Free Eoin Miller 02 - Old Gold by Jay Stringer

die?”
    “Nothing official yet. But someone took a knife to him.”
    “He was just a kid.”
    “They all are.”
    My second body this week.
    He’d still be alive if I hadn’t gone looking for him.
    How did it get to this?
    I headed straight for Posada.
    I put a drink to my lips.
    Then it was a big black hole until waking up the next morning in the cold flat.

Next morning, as the sun made a halfhearted attempt at fighting with my curtains, I cooked what was left of the food in the fridge into a nice unhealthy breakfast.
    I toyed with the idea of fetching the morning paper, but I didn’t want to read about Bauser.
    I didn’t want to think about him, either.
    The logic was too simple and painful. I suspected the Polish dealer of killing Mary. I’d asked Bauser to arrange a meeting, and Bauser was dead. My only solid lead died with him. I filed this away in the back of my head and tried to distract myself.
    After breakfast I walked ten minutes into town, walking quickly because the cold air was biting, and headed to the police station. The reception desk was manned by the same PC as last time, and he seemed to brace himself as I walked through the door.
    I gave him Becker’s name, and mine, and said I was expected. He never took his eyes off me as he rang through to check, and even after he’d been told to let me through he made a point of checking my ID. Normally, a visitor would have to sign in, be given a pass, and be accompanied at all times. I got the feeling that Becker had given instructionsnot to make me sign the book, to keep my visit off the record, otherwise I’m sure the PC would have insisted on it.
    Becker’s desk was in an office shared with four other CID. I knew it well. It had been my office for a short time, and it could get very busy and loud in there. Right now, though, he was alone at his desk, waiting for me.
    “You spoke to Perry, then?” This was as close as he was going to get to a greeting.
    “I don’t suppose you’ve got the official file lying around here, have you?”
    Becker took his turn to smile.
    “There is no official file, you know that.”
    “Good, so we won’t be breaking any rules when you let me see the unofficial file, then.”
    Becker put a folder on the desk between us and then asked if I wanted a drink, saying he’d make a fresh pot of coffee. He was lying, of course; he’d be making me a cup of instant. Becker made the worst instant coffee in the world. But I nodded anyway. I needed to wake up, get my thoughts moving in a good direction. The file was unmarked and didn’t contain any of the official forms you’d find in a police investigation. The notes too were written informally; none of the second guessing or neutral statements you’d find in a court-ready document. I read through them while he was away. There were interview transcripts, photographs, and details of the student’s lecturers and friends at university. I jotted down names as I read.
    Becker handed me a cup of coffee and I pulled a face at the first sip.
    “So what do you think of it all?”
    I shrugged. “The coffee? It’s terrible.”
    He seemed annoyed, which I enjoyed.
    “The kid,” he said. “So you’ve spoken to the missing kid’s parents? What about his friends?”
    “Parents, yes. I don’t know what to think yet, but there’s just something about them—I can’t put my finger on it.”
    Becker smiled. “You’re into this now. I know that look in your eyes.”
    He fingered his pack of cigarettes idly, not even noticing he was doing it. The station had been made into a no-smoking zone when the laws changed, with a designated smokers’ area out by the car park. People of all ranks huddled together. Smoking is a great leveler.
    “I’m being lied to.” He tapped the folder. “Someone in there was lying. I just don’t know who it was or why. But it’s there. Find out who and why, and you’ll find the kid.”
    “But you can’t spare the time.”
    “Exactly. Like I said