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I drive straight to a used car dealer close to where I've been living. A small forecourt jammed nose to tail with cars of all makes. Some newer than others, but each one at least a few years old. I park the Range Rover down a side street and pick my way through the cars. The office is a white cabin with blue bunting strung across the front. Frank Samson Autos is painted in matching blue lettering on the side.
The door is open. The salesman’s out quick to meet me with a sweaty handshake and a smile slicker than his hair. He's young and whippet-thin inside a cheap black suit, white shirt and pink tie.
"Hi I'm Frank. See anything you like?" he says. "What kind of motor are you looking for?"
"Something cheap," I say, "but with a bit of speed."
I notice the lad's name tag says Frank Sam
