hundred and fifty of them at least.'
'Tell me,' Corrigan said, 'do you see drug barons everywhere you look?'
'Yes!' He continued to scribble furiously. 'I just want to make my music. I don't want to go to gaol. I give you this, you let me go, OK?'
Stirling nodded thoughtfully. 'We can't just cut you one like that, Pongo, we have to check this out.'
Pongo's face sagged a little and he stopped writing. 'I can wait here while you check it out, can't I? I like it here. It's safe. I didn't mean to kill the girl.'
'We'll see what we can do.'
Corrigan opened the cell door, allowing Stirling, smirking, through first. Just as it was closing Pongo said: 'Be careful.'
Corrigan paused a moment. 'Why?' he asked.
For a moment Pongo's face assumed a seriousness Corrigan had not noticed before; his voice was deeper and his gaze steady. 'Don't underestimate the importance of this convention to the people involved. It can only take place in conditions of utmost secrecy. People have been bought off. People have disappeared. If you try checking this on a police computer, you will disappear as well.'
Corrigan nodded. 'Well if we can't check it,' he asked, 'how can we possibly know if you're telling the truth?'
Pongo nodded thoughtfully. 'You'll just have to trust me,' he said.
Corrigan closed the door. He kept his silence as they walked along the corridor, waiting for Stirling to justify calling him in like that. But when they got to the stairs they just paused for a moment, looked at each other, then burst into laughter.
14
They had coffee and they had biscuits. It was noon and Stirling was still perfecting his press statement. Corrigan felt sorry for Pongo. Sorry for anyone who could get into that state. His career, whatever it had been, was clearly over. Once the media got hold of him, they wouldn't let go. He almost felt inclined to go out and buy a Pongo CD to see what all the fuss would be about.
Almost.
Drug convention in Niagara. He couldn't even remember the last time they'd had a drugs bust in the town. There hadn't yet been any evidence of crack cocaine, though just a couple of hundred miles across the border it had reached epidemic proportions. Coke wasn't really a Niagara land of a thing either. Which, he supposed, made it the perfect place to have a drugs convention.
Like most police forces they turned a blind eye to the odd bit of dope, but whatever few dealers there were had enough sense to keep their heads down. He was partial to the odd joint himself. Just to relax. To take some of the pain out of his shot legs. To lie back on the deck of the Maid of the Mist with Maynard and enjoy the Falls and talk shit. He never actually bought it, of course. He had an understanding with Maynard. Corrigan buys the drinks, Maynard supplies the draw. It wasn't even a regular occurrence. Once a month, tops.
He looked across at Stirling, mouthing the words of his laboriously written statement. He waved the cigarette box at him. Stirling declined.
'Whatever way you look at it,' Corrigan said, 'you have to give Pongo full marks for imagination. A convention of drug dealers masquerading as horticulturalists. Ironic or what?'
'Ironic drug dealers,' said Stirling. 'Now there's a first.'
Corrigan had a sheet of paper before him as well. Pongo's list of international drug dealers. He crossed to the computer that sat on a desk by the window and switched it on. It gave him immediate access to a huge data bank of information on criminal activity in Canada and the United States. It was rarely used.
Stirling, watching, said: 'What're you doing?'
Corrigan smiled, a little self-consciously. 'Just running a few of Pongo's names through, see if they check out. He gets his drugs from somewhere, we might get a bust out of this as well.'
He started to type.
'Frank?'
'Mmmmm?'
'What if it's not all bullshit? What if he's right?' Stirling had put his pen down and was looking thoughtful. 'I mean, obviously he's wrong, but if, if he was right,
'Tell me,' Corrigan said, 'do you see drug barons everywhere you look?'
'Yes!' He continued to scribble furiously. 'I just want to make my music. I don't want to go to gaol. I give you this, you let me go, OK?'
Stirling nodded thoughtfully. 'We can't just cut you one like that, Pongo, we have to check this out.'
Pongo's face sagged a little and he stopped writing. 'I can wait here while you check it out, can't I? I like it here. It's safe. I didn't mean to kill the girl.'
'We'll see what we can do.'
Corrigan opened the cell door, allowing Stirling, smirking, through first. Just as it was closing Pongo said: 'Be careful.'
Corrigan paused a moment. 'Why?' he asked.
For a moment Pongo's face assumed a seriousness Corrigan had not noticed before; his voice was deeper and his gaze steady. 'Don't underestimate the importance of this convention to the people involved. It can only take place in conditions of utmost secrecy. People have been bought off. People have disappeared. If you try checking this on a police computer, you will disappear as well.'
Corrigan nodded. 'Well if we can't check it,' he asked, 'how can we possibly know if you're telling the truth?'
Pongo nodded thoughtfully. 'You'll just have to trust me,' he said.
Corrigan closed the door. He kept his silence as they walked along the corridor, waiting for Stirling to justify calling him in like that. But when they got to the stairs they just paused for a moment, looked at each other, then burst into laughter.
14
They had coffee and they had biscuits. It was noon and Stirling was still perfecting his press statement. Corrigan felt sorry for Pongo. Sorry for anyone who could get into that state. His career, whatever it had been, was clearly over. Once the media got hold of him, they wouldn't let go. He almost felt inclined to go out and buy a Pongo CD to see what all the fuss would be about.
Almost.
Drug convention in Niagara. He couldn't even remember the last time they'd had a drugs bust in the town. There hadn't yet been any evidence of crack cocaine, though just a couple of hundred miles across the border it had reached epidemic proportions. Coke wasn't really a Niagara land of a thing either. Which, he supposed, made it the perfect place to have a drugs convention.
Like most police forces they turned a blind eye to the odd bit of dope, but whatever few dealers there were had enough sense to keep their heads down. He was partial to the odd joint himself. Just to relax. To take some of the pain out of his shot legs. To lie back on the deck of the Maid of the Mist with Maynard and enjoy the Falls and talk shit. He never actually bought it, of course. He had an understanding with Maynard. Corrigan buys the drinks, Maynard supplies the draw. It wasn't even a regular occurrence. Once a month, tops.
He looked across at Stirling, mouthing the words of his laboriously written statement. He waved the cigarette box at him. Stirling declined.
'Whatever way you look at it,' Corrigan said, 'you have to give Pongo full marks for imagination. A convention of drug dealers masquerading as horticulturalists. Ironic or what?'
'Ironic drug dealers,' said Stirling. 'Now there's a first.'
Corrigan had a sheet of paper before him as well. Pongo's list of international drug dealers. He crossed to the computer that sat on a desk by the window and switched it on. It gave him immediate access to a huge data bank of information on criminal activity in Canada and the United States. It was rarely used.
Stirling, watching, said: 'What're you doing?'
Corrigan smiled, a little self-consciously. 'Just running a few of Pongo's names through, see if they check out. He gets his drugs from somewhere, we might get a bust out of this as well.'
He started to type.
'Frank?'
'Mmmmm?'
'What if it's not all bullshit? What if he's right?' Stirling had put his pen down and was looking thoughtful. 'I mean, obviously he's wrong, but if, if he was right,
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