Page 128 of In Too Deep

“Course he does. We all do, don’t we?” Raff snorted as if the answer should’ve been obvious. “Cash-in-hand roofing. Dodgy plumbing. Half this town runs on jobs that never touch a receipt.”

“That’s a bit fucking different from helping cover up a murder, Raff.”

“I didn’t say he did it.” Raff lifted both hands in surrender. “Jesus Christ. I’m saying if that car came through the yard that wanted hiding, Davo’ll know. But I didn’t see owt.”

“Then tell the police that. Tell them you think he’s lying. Tell ‘em what you know. They could get CCTV, check the place.”

“You think he has CCTV on site?”

Jake pointed a drumstick at him, irritation flaring fast beneath his ribs. “There’ll be summat they can trace. Ring them.”

Raff laughed. “Aye, brilliant idea that. Get myself folded into a cube under a Transit.”

“He’s your boss, not the fucking Mafia.”

“You sure about that?”

Jake held his stare.

Some of the swagger drained out of Raff then, and he scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck, glancing down at the grease embedded in the creases of his fingers.

“Look, I need this job. Trace got made redundant halfway through maternity leave. We got rent, bills, formula, all that fun shit.” He gestured around the rehearsal room. “Then I’ve got this lot bankrupting me for a hobby.”

Deacon pouted. “I do try to get us paid.”

Raff ignored him. “Point is, Davo pays enough to keep us afloat spraying motors, patching scrap, making write-offs look roadworthy again. Can’t exactly afford to lose that because I grass him up to CID.”

Jake clenched his jaw. “So you and Davo just tell the police nowt? Let some woman’s murderer get away with it? Destroy evidence and have a clean fucking conscience, aye?”

Raff gave him a long look. “Jake… you know who owns the land that yard sits on.”

Of course he knew. Everyone knew.

“What’s that got to do with owt?”

“Nowt, maybe. But Davo’s got a good thing going there. Cheap lease, steady work, plenty of motors coming through. Blackridge sends stuff over sometimes. Other garages too.”

Jake frowned. “What sort of stuff?”

“Salvage. Write-offs. Parts. Same shit every yard gets.” Raff took another pull from his beer. “Most of it’s legit.”

“Most?”

“Don’t start.”

“You fucking said it.”

Raff sighed. “You spend enough years around garages, breakers yards and salvage lots, you stop asking where every motor came from. Stolen recoveries. Insurance write-offs. Cars stripped for parts. Sometimes the paperwork’s a bit fucking creative. It happens.”

“Don’t make it right.”

“Never said it did. But Davo didn’t invent dodgy motors, did he? Half the bloody county runs on people looking the other way. And the point is, if that girl’s car went through Davo’s yard, this stops being dodgy motors and starts being summat a fuckload more serious.”

“Murder.”

“Exactly.”

“So he’ll keep schtum?”