Free The Amulet by William Meikle

making me human.
    Old Joe struck up the first 'Just One Cornetto' of the day. That meant the newspapers had been delivered, and he was ready to receive customers.
    When I got downstairs, he had my two packs ready for me, but I made him put them back.
    "Camels, please Joe. For old times sake," I said.
    "Feeling maudlin?" he asked, but I didn't reply-I was scanning the front pages of the papers. There was no mention of Jimmy, or of the light opera singer John Harris. And I'm sure old Joe hadn't heard either-he'd have mentioned something to me.
    "I just fancied a change," I said, taking a Herald and paying him. "Can a man not change his mind?"
    "Not after five years. And not as often as a woman," Joe said, and laughed. "And talking about women-I've remembered where I saw that stoater before-the one that visited you a couple of days ago."
    I'd been on my way out, but I turned back.
    "Don't tell me. Artie Dunlop."
    The old man looked shocked.
    "She's mixed up with 'The Undertaker'? Then maybe it isn't who I think it is. But I saw her double in Blackpool, in a fortune telling booth. About ten years ago now, but I never forget a pair of legs."
    "I don't think so," I said. "She doesn't seem the type." But then I remembered how she seemed to know about the typewriter. Then again, she'd known I was drunk last night as well, but that hadn't been difficult.
    I left Joe with the promise that I'd keep him posted. There was little chance of that-the only time you told Joe anything was if you wanted the whole West End to know quickly.
    I stepped out of the shop, and found Doug trying to force something through my letterbox.
    "I only want it if it's a plain brown envelope stuffed with twenties," I said in his ear. He jumped, suddenly flustered, and spilled a wad of A4 sheets across the pavement.
    I helped him pick them up.
    "They're all out of sync now," he said accusingly. "I hope you're not in a hurry to find out what I found."
    I looked at the pile of papers.
    "Christ, Doug. How much is here?"
    "Don't worry," he said. "It's not as bad as it looks. There's a lot of repetition-I haven't had time to sort it out yet."
    "You weren't up all night, were you?"
    He looked sheepish.
    "I got carried away," he said. "You know how it is."
    Actually, I didn't-I'd so far managed to avoid hooking up to the Internet. I preferred to get my information first-hand, or as near to it as possible.
    "I suppose I'd better give you some coffee," I said. "I wouldn't want you falling asleep at your desk-who knows what the world would come to."
    I led him up the stairs. He tutted when he saw the whisky bottle. I didn't tell him why I'd been drinking; the wound was too raw. If I started talking about the wee man again, I'd start drinking again. Much as the idea appealed, I had work to do.
    "Park your bum," I said and motioned him to the desk. "And tell me what kept you away from the triple-X sites."
    "It'll be easier if you read it," he said. "It's a bit far fetched, and you'll have a lot of questions."
    "Okay. I'll do you a deal," I said. "You shuffle them back into the right order, and I'll make the coffee."
    When I got back with the coffee there was a neat pile of paper on the desk in front of my chair.
    "Fast work," I said. "Have you been practicing your poker shuffle again?"
    "It wasn't as bad as it looked," he said.
    "What is it about?" I asked.
    "Just read it," he said. "You'll be entertained, if nothing else."
    I gave him my newspaper, a coffee, and a cigarette, then I settled down to read.
    The top pages were all about Arthur Dunlop. There were fuzzy pictures taken with long telephoto lenses, masses of press speculation, hundreds of column inches, and nothing I didn't know already.
    "Thanks for this," I said. "But it's all standard stuff. What about the Gilbert and Sullivan link?"
    Doug leaned over and sorted the papers before handing them back to me.
    "There you go. There's the good stuff."
    The heading at the top of the first page read