He stood, looking at the Victor FB Deluxe Saloon, 1963, with its smooth maroon paintwork and desert sand two-tone roof. A classic in prime condition. He sighed with pleasure looking at it once again. The chrome bumpers sparkled in the sunlight. It was his. At least for now. He wondered how long this could go on. The thefts. The deceit.

He called them his cars, but the classic collection acquired over the last few years was anything but his. He’d made a habit of befriending each owner in turn, giving minimal information about himself. How simple it had been. An initial connection over the internet. There were thousands of classic car enthusiasts to target. Then the grooming and finally the meeting. Always contrived to be at the enthusiast’s house. How proud each had been of their car, showing it off. The ruse was simple. Establish the owners phone number, arrange for a phone call. The owner would take the call and he would make his getaway with the car. Owners were always so trusting.

The first time he’d had sweaty palms and a beating heart but his technique was now well honed and relaxed. He knew the pleasure in the knowledge that he had stolen it from another – had cuckolded the owner and left them with a void where their love had been.

He gazed at the Vauxhall Victor FB Deluxe Saloon, 1963. It was rare – only a few surviving. He put it back on the mantelpiece with the rest of his collection.