Though there was one last week, the other side of Broxburn.’ ‘But this isn’t the first crash like this you’ve seen?’ ‘Cutting back on your vocabulary,’ Rebus explained. ‘You on a diet or something?’ The man looked at him. ‘Roads around here used as racetracks?’ Rebus continued.
Rebus offered him a cigarette, but the man shook his head. The baseball cap he wore was so grubby the lettering on it was indecipherable, and a thick greying beard covered his chin and throat.
He sported oily blue overalls under a scuffed leather jacket, and dirt was ingrained on his palms and under his nails. Rebus asked him how many Golfs ended up in the compactor. The man from the scrapyard was reeling out a cable with a large hook on the end. ‘I think the Golf still qualifies as a “hot hatch”.’ But this area’s notorious for boy racers.’ Word came down from on high: make sure we’ve not missed anything.’ ‘Mainly because her father seems to have friends. The windscreen was gone, driver’s-side door and boot gaping, both airbags deployed.Ĭlarke opened the folder. From what he could see of the tyres, there was plenty of tread on them. It was less than a year old, pearl-coloured. Clarke carried a folder, which was good enough for him – meant they were official, and therefore probably best avoided.
Rebaslight blinking driver#
The driver from the flatbed jutted out his chin in greeting but otherwise wasn’t about to ask who they were or why they were there. They made their way past the torn fencing and down the slope. True enough: the front of the Golf had become concertinaed on impact with the venerable oak tree. Must have been going at a fair clip, judging by the damage.
‘It’s a straight road,’ Clarke was saying. It was parked on the opposite verge, flashers blinking in a warning to approaching drivers. They had come in Clarke’s Vauxhall Astra. Edinburgh Airport wasn’t far away, and the roar of approaching and departing passenger flights punctuated the rural scene. A stretch of narrow country road on the outskirts of Kirkliston. ‘Not a bad afternoon,’ Rebus said, lighting a cigarette and examining his surroundings. The driver of the flatbed had sliced through it and was preparing to winch the crashed VW Golf up the slope towards the waiting ramp. The tape ran from an undamaged tree to a fence post and from there to another tree. The previous night, a flimsy cordon had been erected, consisting of three-inch-wide tape with the word POLICE on it. A flatbed lorry had arrived, the name of a local scrapyard stencilled on its doors.
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