she danced like a fairy elephant. She was five years old. Never assume a child will just forget.

‘Don’t worry. It’s a red line. I’ll be there. In fact, I’m leaving now.’

It’s not a lie, I’m on my feet. Only to be confronted by that cop-show cliché of someone appearing at my door in a state of advanced excitement. In this case, Ev.

‘Asante was right – Robin Tierneydidhire that car Gary saw on the drive in Hescombe. Picked it up at Hertz at Heathrow. A pale blue Fiat Panda automatic.’

‘Do we know if it was returned?’

‘Not yet,’ she says, ‘but we’re checking.’

‘Excellent. What about Tierney’s bank account?’

She shakes her head. ‘Still waiting. It was at Citibank West Hollywood, so I’ve made contact with a guy in the Financial Crimes Unit of LAPD. But it’s a safe bet there’ll be nothing left. They’ll have found a way to move that money by now – some dodgy banking jurisdiction, maybe, though personally, my money’s on bitcoin.’ She grins. ‘Daisy has all the makings of another missing crypto-queen, don’t you think?’

I smile; she has a point. ‘OK, text me if you get anything new.’

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