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Mohammed Abidi’s engine was still running. Had he been alive he would’ve been able to hear the droplets of blood as they splished and sploshed into the puddle next to his open driver’s-side door. His head hung at an awkward and unnatural angle, but that wasn’t the sort of thing that would worry him any more.
The sound of the droplets of blood landing in the puddle were interspersed only by the sound of his on-board radio squawking into life every few seconds as his controller tried desperately to get hold of him.
Mrs Hoxton was, apparently, furious and wanted to know why her cab had now turned up late for a third day in a row.
Unfortunately for Mrs Hoxton, her cab wasn’t going to turn up at all today.
