Personal

I looked around. I started with the dusty sedan parked in the corner, with the soft tyres and the missing front wing. Because why would a car stay in the shop long enough to get soft tyres? That was no kind of an efficient business practice. A car needed to be on the road, earning its keep. If it was unfixable it needed to be towed away and crushed. Because the workshop needed to earn its keep, too. Every square foot had to turn a profit.

I looked at the car’s trunk. It was a large square box, and a locked compartment, right there. Hiding in plain sight.

I tried the key.

It didn’t fit.

Nice said, ‘Reacher, we have to go.’

I tried the next car, and the next. The key didn’t fit. I tried the Skoda we had arrived in, even though I knew it would be hopeless. And it was. I went from car to car. The key didn’t fit any of them.

Nice said, ‘We’re out of time.’

I looked around, and gave it up.

‘OK,’ I said.

I went back to the boxed-off room’s doorway, and knelt over the guy lying there. He had stopped whimpering, but he was still alive. He must have had a skull like concrete. I found the Skoda key in his pocket. I tossed it to Nice and said, ‘Start the car. I’ll get the roller door.’

The roller door had a palm-sized button on a switch box, which was connected to its winding mechanism by a long swan-neck metal conduit. I pressed the button hard, and the motor jerked to life, and the slack was pulled out of the chain, and the door rattled and started to rise. The daylight came back, inch by inch. It spread across the floor, and up the wall on the other side of the space. I saw Casey Nice in the Skoda’s driver’s seat. I saw her looking down at the controls. I saw a puff of black smoke as the engine started.

I saw another palm-sized button on another switch box. And another. And another. On the hoists. Hydraulic mechanisms, up and down. The hoists were empty, all but one. Which had a car raised high, its underside all black and dirty, its trunk way up there, above head height. Out of sight and out of mind. Some cop I was.

I hustled back and gave Nice a wait sign. I hit the button. There was a grinding noise and the hoist came down, slowly, slowly, past my eye line, and onward. The car on the hoist was a boxy old thing, covered in dust. With soft tyres. The hoist slowed and settled, and the car rocked once, and went still, and the grinding noise stopped, and at the same time the roller door at the entrance hit the top of its travel, and its noise stopped too, leaving only the heavy diesel beat of the Skoda’s idling engine.

I stepped up to the dusty car’s trunk lid. Which was less dusty than the car itself. It had fingermarks all over it near the lock, and palm prints all over it near the lip. It had been raised and lowered about a hundred times since the passenger doors had last been opened.

The key fit.

The lid came up, on a noisy spring.

The car was a decent-sized sedan, and its trunk was pretty deep and wide and long, big enough for a bunch of suitcases, or two or three golf bags, or whatever else a person might want to transport. And it was full.

But not with suitcases or golf bags.

It was full of handguns, and boxes of ammunition.

The handguns were all Glocks, at first sight, all brand new, all wrapped in plastic, neatly stacked, mostly 17s, the original classic, some 17Ls, with longer barrels, and some 19s, with shorter barrels. All nine-millimetre, which matched the Parabellum ammunition stacked alongside, in boxes of a hundred.

Casey Nice got out of the Skoda. She took a look, and she said, ‘Sherlock Homeless.’

I said, ‘The 19 will fit your hand better. You OK with the short barrel?’

She paused a beat and said, ‘Sure.’

So I unwrapped a 19, and a regular 17 for myself, and I loaded them from one box of ammunition, and took two more boxes unopened. We left the hoist down and the trunk lid up, and we got in the Skoda, with Nice driving. We backed up and turned and headed for the exit.

‘Wait one,’ I said.

She braked, and came to rest with the hood in the bar of daylight coming in the door. I said, ‘Where are we?’

She said, ‘Wormwood Scrubs.’

‘Which is like where else, comparatively?’

‘The South Bronx, probably.’

‘But the British version. Where they don’t hear gunshots every day.’

‘Probably not.’

‘In fact when they do, they still call the cops. Who show up with SWAT and armoured vehicles and about a hundred detectives.’

‘Probably.’

‘And I never trust a weapon I can’t be sure will work.’

‘What?’

‘We need to test-fire the Glocks.’

‘Where?’

‘Well, if we did it here, the cops would come, and they would get ambulances for those who need them, and then they would gather enough red-hot evidence to put a serious dent in this whole Serbian thing they seem to have out here. Which all in all might be considered a public service.’

‘Are you nuts?’

‘Aim for the cars. I always wanted to do that. Two rounds each, and then get the hell out.’