Wiping grease from The Lemon Sole Plaice’s best fish and chips off my hands (I was disappointed to have been served by an old man, presumably not Rita), I looked at the newspaper wrapping. It was the Western Morning News, and I noticed the ubiquitous picture of Angel at the bottom of the front page with a small headline stating that the girl was still missing. Screwing this up and dropping it into a bin next to the bench by the quay, I walked across to Stocker’s Body Shop, where my car stood ready outside the shed, the racing green and chrome bodywork shining from end to end.
“Washed her for you as well, Ted has,” beamed Pete, clapping his hand on the boot. “Good as new. And he checked your points. Said you were misfiring a little. Timing all wrong.”
“May I thank Ted myself?”
“Bookies.” Pete jerked his head back in the direction Lemon Quay. “I’ll tell him for you though.”
“Looks good,” I said, opening and closing the boot, which did indeed seem to work. “What’s the cost?”
“Hmmm…,” said Pete, pulling out a pair of spectacles and a long sheet of paper. “There’ll be parts, new locking mechanism, handle, catch spring. Then there’s labour, and Bob’s lunch.”
“Bob’s lunch?”
“Well, more elevenses really.”
“Really?”
“Yes, he had to stop on the way back from Plymouth.”
“Doesn’t he do that anyway?”
“Bob?” Pete called.
“Yes Pete,” came the reply from under the same Transit van as I’d seen the day before.
“Do you do that anyway?”
“Do what?”
“Have your elevenses on the way back from Plymouth.”
“Course, bacon sandwich and a cup of tea from Andy Dower’s café on the A390, just after Liskeard. Never miss it.” Pete just nodded at this.
“So?” I said to Pete, throwing my arms wide at this surreal duologue.
“I’ll knock it off. That’s just saved you half a crown, Mr Sangster.”
“How much now?”
“Er, with eight percent purchase tax, sixty-seven pounds exactly.” Pete held the paper close to his glasses. “Minus your fiver deposit, and that half-crown of course.
“Look, just make it a round sixty-seven, so here’s the sixty-two I owe you,” I said, counting out the notes. “And give me a receipt.”
“Thanks, Mr Sangster.” Pete signed his long paper, then scribbled ‘paid with thanks’ and handed it to me. “Now you watch out on the road, weather’s on the turn.” I looked up to see threatening storm clouds brewing all across the sky.
“I will,” I answered, hearing Pete shout out as I drove away.
“Sangster’s paid for your elevenses, Bob.”