We made eye contact as I advanced on him. I saw a thin, sharp, youngish Caucasian face within the hood, eyes narrowed. I guess he saw a tall, angry, grey-haired bloke in a dark suit, white shirt and blue tie.
My view of him lasted for only a couple of seconds, for as long as it took a cloud that had obscured the low winter sun to pass by, and for a ray of light to hit the red car’s windscreen, reflecting into my eyes and blinding me momentarily.
I took a couple of steps to my left to escape it; by the time my vision had cleared the man was out of his car and legging it across the park. I gave a moment’s thought to chasing him, but abandoned the idea, for he was moving like a bat out of hell. I still go out running along the coastline in front of my house, but I never was a sprinter. I knew that he had too big a start, plus he had at least twenty-five years on me.
Instead I walked round to the Mini. Its bonnet had been crunched, and its engine had stopped, probably stalled on impact. The driver was also a lady, but older than the Grand Cherokee’s pilot. She was white haired and in her seventies, I guessed.
She was shocked. She stared straight ahead, heavily veined hands grasping her wheel, so tightly that her knuckles showed bony white.
‘What the hell was that all about?’ a voice demanded. Grand Cherokee woman, a striking redhead in her thirties who could have been modelling her M&S clothes, had overcome her initial scare and stood behind me.
‘You know as much as I do,’ I replied. ‘This thing,’ I nodded towards the BMW, ‘hit me, and the driver legged it.’
‘Why would he do that?’ she asked.
‘My best guess,’ I told her, ‘is that this is stolen, probably from this car park. Look, do me a favour,’ I added. ‘Will you take care of the old lady? She’s had a hell of a fright and might need medical assistance. If you do that I’ll call for help and alert site security.’
She nodded and stepped up to the Mini’s driver door, while I dug out my phone. I have the police communications centre number stored. I retrieved it and pressed the onscreen button.
‘This is Bob Skinner, formerly chief constable,’ I told the civilian operator who answered. ‘I’m in the Fort Kinnaird car park, close to T K Maxx and M&S. There’s been a traffic incident involving my car and two others. The driver of one of them, registration,’ I glanced at the plate, ‘Charlie Oscar Sierra One Echo, has fled the scene on foot. White male, twenties, slim, medium height, wearing a grey hoodie and blue jeans. I suspect vehicle theft; either that or he’s uninsured, and just panicked. I need police attendance, and paramedics for a third driver, an elderly lady who looks to be in shock, after the so-and-so drove into her vehicle.’
‘Officers and an ambulance will be with you as soon as possible, Mr Skinner,’ the man replied. ‘You’ll need to remain at the scene yourself.’
‘I know that, pal,’ I snapped: my temper was still on a hair trigger. In fact, I couldn’t have gone anywhere even if I’d wanted to, for our little section of roadway was blocked at either end by the redhead’s off-roader and the old dear’s damaged car.
Pocketing my phone, I turned to the BMW once again. The driver’s door was open and the engine was still running. I walked round, leaned inside and turned it off, using a handkerchief to twist the key and touching nothing else. As I did so I could see my own car through the windscreen. As I had expected there was a dent in the corner, but it looked drivable.
Backing out, I took a longer look at the red saloon. The personalised number gave no clue to its age, but from the dullness of its paintwork and its boxy lines, I judged that it had to be at least ten years old. For sure, ‘COSIE’, its personalised plate, was worth more than the car itself.
‘So why steal it?’ I murmured to nobody in particular. ‘Not just for the number surely . . . unless the guy’s a total idiot, for that only has value to the registered owner.’
I moved slowly around the vehicle, inspecting its damage. The collision impact on the front nearside wing was less