Coffin Dodgers (20 page)

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."

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?"