concerned if he were to give Tom a call himself at midweek, and tell him that being his adviser wasn’t going to work out and thanks, but no thanks. During the day he looked twice at his inbox but there was nothing from Jonathan Green and he wasn’t surprised. Why would the man answer when there was no sale in it for him?
Sylvia came round in the late afternoon and brought Mary with her. Both Wexford’s grandsons were still in education, the elder away at university, the younger at school. Mary told him excitedly about her new rabbit and the hutch called a Morant hutch it lived in, one which gave it a small lawn of its own to nibble.
‘Mummy said I could name him, so I’ve called him Reginald after you, Grandad.’
‘Thank you very much,’ said Wexford. ‘Does he ever get called Reg for short?’
Mary was shocked. ‘No, never.’
Dora went to look at his inbox just before they went to bed. ‘Two for you, Reg.’
‘You’ll have to call me Reginald now. After the rabbit.’
The first email was from Tom Ede, saying he hoped to see him on Tuesday. He had forgotten he had given Tom his email address, but of course he had, tentatively, along with his phone number. When Wexford saw the name ‘Jonathan Green’ he realised something. Minneapolis time would be six hoursbehind British Summer Time, which meant that when he sent his request it had been four o’clock in the morning there. Green had replied at nine-thirty his time. And what he said was that the only Edsel dealership he had ever heard of in Great Britain was Miracle Motors of Balham, London, but so far as he knew they had sold their last one in 2001. Wexford could try them. They might well know the location of all the Edsels in the United Kingdom.
He slept soundly that night and they set off back to London at nine next morning.
CHAPTER SEVEN
M iracle Motors were in the phone book. But he wouldn’t call them; he’d go there on Monday afternoon. He had paid visits to south London in the past but they had been rare. The Tube and the Northern Line were the obvious transport choice, for he had rejected the idea of driving through the traffic congestion. Miracle Motors was in the High Street, not far from Balham tube station.
By this time he had learnt quite a lot about Edsels from Wikipedia, because he had at first intended to present himself as an Edsel enthusiast. But he now saw the flaw in this, for such an expert might be expected to know more about the whereabouts of this Ford model than any salesman at the showroom. Instead, finding a girl of about twenty (something of a surprise, this) seated in a small glass-walled reception area, he simply told her the truth or half of it, that he was trying to trace an Edsel last seen in St John’s Wood about twelve years ago. Neither she nor the manager she fetched showed the least interest in what might prompt this investigation, though the manager appeared to think he was some sort of inquiry agent. In a way he was.
‘I’ve only been manager here for two years, but I can tell you we haven’t sold an Edsel for – oh, I’d say it’d be eight ornine years. Collectors buy and sell them online. This is one particular one you’re looking for, is it?’
‘It was a pale yellow colour or greenish-yellow. 1958 or 1959 – I’m guessing there. I don’t know if it was two-door or four-door. The owner or driver in 1998 seems to have been a very young man.’
The manager thought about it. ‘Your best bet may be to ask Mick.’
Wexford looked at him inquiringly.
‘Mick worked here for years. Mick Bestwood. He retired three years ago. But he knows all about Edsels. He’s even got a couple of them. He’s only just round the corner in Crowswood Road or I can give you a phone number. I’m sure he won’t mind.’
He would have found Mick Bestwood’s house without any directions. What had once been a front garden had been concreted over and become the parking place for an enormous car Wexford recognised
Sylvia came round in the late afternoon and brought Mary with her. Both Wexford’s grandsons were still in education, the elder away at university, the younger at school. Mary told him excitedly about her new rabbit and the hutch called a Morant hutch it lived in, one which gave it a small lawn of its own to nibble.
‘Mummy said I could name him, so I’ve called him Reginald after you, Grandad.’
‘Thank you very much,’ said Wexford. ‘Does he ever get called Reg for short?’
Mary was shocked. ‘No, never.’
Dora went to look at his inbox just before they went to bed. ‘Two for you, Reg.’
‘You’ll have to call me Reginald now. After the rabbit.’
The first email was from Tom Ede, saying he hoped to see him on Tuesday. He had forgotten he had given Tom his email address, but of course he had, tentatively, along with his phone number. When Wexford saw the name ‘Jonathan Green’ he realised something. Minneapolis time would be six hoursbehind British Summer Time, which meant that when he sent his request it had been four o’clock in the morning there. Green had replied at nine-thirty his time. And what he said was that the only Edsel dealership he had ever heard of in Great Britain was Miracle Motors of Balham, London, but so far as he knew they had sold their last one in 2001. Wexford could try them. They might well know the location of all the Edsels in the United Kingdom.
He slept soundly that night and they set off back to London at nine next morning.
CHAPTER SEVEN
M iracle Motors were in the phone book. But he wouldn’t call them; he’d go there on Monday afternoon. He had paid visits to south London in the past but they had been rare. The Tube and the Northern Line were the obvious transport choice, for he had rejected the idea of driving through the traffic congestion. Miracle Motors was in the High Street, not far from Balham tube station.
By this time he had learnt quite a lot about Edsels from Wikipedia, because he had at first intended to present himself as an Edsel enthusiast. But he now saw the flaw in this, for such an expert might be expected to know more about the whereabouts of this Ford model than any salesman at the showroom. Instead, finding a girl of about twenty (something of a surprise, this) seated in a small glass-walled reception area, he simply told her the truth or half of it, that he was trying to trace an Edsel last seen in St John’s Wood about twelve years ago. Neither she nor the manager she fetched showed the least interest in what might prompt this investigation, though the manager appeared to think he was some sort of inquiry agent. In a way he was.
‘I’ve only been manager here for two years, but I can tell you we haven’t sold an Edsel for – oh, I’d say it’d be eight ornine years. Collectors buy and sell them online. This is one particular one you’re looking for, is it?’
‘It was a pale yellow colour or greenish-yellow. 1958 or 1959 – I’m guessing there. I don’t know if it was two-door or four-door. The owner or driver in 1998 seems to have been a very young man.’
The manager thought about it. ‘Your best bet may be to ask Mick.’
Wexford looked at him inquiringly.
‘Mick worked here for years. Mick Bestwood. He retired three years ago. But he knows all about Edsels. He’s even got a couple of them. He’s only just round the corner in Crowswood Road or I can give you a phone number. I’m sure he won’t mind.’
He would have found Mick Bestwood’s house without any directions. What had once been a front garden had been concreted over and become the parking place for an enormous car Wexford recognised
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