The little Lada pulled up close to Dr Bedrosian's house, and there was a white van parked outside.
“Go past,” said Craig.
Boris drove slowly past the house, and once they got past the van they could see that there were a couple of men working on the heavy front gates that looked like they normally kept guard over the wide driveway. They were painted a dark grey colour, quite similar to the gunmetal grey of the car, and one was off it's hinges and looking a little bent. The automatic opening mechanism lay dismantled in the middle of the driveway
“You'd have to be in a hurry to back into those on the way out in the morning, wouldn't you?”
“Unless you in a hurry and can't wait them to open,” said Boris.
“And in a hurry to get them fixed. Com'on, let's go to the crash site.”
They drove in silence. The traffic was just starting to build for the afternoon rush hour. The address where Monahan had directed them was in a minor through street, and they parked in the next quiet cross street.
Craig and Boris wandered past the bus stand that had failed to give the doctor much shelter that morning. They split up and looked up and down the street without needing to coordinate the search. Boris found some glass fragments, but any other signs had been washed away by the rain.
Boris was about to drop the glass back in the gutter.
“Bring that back, mate, we'll see if it's from the BMW.” Boris shrugged and picked up another couple of pieces, holding them carefully between his thumb and forefinger to avoid cutting himself.
They wandered back to the Lada. Craig got the street directory out of the glovebox, and they stood there with it open on the roof of the car.
“OK, we're here, he lives here, and the surgery is . . . here on the next page. He wasn't going straight to work, was he?”
“No. Other direction almost.”
Craig shrugged his shoulders and snapped the directory shut. “Guess we should just fix the car.” Batmanov nodded, and they got back into his car.
“This car ever been in an accident, Boris?”
“No. Mint condition when I bought it, but lot of work done since then.”
Craig looked around the inside of the car. It was probably in better condition than when it emerged from a Cold War factory. It was certainly tight – there were no squeaks or rattles, things that were included “at no extra cost” when the car was made.
“You obviously love it – it's amazing.” Boris had driven Craig around often enough, but Craig had never asked him about it.
“It has some new hidden qualities. Watch.” Boris glanced in the rear view mirror, then leant under the dash to flick a concealed switch. He did a racing change down a gear, and the concealed turbo charger burst into life and the car seemed to take off. Boris threw it around a couple of corners at speeds that should have resulted in them landing in the front yard of a few different houses, or wrapped around a power pole. The demonstration only lasted a block or so, and Boris flicked the switch and returned his driving to his usual style.
Craig didn't know what to say, and he started to take Pavel's theory that Boris was a getaway driver for the Russian Mafia a little more seriously.
“That's amazing. Who did it for you? Who did the suspension?”
“Friends. They like the anonymous projects like this.”
They drove back to the workshop in silence.
