‘You wrote a couple of pieces about the victims and their families.’
‘If you want to complain about a story in the paper you need to use the proper channels, go through the managing editor, he deals with all that—’
I take a sip of my drink. ‘I don’t want to complain,’ I say.
He looks at me dead-on, straight in the eyes, looking for any flickers of deceit. ‘Are you recording this, Ellen?’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘So you’re a journalist? With theExpress, are you?’
‘No, I’m a friend of Tara’s from way back. We were in the navy together.’
He takes another pull on his first pint, still studying me over the top of his glass. ‘Well, if Tara’s vouched for you, that’s good enough for me,’ he says finally. ‘So what’s your interest in that story? There’s not been anything new on it for ages.’
‘I know the sister of one of the victims. And . . . I think that story, the Ghost, is about to blow up again.’
‘OK.’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘You’ve got my attention. What makes you say that?’
‘Can I ask you a few things about the case first? Strictly off the record?’
‘Sure, you can ask.’
‘You contacted the family of the third victim, right?’
‘A few times.’
‘So when it says in your story that someone “declined to comment”, does that mean you couldn’t actually get hold of them, or . . .’
‘I tried, but they weren’t interested. Went out to the house myself the first time but never got past the gates. Sent a casual a couple of times after that, it’s a right ball-ache to get to from here, you can waste half the day going there and back.’
‘A casual?’
‘One of the general news grunts, given three or four casual shifts a week,’ he says as if this should be obvious. ‘New guys, paid on a day rate rather than a permanent contract.’
‘Right,’ I say with a nod. ‘So you know where the family lives?’
‘Makes the doorknock more straightforward if you know which door you need to knock on.’ He gives me a wink. ‘I mean, yes, I managed to get hold of the parents’ address.’
‘How’d you do it?’
‘Does it matter? Anyway, like I said to Tara on the phone, the name of the third victim is covered by anonymity, so I can’t really discuss it with you.’
‘I already have her name, I’m not asking you for that.’ I run a finger around the rim of my glass. ‘I’m just intrigued. Tara said you were a good operator, one of the best. She speaks very highly of you, how you get stories that other reporters can’t.’
Simms shrugs, but allows himself a small smile. ‘Called in a few favours, that was all. Then it was just a case of making some calls, asking the right people the right questions, wearing out the shoe leather the old-fashioned way.’
‘The thing is, Matt . . . I really need to see them. I know they’re in Prestwood Ash, but I don’t have a street address.’
‘And you think I’m going to hand it over, do you?’
I lean forward, my hand inches from his on the stained wooden table. ‘I need to see them urgently, Matt, and I would really appreciate your help.’ When he doesn’t respond, I add, ‘Please?’
Simms leans forward on the table too, his head close to mine. The move is familiar, almost intimate, and brings with it the smells of exhaled beer and old clothes not properly dried from the rain.
‘Love your perfume, by the way,’ he says. ‘You smellamazing.’
‘Thanks,’ I shift back a little in my seat.
