In the vehicle upkeep bay of the Harrowby Municipal Council Depot, the smell of warm engine oil, wet tires, and heavy-duty floor degreaser hung thick in the buzzing white glare. Outside the roll-up shutter doors, the Yorkshire rain beat a relentless, monotonous rhythm against the corrugated tin roof, matching the drum of the storm that was at the same time drowning Lathmere.
Imran Bell sat on an upturned twenty-liter drum of sheep-dip disinfectant beside his white council work van, his wire-rimmed glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. Spread out across the van’s lowered tailgate were the components of his specialized field skill kit. A brass-cased check torch with a heavy glass lens, two wooden bait boxes fitted with sliding zinc mesh grates, a clockwork hair-hygrometer. A long brass heat probe used for detecting heat signed names behind cavity walls.
Beside the tool kit sat a small, square box of black leatherette and stamped tin. A Kodak Brownie box camera, its braided carrying strap coiled neatly around the winding key.
His cousin, Sal Bell—a heavy-set young man of twenty-six who worked as an apprentice tire-fitter down at the town bus garage—leaned against the van’s rear bumper, eating a bag of salt-and-vinegar crisps with noisy enthusiasm.
