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smoke belching from the exhaust, and I followed as he turned into Camden High Street and down past Euston Station and its throngs of home-going commuters.
    There was no problem at all in keeping up with him, in the rush hour traffic the Honda was much faster than his truck and it was so distinctive I could hang well back.
    He drove through Bloomsbury, and before long we were over the Thames and heading for Battersea. I felt luckier and fifteen minutes later he pulled up in front of another lock-up garage, much the same as his own except this one 30 had the legend 'Kleen Karparts' above the brown-painted twin doors.
    Bert wiped his nose again on the dirty cloth and sounded his horn three times. A door opened and he disappeared inside. Kleen Karparts was in the middle of a row of small businesses , abathroom shop with suites for � 1 99, abookmak- ers, three or four shops with shutters down and 'For Sale' signs up and a couple which were open for business but with nothing in the windows to give a clue as to what they sold.
    At the end of the road was a narrow passage which led to a muddy track behind the backyards of the shops. Karparts was fourth from the end and set into the wall there was a weatherbeaten door painted the same dirty brown as the front entrance. The door had warped badly and by pressing against it I could get a pretty clear view of what was going on inside.
    A man wearing dark blue overalls and a welding visor was cutting away at what appeared to be a brand new Mercedes, and as I watched he pulled away the rear wing in a clatter of metal. At the front of the car a young lad, sixteen or seventeen at the most, was using a winch to take out the engine. There were two or three other cars in the back yard in various stages of being stripped, and one of them looked like a Porsche, but as there was virtually just a chassis left it was difficult to tell. Lying around were piles of electric wiring, headlamps, cartes, bumpers, enough parts to build yourself several complete cars if only you could work out how to put them back together again.
    Another youth came into view, small and dark and wearing a black leather motorcycle jacket, laughing with Bert who was wiping his nose yet again. They walked up to the man in the welding visor who had now moved over to the driver's side. He noticed the two of them, switched off his cylinders and pulled away his visor revealing a crop of purple hair and three gold earrings in one ear.
    'Dinah,' said Bert. 'How's it going?'
    'Triffic,' replied Dinah as he pulled at his virgin ear. 'Should have these done by tonight and then I'll start cutting up the chassis for scrap. I can't strip them fast enough, we've done two Mercs this week and I've got a backlog of orders for Jags, BMWs, the lot. I might even have to go legit.'
    'I bet,' said Bert. 'The Porsche ready?'
    'It's inside. Can I do you for anything else, body panels, lights, windows?'
    'Nothanks, Dinah, justtheengine, that'sall Ineed forthis job. I'll tell you what, though. I'm going to be needing a rear axle for a Merc 500 SL some time in the next couple of weeks, maybe a gearbox too. I'll give you a bell.'
    'Consider it done, there's always a market for Merc parts. Not the easiest cars to get hold of, though, but I'm working on it.'
    'Yes, well, you know what they say, Dinah, practice makes perfect, and when it comes to getting hold of cars there's no one getting more practice than you.'
    'Nice of you to say so, Bert, but I'm still not going to give you a discount. Harry, give Bert a hand with the Porsche engine and for God's sake count the money first.' He reached up and pulled the visor down and turned back to the Mercedes, laughing as the two men walked back towards the garage.
    I crept back down the passage and waited at the entrance to the road until the two men came into view, pushing a mobile winch which they used to load what seemed to be a brand new engine onto Bert's pick-up. He pulled himself into the driver's cab,