‘This is Mr Reynolds,’ Dario says. ‘His van was stolen on Tuesday night, from Berton.’
I raise my eyebrows. ‘Why are you only reporting it now?’ I ask. ‘That was two days ago.’
Mr Reynolds shifts in his seat. ‘Well, I thought my son had taken it. He just passed his test. He told me he was heading to a festival with his mates, so I said they could use the van. I left the key in the ignition and nipped to the pub. Later that night, he came home fuming, saying the van wasn’t there when he went to pick it up. Everything from the boot had been dumped in the front garden. At first, I thought he’d done it, but he swore it was already like that when he came to pick it up.’
‘Maybe he took it, trashed it and didn’t know how to tell you,’ I suggest.
‘He’d know better than to lie to me,’ he says firmly.
‘You do realise leaving keys in the ignition practically invites theft?’ I say.
He nods sheepishly.
‘Where exactly was it parked?’
‘On the driveway, outside the garage. I’m a builder. I keep all my tools inside, and the van is left outside. It’s an old van, though. Not worth much.’
‘We’ve got the reg,’ Dario adds.
‘But they didn’t steal the tools? Are there any security cameras? Did the neighbours see anything?’
‘I already asked around, and no one near us has cameras.’
‘We’ll circulate the details, but honestly, it’s probably been dumped,’ Dario tells him. ‘You’ll need to report it to your insurance. We’ll give you the incident number.’
Reynolds sighs and stands up, clearly deflated. ‘Do you know what a new van costs?’
‘Next time, I suggest you take the keys with you,’ I reply.
He storms out, slamming the door. My head protests loudly.
‘Rough night?’ Dario asks.
‘Something like that,’ I mutter. ‘I’m on soft drinks from now on.’
He touches my arm. That same strange jolt runs through me. ‘I meant what I said last night. If you ever need to talk…’
‘Thanks, Dario. Really.’
As we step back into the hubbub of the station, he asks, ‘Who was your friend from last night?’
I grin. ‘Gil? She’s got the hots for you. Want me to introduce you? She’s a surgeon at the Churchill.’
He pulls a face. ‘She’s nice, but not my type. I just wondered why she rushed off like that.’
‘Tinder date,’ I say with a shrug.
He grimaces. ‘Tinder? Is she that desperate?’
‘Maybe you should try it,’ I say teasingly.
‘Piss off,’ he says, but he laughs.
I drain my coffee, which has not helped with the hangover, and grab my coat. ‘We should check out Berton. There are numerous places where a van could be abandoned. Insurance won’t get him much. What colour is the van?’
‘White,’ says Dario.
I sigh. I don’t like to imagine how many white vans there are in the area.
