Dead at First Sight

100 Friday 12 October

Jules de Copeland, standing in the car park in the glare of the breakdown truck’s headlights, directed the driver. He stood, watching, as the man in overalls got out and examined the Kia’s front right tyre. After just a few seconds he shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t be clever to repair that, sir,’ he said. ‘That’s a bad tear.’

‘What can you do?’ Copeland asked. ‘I’ll pay whatever’s necessary.’

‘No need, not a problem, it’s down to the hire company. I’ll just replace it. I brought a spare, just in case.’

Copeland gave him a high-five. He watched him drop a ramp at the rear of his truck and, expertly, roll down a heavy-duty jack. He cranked up the front of the car and set to work. Fifteen minutes later there was a brand-new tyre on the wheel. He dropped the car back down, produced a form for Copeland to sign, rejected the fifty-pound note he was offered as a tip and jumped back into his cab.

Copeland pressed the clicker to open the garage door and the truck drove up the steep exit and out into the grey, early-morning light.

As soon as the door clattered back down, Copeland hurried back up to the fifth floor, switching off his phone and dropping it down the rubbish chute on the way. He went into his flat and peered down through the window.