Coffin Dodgers (24 page)

Somebody sits next to me. I look up and see Dave.

"Just another boring day at the office," he says. I laugh. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Knackered though."

"I'm not surprised. I haven't seen you move that fast since we got chased out of the bowling club."

"Where's Amy?"

"She'll be down in a bit. Police are taking statements."

"Everett?"

"Cops picked him up just after you made a run for it. Sleazy Bob too."

"That was fast."

"Burke had some plainclothes guys in the room. When it all kicked off, they grabbed them up before they could do a runner."

"If it weren't for Burke I'd be dead meat."

"True."

"Come to think of it, if it weren't for you I'd be dead meat too."

"That's true too. Hiding in the underwear shop was inspired, though."

"Thanks."

"Did you get anything nice?"

"Get stuffed."

We both grin and wait for Burke. We don't have to wait long. There's a commotion at the main door and a huddle of men comes through, Everett and Sleazy Bob in the middle. There are four uniformed cops, four people I'm assuming are plainclothes cops, and Burke. A few customers are taking photos on their phones, but I'm surprised there aren't any proper photographers here. Looks like nobody told the papers.

The group splits in two, with the plainclothes guys taking Everett to one car and the uniforms taking Bob to another. As Bob's getting into the patrol car, a uniformed arm stopping him from banging his head on the frame, he spots me and shouts something. I can't make out what he's shouting, but Dave translates.

"Bad news, Matt," he says. "You're fired."

Amy finds us after ten minutes or so.

"If one more greasy, scummy, stupid, low-life piece of gangster trash gets in my way, I'm going to smack him with a round of drinks. How's your day been?"

"Oh, you know," I say. "Ups and downs."

"You okay?"

"Yeah. You?"

"I think I've bruised my arm."

"Ah."

"I hope you're worth it."

I'm still umming and ahhing, trying to say something suitably impressive, when Burke interrupts us. "Okay," he says. "Let's go."

Either criminals are getting a lot younger, or Burke's using his own car rather than a police car tonight. There's a baby seat in the back, along with lots of kid-related paraphernalia: discarded dummies, half-eaten rice cakes, a few raisins, packets of baby wipes and a few dolls. Dave climbs into the front -- he's bigger than us -- and Amy and I squeeze into the back. There's not much room, but I'm not complaining.

Amy puts her hand in mine. I look at her, surprised, and she just smiles.

"Sorry about the mess," Burke says as the car starts moving. "Haven't had the chance to tidy up."

"How old is she?" Amy asks.

"Nearly two," Burke says. That means he'll be nudging seventy by the time she's a teenager.

"Is she a daddy's girl?"

Burke chuckles. "Most of the time. She's been really full-on recently, really clingy, to the point where she wouldn't let me leave the room. That's gone a bit now, which is good. But yeah, she's a daddy's girl all right."

"What's her name?"

"Abigail."

"That's a pretty name. Is she your first?"

"Yeah. We were beginning to think it would never happen," he says, looking at us in the rear view mirror. "The police don't pay very much, and it's a lot of money."

We both nod.

"We were lucky," Burke says. "A distant relative left us some money in his will, so we were able to go ahead. Worked first time, which was just as well because we couldn't afford a second try. Unless I've got a rich old uncle I don't know about, history isn't going to repeat itself. Which is probably for the best."

Burke goes quiet, concentrating on his driving.

"So how do you juggle fatherhood with being in the police?" I ask.

"I sleep in the car," Burke smiles. "Oh, it's not too bad -- not now we're through the worst. She's pretty easy now. I'm more likely to be woken up by my phone than by Abigail."

We're stopped at traffic lights. Burke's eyes flick between the rear view mirror and the lights, which stubbornly stay on red.

"It does change you, though," he says. "Being a detective -- being a murder detective -- is a young man's game. It's different when you've got a family. Some cases..."

He doesn't elaborate. He doesn't need to.

"So are you planning to change jobs?" Amy asks. "Move to a different section, maybe?"

"I don't know," Burke sighs. "Drugs? Vice? They're not very happy jobs either, and I don't see myself driving a desk. I hate paperwork." Somebody pulls out right in front of us and Burke brakes hard, swearing under his breath.

"I'll have my thirty next year, so I can retire with a full pension if I want," Burke continues, keeping his distance from the idiot in front. "But the pension doesn't go very far, and I don't fancy spending the next thirty years sitting on my arse doing security for a warehouse in the middle of nowhere." Burke shrugs. "I don't know."

We arrive at another junction but instead of turning left towards the police station, Burke drives straight on. "The statements can wait until tomorrow," he says. "Fancy a drink?"

Burke takes us to The First and Last, where he buys us a round of drinks. The pub's busy and pretty loud, but we still manage to find a free booth.
 

"So what happens from here?" Dave asks him when we're all seated.

"Everett and Hannah will lawyer up," he says.
 

"What about Floyd and the other goon?" I say.

"They won't say anything either. People who hire people like them can hire more people to take care of them, if you follow me."

I nod. "So can you use the recordings?"

Burke shakes his head. "Still inadmissible."

"So what are you going to do?"

"I'm going to lean on the hospital guy." Andrew Sansom. "He's the key. If he gives them up -- and I think he will -- then we've got a case. Might be able to get Hannah to talk too. Offer him a deal."

"He's not going to get away with it, though, is he?" Amy says.

"No. But he doesn't need to know that, does he?"

Burke takes a sip of his Coke -- he's already said he's going on to the station after this -- and makes a face. "I want to say thank you," he says. "You did good work."

"Do we get badges?" I ask. Burke just shoots me a look.

"Okay, seriously though, I've been thinking. You know I've been fired?"

Burke nods.

"Reckon I could be a policeman?"

Burke looks as if he's taking the question seriously. He looks into the distance, mulling it over.

"You know the Armed Response Unit?" he says, finally.

"Yeah." The Armed Response Unit? Working there would be brilliant.

"They're always looking for new things to shoot at."

Dave laughs and nearly chokes on his beer. Burke stands up and gives me a friendly slap on the back that knocks the wind out of me.

"Enjoy your night. I'll see you tomorrow for statements."

He puts on his coat, chuckling as he goes.

My phone wakes me just after three. We'd stayed in The First And Last until closing time, then we went back to mine for a few beers. Amy left around one, Dave a bit later, and I flicked through channels on the TV for another hour or so, too wired to sleep. I read a bit, played videogames for a while and didn't go to bed until after four.

I pick up the phone and grunt.

"We're on our way," Amy says. "Ten minutes or so."

I grunt again and get out of bed. I manage to drink two coffees before the Dentmobile screeches to a halt in the street outside, and I wave from the window. Dave waves back from the passenger seat and I splay my fingers to indicate that I'll be down in five minutes. Dave nods. I grab another slurp of coffee and pop a couple of painkillers before thumping down the stairs.

"Looking good," Amy says when I climb into the Dentmobile. I blow a raspberry. She laughs.

The drive to the police station is typically terrifying, but once again the Dentmobile defies every law of physics and gets us there in one piece. We give our names to the desk sergeant, who picks up the phone and nods towards a bench seat. After five minutes, his phone buzzes and he tells us to go on up.

Burke looks as if someone's just dug him up.
 

"Bad baby night?" I ask.

Burke shakes his head and points to the chairs in front of his desk. There are only two, so Amy and Dave sit and I stand behind them.

There's a long pause before Burke finally speaks.

"Andrew Sansom is dead," he says.

"What happened?"

"Patrol car picked him up, but he died en route."

I raise my eyebrows. Burke understands immediately. "No, nothing like that," he says. I think he's too tired to be annoyed. "These are good cops. Sansom had a heart attack. They took him to Mercy, but he was DOA."

"Shit."

"That's an understatement. Sansom was the key to all of this. News travels fast, especially round here. Hannah and Everett have lawyered up, and their two goons aren't saying anything either."

Burke takes a long sip from his coffee mug. "Without Sansom, we don't have a case," he says.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

We deal with Burke’s news like the sensible, well-adjusted adults we are. We go to the pub.

"They’re going to get away with it," Dave says.

Amy nods. "Looks like it."

"So that’s it? We just give up?"

"Unless you’ve got any bright ideas," I say. "It’s the same thing all over again. No evidence. If Sansom hadn’t popped his clogs there might have been something, but with him out of the picture it’s our word against Adam Everett. Adam, whiter than white, butter wouldn’t melt Everett. We’ve got no chance."

"What about Burke? Can’t he do something?"

"What can he do?" Amy says. "He can go round, make a few threats maybe. Put the frighteners on them a bit. But that’s pretty much all he can do."

I raise an eyebrow. "Put the frighteners? Did you join the Mafia when I wasn’t looking?"

Amy smiles sweetly and kicks me hard under the table.
 

We spend the next few hours coming up with increasingly daft and desperate ideas for bringing Everett and Sleazy Bob to justice, but our hearts aren’t really in it and we call it a night before we’re even properly plastered.
 

We’re all very tired, so we decide to go our separate ways and I stagger off home, wondering if there’s enough food in the fridge for a post-pub snack. I let myself in, kick off my shoes and hit the light switch.

That’s when I see the gun.

I've seen enough movies to know that the red LED on the side of Sleazy Bob's gun means it's loaded and ready. The gun's in much better shape than Sleazy Bob is. He's either been doing some serious drinking or he's been poking himself in the eyeballs for that "just been tear gassed" look. He looks terrible. The hair is immaculate, of course – you could drop a nuclear warhead on Sleazy Bob’s head and his hair wouldn’t move – but the rest of him is a disaster.

Maybe it’s the clothes. You never see Sleazy Bob in anything other than expensive shiny suits, but right now he’s wearing a washed-out blue sweatshirt, grey jogging trousers and white trainers. The neck of the sweatshirt has been pulled out of shape, the armpits are dark with sweat and the trainers are about as far from box-fresh as you can possibly get. The outfit looks as if he’s been wearing it to sleep in a ditch.

If he has been sleeping in a ditch, though, it hasn’t been recently. He doesn’t look like he’s slept for weeks. His eyes are watery and the bags below them are big enough to qualify as suitcases. He doesn’t smell too good, either.

I’d feel a lot sorrier for him if he wasn’t pointing a big gun at me.

"Sit," he says. "Sit down."
 

He’s slurring his words a little bit. I decide that while he’s obviously hammered, he’s not so hammered that he wouldn’t be able to shoot me. I sit.

Sleazy Bob shifts in his chair – my chair – and I get a better look at the gun. I don’t know what it is, but it’s big and looks brutal. Some kind of shotgun, I think. He’s holding it on its side, the shoulder bit against his stomach and the barrel pointing right at me. My eyes are drawn to the gun barrel like ants to honey. I can’t stop looking at it.

Bob follows my gaze and grins, but his eyes don't join in the smile. He doesn’t say anything. He just sits there, right hand over the trigger, looking at me.

After what seems like an hour, I think he makes a decision.

"Up," he says.

I’m not a fan of this new, monosyllabic Sleazy Bob.
 

He sits forward and the barrel of the gun gets closer. I get up. So does he.

"Out," he says, indicating the door with his head.

I go through the door first and he follows, close enough to keep the gun on me but not so close that I could turn around and grab it from him. Not that I’d even try.

When we get to the street he doesn’t even try to conceal the gun.

"That way," he says, jerking the gun to the left. We walk for 100 yards or so and then Sleazy Bob tells me to turn left again. I hear him rummaging for something and yellow indicators flash on a big black SUV up ahead.

It takes me a moment to realise that it’s Sleazy Bob’s. It’s filthy. It’s not just mud, either. There are flyers jammed under the windscreen wipers, and the remains of what I think is one of those Do Not Park Here stickers on the passenger side window. There’s a fresh-looking scratch showing through silver on the wheel arch, and there’s a massive dent in the rear passenger door.

It turns out that the outside is much nicer than the inside. Bob opens the door and it’s like being punched in the face by a dustbin. The SUV stinks of sweat, stale farts, flat energy drinks and half-eaten fast food. There are empty food wrappers, takeaway cartons and drinks cans everywhere.
 

Sleazy Bob indicates the passenger seat, so I push the burger wrappers off it, climb in and fasten the seatbelt. He slams the door shut and walks around the front of the SUV.