Upload: A Very American Conspiracy

By Don Craig

Big-name war correspondent Digby Tobin is banished to the United States after getting into trouble in Afghanistan. He has to file three feature articles about the American obsession with conspiracy theories. When he writes nothing in two weeks, his editor sends a rooky researcher to ‘help’ him. The day after her arrival they find a key source shot to death. With the help of an investigative journalist at a Washington DC newspaper they keep one step ahead of a team of gunmen determined to stop them. When they expose the truth about the assassination of Martin Luther King the revelation shakes the core of America’s political establishment.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Don Craig
• Release date: May 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301154234

Don Craig

Don Craig is an award-winning investigative journalist, author and documentary film-maker. Based in the UK he has worked in the USA, the Soviet Union, China, Pakistan, Afghanistan, the Balkans and most European countries. He has investigated many conspiracies from the ground up.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

‘Remember that Marilyn Monroe movie?’ Matlock asked.

‘What? Some Like is Hot? Gentlemen Prefer Blondes?’ said Digby Tobin.

‘No. The one where she’s giving some guy a blow job. You can’t see the guy’s face.’ The dog yelped outside the door.

‘I heard that was a fake.’

The army veteran tugged at his beard, then pushed himself up from the table. Tobin watched as he reached into a kitchen drawer. It wasn’t a long reach because they were in Matlock’s shed-sized trailer home. He feared the flash of a blade but it was a huge revolver, bigger than the kind cops carried before gangsta-rap automatics came along. Matlock cocked it, placed it on the table and slumped back onto his chair.

‘I’m gonna ’splain sump’n.’

Tobin nodded, pencil poised above his notebook, eyes on the gun.

‘Y’all from Europe, right?’

‘England, yes.’

He scratched a scab on the side of his nose: ‘Reporter?’

‘London Sunday Chronicle.’ Matlock’s big ugly dog howled again.

‘Well, I’m gonna tell ya sump’n no-one else knows.’

‘Okay.’

‘The lucky dude who’s getting his cock sucked by Marilyn Monroe ain’t President Kennedy.’

Tobin thought he’d better write that down: ‘Not JFK.’ He double-underlined ‘not’.

Matlock blinked his rheumy eyes and leaned forward. ‘That guy’, he whispered, ‘is Lee Harvey Oswald.’

The pen moved again: ‘Lee. Harvey. Oswald.’

‘Right. Goddammit -- they were all in it together!’

‘Okay.’

‘Now I’m gonna tell ya how this hooks up.’

Tobin glanced at his watch. ‘I’m sorry, Colonel, maybe next time. If I don’t get started, I’ll miss my flight.’

‘You going?’

But Tobin was already outside, notebook in pocket, car keys in hand. ‘Yes, I’m really sorry. I must catch the next plane.’

Standing in the doorway, Matlock raised the gun, casually, and pulled the trigger.

Bang!

The Englishman yelped but it was the dog that died.

‘Friggin’ hound! He sure as hell had that coming.’

A dust cloud obscured the scene in his rear-view mirrors as Digby Tobin’s rental Ford roared down the dirt track. ‘Fu-u-u-u-u-ck!’ he yelled at no-one in particular, turned left onto Interstate 65 and headed north to Montgomery airport. He’d had enough of Alabama. He’d had enough of the whole stupid idea.

‘Wild Turkey straight, soda on the side,’ Digby told the woman behind the bar. ‘No ice, no swizzle-stick, no telling me you love my accent.’

‘You got it, honey.’

The researcher’s flight into Atlanta was due in an hour; add one more for her to have a close encounter with someone still bitter from learning that, when you join a federal agency, you are far more likely to end up manning an immigration desk than chasing narco-traficantes with the Drug Enforcement Administration. Then there was the baggage claim experience. Definitely two hours to kill.

‘There you go!’ The bar-tender placed the glasses in front of him and presented him with the check and a smile.

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome.’

He watched her swing her tidy bum as she stepped to the other side of the bar and he wondered if she’d recognised him. One of the advantages of being a television reporter was that you got your helmet polished a lot. One of the disadvantages was that it became hard to pass yourself off as Jeremy Jones from victim support when trying to get into the casualty’s mum’s house. But he wasn’t a television reporter any more. Not since the unfortunate incident with the Home Secretary’s wheelie-bin and his close protection officer.

One of the TVs suspended over the bar was showing a basketball game. The other had CNN Headline News reporting a press conference by Democratic presidential candidate Senator Juanita-Maria Padilla. She was announcing her vice-presidential running-mate, a tall, grey-haired man called Pete Corvell. The basketball score was 102-98 as it usually is.

Digby sipped the bourbon and flipped open his cell-phone to check the text message again. Cora Butler-Khan was a researcher on the features desk. The name meant nothing to him but his visits to the office were rare occasions worthy, it was said, of street parties and firework displays over Canary Wharf. And as a researcher her by-line would be as scarce as an honest politician. The text gave her flight number and arrival time at Atlanta, where they’d assumed him to be. Only bad luck and Matlock’s Wyatt Earp Special had ensured his return in time to meet her.

He waved to the bar-tender. ‘Excuse me?’ he said.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘What’s the name of this bar?’

‘Houlihan’s, sir.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You bet.’

He sent Cara a text -- ‘Hooligan’s in Atrium. D’ – and made a start on the pile of London papers he’d bought at an airport newsstand. He scanned for stories about Afghanistan; which was where he should have been right then. And anything on Libya; which was also where he should have been. And the Congo; which was… Suddenly he was brought back to Atlanta, Georgia.

‘Sir? Sir?’

‘Yes?’ She was smiling sweetly at him again, leaning forward to show him that a couple of her top buttons had mysteriously popped open.

‘Can I fix you another drink?’

He pushed the shot glass towards her. ‘Sure.’

Down in the immigration hall Cara Butler-Khan tried smiling sweetly at the law-enforcement officer.

‘Switch off the cell-phone, bitch!’ He didn’t actually say ‘bitch’, but it was there. So were two more cops, big bright badges on their shoulders, hands on their gun-butts.

‘I was just checking my texts…’

The first policeman took a step nearer. ‘Switch the cell-phone off!’

She thumbed the red button and slipped it into her pocket. One of the cops pointed to a small sign showing a calculator with a diagonal red line through it. Then they moved off to deter another terror attack. Cara made a mental note: when triggering bomb, keep phone in handbag and use speed-dial.

Digby’s drink was replenished. ‘There you go, sir.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome.’ This time she stayed, giving Digby more time to appreciate her assets. ‘You look kinda familiar,’ she said.

He sipped the Wild Turkey. ‘I do?’

‘Yeah, you were in that movie, er, Lethal Weapon!’

‘Oh. You mean Danny Glover?’ She looked confused, then wagged her now-you’re-kidding-me finger at him before being called away to another customer. Strange, he thought, Danny Glover isn’t as tall as me. He turned to the Daily Telegraph and wondered what time her shift finished and whether there was any chance Cora’s flight would be diverted to Guatemala.

Cora found the baggage carousel but it wasn’t moving yet. She glanced around for cops before switching on her mobile again. It took a while to hook-up with a local service-provider; there was a text. The features editor had told her that Digby wouldn’t be in arrivals but she’d find him in the nearest bar. He hadn’t told her it would be Hooligan’s in the Atrium. It was some time since she’d seen Tobin on TV and that had been when he was in Baghdad for an American satellite news channel making his name as the latest ‘Scud stud’. Then in the back of a Chinook in Afghanistan, wearing a helmet and flak jacket. She hoped she’d recognise him without the helmet. After that there was the big controversy, something to do with him shooting a Taliban fighter. The belt started to move and people played dodgems with their trolleys.

Ten minutes later: ‘Digby?’ He turned. ‘Hi, I’m Cora.’

He shook her outstretched hand. ‘Hello, Cora. Nice to meet you. How was the flight?’ She told him but he was still overwhelmed by the sight of her suitcase; it was twice the size of his and came up to her shoulder. With that and her backpack and a shoulder bag with a little leather dog attached to it she’d obviously come equipped for the long haul. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘get yourself a drink from my friend Mellissa – I need to take a pee.’

As soon as he was out of sight of the bar he called the features editor on his home number.

‘Barry?’

‘Yes, Digby.’

‘Why the fuck have you sent me a sixth-former on work experience?’

He heard Barry sigh. ‘I’m delighted to hear she’s arrived safe and well.’

‘You’re confusing me with Jimmy Savile. Is she old enough to drive?’

‘She’s twenty-two or something and her research is a damn sight better than yours was when you were forty-two.’

‘Bollocks.’

‘Okay, she can make a start with the stuff you’ve always found challenging – like getting receipts for expenses.’

‘And the Telegraph has got Fred McLeod in Kabul. Fred McLeod, for Christ’s sake! He’s a wanker.’

‘I bet he isn’t working with the support of a charming and competent personal assistant.’ The connection fell silent. ‘Digby?’

‘I’m not going to win this, am I?’

‘The woman at the bar thought you were Mel Gibson. How ridiculous is that?’ Cora was struggling to get her case in the boot of the Chevrolet rental but still had enough puff to talk. Digby slammed the lid shut.

‘Remarkably ridiculous. How can I look like Mel Gibson when I don’t even believe in god?’ She had no answer to that. ‘Feeling tired?’ he asked.

‘No,’ she smiled, ‘I feel fine.’

So he tossed her the keys. ‘Great. You’re driving.’

She got the car started and, after a fiddling with the shift on the steering column, got it into gear.

‘Where are we going?’

‘I don’t know yet. Any ideas?’

‘Your hotel? So I can check in?’

‘I’m not checked into a hotel,’ said Digby.

‘I thought you stayed here last night?’

‘Er, no. I had to make a little side-trip down to Alabama.’

‘But…’

‘Don’t worry about it. Get us out of this hell-hole and follow the signs for Interstate 85.’

Cora took her foot off the brake and confidently swung the car out of the rental lot and onto the access road. Digby adjusted the door-mirror on his side and checked the traffic behind them. They were now approaching an intersection.

‘This is I-285. Didn’t you say I-85?’

‘Yes, 285 will take us to 85.’ She didn’t seem intimidated by the frantic mix of airport and rush-hour traffic, easing onto the freeway and working across the lanes.

‘We’re on I-85 now.’

‘Splendid.’

‘Why do you keep looking in the mirror?’ she asked.

‘Turn off at the next shopping centre you see on the right – we need to get some stuff.’

‘Cool. Any chance there’ll be a Bloomingdale’s there?’

‘I shouldn’t think so. That’s a New York store, isn’t it?’

Cora started to move over to the right to join a filter lane for the turn into a mall. Other drivers had the same intention.

Digby held up a finger. ‘You should keep in mind that when Americans take a corner, they stop first, then…’ She slammed the brakes on as the pick-up truck ahead of them suddenly slowed.

‘Shit! Sorry, sorry!’

When they’d parked, Digby looked around as she locked the car. They went into a food store.

‘We’re going to stay at a restaurant-free motel, so get some snacks and stuff. Hard cheese, crackers, biscuits, whatever – in case we get the munchies. I’ll see you at the check-out. It’ll say cookies on the biscuits.’

Later, further down the road, he pointed to a Red Roof Inn. ‘That’ll do.’

‘Why there?’

‘No particular reason, but they’re clean and comfortable and have wi-fi so we can get on-line. We’ll check in and then find somewhere to eat. I missed lunch somehow.’

CHAPTER 2

The place recommended by the motel receptionist was only half a block away, so they walked through the humid twilight. It was a windowless concrete slab with the words ‘Jane Austin’ in lights above the door. Next to that it said ‘Best Spicy Chicken Wings in Georgia’. Digby pointed to the row of Harley-Davisons parked at the front.

‘What do you think, Cora? The clientele seem to be into 19th century English literature.’

She nodded. ‘Could be educational.’

He pushed the door open and was met by a blast of INXS playing ‘Kiss the Dirt’ and a fog of ganja smoke. The bikers turned and stared at them. Digby held up his hand and grinned.

‘Tuesday! Trivia quiz night, right?’ He tapped Cora on the shoulder and led the way to an empty booth. They ordered Heinekens, his in a glass, hers still in the bottle. He looked at her as she swigged the beer. She was really quite pretty under that gelled page-boy hair-cut in a Friday-night-in-the-Union-bar kind of way.

‘Scared?’ he said.

‘What?’

He pointed. ‘The local chapter of wanna-be Hell’s Angels.’

She snorted. ‘Excuse me. You’ve obviously never been to Ibiza on a Club 18-30 holiday.’

The men all wore bandanas to cover balding pates, heavy belts restraining bellies; their oily jeans could keep themselves up.

Digby said, ‘The chicks are far more terrifying than the men. And I’ve never been over-impressed by anyone with a Harley-Davison.’ AC/DC started singing ‘Night Prowler’.

‘Why not? They’re sort of your generation, aren’t they?’

‘No, I used to have a Ducati 900GTS – that would do a ton in third gear. The Harley shakes itself to bits at 50 miles an hour. Armchairs on two wheels. It’s all branding and no engineering -- like the rest of the world, really. Serious bikers wouldn’t go anywhere near them. Hungry?’

She nodded and they ordered a burger for her and a dozen chicken wings and fries for him. And two more beers. When they arrived, Cora said thank you and the waitress insisted she was welcome. As the ‘food-server’ left, the researcher held up a hand.

‘What?’

‘Why do Americans always say you’re welcome when someone says thank you?’

‘Because they’re supposed to. Like they’re supposed to say Have a nice day, God bless America and Hey! when they walk into a room. In a deeply insecure society, it’s a mark of belonging. A bit like wearing the Stars and Stripes on your lapel, your uniform and your front lawn. And your Hell’s Angels waistcoat – even they want to belong.’

‘Deeply insecure? I’ve never heard America described like that before.’ Jesus she could rabbit.

‘How else would you explain their obsession with god and other forms of the supernatural, Cora? Shall we talk shop instead?’

‘Okay. What were you doing down in Alabama?’ she asked, getting him off motor bikes and god.

‘I went to see Colonel Ernest K Matlock.’

‘The Marilyn Monroe man? How did it go? Anything new?’

‘Apart from him shooting his dog, you mean?’

‘Oh my God! Digby! What happened?’ She had that mouth-wide-open expression used by women to express shock and awe.

‘No idea. Pretty fucking unusual for an American to kill his dog. More likely to kill his wife.’

‘Wow. Was he aiming at you? Did you piss him off?’

‘I can’t see how. He told me what he wanted to tell me and I wrote it down. It was about the Marilyn sex film…’

Cora interrupted. ‘The one where she’s… The one where she’s not having sex with President Kennedy but giving him a… Monica?’ Wide-eyed, she bit into her burger.

Digby winced and leaned closer. ‘Ah, but that’s it, you see. It was really Lee Harvey Oswald…’

‘Wow!’ she said, ‘Awesome! Lee Harvey Oswald giving JFK a blow-job!’

‘No, you fool…’ Then he saw her grinning through a mouthful of lettuce and mayo. He picked up the last chicken wing. ‘Does that mean we can cross Marilyn Monroe off the list?’

She shook her head. ‘I shouldn’t think so. But Barry thinks we should keep it down to five conspiracies -- Marilyn, JFK, UFOs and alien abductions, Martin Luther King and Jimmy Hoffa.’

‘Why those, Cora?’

‘He likes the celebrity dimension to them. That’s what he said.’

Digby ordered another beer; Cora shook her head. ‘Where’s the celebrity dimension in UFOs?’ he asked. ‘Unless we could point out that Tom Cruise has obviously been beamed up more than once.’

‘Robbie Williams is into UFOs.’

‘I thought I hadn’t seen him around for a while.’

‘Anyway, I’m just telling you what Barry said.’ She wiped the mayo from her lips and pushed the plate away. ‘Now I could use another beer.’

‘And Jimmy Hoffa is an unsolved murder, not a conspiracy. Why can’t we do 9/11? That’s easy to rubbish. Al-Qaeda did it. End of story.’

Her beer arrived and the music changed to something by Motörhead. She upended the bottle. ‘Oh, and Barry had a message for you.’

‘Did he?’

‘I’m just repeating what he said now. Okay?’

‘Go on.’

‘He said, if you stop whingeing like a moaning bloody teenager you can have 3,000 words per instalment instead of 2,000. Unquote.’ She paused for his reaction.

‘Fuck him!’

‘Yeah, I know,’ she said, standing up. ‘Unfair to teenagers, isn’t it?’ She threaded her head and an arm through the strap of her handbag. ‘I’m going for a wee-wee.’

Digby watched as she elbowed her way through the throng of bikers. She was wearing smart baggy cargos which, it occurred to him, fitted her nicely around her bum. The Rolling Stones: ‘Street Fighting Man’. Maybe the conspiracies could be linked in some way? Could they trace the lay-lines? Marilyn Monroe fucked John F Kennedy who fucked a mobster’s woman who fucked Anthony ‘Tony Pro’ Provenzano who shot Jimmy Hoffa? Even better if Tony Pro fucked Hoffa before finally letting him have it with his .38. Someone laughed hysterically. But it wasn’t a laugh – it was a scream. Digby ran.

Cora was sitting on the floor holding her head in her hands. Two bikers were standing over her. One was bending down, gripping her arm. Digby kicked him in the balls from behind, instantly evening the odds. The second man was still in sympathetic shock as he was slammed against the wall. Digby punched him in the jaw and brought his fist back again…

‘No, no! Digby! They were only helping. Stop Digby!’

He looked down at Cora, still keeping a tight grip on the biker’s denim waistcoat. ‘Who attacked you?’

‘It was some black guy. These chaps chased him off. He ran out the back.’

Digby released the man and offered him a lame ‘Sorry’ before kneeling down next to her. A trickle of blood was running from one of her temples. ‘What happened?’

‘He came at me as I was going into the ladies. Tried to grab my Radley! When I wouldn’t let go he swung me against the wall and I banged my head.’

Digby helped her to her feet and two of the biker’s girls with tat-sleeves walked over and hustled her into the toilet, muttering something about men. A third was more concerned with the damage Digby had done to her feller’s nuts.

‘Hey, I’m really sorry – it was a misunderstanding. I thought… Anyway, thanks for helping my friend. I hope you’re okay.’ He almost suggested a little physiotherapy but decided not to push his luck.

Back at the table Digby cursed and swigged his beer. He told himself he knew this would happen, just knew it. When Cora joined him she was holding a wodge of toilet-paper to her head. He offered her his handkerchief instead. The bar owner brought her his apologies and a shot-glass of brandy on the house. She thanked him and said she didn’t want him to call the cops. Doing that would have pissed the bikers off as much as telling them their beloved bikes were crap.

‘What the hell happened, Cora? Did the kid say anything when he attacked you?

‘What kid? He wasn’t a kid.’

‘Huh?’

‘He was in his thirties, Digby, African-American. Short hair, moustache, er, blue t-shirt and designer jeans. And he was wearing black leather shoes, not trainers. Didn’t look like the sort to go in for bag-snatching. Even if it is a Radley.’

She touched his arm. ‘Is it true you killed three Taliban fighters in Afghanistan?’ Apropos of nothing.

‘No. I shot three Taliban fighters in Afghanistan. Only two of them had the decency to die.’

‘Hmm. It’s obviously not something weighing on your mind.’

‘Nope. They had just killed a young British squaddie and two Afghan soldiers. I was next, so I picked up a stray AK-47 and fired back.’

‘Wow. Where did you learn…?’

Digby interrupted her. ‘Change the subject. How are you feeling? Apart from over-inquisitive?’

She said she felt okay so he drank her brandy for her and paid the bill.

They’d walked 20 yards back towards the Red Roof Inn when he heard a footfall behind them. He glanced over his shoulder looking out for a black man in a blue t-shirt. Cora took a tighter grip on her bag.

‘What is it?’

‘It’s fine. We have an escort.’ One of the bikers following them waved a hand. It seems they’d had the same thought about the black guy.

In their rooms they unlocked the connecting door. She slumped down on the side of her bed; bugger, I’ve messed up already! Digby was standing in the doorway showing her the bottles of Jack Daniels and Smirnoff he’d bought at the food market while she’d been loading up with chocolate bars and cheese. She pointed to the vodka and watched as he splashed some into a plastic cup, topping it up with Pepsi. It was still only 9pm – but 2am for her and her sore head was battling for jurisdiction with her jet-lag.

‘Don’t unpack. We’re leaving first thing in the morning,’ he announced.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Just away from here – but, as always, I’m open to suggestions.’

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘give me a minute.’ Good! At least he wasn’t planning to take her back to the airport. She pulled a handful of files from her backpack, spread them on the bed and shuffled them around until she’d found the one she was looking for. ‘Here it is, Digby. Greenville, South Carolina.’ She looked at him for a reaction. He squeezed his eyes shut. What was he thinking about?

‘That’s about 150 miles from here – call it a three-hour drive. Who are we going to see?’

She glanced at the top page in the file. ‘It’s a man called Matt Malossini. I’ve been in contact with him since you came out here. We’ve exchanged emails and I’ve called him a couple of times. He said he loved my accent.’ When she tasted the vodka-coke, she realised her hand was shaking.

‘You’ll get a lot of that.’ He sipped his Jack Daniels. ‘What’s his story?’

‘He runs a web-site called MMBlog – he could use some branding advice from Harley-Davison. Basically what he does is make interminable Freedom of Information Act requests on various government agencies. Then he puts the documents he gets on his website with a few lines of commentary. Google ads give him a little income, but he must spend that on more FoIA requests. God knows how he makes a living.’

‘Which conspiracies get him excited, Cora?’

‘He does mostly 9/11, JFK, Martin Luther King, the Oklahoma City Bomb and the Illuminati…’

‘And why are we going to see him?’

Her head started to throb even more so she waved a hand to excuse herself and headed for the bathroom. She stared at herself in the mirror.

‘I know, Studs, I look like shit.’ Cold water on her face helped and she rummaged in her toilet bag for a plaster to cover the cut. The Co-codamol were in her shoulder bag. ‘I’m sorry you have to sit in here, Studs,’ she whispered, ‘but we have to keep you secret for a while.’

Back in the room she found the pills and washed them down with the vodka. Digby was watching her. ‘We’ll get you a Purple Heart.’

‘A what?’

‘Why exactly are we going to Greenville?’

‘Malossini told me he’d received a batch of government documents on a DVD. They seemed pretty innocuous, so he uploaded them onto his web-site and added the file to the index. He was busy on something else, so he didn’t get a chance to write a commentary.’

‘What were the documents about?’

‘He didn’t tell me. But that’s not relevant.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because there were a couple documents in the file which weren’t supposed to be in there. They concerned an entirely different matter.’

‘How did he find them?’

‘Someone told him.’

‘Who?’

‘He wouldn’t share that with me, Digby.’

‘Did he tell you anything?’

She blinked the pain away and tried to concentrate. ‘He said that the odd pages suddenly went missing from the web-site. So he uploaded them once more and they went missing again in a matter of minutes.’ She looked for a reaction, a serious expression on her face. ‘He sounded really scared but promised to reveal all if we went to see him.’

Digby shrugged, stood up and tucked the Jack Daniels under his arm. ‘Sounds like a reasonable start. Let’s try and get on the road by seven.’

She groaned to herself – but smiled at him. ‘Okay, no problem.’

He checked her door. ‘Look, if you hear anything outside, don’t open it. Come and wake me up first.’ She nodded and he headed for his own room.

‘Digby?’

‘Yep?’

‘Thanks for rescuing me.’

‘You’re welcome, ma’am. No more goofing about with tall dark strangers.’

She finished the vodka and closed her eyes. Tomorrow was going to Cora Assertiveness Day. No more Little Miss Victim.

CHAPTER 3

‘Quick,’ said Digby, ‘throw your arms around my neck, run your fingers through my hair and kiss me passionately on the lips!’

They were sitting in the Chevrolet putting finishing touches to a detailed scheme for breaking into Matt Malossini’s single-storey house in the suburbs of Greenville, South Carolina.

‘Why would I want to do that, Mr Tobin?’ She was still staring at the clapboard structure with its acned paintwork and dishevelled lawn.

‘It’s what they always do in the movies when the stake-out is compromised.’

This time she turned to look at him: ‘Compromised?’

‘Compromised, Ms Butler-Khan. As in when a sheriff’s deputy pulls up behind you, his red and blue lights flashing.’

She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Oh shit. And we were only thinking about doing it!’

‘He’ll be the US Federal Thought Patrol agent who always masquerades as a sheriff’s deputy.’

Digby lowered the window, letting the hot air flood in. The deputy approached and rested his six-doughnut belly on the sill. He flicked open the thumb-strap of his holster and leaned down.

‘Morning sir, ma’am.’

‘Good morning, officer.’ Digby did the talking.

‘You folks been here quite some time. Is there a problem?’

Digby shrugged: ‘I don’t know really. We had a meeting with a chap at number 4308. That was an hour ago but he doesn’t seem to be in. We knocked on his door and rang his number. Nothing.’

Cora reached for the bag between her feet.

‘Hold it, ma’am!’ The deputy’s Glock was suddenly so close to Digby’s nose he could smell the gun-oil. ‘Show me what’s in the bag first.’

She held the Radley open and removed a sheet of paper: ‘This is the email from Matt Malossini giving us his address.’

The cop inspected it, his lips moving as he read. Then he put the gun away and looked at them again: ‘Not from around here, are ya?’

‘No.’

‘Y’all Australian?’

‘English.’

‘Got any ID?’ They handed over their passports. He flipped them open and glanced at them. ‘Okay,’ he nodded, handing the passports back, ‘have a nice day now.’ He holstered his gun and walked away.

Digby and Cora didn’t speak until the police cruiser was out of sight.

‘Quick,’ she said, ‘let’s do it before he comes back.’

‘I don’t think so. The neighbours are bound to be watching now.’

She groaned: ‘We have an excuse. Malossini’s car is in the garage and one of the air-conditioners is on. If anyone asks, we say we were frightfully concerned about him.’

‘Pity we didn’t mention that to the nice sheriff’s deputy.’

She opened the car door: ‘Remember, you hang around at the front knocking on the door and I’ll try around the back. If anyone asks what’s up, tell them we’re worried about Matt.’

‘Okay, okay, I’ve got the script!’ Rabbit, rabbit.

As Digby climbed to the porch she cut across the grass and down the side of the building, ducking her head under the whirring air-conditioner. The back yard was free of children’s toys and washing lines. Single male, she decided. She checked the windows for an inviting gap but they were all shut tight. Moving on past the door she had second thoughts and turned back; it was open. The wood around the lock had been shattered.

‘Matt? Matt? Mr Malossini?

She was in the kitchen. The sink was loaded with unwashed dishes and cutlery. The bin was loaded with fast-food cartons. The air was loaded with the smell of shit. Single male, she confirmed.

‘Mr Malossini? It’s Cora Butler-Khan.’

The living room was surprisingly neat, kind of uncoordinated colonial with bright scatter rugs on a polished floor but drab curtains – and quiet except for someone knocking at the door.

She turned the Yale lock and Digby stepped inside letting the screen clatter shut behind him.

‘What have you been doing, planning a make-over?’ The room had a big flat-screen TV with a DVD player and an X-box games console on the floor in front of it. ‘No sign of him, I suppose?’

‘No, but the rear door was unlocked.’

‘So much for the plan to tunnel in from his storm bunker. Tried the bathroom?’

‘In view of the prevailing smell -- no.’

‘Where’s his stuff? His computers? Files? Stapler?’ There were three closed doors