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all around the spot, like.’
    ‘And you’re going to tell me that now, right?’
    ‘Dai Young. You’ll have heard of him too? I bet Pepper talks of nowt else these days.’
     
    Copeland shrugged, but Farmer was right. Pepper never stopped going on about bloody Dai Young. ‘So why not just tell Pepper yourself, Mr. Farmer? Cut out the middle-man, sort of thing.’
    ‘Oh no, son. Like I said I want this all on the record, all official, like. I want my name to be on file, and all the information I provide to be properly logged.’
    ‘And what makes you think that DS Wilson wouldn’t do that?’
    ‘Come on, lad, act your age. I know you’ve only been working here for five minutes, but you must know what she’s like. She’s a bloody one-woman army, is young Pepper Wilson. Anyway, you’re asking the wrong question. The right question is, why am I giving this to you? There are loads of other CID blokes in the county who I could have gone to, although it’s true that most of them are useless tossers who couldn’t find their arses with both hands. So why did I choose you, do you think?’
     
    Copeland was getting cold, and he could feel the water being drawn up through his socks by some kind of textile osmosis. ‘Don’t piss me about, mate. Just say what you’ve got to say and we can both get on our way. So far all you’ve given me is a lot of vague bollocks. I’m not even sure it’s worth writing up, now I come to think about it.’
    ‘But you will write it up, DC Copeland, you will do that. Every bloody word. You’ll even pull the CCTV from here, I wouldn’t wonder, just to check I am who I say I am. So you run along, and I’ll be in touch as soon as I know any more. And you tell Pepper Wilson that I send my regards. To her and her dad both, like.’
    Copeland nodded, and turned away. It was only when he was unlocking the car that he remembered that Farmer had never said how he’d been selected. He looked back, but Farmer was nowhere to be seen. It probably didn’t matter, anyway.
     
     
    DC Armstrong was on his fourth and final breaker’s yard visit, on the outskirts of Whitehaven. The first three had been wash-outs, in every sense, and he’d spent most of his morning trying to avoid both the puddles, each glistening with a rainbow sheen of petrol, and the sharp-toothed tethered dogs that he encountered before he even reached their monosyllabic owners. But this place was different. There were no dogs, and the big warehouse space was dry. The lad behind the counter got on his walkie-talkie and the owner appeared after a minute or two. He even shook hands with Armstrong, having wiped his hand on his overalls first. It didn’t make them any cleaner, but Armstrong appreciated the thought.
    ‘What’s this about?’ the owner asked. ‘You’re welcome to walk the yard, if you want.’
    That was the last thing that Armstrong wanted.
    ‘No, I’m enquiring about a Ford Granada. Have you had one in?’
    ‘Not in about ten years, no. You could have phoned up and asked that, son.’
    ‘How about other classic cars?’
    ‘No, that’s not our thing. Just no call for them, see. Cars are just like washing machines to most folk, these days. I’d love to stock bits for the classics myself, but they’d just gather dust for years, I expect.’
    ‘So you don’t think that someone who is stealing them these days would be doing it for parts?’
    ‘I didn’t say that. Just that we don’t sell them. But for lots of old cars, calls them old bangers or classics if you like, there’s no call for remanufactured parts, so second-hand is the only way to go.’
    ‘What kinds of parts?’
    ‘It depends on the model of car. Usually mechanical parts aren’t that hard to get hold of, but things like interior and exterior trim can be well-nigh impossible to find, even second-hand.’
    ‘And there’s no way of tracing these parts back to an individual car?’
    ‘To prove they were nicked, like? No, no way at all.