Lethal Intent

Seventy-two

The van was like any other old Ford Transit, big and chunky, a commercial work-horse. It had seen better days, and its white-paint job was not the one with which it had left the factory. A keen-eyed observer who looked closely enough would have made out the words 'Stuart James Heating Engineer' beneath the new skin, and perhaps another layer below.

It was parked in the yard of a building-supplies company in a small estate just off Newcraighall Road, and it had been there all morning. The warehouse manager had no idea who owned it, and as Monday was always a slack day, he had not been too concerned about the space it took up.

However, as the hours ticked by, and more trade customers appeared, its presence began to annoy him. 'Does anybody have any idea whose that bloody Transit is?' he called out to the stock controller as he passed.

'I thought it was young John's,' the man replied.

'Naw. John's was pale blue, and anyway he got rid of it three months ago.'

'In that case, I've no idea. Is it bothering you?'

'It's takin' up space.'

'In that case call the police and have it towed.'

The manager allowed the van's owner another half-hour's grace, until finally his patience was exhausted. He took his friend's advice and called the Craigmillar police station, the closest at hand. He made a formal complaint that a vehicle appeared to have been abandoned on his premises.

The constables who arrived were rookies; he could tell that at a glance. The pink-cheeked boy could not have been any more than twenty-two or twenty-three and the girl, an Asian, looked even younger. He began to feel his age.

'Are you sure it doesn't belong to one of your employees?' the woman officer asked him.

'We don't have that many, miss. If it did, I'd have found him by now. The thing was here when I got on this morning, it's taking up space in my park that I need for customers, and I want it moved.'

'We should try and trace the owner first, and make sure it hasn't been reported as stolen.'

'Do whatever you have to do. Just make it go away.'

She walked over to her colleague. The manager saw him speak into his radio and heard him read the registration number. 'The sergeant says we should see if the keys are in it,' he called to her. 'If they are we've to drive it back to the station.'

'I'll have a look,' she said.

As she headed for the van, the manager turned and went back to his business. He was completely unprepared for her scream. When it came, he almost jumped out of his Hush Puppies. He ran out of the warehouse.

'There's someone in there,' he heard the girl cry out to her colleague.

'It'll be a dosser,' he called, taking pity on their youth. He walked to the back of the Transit, thinking that he should have done it a few hours earlier, took hold of the handles, twisted it and wrenched the door open.

She had been right: there was a man in there. He had been wrong: it was no dosser. He could tell that from his bulging eyes, his purple face, and from the red tie, knotted tight around his throat.