Coffin Dodgers (16 page)

I try to speak, but Burke's raised palm tells me he isn't finished. "Even if you're right and Everett is doing very bad things, there's nothing to tie him to this. What you've got isn't enough. It isn't anything. We've no reason to suspect him, no crimes to suspect him of, and I don't think that's going to change. You want my advice? Leave it. Leave it and get on with your life."

"But --"

"But what?" Burke waves towards the office outside his door. "That board through there is full of names. Dead people's names. Some, we'll solve. Some, we won't. That's how it goes. Limited manpower, limited resources, a few of us doing the best we can."

"But --"

"You think you're going to find something that'll bust the whole thing open? You think you'll find proof that Adam Everett -- someone who's as close to untouchable as anybody round here gets -- is up to his neck in it? Good luck with that."
 

Burke takes another swig. "There are some fights you can never win," he says. "Unless something big happens and they actually leave some evidence, this is one of them."

He rises from his desk. "I'm sorry. There's nothing I can do."

I don't realise how aggressively I'm riding the bike until a Toyota brakes for no good reason and I nearly go into the back of it. I realise that if I don't calm down I'll end up finishing off what my car crash was supposed to do, so I pull over to the side of the road. I take lots of deep breaths and wait until I've stopped shaking before twisting the throttle and rejoining the traffic. This time I ride more sensibly. Instead of tailgating I sit well back from cars, and rather than race traffic lights I stop on yellow. I'm probably going to be late for work, but I'd rather be late than stuff my face into the back of an SUV.

I park the bike, stomp up the stairs to my apartment and flick on the computer. Might as well see what Sleazy Bob's been up to this morning. I grab a coffee and take greedy gulps as I click through the audio files. No pornography today -- at least, not so far -- but nothing particularly interesting either. Just the usual caring, sharing management style.

I can't be bothered cooking so I nip down to the street and grab a BLT from the sandwich shop, munching as I head back home, trying to stop the lettuce from going everywhere. I get in, grab another coffee and double-check the bug before turning the computer off. Two new clips. I glance at my watch. I'm already running late for my shift. Another five minutes won't matter.

The first clip is yet another of Bob's rants at someone or other. I think it's one of the admin staff. I don't bother listening beyond the first few seconds; I've heard so many of these I could probably predict every single word he'll say. The second clip is more interesting, though, because Bob sounds nervous.

I can't hear the other side of the call, but Bob's apologising for something. "I know, I know," he says. "I was out of order. It's just --"

Whoever he's speaking to is talking over the top of him. For most of the call Bob just grunts. Eventually, though, there's some kind of decision.

"Okay. Yeah, I think so."

Bob goes quiet.

"Yeah, I know where that is. What's the boat called?"

More grunting.

"Yeah, that's not a problem. I've got a card. When?"

Another pause.

"Well, I was hoping it'd be sooner. You can't reschedule?"

Bob sighs. That'll be a no, then.

"Okay. No, I understand. Yes, Tuesday's fine. Yes. Okay. I'll call him."

Bob hangs up and immediately dials another number.
 

"It's me," he says. "Tuesday." A pause. "I know, but he says he can't before then. Yeah. I know."

Bob is silent for a long time. The other person must be ranting about something.

"Look, we can talk about that on Tuesday." A shorter pause. "Yeah, the boat. Yeah. No, I'll swipe us both in. Yeah. Ten."

Another pause, another grunt and then Sleazy Bob hangs up.

I'm on the phone to Amy before the clip has stopped, but I just get her voicemail. I try Dave. He answers on the second ring.
 

"I think I might have something," I say. "Does Everett have a boat?"

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Adam Everett's boat is hard to miss. The Zen Arcade is twice the size of the other boats in Mariners' Cove, and while I know as much about boats as I do about ballet I'm willing to bet that it's very fast and very expensive. It looks as big as a football field, with an enormous white hull and a teardrop-shaped cabin. The combination of its gleaming white paintwork and black privacy glass makes it look like a giant killer whale. Where other boats float, the Zen Arcade lurks.

Finding Everett's boat was easier than I expected. Dave and I found its name by going through the newspaper's online archive, which mentioned it a couple of times. We also found a press release from the manufacturer that mentioned Everett by name. Apparently he was delighted with the bespoke this and the hand-stitched that and the customised whatever the hell it was. The PR bumph was still useful, though, because it linked to a brochure for the same model -- albeit without whatever improvements Everett had specified. Thanks to that we know what the boat looks like, and we know how it is laid out. We're pretty sure where it is, too: Mariners' Cove is only two miles away from the town centre, and the nearest marina after that is a good hundred-odd miles away.
 

It's just after six p.m. and Dave and I are in the marina car park, beside the restaurant, looking out at the boats. Now I've seen the marina and the boat I'm convinced that this is where Sleazy Bob will be having his meeting.

"Do you think we could bug it?"

"I think so," Dave says. "Unless it's pissing down, they'll probably sit on the deck at the back. It's not too noisy round here, so unless they go right inside and downstairs, we've got a pretty good chance of hearing them."

"Is the bug we've got good enough?"

"Should be. The website said it was military grade. Might be a bit quiet if they're not too close to it, but we can fix that on the computer easily enough. The hard bit's going to be getting it onto the boat in the first place."

"Why's that?"

Dave points at the gates that separate the car park from the marina. "Those security gates are electronic," he says.
 

There are three exits from the marina to the car park, and each one of them has a very solid-looking gate on it. We watch for ten minutes or so and everyone who comes in or out holds a plastic card next to the lock, waits for a few seconds and then goes through.

"Think there's a way round it?"

"I doubt it," Dave says. "There's a lot of money sitting on the water there, and people pay a lot to keep their boats here. They're not going to accept something cheap and nasty. Places like this are all about the details. I bet if you looked at their website they'll bang on about the state of the art security stuff they've got."

"Shit."

"Yeah."

We stand in silence for a minute before Dave has an idea.

"The lost property office at work might have a swipe card. Someone could have dropped theirs on one of the gambling floors."

"I don't see it. Surely it'd be in their wallet with all their other cards, ID and stuff? They might not miss a swipe card, but they'd miss their credit cards soon enough. It's worth a try, I guess, but I don't think we're going to find one that way."

"You're probably right," Dave says.

Then I have an idea. "Could we get in from the other side?"

"The water, you mean?"

"Yeah."

"What, swim?"

"No, I mean in a boat."

"We'd be spotted." Dave waves towards a small building next to the marina's restaurant. "There's a guy in there who keeps an eye on every boat in and out. Don't want the riff-raff coming in. And anyway, we don't have a boat. Or know what to do with a boat, come to think of it. We'd end up in the middle of the ocean, or underneath a ferry, or something."

After a few more well-intentioned but unworkable ideas, Dave and I give up on reality and see who can come up with the stupidest plan instead. Dave nearly wins with his suggestion of abseiling from a hot air balloon, but I snatch a late victory with my suggestion: Amy tries to get into the marina in a pedalo, claiming to be a tourist who pedalled a little bit too far and got swept out to sea. Dave and I are disguised as giant fish, or possibly dolphins, and while Amy's got everyone distracted we swim up to Everett's boat and plant the bug. Best of all, Amy would have to wear a bikini.

We're both killing ourselves laughing when a sensible idea finally pops into my head.

"Dave, I've got it. Seriously, this time. I know how we can get in."

"How?"

"Beer."

"Beer?"

"I'll explain later. Right now we need to get to a shop."

Dave clearly thinks I've lost my mind, but he shrugs and follows me to the bike.
 

"Do me a favour," I say as I hit the ignition switch. "Give Amy a call on the way and ask her to meet us at the supermarket. Tell her to bring the Dentmobile."

Amy is parked right outside the front door of the supermarket when we pull up. "You shouldn't park so close to the doors," I tell her. "That's why your car's always getting bashed."

"At least I've got a car. Yours is in pieces, remember?"

It's a fair point.

"So are you going to tell me why it's so urgent that we go shopping?"

I tell Amy about Sleazy Bob's phone call and Everett's boat. "They're meeting on Tuesday night, so we've got all of tomorrow and a bit of Tuesday to get the bug in place. What shifts are you on tomorrow?"

"Day," Amy says.

"Me too. Dave?"

"Early."

"Okay, that works. Dave, think you can get the bug back from Sleazy Bob's office during your shift?"

"No problem."

"Do you have a plan?"

"Don't need one. I'll just do the same thing I did before. Walk in with some paperwork, grab the bug, go away again."

"Okay. Don't forget the receiver either. We'll need that too."

Dave makes a "duh" face.

"Amy, can you drive us tomorrow after work?"

"Sure. So are you going to tell me where the beer comes into it?"

"Social engineering."

"Social what?"

"Social engineering. I saw a programme about it once. They were interviewing these big-shot computer hackers who'd got into banks, and government computers, and things like that. This guy asked the hackers how they'd got into the systems when they were supposed to be hacker-proof. Someone had worked out the numbers, and they reckoned that it would take a supercomputer tens, maybe hundreds of years to crack the security and get into the systems. But these guys got in and out without any trouble at all, with normal computers."

"So how did they do it?" Amy asks.

"One of the hackers called it social engineering. He'd phone up somebody in the payroll department, or in the admin office, whatever, and he'd sound bored and say he was from the IT department. The system says somebody's been trying to hack into your account, he'd say, and we're just making sure they haven't damaged any of your data. Can you just confirm your user name and password? Ninety nine times out of a hundred, the person he called would give him the login details over the phone, and that was all he needed. Didn't matter whether he called office juniors or senior executives. Almost everybody fell for it."

"Okay," Amy says. "I can see how that works. What I can't see is where the hacker mentions going to the supermarket and buying a great big pile of beer."

"Beer will get us through the gates and onto Everett's boat. Trust me," I say. "And I haven't told you the best bit of my plan yet."

"What's that?"

I grin. "We get to drink the beer afterwards."

"Are you actually going to tell me any details?"

"It's on a need to know basis, Amy. You don't need to know."

Amy gives me one of her looks. "Okay. Then you need to know that you're paying for it. What do you think, Dave?"

"Sounds fair to me," he says.

"Traitor." I give Dave my best evil look. "Okay, okay, okay. Let's get this over with."

Ten minutes and a lot of cash later, we've loaded four cases of premium lager into the boot of the Dentmobile. The shock absorbers groan, but the Dentmobile once again defies all the laws of physics and remains in one piece. "You should sell that car to the army," I tell Amy. "They can find out what special force keeps it together and use it on their tanks."

"Matt?"

"Uh-huh?"
 

"What's six feet tall and goes ow?"

"I don't -- ow!"

Amy smiles like an angel as Dave howls with laughter.

I rise above it and suggest that we grab a bite to eat or go for a drink, but Amy's tired and Dave needs an early night so he doesn't sleep in for his shift. It's probably just as well, because paying for the beer has wiped out most of my money. Amy offers Dave a lift home, so I say goodbye and head back to my bike. I ride home, microwave some pasta and play videogames until my eyes start to blur. I go to bed and dream of bugs, and boats, and bad guys.
 

I hate working day shift. The mornings drag, and it's not unusual to go for two hours without serving a single customer. Today isn't quite that bad. I'm hardly rushed off my feet, but while the customers appear to have been here since late last night and aren't exactly sober, so far they've been either quiet or quite funny. Better that than loud and annoying.

Dave wanders past just after eleven a.m. and gives me a thumbs-up: mission accomplished. All I need to do now is get through the next six hours without dying of boredom. Watching Amy helps. I know I've said the uniforms are on the wrong side of decent, and they are, but her legs in those heels are a hypnotic sight. I could watch them all day, and probably would if Amy hadn't caught me looking and shot me a look. I don't get the chance to speak to her until after the lunchtime rush.

"I'm not allowed to punch the customers, but I'm pretty sure I'm allowed to punch you," she says. "Don't you have glasses to polish, or something?"