The Wandering Whisperer

Kendrick recognised the car straight away: the huge, long torpedo-shaped bonnet; the swooped over back end; the furry dice; the "nothing to prove" sticker in the rear window. How many C-reg, rusty lime green Capri's could there be in Black Valley?

'You have a hideous taste in cars, Charles.' The Wandering Whisperer's car park was nearly empty. A dozen or so cars were scattered here and there, hot pistons cooling under a multitude of bonnets, metal contracting, waiting for their over the limit owners to return; the short journey back into town was deemed a worthwhile risk for most of the Whisperer's guzzlers. The place was quiet, however, even for a Thursday night. Cursory light spilled across the puddle-strewn car park from the hooded, sentinel arc-sodium lamps that were dotted here and there.

Kendrick wound his window down a bit, sparked up a cigarette, took a deep drag and blew the smoke out through the gap, into the rainy night.

'Blood Weather.' He had a good view of the Capri; his black Ford pickup parked just far enough away to see but not be seen. The Porsche was safely locked away at home, in the garage. Best to drive something a little less conspicuous, he thought.

The time on the digital dashboard clock read: 9:22pm. He'd been sat there for a few minutes, waiting, mulling over the best way to get Charles out of the pub without causing a scene. But Charles had never been one for leaving before closing time, and always under duress. It wasn't going to be easy.