They were the right keys.
Brockley Gate. TR7. That’s all Ten had said, but it was enough. Out of context, to someone who didn’t have the keys, or know Ten himself, it might appear meaningless. Brockley Gate was easy enough to find, a cul-de-sac of private lockups not far from his house. But the lockups weren’t numbered in any way that resembled TR7, and when Bridge looked up the postcode, she discovered TR7 was for Truro in Cornwall. Anyone following that thread would be on a wild goose chase.
But the keys themselves had a homemade fob, a thin strip of paper folded once over the key ring and completely bound in sticky tape as a crude form of waterproofing. It was old, browning from light exposure and however many kinds of dirt, grease, and oil had been transferred from Ten’s hands. Creased, crinkled to within an inch of its life, and curling at the edges. Underneath the layers of tape, the blue ballpoint ink of what Ten had written there seemingly decades ago was visible. Just two digits, 18.
At this time of night, the lockup area was deserted. Bridge noticed the silent, dim red pulsing operation light of a CCTV camera mounted high on a corner wall, watching for thieves. But she was no thief; she had a key.
Lockup number 18 was one of the larger units, as wide as two of the nearby houses, with a double-width rollup door. She inserted Ten’s key in the lock and turned it. With a solid metallic click, she felt it give and unlock. She pocketed the key, then lifted the door open with a grunt.
Inside it was completely dark. She had a flashlight on her iPhone, but didn’t use it right away. To whoever was watching on the other end of that security camera, it would look pretty dodgy if she didn’t appear to know where the light switch was. So she stepped inside, lowered the door behind her, and waited till it was completely closed, enveloping the lockup in complete darkness. Then she activated the flashlight, and found the light switch.
Bright halogen strips temporarily blinded her, but as her sight returned she knew she was in the right place. Tool racks lined the walls. Where the racks ended, metal shelves filled with parts and smaller tools filled the space. Next to the wall-mounted power point was a workbench covered in half-built parts, oily chamois leathers, an oil-stained portable stereo, stacks of CDs, an electric kettle and a coffee mug. The workbench was as untidy as anything in Ten’s house. The tool racks and shelves, by contrast, were extremely neat and well arranged.
And in the centre of the unit, in differing states of repair, were four sports cars.
Bridge smiled to herself. Ten hadn’t been bullshitting at all. They were real. The only problem now was that she knew very little about cars. Sure, she could drive. Advanced Driving and Pursuit was one of the many courses she’d undertaken at the Loch, though not her best, and once she got out of the driver’s seat she stopped caring. To her, cars were nothing more than tools, a means of getting from A to B, and in London there were a multitude of ways to do that without the indignity of having to drive yourself.
So none of the cars were immediately recognisable to her, although she definitely remembered a couple from the days when Tenebrae_Z used to post occasional ‘Adventures in Elbow Grease’ photo sets to uk.london.gothic-netizens, for the benefit of the half-dozen other members who oohed and aahed over them. Ten was always careful never to show anything that could give away his location, or include his own face in the photos — another reason why some had cast doubt on whether he was pulling their legs. But the more Bridge looked around the garage itself, the more she recognised it from the background of those pictures. She glanced over the manufacturer badges of each car. A green Austin-Healey, a white Lotus, a blue MG…
And there, a bright red Triumph TR7.
It was a funny-looking thing, a triangular wedge that was all hard angles and corners, none of the smooth curvature associated with modern sports cars. She’d seen it somewhere before, and not just in Ten’s photos from the garage. A Bond film, maybe? She smiled and shook her head, wondering if that was why Ten had chosen to direct her to this car in particular. But direct her to it was all he’d done, and now she had to figure out why. She found the keys to the TR7 on a rack hanging above the work bench, opened the car door, and slipped inside.
The first thing she noticed was how small it felt. She couldn’t imagine driving this thing for more than five minutes without needing to stop and stretch her legs. The thought made her realise that she had no idea how tall Ten was, no context for his own comfort in a vehicle like this. On the one hand, why buy a car too small for you to sit in comfortably? On the other hand, she knew enough about restoration geeks to guess Ten may never have intended to drive the car. She’d noticed on her initial walk around the exterior that it had no licence plate.
What was she looking for? She didn’t know, but Ten must have thought it important enough to send her here, and specifically to this car.
Like most old cars, the interior was sparse. The driver’s side had a small coin shelf, but all she found in there were two small screws. The gearbox was uncovered, affording a view down into the guts of the car, which made the lack of anything meaningful quite obvious. She turned round in the seat, wondering if there was something in the back — then laughed at herself when she came face to face with the rear window, and remembered that cars like this didn’t have back seats. Probably didn’t have much boot space, either. Not exactly designed for a family holiday; more for a day trip out to the country house, all goggles and driving gloves.
Gloves.
The glove compartment was locked, and she wondered who on earth would need to lock a glove compartment? But there was a second, smaller key on the TR7’s ring that opened it.
Inside was an owner’s manual, a logbook, and a Western Digital portable hard drive.
Chances were that nobody except Ten had touched the drive, but Bridge wasn’t in the mood to take chances. She wasn’t carrying latex gloves, but did have a pack of tissues in her coat pocket. She used one to pick up the drive, turned it over in her hands — two terabytes, she noted — and placed it in her inside pocket.
The train ride home seemed to take days.