Come to Grief by Dick Francis

There’s a path up to the house from the lane. I always go out and in that way. It’s miles from Aunt Betty’s bedroom.”
    “Through the yard with all the trash cans?” I asked.
    He was comically astounded. I didn’t explain that his aunt had taken me out that way. I said, “Couldn’t it have been a rambler’s Land-Rover?”
    He said sullenly, “I don’t know why I bothered to tell you.”
    I asked, “What else did you notice about the Land-Rover, except for its color?”
    “Nothing. I told you, I was more interested in getting back into the house without anyone spotting me.” .
    I thought a bit and said, “How close did you get to it?”
    “I touched it. I didn’t see it until I was almost on top of it. Like I told you, I was running along the lane. I was mostly looking at the ground, and it was still almost dark.”
    “Was it facing you, or did you run into the back of it?”
    “Facing. There was still enough moonlight to reflect off the windshield. That’s what I saw first, the reflection.”
    “What part of it did you touch?”
    “The hood.” Then he added, as if surprised by the extent of his memory, “It was quite hot.”
    “Did you see a number plate?”
    “Not a chance. I wasn’t hanging about for things like that.”
    “What else did you see?”
    “Nothing.”
    “How did you know there was no one in the cab? There might have been a couple lying in there snog ging.”
    “Well, there wasn’t. I looked through the window.”
    “Open or shut window?”
    “Open.” He surprised himself again. “I looked in fast, on the way past. No people, just a load of machinery behind the front seats.”
    “What sort of machinery?”
    “How the eff do I know? It had handles sticking up. Like a lawn mower. I didn’t look. I was in a hurry. I didn’t want to be seen.”
    “No,” I agreed. “How about an ignition key?”
    “Hey?” It was a protest of hurt feelings. “I didn’t drive it away.”
    “Why not?”
    “I don’t take every car I see. Not alone, ever.”
    “There’s no fun in it if you’re alone?”
    “Not so much.”
    “So there was a key in the ignition?”
    “I suppose so. Yeah.”
    “Was there one key, or a bunch?”
    “Don’t know.”
    “Was there a key ring?”
    “You don’t ask much!”
    “Think, then.”
    He said unwillingly, “See, I notice ignition keys.”
    “Yes.”
    “It was a bunch of keys, then. They had a silver horseshoe dangling from them on a little chain. A little horseshoe. Just an ordinary key ring.”
    We stared at each other briefly.
    He said, “I didn’t think anything of it.”
    “No,” I agreed. “You wouldn’t. Well, go back a bit. When you put your hand on the hood, were you looking at the windshield?”
    “I must have been.”
    “What was on it?”
    “Nothing. What do you mean?”
    “Did it have a tax disk?”
    “It must have done, mustn’t it?” he said.
    “Well... did it have anything else? Like, say, a sticker saying ‘Save the Tigers’?”
    “No, it didn’t.”
    “Shut your eyes and think,” I urged him. “You’re running. You don’t want to be seen. You nearly collide with a Land-Rover. Your face is quite near the windshield—”
    “There was a red dragon,” he interrupted. “A red circle with a dragon thing in it. Not very big. One of those sort of transparent transfers that stick to glass.”
    “Great,” I said. “Anything else?”
    For the first time he gave it concentrated thought, but came up with nothing more.
    “I’m nothing to do with the police,” I said, “and I won’t spoil your probation and I won’t give you away to your aunt, but I’d like to write down what you’ve told me, and if you agree that I’ve got it right, will you sign it?”
    “Hey. I don’t know. I don’t know why I told you.”
    “It might matter a lot. It might not matter at all. But I’d like to find this bugger....” God help me, I thought. I have to.
    “So would I.” He meant it. Perhaps there was hope