Coffin Dodgers

by Gary Marshall

  Two things happen in quick succession. My phone buzzes, and Clare Brown leaves her apartment. I run out of the coffee shop, scanning the screen on my phone as I go. Amy. "Burke's here," the message says.

  Brown is going somewhere. She isn't dressed to the nines, but she's no longer in gym bottoms either. A pair of jeans, a top and a Jacket, the hair tied back. She's walking down the path from her front door to her street.

  Then I spot the homeless guy.

  When I say homeless, I mean he looks like he's homeless. He's in grey trousers and a beige overcoat, both of them tattered and stained. A mess of grey, wiry hair peeks out from underneath a black woollen cap. He's about fifty yards away from Brown, who doesn't notice him. She's fiddling with something. A phone, maybe, or a music player.

  There's no way I can reach her before he does, but I sprint across the road anyway, running as fast as my legs can carry me. Horns blare and Brown looks up, but she's looking in my direction, not at the homeless man. He's still closing. Twenty yards. Fifteen. Ten. He's reaching into his pocket. I'm still too far away. Five yards. He's pulling something out. Three. One.

  The homeless man walks past her, still fiddling with his pockets. He keeps on walking.

  I'm standing at the kerb, trying to catch my breath. Clare Brown gives me a quizzical look, puts a set of headphones in her ears and walks to the crossing, waiting for the lights to change. As she crosses the road she looks at me again, as if she thinks I might start following her.

  That's when the car hits her.

  The dirty white Honda comes from nowhere. It shoots past me, electric motors screaming, and ploughs into Brown. My brain seizes on a single detail. No lights. No brake lights. The car didn't brake. It slams into her legs and she bounces onto the bonnet, sliding off the side and onto the tarmac. The car keeps going.

  There's a stunned silence before people rush towards her. I can tell by the faces that Clare Brown isn't going to make it.

  My phone is vibrating in my pocket. I don't answer it.

  I'm drunk by the time Amy and Dave track me down. I'd waited for the ambulance to arrive, and then I came home, dumped the bike and headed straight for The First And Last. I probably should have had something to eat, but I don't feel hungry and I'm not brave enough to try the food here.

  The First And Last is where I go when I want a proper drink. The name tells you the kind of bar it is: it means it's the place where you have your very first drink, and the place where you have your very last one. That's supposed to mean it'll be the place you go all your life, but some weekends you could end up having your very first and very last drink in the same night.

  If Brian the owner has heard of mood lighting, interior design, decent wine, edible food or customer service he's kept it to himself. It's like something that's been beamed here from the nineteenth Century, which was probably the last time Brian had the place decorated. The First And Last is dingy, dusty, vaguely depressing and probably a health hazard, the sort of place where some of the regulars appear to be dead and occasionally are. It's great.

  "I thought you'd be here," Amy says. "Budge up."

  I slide along the bench seat to make room.

  "Drink?" I like the way Dave's mind works.

  "Yeah. Beer."

  Amy's staring at me. "You okay?"

  "Yeah."

  "You sure?"

  "Yeah."

  "Can you say anything other than yeah?"

  "Yeah." We exchange faint smiles.

  Dave returns from the bar with the drinks in his hands -- and Burke at his shoulder. Burke nods at me, and the two of them slide into the bench seat opposite. Dave's bought Burke a brandy. I guess that means he's off duty.

  "I'm going to need you to give me a statement," Burke says, looking at my impressive collection of empty beer bottles. "The formal statement can wait. But I'd like to know what you saw."

  "I thought it was the homeless guy," I say. I realise I'm slurring my words a little bit. "He was looking at her, and he was getting something out of his pocket. I was running towards them but I was too far away. And then he just kept walking. It wasn't him. He wasn't a bad guy. He was just a guy."

  Burke doesn't say anything.

  "She waited for the green man and crossed the road. The car came out of nowhere. It didn't brake. I didn't see brake lights."

  "Did you see the driver?"

  "No. It was heading away from me. I didn't even see it until it hit her."

  Burke sighs.

  "It was a white Honda. I don't know the model, though."

  "That doesn't matter," Burke says. "We've recovered it. It was reported stolen two days ago. The driver dumped it a few blocks from the scene."

  "Will you be able to get prints?"

  Burke shakes his head. "Whoever dumped it set it on fire."

  "Shit."

  "You definitely didn't see the driver, or any passengers?"

  "No. Just the car."

  Burke takes a drink.

  "Is Stark okay?" I ask Amy.

  "She's fine. Thinks she was burgled when she was at work. She's a bit freaked out by that, but she'll be okay."

  "Did you get the guy?"

  "Sort of," she says. "They caught him when he was still in the apartment, and he definitely doesn't work for the power company. Problem is, he hadn't done anything. Whatever he was in there to do, the police got him before he did it. He says he was looking for stuff to steal."

  "We've got him for breaking and entering," Burke says. "No evidence of anything else."

  "Did you tell Burke about Sleazy Bob?"

  Amy nods, but Burke answers. "She's played me the clip, and she's told me what you think he's doing."

  "So you can stop him."

  Burke shakes his head. "Who was he talking to?"

  "Sansom. That's the guy who gives him the names. And the guy he called is the one who arranged it."

  Amy's expression suggests she's already been through this. Dave's expression suggests that it wasn't a happy conversation.

  "There's no evidence of that."

  "Can't you pull his phone records? That'll tell you who called, and who he called."

  Burke sighs. "If this was a police intercept, yes -- although the phones could be disposables, or they could be to company switchboards, so all you'd get is two numbers and two dead ends. But that's not the problem. Records just tell me what numbers were called, or what numbers called in. They don't tell me what was said. For that, I'd need an intercept -- a wiretap -- and for that I'd need to persuade a judge that there's solid evidence to suspect somebody of something, and I'd need to persuade him to sign a warrant, and if I don't do that I don't get to record anything. You don't have a badge, or a friendly judge, or a signed warrant, and that means you don't have an intercept. No intercept means your recording can't be used as evidence."

  "But you heard the call! You heard him tell someone to kill those two girls!"

  "I heard one side of a conversation that may or may not involve Robert Hannah, that may or may not be connected to a hit and run accident that happened this afternoon, and that was recorded illegally."

  He leans across the table. "Look, I know what you overheard, and I think you're right. Hannah's involved in this. But I can't do anything without reasonable suspicion, and I still don't have that. The clip doesn't count. It's inadmissible -- try to present it as evidence in court and the bad guys walk."

  "You can pretend you didn't know about it."

  "And do what? Put surveillance on Hannah based on a hunch? Tell my boss that I had a dream about some bad guys and he needs to stump up for overtime so I can find them? He'd call in the shrinks. Without the clip, I don't have any evidence. Without evidence, I don't have any reason to suspect Hannah of anything. And without reasonable suspicion, I can't do a single damn thing."

  "Couldn't you say you had an anonymous tip-off?"

  "I could. It wouldn't change anything. The guy we picked up doesn't appear to know who Hannah is. He tried to bur
gle an apartment, we caught him, he confessed. That means case closed. Not 'case closed but we'll investigate a bit more anyway because we've got nothing better to do.' Just 'case closed'."

  I'm desperate to interrupt but Burke keeps talking. "The hit and run? You know how people drive around here. People get hit by cars all the time. In this particular case, the car was stolen in advance, torched afterwards, and nobody saw the driver. That means there's no paper trail to follow, no forensic evidence to investigate, and no leads. So what do you think my boss is going to do if I take one closed case and one dead-end case to him, tell him that a little bird says Robert Hannah's behind both, and ask for a wiretap or a surveillance team? Do you think he'll be so impressed that he'll give me a helicopter too?"

  Burke exhales loudly. "I'm on your side, Matt. I know what you've seen, and what you've heard, and what you think, and I think you're right." He nods to acknowledge Amy and Dave. "I think you're all right. But right now, that's as far as I can go with this."

  I'm about to argue with him when his phone buzzes. "Excuse me," he says, hitting the answer button. He grunts a few times, asks for an address and hangs up.

  "I need to go," Burke says, standing up. Dave gets up to let him out. "Don't forget about that statement."

  The conversation with Burke has a sobering effect. It doesn't last, especially after several more beers.

  "We're screwed," I announce with the gravity of the seriously shit-faced. "We're completely screwed."

  Dave and Amy have been drinking too, but I'm way ahead of them.

  "You saved somebody's life," Dave says. "That's something."

  "I didn't save anybody. My one died, remember?"

  "If we hadn't been involved, two people would be dead. Not one," Amy says quietly.

  "Okay. Okay. You're right. But what do we do now? Burke says his hands are tied. What are we gonna do? Are we just going to keep on listening, hope we find out who the next two are? Is that it? And then what? We're no closer to finding out who Sleazy Bob's dealing with, let alone stopping them."

  "We just need to be patient," Amy says. "Sleazy Bob made a mistake talking on the phone. He'll make another mistake. And when he does, we'll get him."

  "I hope so," I say. "I'm not cut out for this."

  We talk some more, and drink some more, and I cheer up a bit. Amy and Dave are beginning to flag, but I persuade them to stay for one more beer. I even offer to pay for it.

  When I stand up I realise that I'm a bit more drunk than I thought I was. I misjudge the gap, bang into the table and send Dave's half-finished beer flying. I don't move fast enough to avoid the flood.

  "Oops," I say. "Sorry, Dave."

  I make my way very carefully to the bar. The barman takes one look at the wet patch on my jeans and shakes his head. Cleverly, he splits in two so I don't know which one of him to argue with. I decide not to argue with either.

  Never mind. I stumble back to our table, empty handed, and tell Dave and Amy the brilliant idea I've just come up with.

  "Let's go somewhere else!"

  Amy looks at me as if I'm an unruly child.

  "Time to go home."

  It's not all bad. Amy isn't just walking me home: her arm is around my shoulder and my arm is around her waist. It'd be much more romantic if I didn't keep falling over and Amy didn't keep threatening to kill me. I might be drunk, but even now I know that "for God's sake, Matt" isn't a term of endearment.

  We arrive at my apartment.

  "Fancy a coffee?"

  Amy gives me an exasperated look.

  "Go to bed, Matt."

  "How about a goodnight kiss, then."

  "You're lucky you don't get a goodnight kick," she says. "Goodnight, Matt."

  Amy's already walking away.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I feel like death. I've barely slept, I'm hungover to hell and worst of all, I've made a complete arse of myself with Amy. I briefly consider suicide, but I switch on the coffee machine instead. A few mugs and a handful of painkillers later and I'm feeling as human as I'm going to manage today.

  I send Amy a message. "I'm so, so sorry. I'm an arse. You can punch me later, if you like." I wait a while, but there's no reply.

  I remember that I'm supposed to be working today. That isn't going to happen. I call in sick again. Burke's statement can wait too.

  I've got the whole day to myself. I can do anything, go anywhere, do whatever I want. So I climb back into bed, pull the covers over my head and spend an hour or so feeling sorry for myself.

  I stay in bed until lunchtime, when my stomach starts demanding some attention. I fry some bacon, stick two eggs in the microwave poacher, chomp on some toast and drink three mugs of stewed coffee. The combination of grease and caffeine makes my hangover run for cover. I don't feel great, but at least I no longer feel as if I've just been dug up.

  Might as well see what the bug's got for us this morning.

  I hit the jackpot on the very first clip. Sleazy Bob is shouting so loud that the microphone is distorting.

  "A problem? Damn right there's a problem! The cops were waiting for him!"

  I can't make out what the other person is saying.

  "You don't get it. They knew where he was going to be."

  Sleazy Bob is listening.

  "It seems pretty simple to me. Either somebody's talking, or the cops are really good at guessing."

  Another pause.

  "No. Not on the phone. We need to meet. Yeah. Somewhere remote."

  He's writing something down.

  "Drive-through? Yeah, that works. I know where it is. When?" He scribbles again. "Okay. I'll call him."

  Bob ends the call and immediately dials a number.

  "It's me. We need to meet. Yes. Yes. Exactly."

  Silence.

  "I agree. Yes."

  More silence.

  "Three, at the drive-through. No. No. It's good. No. No chance of that."

  Bob listens again.

  "Okay. See you then."

  He hangs up.

  I think I know the place Sleazy Bob's talking about. There used to be a drive-through burger bar a few miles west of the town, but it closed down years ago. The building is still there, mostly, but these days it's just a shell with boarded up windows and grass breaking through the tarmac of the car park. I can understand why Sleazy Bob suggested it: it's in the middle of a very long, very straight bit of road. When it was open, drivers would see it from miles away. Now, anybody standing there would be able to see trouble coming long before it got there. It's a great place to meet people, but a terrible place for anybody who wants to watch people meeting people. I've got just under three hours to work out how to do it.

  I spend an hour trying to come up with a plan, but my brain isn't co-operating. I figure the best idea is to actually go there and look for inspiration, so I jump on the bike and take a run out to the drive-through. There's no cover near the building, but there's a low hill across the road. I wouldn't be able to hear anything from there, but I'll be able to see what's going on.

  I check my watch. Two twenty. I set the alarm on my phone for ten to three, lie on the ground, pull my coat over my head and try to catch some sleep.

  I didn't need the alarm. Just before it's due to go off the skies open, and the sound of raindrops on my coat make me think I'm being machine-gunned. I get to my feet, wipe the sleep from my eyes and put my coat on properly. I look across the road. No signs of life. The rain stops as quickly as it started, which helps: it's hard enough to see anything from this distance. In heavy rain it'd be impossible.

  Just before three, a battered Mercedes SUV drives into the car park. It's filthy: whatever colour it's supposed to be, it's a dark shade of grime now. A man I don't recognise gets out and lights a cigarette. He's tall and wiry, dressed in a black suit and sunglasses, and he couldn't look more like a gangster if he tried. I reach for my phone and take a couple of photos of him.

  The man has just stamped on his cigarette butt when
another car arrives. This one is a blue hatchback. I can't work out the make or model -- it's one of those identikit South American hatchbacks with a stupid name -- but while it's not his usual car, I know who's driving it before he even stops. The hair's a giveaway. Sleazy Bob isn't even out of the car before he's waving his arms at the other guy. He paces around, swinging his limbs, pointing his finger and generally acting like a toddler in the middle of a sugar rush. The man in the suit barely moves.

  Bob is still gesticulating when a third car pulls up. It's big, sleek and black with blacked-out windows, one of those giant BMWs that looks like a tank. Whoever's driving stays inside, but a tall man emerges from the left hand rear door. I don't recognise him, but even from this distance I can tell that he's important. It's not the way he's dressed -- he's wearing a dark blue top, blue jeans and white trainers, and his greying hair is wispy on his head; if he's another gangster, his suit must be in for dry cleaning -- but the way he stands and the way Sleazy Bob and the other guy's body language changes when he walks towards them says that he's someone who isn't used to hearing the word "no". I take a few photos of him then zoom out and try to get a few shots of the three of them together. The phone has other ideas, though: the autofocus refuses to lock on anything but a telegraph pole, and I end up with a bunch of shots that appear to show three blurry ants having a lovely time.

  I can't hear a word, but I can tell that Sleazy Bob is doing a lot of shouting, that the guy in the black suit is irritated and that the important guy doesn't say much -- but when he does, the other two listen. They talk for five minutes, if that, and then all three of them return to their cars. The big, black car leaves first, followed by Sleazy Bob and then the dirty SUV.

  I think I've just seen something very important. I wish I knew what it was.

  I'm turning into my street when I spot the Dentmobile outside my apartment. Amy's at the wheel, fiddling with her phone. I park the bike, walk towards her and briefly consider banging on the Dentmobile's roof to give her a fright. Common sense prevails: if I'm in Amy's bad books that isn't just a bad idea. It's potentially fatal. I gently tap on the window glass instead.