Page 19 of Mann Hunt
“Good. We’ll have to use yours. Mine’s parked at Bar-None.”
He rushed Charlie to the door and down the stairs. They exited onto the street and Declan asked, “Which way?”
Charlie quickly walked down a side street and led Declan to a small, light-blue, four-door hatchback.
Declan stared at it. “This isn’t a car. It’s a Chevette!”
“I’ll have you know this car was one of the first four-door models of its kind. It’s a classic!”
“Okay, let’s see if this dodo can fly.” He ran around to the passenger door and waited for Charlie to reach over and manually unlock it.
According to the GPS on Declan’s phone, it was a fifteen-minute drive from his office in Kensington to Abel’s Wrecking Yard on Beaufort Road. He suspected that Charlie had been trained in defensive driving from an early age because it had been nearly twenty-eight minutes and they still hadn’t arrived.
“I can understand why they sent the finger, but why the ear?” Charlie asked. Focusing on driving had apparently calmed Charlie’s nerves.
“Maybe it was a warning that they have ears everywhere and that we should keep our mouths shut.”
“Good to know.”
They pulled into the wrecking yard and Charlie followed Declan as he ran into the office. “I’m Declan Hunt. I’m here about a car.”
The old man behind the counter answered, “Yeah, I was told you were comin’. Interested in the bright-red Dodge Challenger, I hear. Good car. Couldn’t believe someone’d wanna t’ scrap ‘er. People nowadays, right? Livin’ in a disposable world. Not willin’ to—”
“I’d love to see it,” Declan interjected.
“Pulled it out into the drive, jus’ so you could have a look at ‘er. Jus’ head straight down the main road, first left. Ya can’t miss ‘er. Left the keys in the ignition.”
Declan raced out the door, and down the drive, yelling back to Charlie to bring his car.
The Challenger was just where the old man had said. Declan opened the driver’s door. The detective pulled the keys out of the ignition and ran back to the trunk. He calmly slid the key into the lock, and turned it. Thetrunk lid opened. Inside lay the body of the accountant Palvinder Attwal.
Charlie pulled up, got out of his car and cautiously approached the Challenger.
The man lay on his right side. He was trussed up so tightly Declan was surprised he could breathe—if he was still breathing. To make things worse, he was gagged and blindfolded. His head was still partially bound in a turban which had staunched the bleeding from the severing of his left ear. His left hand was a ball of blood-soaked rags.
“You’ll be all right now, Mr Attwal,” Charlie said in a loud voice.
Declan pulled a small knife out of his pocket, and cut the man’s restraints, starting with the gag. He was relieved to hear the body suck in air.
“Charlie,” Declan said calmly, “I want you to help me lift Mr Attwal out of the trunk.”
They extracted the rotund little man from the trunk and helped him into the back seat of Charlie’s car. It was at this point that Charlie turned his back on the two and vomited beside the Challenger.
Declan threw him a sympathetic glance then ran back to the office.
“Okay—this is what you’re going to do,” he said to the man behind the counter. “You’re going to call nine-one-one and ask for police and an ambulance. Tell them you have an injured man. You’ll stay here until they arrive, then direct them to us. You’ll tell the police that you were showing us the car when all of a sudden you heard a noise coming from the trunk.”
He could see the old man processing this step by step. Declan had dealt with guys like this before. They knew when it was important to play dumb.
“When they ask, and not before, you’ll tell them the car was dropped off early this morning by a guy. He said it was his dad’s car. The father gave up driving and didn’t want it around anymore. You don’t remember much about the guy. He was middle-aged and white. He went home to get the registration papers, but hasn’t come back yet. Do you understand?”
The old man just nodded.
“Good. Now make the call.”
Declan ran back to the car. He saw Charlie crouching down beside Mr Attwal, talking softly to him. He was giving the injured man small sips of water from a bottle he held in his hand.
“Not too much, Mr Attwal.”
