The Diary Of Pamela D.

Theo carefully checked the car over himself, taking the salesman's advice that the car was on its last legs with a grain of salt. 'Compression's good as new . . . engine runs like a top . . . someone obviously kept this car in perfect running order! What on earth did they trade it against?'

'It were a young fellow,' the salesman said. 'Car belonged to his old dad who just snuffed it. Lad brought it in and traded it against one of them new Japanese sports cars.' He barked a short laugh and shook his head. 'Banged it up same day. Can't thole them young buggers, them as never had to work a day in their lives! If you ask me, it served him right, spending his dad's hard-earned cash that way. The lad done nowt to earn it-'

He stopped when he noticed that Theo had turned very pale.

'Sorry, didn't mean owt by it.' Watching Pamela who was looking over the old car, oblivious to the two men, he said contritely, 'Look, tell you what- I'll sell you that car for exactly what I paid for it- fifty quid. Any road, it were just a token sum. I hadn't planned to do owt with it but sell it to the scrap merchant, which was a pity 'cos I knew the old man as owned it. He used to look at that car with the same expression as yon lass.'

Learning to drive was a dream come true for Pamela. She had never dared hope that she would ever sit behind the wheel of a car, or that she would ever have one of her very own. But from the outset Theo laid down the condition that as long as Albert Askrigg was at large she wasn't to go anywhere without Fred or Theo himself accompanying her.

'Turn right, here,' Theo told her as she drove in the heart of downtown Bradford. 'There it is, behind that brick building. Turn right, there . . . see where it says "Staff Parking?" Pull into that stall on the far left- the one that says "Dewhurst."'

They got out and walked into the back entrance of The Crown Tavern, a rustic-looking pub that claimed to have been established in the year 1818. Pamela could tell at once that business was not good. The place was all but empty, except for a few old regulars who sat on barstools, talking with the barkeep. She found the place dim, depressing and stuffy. It had potential, though. The place was constructed of oak beams and stone, its tables and chairs likewise solid-looking and heavy. There was a huge fireplace, but its functionality had obviously been long ago supplanted by central-heating. The walls were strewn with old relics, most of which meant little or nothing to her.