Sunday 29 December 1985

The garage smelled of petrol, damp concrete and the metallic tang of something that wasn’t quite blood and wasn’t quite rust.

Reg Makepeace paused on the threshold, collar turned up against the cold and listened. The engine was off now. That was something.

‘You all right, sir?’ Dave Wilson called quietly from behind him. ‘Ambulance is on its way.’

‘Let’s see what we’ve got first,’ Reg said. His breath fogged in the air.

The Rolls sat along the far wall, black paint dulled by grime. The driver’s door hung open. A length of hose lay discarded on the floor, one end near the exhaust, the other trailing, pointless, in the air.

Joe Samson slumped in the driver’s seat...

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