A Caffeine Hit by Dionne Lister

Author:Dionne Lister [Lister, Dionne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781922407467
Publisher: Dionne Lister

Chapter 10

At the station, Sergeant Bellamy set me up at a spare desk, well, spare today only. “This is where PC Adams sits when she’s not at the front desk. She said she’s more than happy for you to use it for the next couple of hours. Patel has set you up with a special guest login.” He pointed to a piece of paper next to the desktop computer. “You’ll have access to the information you need for this case only, so don’t even think of trying to sticky beak into other cases or files. I’d like you to search and get the details of all the orange Lamborghini owners in England of that model. There shouldn’t be too many. Rank them in importance, beginning with the area the accident happened in, radiating outwards. If you need special permission for something you can’t access, let me know. All the databases we use to search for people, car registration details, et cetera, you do have access to. I’ll also know what you’ve searched, so don’t go off script. And come see me when you’re done with that. Am I understood?”

I smiled. “Yes, Sergeant. One hundred per cent.”

He scrunched his face. “I hate that saying—100 per cent. Why can’t people just say yes? Such a waste of words.” He turned and walked away. I promised myself that I would only say that to him when he was being extra annoying.

I grinned and sat in PC Adams’s chair. The computer was on but asleep, so I pressed a key, and the screen brightened. How exciting! I was finally on the inside… deep inside. Finn would be so jealous. I’d text him and brag, but I had no reason as to why Bellamy would let me do this, so it was safer to say nothing. If he asked where I was later, I could just say that I tagged along to something small and newsworthy with Bellamy.

Bellamy must’ve mentioned what I’d be looking up because Patel had written down a couple of websites. One was the DVLA for the registration information. The other was a link to a file that contained all of Alan Albertson’s email correspondence—both work and personal. That must be for later when I had permission to check out things for the guy who lost most of his retirement funds.

Okay, so this was fortuitous. The guy who cut Alan off could’ve driven a mini or a Toyota sedan or even a Peugeot, but thankfully, he was driving one of the rarest, flashiest cars in England… or anywhere, really. There were only thirty-eight orange Lambos in the whole of the UK. And how many of those were driven by a skinhead-looking dude? I’d wager not many.

I’d soon compiled a list of names, but only five of those were women. I didn’t exclude them—in case a significant other had borrowed the car, or an adult child—but I did place them on an adjacent list on my spreadsheet, the closest addresses to the furthest away listed from one onwards.

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