First impressions

The advert said: ‘1991 BMW 740i. Owned previously by an elderly couple. Fully serviced. Fully loaded. New front windscreen. This car is immaculate. Quick sale required.’ In other words — at least, one sincerely hoped so — the vendor was in dire financial difficulties and forced to let his cherished motor go for a song. There was a photograph of the car. It might have been taken professionally for a full-page advertisement in a lifestyle magazine. In gleaming gun-metal grey, the executive saloon appeared to be in showroom condition. It was parked on rose-coloured brick paving outside a steel-and-glass luxury apartment block. The background of flaming bougainvillea, with a glimpse between the palms of a colonial-style gable end, suggested the leafy suburb of a Caribbean tax haven. There it was: the car of my dreams, and at £595 ono just within my price range. I rang the number.

‘Hello,’ said a gravelly, world-weary, unmistakably south London voice. I asked was the vehicle still for sale. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘it’s still for sale.’ And is it located abroad? ‘I hope not,’ he said. ‘It was still parked outside my flat here in Lewisham when I came in from work an hour ago.’ In the photograph, the car looked in showroom condition, I said. It seemed almost too good to be true. Had he had any other inquirers? ‘None, mate.’ And was the car truly immaculate? ‘It’s absolutely mint. You won’t see a better one of these on the road. The only thing wrong with it is that people stare at you when you drive by. Other than that, it’s perfect. You’ll die when you see it.’ It seemed remarkably little money to ask for perfection, I said. Was there a reason for this? ‘I’m leaving the country,’ he said. ‘And I need the cash.