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“What kind?”

“Scrap.”

“Yours?”

Davo’s expression hardened. “What?”

“The contents. They belong to you?”

“Aye.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

Davo glared at him. “Still waiting for you to produce that warrant.”

Right.

The man knew precisely how this game worked.

Harrison nodded pleasantly. “Fair enough.” He straightened his cuffs. “Could’ve saved us both some paperwork, but I suppose I should be grateful. This suit wasn’t made for crawling through piles of rust.”

Davo didn’t smile.

Harrison headed for the door, then paused. “One more thing.”

Davo sighed heavily. “Christ.”

“Who owns the site?”

“What d’you mean?”

“The land. Who owns it?”

“You can look that up.”

“I can.” Harrison rested a hand on the doorframe. “Would they have access?”

“They don’t come here.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Davo’s mouth pinched.

“Do they have access?”

“Wouldn’t know.”

Harrison nodded . “Right. Of course. Must be difficult to keep track of who has access to your site when you’re personally dealing with an indeterminate amount of vehicles a week.”

Davo said nothing.

So Harrison left it there.

Davo Garfield had spent the best part of twenty minutes telling him absolutely nothing, while simultaneously giving Harrison considerably more to check than he’d arrived with. Staff. Rotas. Access. Cameras. The lock-up. The landowner. And somewhere among it, perhaps, the reason someone had thought this place worth an anonymous phone call.

“Have a pleasant day, Mr Garfield.” Harrison gave a curt nod. “And if you happen to remember anything useful, you can contact me directly. DI Harrison Black. Feel free to pass the name around. Especially to the owners.”

Davo leaned back in his chair and studied Harrison from behind those mirrored lenses. “You’re new here.”