long time," he says. "And while I don’t normally investigate car accidents – aren’t you the lucky one? -- I've seen a few. And do you know what I’ve learnt?"
"No, sir."
"I’ve learnt that when young men lose control of their cars, it’s rarely because they were speeding, or showing off, or fiddling with the radio, or thinking about girls," he says.
He pauses. "No. More often than not, it’s because of a murder conspiracy."
It takes me a moment to realise that he’s being sarcastic.
"I wasn’t speeding."
"I know," Burke says. "You said that."
I try not to get exasperated. "I wasn’t. Look, there must be some way you can check the car. The black box, maybe. That'll tell you if somebody's been messing with the car."
The black box is a little in-car computer that records everything you do, from the speed you’re doing to the way you drive. It’s possible to buy a car that doesn’t have one, but good luck getting it insured.
Burke is quiet for a moment and then stands up. "Okay," he says. "I'll look into it."
Amy is pacing around the reception area and doesn't spot me until I've reached the bottom of the stairs.
"Well?"
"He'll look into it, he says."
"Think he will?"
"God knows."
"So what are you going to do now?"
"No plans."
"I need to get back to work. Want me to come round after?"
"That'd be good."
"Okay, then. Need a lift?"
"No thanks," I say. "I could do with some fresh air."
"Suit yourself." But she says it with a smile.
I walk Amy to the Dentmobile and wave as she drives off. I don't need fresh air at all, but I don't want to tell her that her driving on the way over scared the crap out of me. Amy's a fast driver and it doesn't usually bother me, but after the crash I'm a bit more sensitive -- okay, scared -- than usual. If somebody's trying to kill me then wandering around in broad daylight is probably a bit risky, but the way I feel right now, another car ride with Amy behind the wheel would kill me for sure.
I take the long way back, wandering in and out of shops to kill a few hours, then go home, grab something to eat and play video games until Dave and Amy turn up. The more beer we have, the more convoluted the conspiracy theories we come up with. And then Dave does something that doesn't happen very often. He says something that makes total sense.
"You know, this whole thing could be a great big cock-up," he says.
Amy looks at him. "What do you mean?"
"Well, we're sitting here trying to think of reasons why somebody might want Matt dead, and we can't think of any. What if there isn't a somebody? What if the whole thing's a cock-up?"
"I don't follow you," I say.
"You and Scott both took your cars to Otto at the same time. Chances are Comedy Jim gets his car done there too. Everyone knows Otto's the cheapest place to go."
I nod.
"So maybe that's what you've all got in common. Most of the stuff's done on computer now, isn't it? Maybe Otto's computer system's got something wrong with it. A virus, or a bug, or something like that."
"Dave, I think you might be onto something," Amy says.
We talk about it some more, and agree that when you've got a choice between conspiracy and cock-up, cock-up wins every time.
"You should tell Burke about this," Amy suggests.
"I will," I promise.
We talk about other things, with Dave going off on tangents as usual. He's mid-way through a particularly opinionated rant about nothing in particular when Amy starts rummaging in her bag. She grabs a thin tube of something and throws it to me. "I almost forgot," she says. "Go and see Sleazy Bob tomorrow, and make sure you use this."
"What is it? Pepper spray?"
"Not quite. Concealer. Use it on those scratches. They haven't completely gone yet."
"You want me to wear make-up?"
Amy seems amused. "Don't worry, Matt, it's not the beginning of a slippery slope. You're not going to end up wearing dresses to work." She puts her hand on my shoulder and adopts a stage whisper. "Unless,
"No, sir."
"I’ve learnt that when young men lose control of their cars, it’s rarely because they were speeding, or showing off, or fiddling with the radio, or thinking about girls," he says.
He pauses. "No. More often than not, it’s because of a murder conspiracy."
It takes me a moment to realise that he’s being sarcastic.
"I wasn’t speeding."
"I know," Burke says. "You said that."
I try not to get exasperated. "I wasn’t. Look, there must be some way you can check the car. The black box, maybe. That'll tell you if somebody's been messing with the car."
The black box is a little in-car computer that records everything you do, from the speed you’re doing to the way you drive. It’s possible to buy a car that doesn’t have one, but good luck getting it insured.
Burke is quiet for a moment and then stands up. "Okay," he says. "I'll look into it."
Amy is pacing around the reception area and doesn't spot me until I've reached the bottom of the stairs.
"Well?"
"He'll look into it, he says."
"Think he will?"
"God knows."
"So what are you going to do now?"
"No plans."
"I need to get back to work. Want me to come round after?"
"That'd be good."
"Okay, then. Need a lift?"
"No thanks," I say. "I could do with some fresh air."
"Suit yourself." But she says it with a smile.
I walk Amy to the Dentmobile and wave as she drives off. I don't need fresh air at all, but I don't want to tell her that her driving on the way over scared the crap out of me. Amy's a fast driver and it doesn't usually bother me, but after the crash I'm a bit more sensitive -- okay, scared -- than usual. If somebody's trying to kill me then wandering around in broad daylight is probably a bit risky, but the way I feel right now, another car ride with Amy behind the wheel would kill me for sure.
I take the long way back, wandering in and out of shops to kill a few hours, then go home, grab something to eat and play video games until Dave and Amy turn up. The more beer we have, the more convoluted the conspiracy theories we come up with. And then Dave does something that doesn't happen very often. He says something that makes total sense.
"You know, this whole thing could be a great big cock-up," he says.
Amy looks at him. "What do you mean?"
"Well, we're sitting here trying to think of reasons why somebody might want Matt dead, and we can't think of any. What if there isn't a somebody? What if the whole thing's a cock-up?"
"I don't follow you," I say.
"You and Scott both took your cars to Otto at the same time. Chances are Comedy Jim gets his car done there too. Everyone knows Otto's the cheapest place to go."
I nod.
"So maybe that's what you've all got in common. Most of the stuff's done on computer now, isn't it? Maybe Otto's computer system's got something wrong with it. A virus, or a bug, or something like that."
"Dave, I think you might be onto something," Amy says.
We talk about it some more, and agree that when you've got a choice between conspiracy and cock-up, cock-up wins every time.
"You should tell Burke about this," Amy suggests.
"I will," I promise.
We talk about other things, with Dave going off on tangents as usual. He's mid-way through a particularly opinionated rant about nothing in particular when Amy starts rummaging in her bag. She grabs a thin tube of something and throws it to me. "I almost forgot," she says. "Go and see Sleazy Bob tomorrow, and make sure you use this."
"What is it? Pepper spray?"
"Not quite. Concealer. Use it on those scratches. They haven't completely gone yet."
"You want me to wear make-up?"
Amy seems amused. "Don't worry, Matt, it's not the beginning of a slippery slope. You're not going to end up wearing dresses to work." She puts her hand on my shoulder and adopts a stage whisper. "Unless,
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