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started it with a shudder and drove off, smoke still pouring from the rusty exhaust.
    There was a pub opposite Karparts, a run-down drinking man's den, the varnish on the windows cracking with age and the rough-cast stained where rainwater had flooded down from a blocked gutter. I stripped off my waterproof gear and pushed it into the carrier on the back of the bike and walked inside the gloomy bar.
    The ex-boxer of a barman asked, 'What can I get you, chief?' and I paid for a whisky and sat at a creaky circular table circa 1950 in the corner facing the door. Twenty minutes later Dinah came in, his overalls swapped for jeans and a grubby green sweater which clashed perfectly with his purple hair. With him were the two youngsters from Karparts, and Dinah brought out a wad of five-pound notes from his back pocket to pay for a round. At the back of the pub was a pool table and after a few minutes Dinah's com- panions walked over, pushed in two ten-pence pieces and started to play. I picked up my glass and went over to Dinah, sitting alone at the bar.
    'How's it going, Dinah?' I asked.
    He turned from his glass and looked me up and down. 'Do I know you?' he asked.
    'Not yet, Dinah, but you will, you will. I need a car and I think you're just the chap to help me get it.'
    He shook his head. 'Try a garage, mate - I deal in parts and spares.'
    'Second-hand parts by the look of it, and most of them hot enough to cook sausages on.'
    'What are you getting at? You the law?'
    'Do I look like the police?'
    'As a matter of fact you do. Sod off and leave me alone.'
    'Look, Dinah, the fact that I'm here talking to you in the pub and not bursting into your yard with a search warrant should prove to you that I'm not a cop, but if you want I could give them a ring. I think they'd be fascinated to hear about the operation you're running over there. Pays well does it?'
    'What operation? What do you think I am, a surgeon?'
    'Of sorts, Dinah, of sorts. How did you get a name like Dinah in the first place? Parents expecting a girl, were they?'
    The change of subject took him by surprise and his 33 mouth hung open in amazement. 'My name's Maurice, Maurice Dancer - '
    'I don't believe it,' I said interrupting. 'Maurice Dancer? Somebody in your family must have had a sense of humour. Had a tough time at school did you?'
    He shrugged. 'Yeah, I guess so. For a while, anyway, then Maurice was shortened to Mo and then I got the car bug and got stuck with the nickname Dyna-Mo and that got shortened to Dinah. What's it to you, anyway?'
    'I just want a chat, Dinah, that's all. Let me get you another. What are you having?'
    'Bitter, a pint.'
    'OK.'
    'And a double whisky.'
    'Expensive tastes, Dinah, can you afford them?'
    'If you're paying, I don't have to. Get us a meat pie as well, hey? I haven't eaten today.'
    I bought Dinah his supper, and we went over to the corner table where I watched his two mates scuffing the pool table and spilling lager down the pockets as Dinah attacked his pie and drank his whisky in two swallows.
    'What's your game?' he asked finally, brushing crumbs onto the floor and picking up his beer.
    'As I said, Dinah, I need a car, and I think you're just the man to get it for me.'
    'But I've already told you that selling cars isn't my game.'
    'Dinah, I'm not stupid. I know exactly what your game is. And it's not Subbuteo.'
    'What are you geting at?' he asked, and started tearing a soggy beermat into tiny pieces, flicking them into a dirty ashtray.
    'Dinah, it's simple. You're a car thief, and I presume you're a good one. Your yard over the road is packed with parts you've taken from almost new cars, you steal them and strip anything of value. The chassis and any other 34 identifiable bits you probably sell for scrap. Am I right?'
    He said nothing, his eyes fixed on the table, fingers busy destroying the wet cardboard.
    He obviously wasn't going to reply, so I continued. Maurice Dancer, this is your life. 'It's virtually the perfect crime.