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expected to participate. It had all the same buzz phrases and acronyms too. This one started with the Three Es for improvement of road safety – Education, Engineering and Enforcement.
    Two-thirds of the class had been caught by speed cameras going over the limit in a thirty zone. The oldest attendee complained that he’d been driving for sixty-four years, always kept his insurance, tax and MOT paid up to date all that time, then got caught by a speed camera doing thirty-seven miles per hour, no doubt in his Fiat Uno or something. Another man said he’d volunteered for the course to get his insurance premiums down. One woman admitted she’d taken a re-test after being convicted of drink driving.
    On the other hand, there were a couple of decent blokes there who’d been a good laugh. One of them had arrived a few minutes late, looking flushed and sullen. He claimed to have done some advanced driver training in the military, and hinted at Special Forces. But throughout the session he shouted out the stupidest comments and answers he could think of, suggesting that from a pollution point of view it was better to flog a V8 Range Rover to death, then shoot a cow, because it produced just as many emissions as the car. As the afternoon wore on, he’d become more and more outrageous, until the presenter finally lost patience with him and threatened to throw him off the course, which would have resulted in three points on his licence. The other bloke had admitted he liked to drive fast, and blamed the government, speed cameras and the police for his presence on the course. It probably wasn’t the attitude that was expected of them.
    Well, they were the only people who’d made those four hours of his life even remotely worthwhile. At the end of the session, Charlie had got Sheena’s phone number, and gone to the pub for a drink with the two blokes. It was one of them who’d made the joke about calling the session an SAS course. They were both full of it, really. But Charlie could see exactly where they were coming from.
    Charlie had felt a bit sorry for that presenter, though. He looked professional, had his name badge on a yellow lanyard round his neck, and a Dell laptop running a PowerPoint presentation. He’d shown them an animated reconstruction of a multiple pile-up on the M4, in which fifty vehicles had collided in fog, causing ten fatalities as a truck loaded with gas canisters exploded and started a massive blaze.Then he handed out handsets to vote on test questions. What was the national speed limit on a dual carriageway? Half the group got it wrong. They discovered they could have been driving faster after all. Well, fast legally anyway.
    The course was run by AA DriveTech. Didn’t the AA used to stand up for motorists? He had a vague impression of his grandfather talking about driving his old car and being warned by an AA patrol of a speed trap ahead. Now they were part of the process of persecuting motorists, no doubt taking a decent share of the proceeds from the people in that classroom.
    While the presenter was speaking, Charlie had done a quick calculation on his notepad. Twenty-six people here, who’d each paid more than ninety pounds to be on the course. The presenter said this was one of three sessions today. If the other sessions had the same number of people, that came to … over seven thousand pounds for the day. And that was just for the one venue. There were other places in the county he could have chosen. Nice work, if you could get it.
    He pictured those two dozen people gathered in a room at a hotel on the Chesterfield bypass, next to a Tesco supermarket. He bet that some of them didn’t even drive often enough to get their cars dirty.
    Charlie Dean stopped what he was doing. His eyes glazed over as he stared across the narrow street at the stone wall opposite. His umbrella sagged on to his shoulder and rain began to fall on his face. But he hardly noticed.
    He’d just remembered the mud on his