Amy's on day shift. I catch her in the car park as she's leaving work.
"Hey," Amy says.
"Hey. How's it going?"
"Crap. You?"
"I went to see Burke, gave him the recording," I tell her.
"What did he say?"
"The usual."
"Inadmissible? No evidence?"
"Yeah. He was his usual big cheery self. I got our phones back, though. He says there weren't any prints, but they had to check."
"Is he any further forward with the case?"
"Nope."
"This'll cheer you up, then. I spoke to the Journal. They're interested."
"You're kidding."
"Nope. They're very, very interested." There's a screech of tyres from the other end of the car park. "It's not a good idea for you to hang around here. I'll come round to yours later and tell you then. Do you need a lift?"
"No thanks. I've got the bike."
"Okay. I'll see you later."
Amy starts telling me the story before she's even sat down.
"Okay, so I call the Journal and ask to speak to a crime reporter."
"Want a drink?"
"Yeah. Anyway. The guy I need to speak to is called Charles Seymour, and he's the Journal's senior crime correspondent. He's not at his desk so I leave a voicemail. He calls back just as I've arrived at work, so I sit in the car and have a chat with him."
I hand Amy a beer, fresh from the fridge. "What was he like?"
"Exactly how you'd expect a crime reporter to be. Blunt, pretty harassed-sounding. I get the impression he isn't one for small talk. Probably not much fun at parties either."
"So what did you tell him?"
"Pretty much everything. That someone working for Everett murdered a cop, that we had evidence that Everett was up to his neck in something really dodgy. That sort of thing."
"What did he say?"
"Wants to see what we've got, hear the recording. What shift are you on tomorrow?"
"I'm on the no shift."
"Oh, of course. Sorry. I forgot. Seymour's in town tomorrow anyway, so I've arranged to meet him at the First and Last. Saves us a big drive."
"What time?"
"Half eleven."
"Okay."
"If Dave can make it too, that'd be good. Come to think of it, where is Dave?"
I raise my eyebrows and smirk.
"Another one?"
"Yeah."
"Who is it this time?"
"Can't remember the name. She's a sound engineer."
"Oh god."
Amy has been to enough gigs to know what sound engineers are like.
"I take it she's a lady sound engineer?" she asks.
"I'm assuming so."
"Wow. I hope he likes denim."
You'll never see a sound engineer in anything but denim. It's one of the immutable laws of the universe.
"I know," I say. "She's probably got so many piercings it looks like somebody's attacked her with a nail gun."
"And tattoos."
"Yeah. Tattoos in places where most people don't have places. And a beard."
Amy laughs. "So we'll be seeing him at ten, then?"
"Oh, I think so."
"Any ideas for the call?"
"I was thinking power tools."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Drills and screaming. I've got a drill if you've got the screams."
"Excellent."
I've got a drill in my hand, Amy's in fine voice and it's nine p.m., but when we make the call something weird happens. Dave doesn't answer. We try again, but the phone just goes to voicemail. We don't leave a message.
"That's weird," Amy says.
"Maybe she's eaten him."
"Maybe. Where were they meeting up?"
"Don't know. Dave didn't say."
"Oh well. He'll turn up eventually."
He doesn't.
Amy and I decided that Dave has finally got lucky, but this morning I'm beginning to wonder. He still hasn't been in touch, and when I try his phone it goes straight to voicemail. I decide to take a run past his apartment after Amy and I have met the newspaper guy. If he's not there, I decide, I'll call Burke.
I make it to The First And Last for twenty-five past eleven. The Dentmobile's parked outside, and when I walk in Amy's already sitting with somebody. Either Seymour's arrived early too, or Amy's decided to kill time by chatting up some old guy. I walk over and introduce myself.
"Charles Seymour," the man says, giving me a handshake that could break fingers. "Thanks for taking the time."
"No problem." Seymour looks and sounds exactly like I'd expect a newspaper crime writer to look and sound. He's in his early sixties with close-cropped hair and the sort of colouring you can only get from spending your whole life in dark alleys and sleazy bars, there appears to be a long scar underneath the stubble on his right cheek, and piercing grey eyes peer from behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. His face is as creased and as lined as his shirt. His voice reminds me of a doctor or maybe a newsreader, a deep baritone with a faint trace of an accent -- Irish, I think. It's not hard to imagine him meeting gangsters in the sort of pubs where the regulars kill, cook and eat anybody they don't like the look of.
"I've already given Charles the background," Amy says, "but obviously he'd like to hear it from you and Dave. Is Dave coming?"
"Haven't been able to get hold of him. Sorry."
Amy frowns.
"That's okay," Seymour says. "I can talk to him later. Want to tell me from the beginning?"
I notice the notepad -- a paper one -- on the table in front of him. "Aren't you going to record this?" I ask.
Seymour smiles faintly and shakes his head. "I prefer shorthand. Paper doesn't crash. Anyway, this is just background. We'll do the proper interviews later."
Talking to Seymour is just like talking to Burke: he stays silent for most of the story, occasionally nodding to keep me talking or raising an eyebrow to express surprise. The few questions he does ask are about details: what make of car, what was in the back of Floyd's van, who's the detective in charge of the case, that sort of thing. When I've covered everything to his satisfaction, he asks to see the photos and listen to the recordings of Sleazy Bob and of Everett. I've already copied the audio files to my phone, so I hook up the headphones and pass the phone to him. He listens in a weird way: just one headphone over his left ear, his hand covering it. As he listens he adds more hieroglyphics to his notepad, occasionally asking me to confirm who's saying what. When he's finished with that, he asks to see the photos. Two questions this time: did I get any photos of the men together? Did I get any photos showing the number plates on the cars? I answer no to both. Seymour just nods and makes more scribbles.
"I need to run this past my editor first, see what he wants to do with it," Seymour says when he's finished. "If I get the green light on this, are you willing to be interviewed on the record?"
"Sure."
"And your friend?"
If he's not dead in a dustbin somewhere. "Yes."
"Have you had any dealings with this Sansom character?"
We shake our heads.
"Okay. Can I get copies of these?" he says, indicating the phone.
"Yes, of course. What's best?"
"Mail's fine." Seymour scribbles the address on a new notebook page and tears it out. I fold the paper and put it in my pocket. "I'll need the list of potential victims, too. I can pick that up next time. How do I reach you?"
I give him my number and my email. Amy does the same.
"Okay," Seymour says, getting up from his seat. He shakes Amy's hand and then mine. "Thanks for your time. I'll make some calls and talk to a few people. I'll be in touch in a few days."
"So what do you think?" Amy says when Seymour's left the bar.
"Seems like a nice guy."
"Yeah. Think he's interested?"
"I think so. It's a good story."
"Here's hoping. So what are you doing now?"
"I'm going to swing past Dave's and see if he's there," I say. "He's still not answering his phone."
"Are you worried?"
"A bit. It's probably nothing, but I'll feel a lot better when I've seen him."
"Let me know, okay?"
"Of course."
"Okay. See you."
I try Dave's phone again but it's still going straight to voicemail, so I head over to his apartment. I press the buzzer, but there's no response. I try a few more times. Still nothing. I look up at the windows but all I can see is Dave's ceiling. I didn't tell Amy, but I'm really starting to worry. I'm tempted to call Burke, but I know the first thing he'll ask me is whether Dave's turned up for work.
I'm heading back to the bike when I hear Dave shouting my name. He's at the window, looking like he's been dragged through a hedge. He buzzes me in and I discover that he looks even worse up close.
"Shit, Dave, you look awful. Are you all right?"
"Yeah, I'm fine," he says. "A bit hungover."
"Where have you been? We've been trying to get hold of you since last night."
"I went on that date I told you about. Ended up back at her place, and we sat up all night talking. Well, talking and drinking. I fell asleep on her couch and didn't wake up until lunchtime."
"Did your phone fall asleep too?"
"I don't have a phone. Burke's got it, remember?"
I've felt stupid before, but not quite as stupid as I feel right now. "Ah. That means I've got it. I went to see him yesterday."
"Any news?"
"Not from Burke." I tell Dave about the meeting with Seymour.
"Sorry, Matt. I didn't know."
"It's okay. So, last night went well, then?"
Dave beams. "Yeah."
"The sound engineer?"
"Yeah. She's great. Really funny."
"Did you...?"
Dave looks offended. "That's none of your business. No. She's not like that. I'm not like that!"
"Yes you are."
"No I'm not."
"Yes, you are."
"No, I'm not! Okay, maybe I am. But this is different. She's really cool."
"What's her name? You never told us."
"Didn't I? Sunny."
"Nice name."
"Yeah."
"Seeing her again?"
"Hope so."
"Cool." I realise I'm starving, but not so starving that I'd risk eating anything from Dave's fridge. "I need to go. See you tonight?"
"Sure."
"Okay then."
I've just climbed onto the bike when my phone rings. It's Amy. "Any sign of him?" she asks.
"Yeah, he's home."
"Where's he been?"
"On a date."
"Why wasn't he answering his phone?"
"I hadn't given it back to him."
"No wonder the two of you are such good friends," she says. "You're a pair of complete and utter arses."
She's gone before I have the chance to come up with a devastatingly funny reply.
Dave and Amy come round that night for beer, and that's the last I see of either of them for four days. Amy's doing a bunch of late shifts, Dave's spending all his free time with Sunny, and I'm moping about my apartment, playing video games and occasionally waking up convinced that somebody's breaking in to try and kill me. We have the odd chat on the phone, but there's nothing of any importance to talk about. Seymour hasn't called, the police don't seem to be doing anything and Everett doesn't seem to be sending any more goons after me. I'm bored out of my mind.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Amy calls. "Has Dave caught up with you yet?"
"I've got a missed call from him, but I haven't called him back yet. Why?"
"He wants us to go to the pub tonight."
"Sounds good."
"And he wants us to meet Sunny."
"Ah." We're not too enthusiastic about that. Dave's clearly bowled over by her, but we're both worried that all those unfortunate dates have gone to his head and he's fallen for the first person he's met who isn't certifiable, alcoholic or both. The prospect of trying to make small talk with some tattooed loon doesn't exactly fill us with feelings of joy.
"I'm sure it'll be fine," I say. "I'm sure she's lovely."
"Are you?"
"Nope."
"Me neither."
Sunny isn't quite what we expected. She's wearing denim, but not the denim, denim and denim combination we'd predicted: she's in jeans, heels and a floaty yellow top. Her long dark hair is glossy, not greasy, and if she has tattoos or piercings she hasn't got them anywhere obvious. Either Dave is pulling a fast one and has hired an actress for the evening, or Sunny could easily swap sound engineering for modelling. She's funny, too, with a filthy laugh and a sense of humour that's almost as sick as ours. Best of all, there's an obvious chemistry between her and Dave. I like her immediately, and if the amount of whispered asides and loud cackles she's sharing with Amy are any indication, Amy does too.
I'm finding it hard to square the Sunny who's sitting with us with the stereotypical sound engineer Amy and I had imagined, but it's a while before I get the chance to ask her about it. Eventually, though, there's a lull in the conversation while Dave goes to the bar.
"So how did you get into doing sound?" I ask.
"My dad," Sunny smiles. "He was a sound guy for years, did all the big bands, but his hearing was starting to go. So he got me to help."
"Too many loud gigs?"
"Old age, really," Sunny says. "You lose your hearing over time. The high frequencies are the first ones to go, so eventually you can't hear the top end."
"And that's where the problems are."
"Yeah, that's how you end up with feedback. You need to be pretty good at hearing the top end so you can tweak it without making everything sound like someone's thrown a big blanket over the speakers. Do you do music, then?"
"Used to play in a band. A long time ago."
"Did I ever do the sound for you?"
"I don't think so. I'm sure I'd remember."
As soon as the words are out of my mouth I start to panic: it sounds like I'm trying to chat her up, which wasn't my intention. Sunny either doesn't notice, or she decides to ignore it. Either way I'm grateful.
"I was about thirteen, fourteen when I started helping out. Suited me fine -- I was mad about music, still am, and it was really exciting to be at gigs as an insider instead of as a screaming fan. I liked the work, too. By the time I was eighteen I was good enough to do the whole thing myself. My dad was more or less retired by then, so he bought me a PA system and I started doing the sound for a few local venues. I've been doing it ever since."
"Still enjoy it?"
Sunny shrugs. "There aren't many gigs these days. Most of what I do is corporate stuff. Parties, presentations, conferences, that kind of thing. The money's good, but it's hardly the sort of thing that makes your soul sing. It's not exactly doing Radiohead at a big stadium somewhere, or a bunch of punk rockers in a basement."
"Your dad must be really proud of you," Amy says.
"Oh, he is," Sunny laughs, "but that doesn't stop him from giving me the same advice every time I speak to him. 'Sunita! Are you making sure you protect your hearing?' That sort of thing."
"Whenever my mum phones she asks if I'm eating properly," I say. "And if the weather's cold, she'll remind me to wear a jumper."
Sunny laughs again. "Yeah! No matter how old you get, you're always going to be their little baby."
Amy's staring into the distance, but Dave brings her back to reality when he loudly plonks the drinks down on the table. "Talking about how great I am again?" he asks.
"Something like that," Amy says. "We're talking about giant babies."
Dave looks baffled. The three of us crack up.
I'd planned on a lie-in but I'm woken by the sound of my phone at nine o'clock. I don't recognise the number, so I hit the OK button fully prepared to shout at a computerised telemarketer.
&nbs
p; "Is that Matt?"
"Who's this?" I croak.
"Charles Seymour, from the Journal. Sorry I haven't been in touch sooner. Is this a good time?"
"Yeah," I say, wiping the sleep from my eyes. I stumble out of bed, stumble to the coffee machine and punch the big orange power button.
"I'm just calling to give you an update," Seymour says. "I've spoken to my editor, and we both agree that there's a story here."
"That's great. When do you think you'll run it?"
Seymour clears his throat. "That's why I'm calling. Do you have anything else I don't know about?"
"I don't follow you."
"Are you sure you don't have any other photos, ones that show Everett with the other men? Any more recordings?"
"No, nothing. You've got everything I've got. That we've got."
"Okay. That's not a problem. But we're going to have to sit on this for a while."
"What do you mean?"
"We've run the whole thing past legal, and they've got some concerns. The story's solid, but we can't run it. Not yet."
"Why not? There's more than enough evidence to show that Everett's dirty."
"We've got lots of pieces, but we don't have the complete picture yet," Seymour says. "Everett is a very rich man, a very well connected man, and that means we have to be careful. If we run with what we've got, his lawyers will shut us down in a heartbeat. They'll kill the story and bury it so deep that nobody will ever dare touch it."
"So that's it? Everett gets away with it because he can afford good lawyers?"
"No, that's not it. But if we're going to do this, we need to be bullet proof. Right now, we're not."
"No evidence," I say, hoping Seymour can hear the bitterness in my voice. If he can, he doesn't acknowledge it.
"Not yet. I'm going to keep digging. But I need you to keep me informed. If you hear of anything else, find anything else, no matter how insignificant it seems, I need you to let me know."
"Okay."
"You've got my details?"
"Yeah."
"This isn't over, Matt. But if we're going to do this, we need to do it properly."
"I understand," I say. But I don't. Not really.
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