“That’s life,” says Rosie. “We take on a lot of water. The trick is to keep moving.”
Rosie recognizes that keeping moving is Amy’s only option for now. She is happy to join her. After all, someone is trying to kill them both. Not the same someone, she assumes, but you never know.
Visiting Justin Scroggie, the sheriff, was the best of their currently limited options. He had been at the crime scene, presumably searched it, maybe even had a theory or two. The presence of the famous Rosie D’Antonio, and the power of her credit card, might be enticing for a small-town sheriff. Fine by Rosie, nice to be needed.
“I think this is a losing battle,” Amy says, still desperately bailing.
Rosie looks over to the land. “We’ll be okay. Let’s swim the last bit; the sharks never come this close to the shore. And can you carry my case on your back? I’m not as young as I once was.”
18
“It’s your clutch cable,” says Tony Taylor from underneath the hood of Steve’s car. “Nice and simple.”
Steve nods. “What do you need to do?”
“I need to replace your broken clutch cable with a new clutch cable,” says Tony. “If that’s not too technical for you?”
Tony unfolds himself and stands up straight. He wipes his hands on a rag that is slightly dirtier than his hands. “I’ll have it done in twenty minutes, if you want to take a look at my bins?”
“Deal,” says Steve. “I’m thinking of driving up to Letchworth Garden City, if you fancy a day out?”
“Letchworth Garden City?” says Tony. “What’s there?”
“Just always fancied visiting,” says Steve.
Tony nods. “How long are you planning to spend there?”
“Couple of hours,” says Steve. “Three at the most.”
Now Tony shakes his head. “Nope. Not going to work, Stevie. Think it through.”
Steve cocks his head. He’s happy to be dissuaded. Experience tells him you get so much more visiting someone in person, but he’s not really investigating anything anyway. He could just send Vivid Viral an email?
“It’s a good two and a half hours with those roadworks,” says Tony, opening various workshop drawers. “A31, M27, come off at Junction 4 for the M3, M25 up to St. Albans, cross-country to the A1. Hell of a trip.”
“Yeah,” says Steve. “Five-hour round trip.”
“Five-hour round trip. So even if you’re only there for two hours you’re going to hit rush hour one way or the other,” says Tony, emerging with what Steve hopes and assumes is a clutch cable for a Vauxhall Corsa. “Rather you than me.”
When Tony is right, he’s right. Just send them an email. Or leave it altogether maybe? You don’t have to play with every ball of string that comes your way. Time to take a look at those recycling bins.
They both turn at the sound of a knock on Tony’s open garage door. A man is poking his head around. “Sorry to disturb you, gents. Which one of you is Steve Wheeler?”
“Who’s asking?” says Steve.
The man, a tall, good-looking black guy, very nice coat, walks into the garage and extends his hand.
“Jeff. Jeff Nolan. I wonder if I might have a word?”
“Jeff Nolan, Amy’s boss?” asks Steve, in a sudden panic. “Where is she?”
“Nothing to worry about, Steve,” says Jeff, quickly. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have surprised you like this, I should have thought. I just need a favor.”
“You’ve come down from London?” asks Steve. “To see me?”
“I have,” says Jeff. “Your address is in Amy’s file. Your neighbor told me you’d be here.”
“Where in London?” Tony asks.
“Mayfair,” says Jeff.
Tony nods. “Did you go down through Brixton, M3 and across?”
“North Circular, M4,” says Jeff.
“That’s a long route,” says Tony.
“I was concerned I was being followed by a hitman,” says Jeff. “So it was a safer route.”
Tony nods again. “Well, yeah, I mean.”
“That a clutch cable for a Vauxhall Corsa?”
Tony looks at the clutch cable. “You know your clutch cables, my friend.”
“I read a lot,” says Jeff. “Always have. Shakespeare, encyclopedias, car manuals.”
“If you like clutch cab—”
