Where There's A Will

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Stone was on his way home for a quick shower and a change of clothes, before he headed to where the van used in Alice Keating's kidnapping had been found, when his mobile rang. He answered it, though he knew it was against the law to use a mobile phone while driving; he didn't suppose he was going to get in any trouble for it.

"Sir, it's Grey."

"What's up?" Stone asked of the young detective.

"We've got a lead on the hit-and-run, sir," Grey told him. "A couple of schoolgirls came in first thing; according to their story, they were almost hit by a blue Vauxhall Astra just a couple of streets away from where Mr Bollard was knocked down. They were able to give a partial description of the driver – it matches Jerry Logan."

Though the news pleased him, Stone couldn't help wondering why he was being told, since he was no longer in charge of the case. "Why aren't you telling Justin this?" he asked. "The case is his now."

"I know, sir, but I can't find him. He's not made it into the office, he's not answering his mobile, and his wife doesn't know where he is," Grey answered, doing his best to hide his concern. "Since I can't find the sergeant, I thought it best if I told you about the development."

"You did the right thing," Stone said encouragingly after a moment. "Put an alert out for the vehicle - do you have a license number for it?"

"Yes, sir, it's T248 GUU."

Stone was surprised, and pleased, by that piece of news. "Good. Run the plate through the system; it's probably been stolen, but we might get lucky. Is there anything else?"

Grey got a shock when the door to the house the car used in the hit-and-run, and most likely the festival robbery as well, was registered to opened. He found himself faced, not with a hardened criminal who was prepared to threaten people with a sawn-off shotgun, but with a wheelchair-bound man in his mid-thirties. Behind the man, in what he guessed was the doorway of the living room, Grey saw a woman of about fifty, whom he assumed was the mother of the man in the wheelchair.

"Can I help you?"

"Hello, yes, are you Mr Quilty, Mr Paul Quilty?"

"Who wants to know?"

Grey took that for a yes. "I'm Detective Constable Grey, I'd like to ask you a few questions," he said once he had recovered from the surprise of discovering that his suspect was physically incapable of committing the crimes he was there to question him about. It was a bitter blow – Paul Quilty had a criminal record for robbery with violence, and assault, was a known accomplice of Ben and Jerry Logan, and was the registered owner of the car used in the hit-and-run; Grey had been certain Quilty was one of the men he was looking for. Now he wasn't sure what to do.

"May I come in?"

Paul Quilty looked stubbornly unwilling to move from the doorway, or to grant permission for Grey to enter, until his mother moved forward. "Of course you can come in, detective," she said, resting a hand on her son's tensed shoulder. "Paul has done nothing wrong."

Though he looked angrily over his shoulder at his mother, clearly unhappy that she had extended an invitation he didn't wish to, Quilty manoeuvred his wheelchair back from the door. He turned around in the narrow confines of the passage and made for the living room, without waiting to see if either his mother or Detective Grey were following him.

"So, what is it you want?" Quilty asked in a voice that was a mixture of anger, irritation and mistrust. "You here to give me shit about that fight the other night? 'cause my probation bitch has already given me enough grief about it."

"Paul," his mother remonstrated. "You should at least wait until he tells you why he's here before you get angry." She turned to Grey. "How can we help you, detective?"

"I know nothing about any fight, Mr Quilty," Grey said. "I'm here about your car; according to the DVLA, you are the registered owner of a blue Vauxhall Astra, license number T248 GUU, is that correct?"

Quilty shook his head. "No, not anymore."

Grey was momentarily stymied. "What did you do with it?" he asked when he recovered.

"I sold it after I got out of hospital. Since I can't drive anymore, there's no point in me having a car."

"Who did you sell it to?"

"No idea," Quilty shrugged. "He paid cash. I filled out my bit of the form to transfer title, he said he was going to fill out his bit and send it straight off when he got home."

"If that's the case, why is the car still registered to you?" Grey asked suspiciously; he wondered if Quilty was lying about having sold the car, and instead had allowed it to be used by his friends and former accomplices for the robbery.

"How the hell should I know? Maybe he forgot to send it in, or maybe he did what he said he was going to do and the DVLA is dragging its ass about updating their records. It wouldn't be the first time."

"Why are you interested in my son's old car?" Marsha Quilty wanted to know.

Grey shifted his attention to her. "It was used as the getaway vehicle in a robbery, and later the same night it was involved in a hit-and-run. An elderly man was knocked down and left in a coma – he's in critical condition."

"Well it's nothing to do with me," Quilty declared. "The car's nothing to do with me anymore."

Grey accepted that with a nod. "Can you tell me anything about the man who bought the car from you?"

"You think he bought the car to rob someone? Why the hell would he do that? It's bloody stupid, he'd just steal a car if that's what he wanted one for."

"I'm sure you're right, Mr Quilty, but since the vehicle is still legally registered to you, has been used in a crime, and has not been reported stolen by you, it's in your interests to help me trace the car's movements, and the person who bought it from you."

"He was about forty, maybe a little younger," Marsha Quilty spoke up, "with black hair."

"Can you remember anything else about the man?"

Marsha thought back. "I think he said his name is Jeff, and he was buying the car for his daughter. Can you remember anything?" she asked of her son.

Grey took down all the details Marsha Quilty and her son could provide and then left. Although he had been angry and uncooperative, Grey didn't think Paul Quilty was lying about having sold his car, unfortunately, since ownership had not been transferred in the DVLA database, and Quilty could not remember the name of the man he'd sold his car to, Grey was at a bit of a dead end.