time I was spinning into a field. I escaped with a few lumps and bumps. Scott didn't. The paper doesn't say it explicitly, but the tone of the article is clear enough: Scott was a young man with a fast car, a crazed thrill seeker whose driving ability wasn't as good as he thought it was.
Scott "Had some pasta for dinner. It was very nice" Marsden? A crazed thrill seeker?
Scott Marsden? Dead?
I really need to talk to Amy.
"You need to go to the police."
I've never seen Amy like this. She's pacing around my apartment like an angry tiger.
"What am I going to say?"
"Matt, there's something seriously screwed up going on here."
She's still pacing. Her arms are going too.
"Your car goes crazy and damn near kills you. If you hadn't been where you were, you'd have hit something even harder than your own head."
I don't think I'm supposed to laugh at that, or even smirk. So I don't do either.
"The same night, Scott Marsden -- who we both know isn't exactly renowned for his crazy risk-taking behaviour -- suddenly decides he's a racing driver. And Comedy Jim does the same a few days before. Doesn't that strike you as strange?"
I'd forgotten about Comedy Jim. Shit. She's right.
"You think it's deliberate? Someone's tampered with my car?"
"Yes. You were at the same garage at the same time as Scott Marsden. Both of you crashed on the same night. That's one hell of a coincidence."
"But why would somebody in a garage want to kill me? Why would anybody want to kill me, full stop?"
"That's why you need to go to the police. They'll find out."
Amy made it clear that whatever I had planned for the morning, I was going to the police station first. She can be very persuasive -- that, and she turned up this morning in the Dentmobile to pick me up.
The Dentmobile is our name for the collection of dents, scrapes, rust and flaking paint that Amy calls a car, the long-suffering victim of Amy's gung-ho approach to parking, her inability to judge gaps and her complete lack of fear behind the wheel. Dave and I think that one day it'll break in two like a clown car, with Amy going in one direction and her passengers in the other.
Today, though, the Dentmobile stays in one piece. Amy drops me at the front door and drives off to park, so I go to the front desk and ask to see Burke. The duty sergeant points up the stairs. "First floor, second on the right," he says.
Burke's office doesn't look as if it's had much in the way of tender loving care of late, if ever. The door frames are yellow with age, the windows are filthy, the plaster on the ceiling is cracked, there's what looks like damp on the walls and the desk is scratched and stained.
You know how some people end up looking like their pets? Burke looks like his office.
"Why would anybody want to kill you?" Burke asks. His chair groans in protest as he leans back and steeples his fingers.
"I don't know."
"Did you have any connection to Scott Marsden or James Colvin?"
I didn't know that was Comedy Jim's last name. "Not that I can think of. We went to school together."
Burke sighs. "Maybe that's it," he says. "An angry ex-teacher is wreaking terrible revenge, perhaps. Or a former pupil, driven crazy by your success, is going to make you pay. Or maybe you borrowed a lot of books, never took them back, and the school librarian is angry. Happens all the time."
I get the distinct impression that Burke isn't entirely sympathetic.
"Mr Burke --"
"Detective."
"Sorry. Detective Burke. I don't know what's going on. All I know is that two people are dead, and I was nearly number three. Don't you think it's possible that what happened to me might have happened to the other guys, too? I don't know about James Colvin, but Scott Marsden was getting his car fixed in the same place at the same time as me -- and we both had crashes afterwards. Doesn't that strike you as suspicious?"
Burke does a slow blink and then speaks very slowly. "I have been a policeman for a very
Scott "Had some pasta for dinner. It was very nice" Marsden? A crazed thrill seeker?
Scott Marsden? Dead?
I really need to talk to Amy.
"You need to go to the police."
I've never seen Amy like this. She's pacing around my apartment like an angry tiger.
"What am I going to say?"
"Matt, there's something seriously screwed up going on here."
She's still pacing. Her arms are going too.
"Your car goes crazy and damn near kills you. If you hadn't been where you were, you'd have hit something even harder than your own head."
I don't think I'm supposed to laugh at that, or even smirk. So I don't do either.
"The same night, Scott Marsden -- who we both know isn't exactly renowned for his crazy risk-taking behaviour -- suddenly decides he's a racing driver. And Comedy Jim does the same a few days before. Doesn't that strike you as strange?"
I'd forgotten about Comedy Jim. Shit. She's right.
"You think it's deliberate? Someone's tampered with my car?"
"Yes. You were at the same garage at the same time as Scott Marsden. Both of you crashed on the same night. That's one hell of a coincidence."
"But why would somebody in a garage want to kill me? Why would anybody want to kill me, full stop?"
"That's why you need to go to the police. They'll find out."
Amy made it clear that whatever I had planned for the morning, I was going to the police station first. She can be very persuasive -- that, and she turned up this morning in the Dentmobile to pick me up.
The Dentmobile is our name for the collection of dents, scrapes, rust and flaking paint that Amy calls a car, the long-suffering victim of Amy's gung-ho approach to parking, her inability to judge gaps and her complete lack of fear behind the wheel. Dave and I think that one day it'll break in two like a clown car, with Amy going in one direction and her passengers in the other.
Today, though, the Dentmobile stays in one piece. Amy drops me at the front door and drives off to park, so I go to the front desk and ask to see Burke. The duty sergeant points up the stairs. "First floor, second on the right," he says.
Burke's office doesn't look as if it's had much in the way of tender loving care of late, if ever. The door frames are yellow with age, the windows are filthy, the plaster on the ceiling is cracked, there's what looks like damp on the walls and the desk is scratched and stained.
You know how some people end up looking like their pets? Burke looks like his office.
"Why would anybody want to kill you?" Burke asks. His chair groans in protest as he leans back and steeples his fingers.
"I don't know."
"Did you have any connection to Scott Marsden or James Colvin?"
I didn't know that was Comedy Jim's last name. "Not that I can think of. We went to school together."
Burke sighs. "Maybe that's it," he says. "An angry ex-teacher is wreaking terrible revenge, perhaps. Or a former pupil, driven crazy by your success, is going to make you pay. Or maybe you borrowed a lot of books, never took them back, and the school librarian is angry. Happens all the time."
I get the distinct impression that Burke isn't entirely sympathetic.
"Mr Burke --"
"Detective."
"Sorry. Detective Burke. I don't know what's going on. All I know is that two people are dead, and I was nearly number three. Don't you think it's possible that what happened to me might have happened to the other guys, too? I don't know about James Colvin, but Scott Marsden was getting his car fixed in the same place at the same time as me -- and we both had crashes afterwards. Doesn't that strike you as suspicious?"
Burke does a slow blink and then speaks very slowly. "I have been a policeman for a very
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