“So I gather. You wouldn't have enlisted Conrad Buckmaster otherwise.”
Isaac stared at him. “How on earth..?”
“Let's talk about Bristow. Off the record.”
“As you wish. Let’s be clear this so-called confession was extracted under duress.”
“I've heard the rumors, of course. What about the hit and run accident?”
“A police fiction, Mr Burford. My client was taken to an unknown police station, subjected to a vicious assault, dumped on the streets again, then formally arrested. The confession was produced with a word processor and ink-jet printer. I doubt Thomas Bristow can even afford one.”
Matt screwed up the wrappers and bounced them through the window into a nearby trash can. “Jeremy, let me be blunt. I don't give a fuck about your client, about his welfare, or about his treatment by the cops. All I want is an honest answer: Did Bristow kill Rebecca?”
There was not the slightest hesitation. “No. No, he did not.”
“You're very confident.”
“I know my client, Mr Burford. He did not kill the child, I promise you. I'm sorry. I know that's not what you want to hear. But Thomas Bristow is innocent. He had no part in this foul crime, as you'll learn if we go to trial.”
“If?”
“I believe my client will be released much sooner than that, Mr Burford. The only trial Thomas Bristow will be attending is that of the police officers who assaulted him.”
Matt stared out of the window. “Look, I know how the cops operate. I can readily accept Bristow made the statement under duress. And yes, I appreciate the legal standpoint if that's true. But I have just one concern here. Did Bristow kill Rebecca? Because if he didn't, then the sick bastard who did is still out there. I just want to be able to tell Claire one way or another. That's all. Just to put her mind at rest.”
Isaac came back slowly. “Thomas Bristow did not kill Rebecca. You have my assurance of that.”
“Can you prove it?”
“It's not for us to prove. The onus is on the prosecution. Innocent until proven guilty, remember? Besides, though it pains me to say it, I'm very much convinced we won't need to.”
Matt took a deep breath. “Go on.”
“Whoever killed your friend's daughter, this Uncle Tom, is still out there. And you can be sure he'll kill again, if he hasn't already. It's not a pleasant thing to say, Mr Burford, but what we're praying for just now is for the next body to turn up.”
50
Matt looked out over the sea, considering the statement. “So what do you plan to do meanwhile?”
“Short term there's nothing we can do. Besides, the longer Thomas Bristow is inside, the bigger the pay-out. Wrongful arrest, malicious prosecution, assault, unjustified remand. Do you know what the going rate is for unlawful imprisonment just now? Tax free! Then there's punitive damages... It's a shame I'm not on a percentage.”
Matt suppressed a smile. Isaac was no fool. But he had nothing to gain by protesting his client's innocence so strongly off the record. “Why did you agree to talk to me?”
Isaac smiled. “Favors banked. Why else?”
“Anything special in mind?”
“Fair coverage when we hit back.”
“And when will that be?”
“After the trial, if it goes that far. Or after the next body is found. Whichever is sooner.”
“Bristow was an ice-cream man, wasn't he?”
“A long time ago, and yes, his name's Thomas. But that's a pretty tenuous link.”
“I understand a car identical to his was seen near the canal around the time Rebecca's body was disposed of.”
“A red Dodge, yes. There must be thousands of red Dodges in New York.”
“That's still a lot of a coincidences.”
“Exactly, Mr Burford. Coincidences. Perhaps too many? Anyone can make a hoax phone call. He’s on the sex offenders’ registry. His background is no secret.”
“Doesn't it ever bother you Bristow may be guilty?”
“I'm paid to defend my client's interests, Mr Burford. Guilt and innocence don't come into the equation, you know that. My job is to see him acquitted regardless. But I say again, off the record as on, my client did not kill the girl.”
“At his last trial Bristow admitted to having, and I think I'm quoting correctly, a vile and detestable interest in young children. Are you telling me that was a forced confession too?”
“Mr Burford, my client was looking at a long jail sentence. He said what was necessary to get it shortened.”
“By admitting to being a filthy ChoMo?”
“By asking for help. By admitting the act. Avoiding the children having to give evidence. Thomas Bristow has never denied his sexual predilections. He's a pedophile. He makes no secret of it. But that doesn't make him a murderer.”
“It's pretty damn close in my book.”
“There's a world of difference, Mr Burford. Besides, after the last incident my client underwent treatment for his problem.”
“Treatment?”
“I'm not at liberty to discuss details. Suffice it to say he sought help.”
“But he wasn't cured.”
“Pedophilia isn't a disease, Mr Burford. You can't just take a tablet, spend a few days in bed and it's gone. There aren't any vaccinations or miracle cures. My client would argue strongly that it's just a sexual desire, like any other.”
“Your client is sick, Mr Isaac. Abusing little kids is not my idea of a normal sexual desire.”
“Nor mine, I assure you. The point is, as I've said, just because my client admits to being a pedophile does not make him a murderer. Least of all does it make him the killer of the girl, Rebecca. You obviously haven't studied his history closely enough.”
“I've read the reports.”
“I suggest you read them again.”
“Is there something I should know?”
Isaac shrugged. “You're obviously a resourceful man, Mr Burford. You've proved that already, by getting me here.”
Matt smiled. “Go on.”
“Actually it's all a matter of public record. It should be patently obvious why my client is innocent of the charges just from the press coverage, never mind what forensic will fail to turn up in due course. I really don't think there's anything else I can say at this stage.” Isaac opened the car door and prepared to get out, bracing himself breeze.
“I'll walk back, if you don't mind. Thanks for the lunch. I'll be in touch sometime. You owe me.”
He closed the door and strolled off, brief-case under his arm, enjoying the scenery. Matt watched him go. He rang his desk and left instructions for hard-copy of all the reports on Bristow to be ready for when he got back.
He'd read them on screen a dozen times now, but nothing sprang to mind to fit in with Isaac's comments. He'd read them again tonight, on paper. Things read differently on paper sometimes.
Maybe another conversation with Gavin Large would be productive. If anyone knew how the minds of these people worked, it was Gavin.
As he made his way back to Irondequoit he pondered what favors Isaac might come back with. He reconsidered the conversation they'd just had. He wished he'd recorded it now. Off the record, of course. Time was, he recorded every conversation as a matter of habit. He'd gotten lax. Maybe that was why he was stuck working for a lousy regional press outfit instead of the New York Times.
But then again, there were some contacts he'd never have made in the city.
He smiled to himself as he dialed a number.
Seconds later a boy's voice answered.
51
Like every kid, Matt had always loved the arcades.
But he'd never lost his attraction for the bright lights, the white noise, and the unique electronic aroma of the amusement arcade. Unwilling, so he told himself - unable would be more honest - to learn the skills required to master modern video games, he only played the slots nowadays.
Stuck one time with five nudges and not th
e faintest idea where the triple bars were, he had suddenly found himself pushed aside by a cheerful young teenager who pushed the nudge buttons with one hand while playing his own machine with the other. Matt had his jackpot. He also had a new tag-along companion, like it or not.
At first it was journalistic intrigue that found the two sat in Starbucks. It transpired the kid knew off by heart the reel sequences of every fruit machine in town. It seemed to Matt he spent more time there than at school. In fact, it transpired he didn't even go to school. It had the makings of a nice little human-interest story for the inside pages. Truancy. Child gambling. The making of young criminals, perhaps.
But by then the kid had moved on to reveal a more insidious interest in computers than video games and arcade gambling. He was, he told Matt in hushed tones, a hacker. Better still, a cracker! If he wanted any help with a story - credit history, personal details, you name it – the kid could deliver.
Matt humored the boy, made his excuses and left. Maybe he'd follow up the fruit machine angle at a later date. Maybe not. It was no big deal. He had more important fish to fry.
A week later he had arrived home from Southern Media, having just finished a story on a drugs bust in Webster when the bell rang. He winced. He was hungry, tired, and didn't need visitors. He stared down at a grinning, freckled face and suppressed an expletive.
The kid was small for his age. Thirteen, he claimed. Looked more like ten. Eleven, maybe. “Danny, isn't it?”
“And there was I thinking you'd forgotten.”
The kid stood on the step. Matt kept himself firmly across the doorway.
“I'm kinda busy just now. Is there something I can do for you?”
“You gonna invite me in, or what?”
Matt glared at the kid. “On your bike, sonny.”
“I thought a good journalist never turned down a story.”
“Danny, I said I'd think about it. Now if you don't mind, I've been up all night and need some peace and quiet.”
“Good report, by the way.”
“I'm sorry?”
“The raid. It was a good report.”
Matt glanced at his watch. The evening papers hadn’t finished printing yet. He looked at the kid with suspicion “Am I missing something?”
52
Danny smiled enigmatically.
It was a smile Matt would come to know well over the coming months.
The boy handed him a sealed brown foolscap envelope. “Here. When you've had your peace and quiet have look at these. My details are on the back.”
“Your details?” He turned the envelope over. Rows of digits were scrawled on the back in what was obviously Danny's handwriting.
“Landline, cell, twitter, facebook, several e-mails. Take your pick.”
Matt began pushing the door closed. “Yeah, I'll call you. Thanks.”
He shut the door in the boy's face. Kids! The last thing he wanted was a bunch of arcade brats plaguing him with story leads. Didn't they have school newspapers anymore? Another good reason why the brat should attend classes.
He threw the envelope to one side, showered and made a snack of three poached eggs on toast with half a pack of smoked, rindless Danish, lightly grilled, and a can of baked beans. He sat in front of the TV to eat, relax and watch the local news. The drugs bust was the lead story, as he'd expected. The report was very much in line with what would shortly be hitting the news-stands under his by-line. That reminded him of Danny.
He mopped up the sauce with a slice of wholemeal bread, wiping the plate clean, and slid it in the sink with the residue dishes from the previous two days. He looked at the growing pile with distaste. He'd tend it later that afternoon.
Or maybe that evening.
Tomorrow at the very latest.
Unless something else cropped up.
Hell, he wasn't expecting visitors, so what was the hurry?
He picked up the envelope the kid had left and wandered across to the window. It was a beautiful day. Almost too good to stay in. Especially with the washing up in the sink, lurking.
A mixture of duty and curiosity found him slitting open Danny's envelope, stifling a yawn, and pulling out a sheath of papers.
Maybe he'd go to bed instead. A few hours sleep would be useful. Perhaps he could get Claire to go the pictures that evening. He scanned the first page disinterestedly. There was a new Spielberg movie out that week. Sam Ogilvy, Lake Ontario Media’s erstwhile arts, food, motoring and water events correspondent had recommended it.
He scanned the page again.
More slowly.
Then another.
And a third, his expression a mixture of anger and disbelief.
He reached for the receiver, punching in the number.
He counted six rings before the kid answered.
“Mr Burford. You took your time.”
“Meet me in Starbucks in fifteen minutes.”
“But I'm -”
“Fifteen minutes. Be there.”
He slammed the phone down.
God-damned kids!
53
Danny was already waiting when Matt arrived, and two lattes were lined up. The brat must have ran. He sat down heavily and threw the envelope across the table.
“How the fuck did you get these?”
“That's no way to speak to your new partner.”
Matt was speechless.
“I got you a coffee. S'okay. I've paid.”
Matt waved the envelope in the boy's face. “What's this all about?”
Danny made a point of looking round dramatically to make sure no-one was listening. In a low voice, “I told you. I'm a hacker. A cracker.”
“But these are my fucking financial details! How did you get them?”
“Keep your voice down.” The boy was obviously enjoying the subterfuge. “I accessed the credit agency's computer.”
“You did what?”
“Shhh. I don't want everyone knowing.”
“And my medical records?”
“How d’ya think?”
Matt took deep breaths. He'd covered computer crimes often enough. He had a lot of respect for anyone with the skills to do it. But when it was his own details being accessed...
“Alright, so you're a computer whiz-kid. You've made your point. Has anyone else seen these?”
“Not through me. But anyone can, if they've got the equipment.” He grinned. “And the know-how.”
Matt absently reached for his latte. “I need to think a minute.”
“I had a look at your criminal record too. But I didn't print it off. Didn't think you'd appreciate that.”
Matt stared at the smiling face before him, his mouth open. “I haven't got one.”
“Drunk and disorderly, nineteen-ninety -”
“Jesus? You can get into police computer?”
The smile.
“What about these?” Matt pointed to his financial statements.
Danny laughed dismissively. “Piece of piss. Credit agencies are wide open. If you like, I could up-grade your credit rating. Get you accepted for a Gold Card. You haven't a chance in hell at the moment, not with those judgments against you.”
Matt stared at the kid. “Okay, I get the picture. You're a regular smart-ass. So you must know there's nothing worth blackmailing me for. So why go to all this effort?”
Danny shrugged nonchalantly. “Because I can.”
“I meant, why me?”
“I wanna be your partner. Someone you can call on, when you need information you can't get elsewhere.”
“And what makes you think I could actually use information obtained by you, always supposing I would want to? Which I don't.”
“You'd find a way.”
Matt struggled to keep his annoyed expression on show. The kid was dynamite. Maybe he could re-establish himself as a name in journalism. Tell McIntyre where he could stuff his lousy job. Get back on the New York City circuit. But... He looked at Danny, drinking his latte through a
straw, baseball cap on back to front. He was just a kid, for Christ's sake.
“Shouldn't you be at school?”
The smile again. “I'm de-registered.”
“You're what?”
“I accessed the files and changed my details.”
“You're joking.”
He wasn't.
McIntyre was very impressed by Matt's new source.
But the traffic wasn't all one way.
In return Danny wanted autographs. Not just any old autographs, but autographs of the infamous. Autographs of hardened criminals.
Matt had put his foot down at that.
A mere slip of a kid doting on murderers, rapists, robbers and spies?
No way!
54
With the file under his arm containing the cuttings on Bristow and a Spiderman comic, Matt joined the kid in their usual seat at the rear of Starbucks.
Still full from the burger and fries lunch with Jeremy Isaac he declined the offer of a muffin. They chatted casually about the weather and the rubbish on TV. Anything but the purpose of their rendezvous. They left together, Matt carrying a copy of New York Times handed over from the boy, Danny feigning interest in the web-crawler.
Matt walked back to his flat, slipped the brown envelope from within the pages and withdrew the print-off of Bristow's police file with a satisfied expression. Another great piece of research from the boy wonder.
Danny cycled home and ran upstairs to his bedroom. He slipped the autograph card from the comic, which went promptly in the bin. He brought down his album from the shelf, inserting the new entry in place. He sat back in his seat, satisfied with the exchange.
Death row inmates in Texas were notoriously difficult to access, but Matt had yet to let him down.
55
“Can we get in now, Daddy?”
Randall turned off the faucets and dipped his hand through the bubbles to test the water. He ran the cold again and nodded to the Dynamite Twins. Three evenings a week Randall took responsibility for seeing the twins ate their tea and got to bed on time. Bath times were every other night.
Sugar & Spice (US edition) Page 10