"Stand down," says a voice. "It's them."
Right now, Burke's voice sounds like the voice of God.
We're sitting in the back of an ambulance, thermal blankets around our shoulders, drinking what may be the world's worst coffee. It's lukewarm, bitter and stewed senseless. It tastes wonderful. From where we're sitting we can see the van, a second ambulance and lots of police cars: four marked patrol cars and two plain saloons, one with a magnetic light stuck to the roof and the other with its police lights flashing from behind the front grille. Police -- uniformed police, plainclothes police and forensic police -- are everywhere.
Burke looks like he's been awake for a fortnight. "Tell me what happened," he says, stifling a yawn. "I need to know every detail, no matter how small."
Dave and I tell him about our plan, about Adam Everett and the shootout. Burke gets us to clarify a few details, but mostly he just listens.
"So do you know who they were?" he asks when we've finished.
"One of them's known as Floyd," Dave says. "Lawrence Mc-something. McCann."
Burke recognises the name and nods. "He's in the wind. I'll get control to put the word out." He walks a few metres and talks briefly into a radio before turning back to us. "Do you know anything about the other one?"
"No. Sorry," Dave says.
Burke looks at me. I shake my head. "I haven't seen him before. He's not the sort of person you'd forget."
"Okay. We'll get an ID soon enough. "
"Is he dead?"
Burke nods.
"Look, I'm not being cheeky," I say. "But why did it take you so long to find us? I thought you all had cameras, and GPS tags, and stuff like that." I've seen it on TV. You know those real-life police shows where the bad guy is always wearing a white vest, the ones that are more like recruitment adverts or propaganda than TV shows? It doesn't matter what programme it is, what kind of cops you're watching or what they're doing. Could be squads of armed cops breaking down somebody's front door, patrol cars chasing a demented drunk driver or helicopters tracking a stolen SUV. They've always got more gadgets than you'd find in an electronics shop. Cameras on guns relaying live video to the control room, car computers that report themselves stolen, all that kind of thing. There are programmes whose entire content comes from the little cameras on policemen's guns.
"Yeah, we do," Burke says. "Doesn't always work." He nods towards the dead officer's patrol car. "Doesn't always get fixed. You've seen it on TV, I take it?"
I nod.
Burke laughs, entirely without humour. "Yeah. If they really want to show what it's like, they'd film cars with broken suspension, faulty radios, cops driving with the windows open because the heater's jammed on full. The guys on TV are okay, but the rest of us are stuck with junk. Only so much money to go around, so if you're not doing high-priority work you're not high priority when your stuff breaks."
"So how did you find us?"
"Your friend tried to follow the van but lost it after a few miles," he says. "She called the station and asked for me. She's a smart one, that girl. She'd taken a note of the make, model and registration number before the van started moving. We called the phone company to get a fix on your phone's location, and they were their usual helpful selves. Took a few hours and a few threats before they came through -- and even then, they gave us a pretty big area to search."
"Where is Amy now?"
"At home, in bed, I'd imagine."
"Does she know we're okay?"
"Not yet. You can call her in a minute if you think she'll still be awake. You can use my phone."
"It's okay. My phone's in the van."
"We need to hold onto that for a while."
"Why?"
"Prints."
"There won't be any. They were wearing gloves."
"We'll dust anyway." Burke's expression says that this isn't open to negotiation.
"Okay. What happened when she called?"
"The control room sent a bulletin to all cars, telling them what to look for. The bulletin also said that officers should assume that the suspects were armed and dangerous, and that if they located the vehicle they should sit tight and call for assistance. Just before the message went out, one of the radio cars called in to report a routine vehicle check. Either the message didn't get through to him in time, or the officer thought he had the jump on them. He shot one of the suspects but the other one returned fire. Control tried to raise him shortly afterwards, and when he didn't respond they called us. It took a while to find you."
"Is the officer…?"
"Yeah." Burke lets out a deep sigh. "Someone's going to have to tell his mother."
Burke stares at the lights on the patrol cars, his eyes unfocused. I can't think of anything to say that isn't a cliché, so the three of us sit in silence for a while.
When Burke speaks again, Dave and I both jump. "What about the bug?"
"Everett destroyed it," I say. "There's still no evidence. He's going to get away with it, isn't he?"
Burke shakes his head, his face like thunder.
Burke gives us a lift home and I borrow his phone to call Amy. By the time we've dropped Dave off and arrived at my apartment the Dentmobile is already parked outside my door. I'm barely out of Burke's car when Amy throws her arms around me in a cross between a rugby tackle and an affectionate mugging.
"Maybe I should get kidnapped more often," I say when she finally releases me.
"You're an arse, Matt," she says. "You could have been killed."
"I know. I think I deserve a beer. Want one?"
Amy nods and we go inside. I grab two beers from the fridge and hand one to Amy.
"I think you probably saved my life," I say.
"I think you owe me big time. You can start by finding something to eat."
"Biscuits okay?"
"Biscuits are good."
I bring over a packet of biscuits and the two of us eat in silence for a moment. Amy brushes a couple of crumbs from her skirt and takes another slug of beer. "So, tell me all about it," she says. "What happened at the boat? You said it was only going to take ten minutes, but you were away for the best part of an hour. Next thing you're marching along with a couple of bad guys."
"Everett was on the boat. We'd just planted the bug when Goons-R-Us popped out and pointed guns at us."
"Then what?"
"They took us inside for a lecture. Everett's involved, but he's not doing it for the money. It's a crusade. Young people are wasting organs that old and important people should have instead. That sort of thing."
"Really? That's nuts."
"Dave told him he was a 'loonball'".
Amy laughs.
"Not the smartest thing to say when people are pointing guns at you."
"You know what Dave's like."
"Yeah. So what happened then?"
"Everett went in a bit of a huff and told the goons to get rid of us. You saw the next bit. I think the plan was to take us way out of the town and kill us, but the van got a flat tyre and a police car stopped to see if anyone needed help. The police officer went back to his car, but then he got a message on the radio, came back to the van and there was a shoot-out. He shot the big guy, but Floyd shot the cop and escaped in his patrol car. Police are looking for him now. Burke turned up a few hours later and rescued us."
"If the van hadn't got a flat tyre…"
"I know."
"So this Everett stuff -- did you get it recorded?"
"He smashed the bug to pieces in front of us."
"Shit."
"Yeah."
"Okay," Amy says. "We'll just have to come up with another plan." She peers at me from beneath her fringe. "You look like crap. Get some sleep. I'll come round after work tomorrow."
She leaves and I go to bed. I'm still staring at the ceiling hours later. Eventually I fall asleep and dream of vans and guns.
I finally surface just before lunchtime, although it takes an hour and most of a jug of coffee before I feel
even slightly normal. I decide to call Dave, and spend a good ten minutes trying to find my phone before I remember that Burke's taken it as evidence. So I send him an email instead:
Hey. You OK?
I'm thinking it's probably smart for us to stay away from work for a while -- not just today. What do you think? Let me know. No plans, so come round whenever you want.
M
I flop down on the sofa, turn on the TV and flick through the channels, not watching anything in particular. From time to time the computer makes the new-mail "boing" sound, but when I get up to check it's the usual junk mail for surrogacy, amazing stock market systems and hardcore pornography involving midgets and hammers. It's nearly seven before I get a message that isn't junk. It's from Dave.
Knackered. You? Think I'll stay in today/tonight, try and get a proper sleep.
Staying away from work makes sense.
Catch up tomorrow.
Cheers
D
I go back to the sofa and doze off in front of the TV.
I wake up with a start just after nine, stick a ready meal in the microwave and jump in the shower. I'm washing dishes when the buzzer goes and Amy comes through the door like a hurricane.
"You said Everett smashed the bug?"
"Yeah."
"What about the receiver?"
I'd forgotten about that bit.
"Is it the same program as before?" Amy says, moving towards the computer.
I shake my head. "We didn't get it set up. Dave was going to do it after we planted the bug on Everett's boat. Everett's goons had other ideas."
"If we had it, could we hook it up to your computer?"
"Don't see why not."
"Okay. Let's go and get it, then."
"It might not be there. Everett might have found it."
"He might," Amy agrees, "but he might not. It's worth the trip, isn't it?"
"Yeah, okay," I say. "Will we go on the bike? That's the fastest way."
Amy's voice is perfectly reasonable, but her expression is anything but. "We'll take the car," she says.
I make conversation as Amy drives, mainly to distract me from her driving.
"So what's the plan if it is there?"
"Take it to your apartment, hook it up, see what's on it. Maybe it's recorded your meeting with Everett."
"And if it does? It's still an illegal recording."
Amy shrugs. "We can work that bit out when we know what we've got. We might not have anything."
It's dark when we turn into the Mariners' Court car park. Most of the spaces are full, and I can see that many of the boats are lit up like Christmas trees. Everett's boat is in darkness, though. There aren't any lights on inside or out, and the only illumination reaching the Zen Arcade comes from nearby boats and the lamps on the pontoons.
There's some kind of function on in the restaurant. I can hear a live band doing something jazzy, and through the windows it looks like the place is packed. A few people are milling around the balcony, nursing drinks or sneaking cigarettes, and one couple appears to be having a row. I can't hear them, but there's lots of pointing, exaggerated sighing and crossing of arms.
"Can you remember where he put it?" Amy says, locking the Dentmobile. I nod towards the marina office. "Other side of that. Dave said there was a bunch of electrical boxes on the wall, and he put the receiver in with them."
"Okay. Let's go and find it."
We walk towards the building, keeping our eyes peeled in case anybody spots us. So far so good.
When we reach the other side of the marina office it's between us and the restaurant, so we can relax a bit. Amy props herself against the wall while I look for the receiver. Dave's done a good job: he's stuck it behind one of the bigger junction boxes, the magnetic clamp holding it firmly in place and completely out of sight. If you didn't know it was there, you'd never find it in a million years.
I quickly discover that even when you do know it's there, it isn't easy to shift. I think Dave's stuck it to the back of the junction box and given it a good shove, because it's hard to reach and harder to grab. I skin my knuckles on the brick wall a few times before I finally get a grip on the receiver and haul it out of its hiding place.
"Shit," Amy hisses. "Someone's coming."
I stand up and slip the receiver into my back pocket. Amy beckons me towards her and makes a shushing motion with her finger.
I can hear footsteps on gravel.
The footsteps stop.
I realise I'm holding my breath.
We're standing utterly still with our backs against the marina office wall. We can see the light of a torch beam coming from around the corner.
The footsteps start again. They're coming closer.
In a blur of movement Amy swings round, messes up her hair and leans against me. "Don't move," she whispers, moving to unbutton my shirt.
I haven't even had time to react when someone's shining a torch directly into my eyes.
"Hey!" a man shouts. "Get a room!"
When he finally stops trying to blind me and my eyes go back to normal, I can see that we've been caught by the world's least intimidating security guard. He's about five feet tall, if that, and he's pretty overweight, stuffed into a uniform that he's obviously had since he was slimmer. He looks like somebody has taken a normal, albeit small, security guard and stuck an air hose up his backside. I catch Amy's eye and I can tell that she's trying not to laugh.
"Out!", the guard says.
We mumble in fake embarrassment and walk towards the car park.
"Did you get it?" Amy whispers.
"Yeah."
"We should do that more often," I say when we reach the Dentmobile. "I'm having a great time."
Amy arches an eyebrow. "There are websites for people like you," she says, opening the driver's door. I think she's smiling.
It doesn't take long to connect the receiver to my computer. It's got a standard connector, and when I finally find the right cable and hook it up it works instantly.
Amy clatters the keyboard, sits back in the chair and exhales slowly. "Matt, I think we've got something." She clicks on an audio file and Everett's voice comes out of the speakers. The quality isn't brilliant -- it's on the quiet side and there's a lot of background hiss -- but it's good enough.
"Nobody cares about details any more," Everett's voice says. "Everyone's in too much of a hurry. Things get missed. Corners get cut. And what happens then?"
"What happens then is we get you on tape," Amy says triumphantly. She gives me a million-dollar smile. "What would you do without me?"
Amy listens to the whole recording, shaking her head from time to time. "We can use this," she says when the clip is finished. "I'm not sure how, but we can use this. Let's sleep on it and meet up after work tomorrow."
"Sounds like a plan."
"You should get some more beer. I think we'll need it."
With a smile and a wave, Amy lets herself out.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"Okay. Listen to this," Dave says.
We're in my apartment, Amy and I on the sofa and Dave at the computer. He's spent the last half hour looking for and then playing with some program to improve the sound of the Adam Everett recording. We've spent the last half hour drinking beer and listening to him swear.
Dave presses a key and sits back. A blast of distorted noise comes out of the speakers.
"Balls," he says. "Turned it up too far. Give me a minute."
I roll my eyes and Amy smirks. "Another beer?"
"Go on then."
"Dave?"
"Yep."
I get the beers, hand one to Dave and return to my perch on the sofa. "Nearly done?" I ask.
"It's just finishing," Dave says. "Okay. Second time lucky."
Adam Everett's voice comes through the speakers. The sound is still a bit tinny, but Dave's tweaks have made everything a lot more distinct.
"Sounds good," I say. "Can you copy it to a thumb drive for me?"
/>
"Sure. Where are they?"
"Try the top drawer, or on that shelf over there," I point. Dave rummages around, finds a thumb drive and plugs it into the computer. He copies the file and throws the drive in a lazy arc towards me. I manage to catch it before it hits Amy in the eye.
"For Burke?" Amy asks.
"Yeah."
"Is there any point?" Dave says. "He can't use it for evidence."
"I know. But he can hear it, and he can let other cops hear it. It's not something they'll ever play in court, but anything that reminds them Everett's connected to a cop killer has got to help."
"They're not going to bust him, though."
"No, I don't think so. But at least we're doing something. If nothing else, if word spreads around the police then Everett's life is going to become a bit more difficult."
"What, they'll stop him if he runs a red light?"
I'm beginning to get annoyed. I know we're hardly bringing Everett to justice, but at least we're trying to do something. "Got any better ideas? Look, unless Everett marches into the police station and makes a full confession, then he's pretty much untouchable. I know that. If you've got a better plan, let's hear it."
"I've got one," Amy says. Dave and I look at her, surprised.
"Let's go to the press."
"Everett owns the press," I say.
"I didn't mean the local press," Amy says. "I mean the proper press. The Post, or the Journal."
"What would we tell them?"
"We'd tell them that Everett's connected to a cop killing. We've got photos, we've got a recording, we've got witness testimonies --" Amy points at Dave and I -- "and we've got a hell of a story. If they run it, Everett's finished."
"Bloody hell," I say. "You're right."
"I'm always right," Amy says, taking a small bow. "It's too late to call them tonight. I'll do it first thing."
"Okay." I point at the thumb drive. "I'll take this to Burke."
Coffin Dodgers Page 15