Dead Men's s Boots

I changed the subject by main force, swivelling it back around in the direction of shop talk, and ended up regaling both of them with some of my favourite ghost stories. Most of them had happened to other people, not to me, but I stretched the truth to pretty good effect. The moment passed. The tears that I’d seen in Sue Book’s eyes never actually fell.

‘Moloch said I should go to the source,’ I told Juliet, when I was a fair way into my fourth glass of Glen acetone.

‘Did he?’ Juliet’s tone sounded hard and cold.

But when Susan topped up her glass, she reached out to touch her hand for a moment: a very delicate touch, expressing both affection and something a little more proprietorial. After what had passed between them earlier, it was a healing touch – or something close. ‘And did he say what he meant by that?’

I shook my head. ‘No,’ I admitted. ‘He didn’t. But I’ve got some ideas of my own. Have you got anything on tomorrow afternoon?’

‘No.

Why?’

‘Well, there’s something happening in the morning over in Muswell Hill – something I want to be around for. But I’m free after that, and I was wondering how you’d feel about leaning on some people while I ask them a whole bunch of leading questions.’

‘Which people?’

‘I’ll know when I see them,’ I said evasively.

Juliet rolled her eyes. ‘Where?’ she demanded. ‘Where do they live?’

I swirled the whisky in my glass, studiously avoiding her gaze.

‘Alabama,’ I said.

15

It may dent my image of macho, gung-ho capability to say this, but the next morning I felt rough. I’d stayed at Juliet’s long enough to work out the logistics of where we were going to go and who we were going to see, and then I’d made some calls before she could change her mind: one to a travel agent to book a couple of cheap tickets to Birmingham, Alabama, and then another to Nicky to tell him what was up and to ask him if he could work out an itinerary for us.

He said he wanted to talk to me before I left, but that was all he’d say.

A third call, to Gary Coldwood, just got me his answering machine. ‘What does something juicy mean?’ I asked it, and hung up.

I had one last errand to run before I could limp off home, and I’d managed to get it done with the minimum of fuss even though it involved a certain amount of blackmail – both the emotional kind and the kind that’s a felony.