Secret Asset

47

Eddie Morgan didn’t want to get fired, but since it would be the fourth time in five years he was at least used to it. “Anyone can sell,” his boss Jack Symonson liked to declaim. Then with a sarcastic sideways glance at Eddie, “Well, almost anyone.”

His wife, Gloria, would be upset, Eddie knew, but she should know by now that there was always another job, another slot in the flexible framework of the used-car business. The pay was tilted so heavily in favour of commission rather than salary that there was little risk in taking someone on—especially if, like Eddie, they had been around the trade for almost twenty years.

He knew cars—that wasn’t the issue. Give him a used Rover with 77,000 miles and he could tell you after no more than a quick sniff how long it would last and what it could be sold for. What he didn’t have—there was no use kidding himself—was the ability to close a deal. Customers liked him (even his bosses conceded that) and he could talk fluently about anything on four wheels. But when push came to shove… he couldn’t close.

Why can’t I? he asked himself for the third time that week, as a blonde woman in shorts, recently divorced and looking for something sporty, said, “I’ll think about it,” and left the forecourt after forty minutes of his time. Eddie stood, leaning against a five-year-old Rover, soaking up the sun.

Someone whistled, and he looked and saw Gillian, the receptionist, beckoning him from the showroom door. “Boss wants to see you, Eddie.”

Here we go, thought Eddie as he went inside, doing up his tie like a man tidying up on his way to the firing squad.

He was surprised, after knocking and entering Symonson’s office, to find him with another man. “Eddie, come in. This is Simon Willis, from DVLA. He wants to ask you about a car.” Willis was young and informally dressed—he wore a parka and chinos. He looked friendly, though, and as Eddie sat down, he grinned.

What was DVLA doing here? wondered Eddie, more curious than nervous. Or was this guy a cop? Whatever his weaknesses, Eddie had always been straight when it came to business, a bit of a rarity in the second-hand car game.

Willis said, “I’m looking for a Golf, T-reg, that our records say was sold here about two months ago.”

“By me?”

Willis looked at Symonson, who laughed derisively. “Miracles do happen, Eddie.”

Hilarious, thought Eddie sourly, but gave a fleeting, insincere smile, then looked back at Willis as Symonson continued to chortle at his own joke. Willis said, “The car was bought by someone named Siddiqui. Here’s a picture of him.”

From his lap Willis drew out a photograph and handed it to Eddie. It was an enlarged passport shot of a young Asian man with dark mournful eyes and a wispy attempt at a goatee.

“Do you remember him?” asked Willis.

“I’ll say,” said Eddie. How could he forget him? It was his first sale in almost two weeks; Symonson had started making the first of the grumbling dissatisfied noises that had recently approached a crescendo.

Then one morning a young Asian man had come in and started looking around, curtly rejecting the offers of two of the other salesmen for help. Eddie had therefore approached him tentatively, but the man had been receptive enough to let Eddie escort him around the cars in the forecourt, through the Peugeots and Fords and the two used Minis they had in stock, until suddenly the Asian stopped in front of the black Golf. Sixty-three thousand miles on the clock. In reasonable nick, though it could do with a respray.

Eddie had begun the spiel, but the Asian—unusually, since as a rule Eddie found those people very polite—had cut him off. “Spare me the bullshit,” he’d said. “What’ll you take for it?”

Eddie said to Willis now, “Yes, that’s the one. We haggled a bit over price, but in the end he seemed happy enough.” He wanted Symonson to feel he had handled the sale adroitly, but his boss’s expression remained indifferent. Eddie asked, “Why? Is there a problem?”

“Not with the car,” said Willis. Eddie looked at him more closely. Eddie had seen enough policemen over the years to know that, whatever Willis said, this was not your average copper.

Eddie said, “If he had a problem with the van, that’s his lookout. I warned him it was pretty iffy.”

There was silence in the room as Willis seemed to digest this. Finally Willis asked quietly, “What van?”

“The one he bought two days later. When I saw him come in I reckoned he’d had a problem with the Golf. Or just changed his mind—people often do that right after they buy a car. But no, he wanted a van as well. So I sold him one.”

“What make?”

“I think it was a Ford. It’ll be in the books.” He gestured towards Symonson. “But it was six years old, I remember that. White, of course. He insisted on climbing into the back to see how big it was. I got three and a half for it. I warned him about the transmission, but he didn’t seem to care.”

“Did he say what he wanted it for?”

“No.” The second time the young man called Siddiqui had been even terser than before, so Eddie hadn’t bothered trying to pitch.

“Did he say anything about where he might be going?”

Eddie shook his head. “He didn’t say much at all. No small talk. There’ll be a name and address in the books but he paid cash—both times.”

Willis nodded but Eddie could tell he wasn’t happy. “If there’s anything at all you remember about this man,” said Willis, “please give me a ring.” He took out his wallet and extracted a card, then handed it to Eddie. “That’s my direct line. Ring me any time.”

“Okay,” said Eddie, looking at the card. I’ll be damned, he thought, he is from DVLA after all. “Is that it?” he said, looking back and forth between Symonson and Willis.

It was Willis who spoke. “Yes,” he said. “Thanks for your help.”

As Eddie got up to go, Symonson said, “Will you be around later, Eddie? I need to talk to you.”

Where else does he think I’ll be? thought Eddie sourly. Honolulu? The Seychelles? “Yes, Jack,” he said, knowing full well what they would be talking about. “I’ll be here.”