The glass walls were smoked and lent the room an evening air, like a smart hotel in a foreign locale frequented by wealthy businessmen. The cars were even shinier inside, their lines beguiling and the colours bright, like perfect children lined up for adoption.

An army of identical plug-in heaters littered the room, rumbling heat out into the ridiculous space, losing the battle against the faint smell of mouldering damp. In the distance, silhouetted against the window, a dumpy woman in tracksuit bottoms and T-shirt vacuumed the dark carpet under a car.

A man her own age and height stepped in front of her, smiling politely. He wasn’t good-looking, wasn’t tall but was very carefully groomed. Even the grey fleck around the temples of his black hair looked like a deliberate design. His grey suit hung beautifully from his shoulders. He smiled, showing her an army of capped teeth. ‘May I see your warrant card again, please?’

She got it out and gave it to him, noting that he knew a warrant card was called a warrant card and finding that interesting. He handed it back, letting off exactly the same smile. ‘Many thanks.’

She couldn’t look at the row of enamels without imagining a dentist going at his real teeth with a hammer and chisel.

‘We have to be very careful,’ he explained, ‘because of the value of the merchandise. So, what can I do for you today?’

‘You had a car on order for a Mr Omar Anwar?’

‘Hm, what brand?’ He was smiling, not picking up on the air of menace she was trying to exude. Morrow felt a bit insulted.

‘Lamborghini.’

‘Ah, Lamborghini…’ He rolled his eyes towards the ceiling and she noticed that his bottom teeth were yellow and crooked, as if they were from a different mouth altogether. ‘The bad boy. The King.’

‘Aye, well you can cut the shite with me, I just want to see your records.’

He faltered at that. She shouldn’t have said it. It wasn’t just who she made Brian be, it was everyone. She was turning everyone she saw into an arsehole. It didn’t used to be like that. She thought of Brian in his mum’s old deckchair and her anger abated. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said… that was rude.’

The man showed her his teeth again. ‘Yes, there’s no need for language.’

She looked around the showroom again. ‘Damp?’

He sighed. ‘Smells, doesn’t it? Wouldn’t mind but we actually own the building so we can’t threaten to move or anything. There’s a stream.’ He drew a line along the floor. ‘We’re suing the architect.’

‘Good,’ she said, trying to be friendly.

‘Listen, I can’t just show you someone’s records of purchase without a warrant or anything. I have to protect my clients. Would be bad for business if people thought they couldn’t trust us to be discreet.’

‘Purchaser is more than happy for us to have a look at your records. Could bring him here or you can call him.’

‘I think the latter would be more suitable.’ He beamed again, better this time, as if his face was warming up. ‘You have to appreciate, a lot of the people we sell to…’ He gave her a knowing nod, smiled and walked away.

In Morrow’s head she asked him if his clients were crooks, drug dealers, buying his cars with stolen money. In her head she threatened to look at all his records, pull the fuckers in and say she’d got it from him, give them his photo and let slip his name and address but she shut up. Gerald had died. It was the first time she’d thought the words since they left the hospital. Gerald has died. She hadn’t said it to anyone because she couldn’t even think it. Gerald died, but this, the carnage afterwards, this was her creation.

She followed him across the damp-smelling floor, blinking back small tears, wishing her hand was on Brian’s forearm, before he looked at her, the scratch of the soft wood on her wrist.

The man’s office was really just a large circular desk in the corner of the room, big enough to look fancy but up close just four curved tables shoved next to each other. He took his jacket off and hung it on a hanger, sat down in a wheeled office chair and walked himself across to the computer monitor, flicking on the hard drive. He sat, with his eyes on the screen, hands poised above the keyboard, a concert pianist waiting for the maestro’s signal.

It took a long time. Behind Morrow the vacuum hummed and the fan heaters grumbled to one another. She’d been turning away from Brian since they left the hospital, since the lift down in the hospital in fact, insisting that she would carry both the plastic bags of Gerald’s belongings, refusing to even let him take the SpongeBob doll from under her arm. She’d never felt it was a choice until now.

The monitor flicked bright suddenly and made them both jump. He smiled up at her. ‘Oh,’ he stood up formally and held his hand out, ‘I’m Bill Prescott.’

Morrow shook the hand, wondering why she hadn’t asked his name, worrying that she hadn’t.

He sat back down, the smile lingering on his face, adding, ‘General manager.’

Morrow nodded, shifted her weight, cleared her throat softly. It was suddenly getting warm in the showroom. She felt a prickle of sweat in her oxters.

‘Here we go.’ He used the mouse to choose a file, and picked up the phone next to him, dialling the number on the screen. Holding the receiver to his ear he smiled up at her, waiting and suddenly his face brightened. ‘Ah, hello, is this Mr Omar Anwar?’ He nodded. ‘This is Stark-McClure over on Rosevale, yeah, sure yeah uh, brilliant, OK, well listen, Mr Anwar, I have a police officer with-’ He listened, looked at Morrow as if she was being discussed, smiled the million dollar smile, ‘Great. That’s OK with you then? All and any documentation, Mr Anwar? Great.’ Looking suddenly worried he nodded and tried to interrupt, ‘I see. It is refundable. The full deposit isn’t refundable but that deposit is. OK, will – will do. Fine, as I said before, sir, that’s absolutely – OK, OK? Well, if you wanted to come in and look for any-OK, straight back to the account, OK. Great. Great. Bye. Bye.’

Bowing obsequiously he leaned forward, following the receiver down to the port, and hung up. He sat up and managed a faltering smile and spread his hands. ‘Cancelled the order. Wants a refund. And he said you can have anything.’

Alex sat in her car in the car park and looked at the photocopies. The deposit had been paid in the name of Aamir Anwar. Bill Prescott explained at length that it was a deposit to secure a place on the Lamborghini waiting list, not actually a deposit for the car. Omar had cancelled it and wanted a full refund into Aamir’s account.

Two grand was hardly evidence of massive international fraud. He could have saved it up himself from a bar job.

The receipts were confirmation of everything Omar had said the night before. It bothered her though. Three kids, a religious father and he was helping his unemployed youngest son to buy a Lamborghini. Not even the oldest son. And the father was frugal. He had a cheap white van parked in front of the house. That level of flash didn’t sound consistent. She looked at the receipt again.

Aamir Anwar’s account details had been blanked out by Bill Prescott but his name was there. Omar said yesterday that he could empty these accounts to pay for his father’s return. He had access to those accounts. There was nothing to stop him paying for a car out of them as long as he repaid the money.

She realised what it meant: Omar was a fantasist, he didn’t have money or a rich father, or a fraud scam. He was, at worst, optimistic about a bad business idea.

They had nothing but Malki Tait’s fingerprints and the chances were they were from an old foil.