49
Stone threw open the passenger door the moment Grey stopped his car alongside the porta-cabin that housed the office of Tredegar Scrapyard. He was out and at the door before Grey had his seatbelt off.
“Good morning,” he said pleasantly when the office’s sole occupant had finished on the phone.
“Morning,” the stocky scrapyard worker returned the greeting absently as he searched the desk in front of him for a pen. “How can I help you?”
“DI Stone,” he introduced himself. “I’d like to speak to someone about a car that was sold for scrap in the last month. Can you help?” he asked, taking out his notepad, in which he had the details of the car stolen from Sharon Hawkins.
“I’ll do my best,” Clark – Stone assumed that the name stitched across the pocket on his grubby denim shirt was his –
