Free Lost City (An Eoin Miller Mystery Book 3) by Jay Stringer Page B

three in the morning, clean and sober, frozen and shivering. I guessed he was asking for my help, but his eyes were fixed on the floor and all he kept saying was:
    “Billy was cold.”
    “Billy was cold.”
    “Billy was cold.”
    Then, and I’ll never forget it, Matt had looked me in the eye and said, “You look like shit.”
    And that was that. For the rest of that night, and the few that followed, I heard him crying as he slept on my sofa, whispering names and apologies for deeds he’d never told me about. I didn’t ask. I paid for him to go to private rehab, and Gaines paid for him to finish university. He’d had high enough scores to have built up academic credits and was allowed to switch his major, so he added another year on to his studies and changed to social work. He split his time between classes and the Community Center, with us footing the bill and paying his wages.
    When I finally pulled out of traffic and into the car park of the Center, Matt’s car was in my space, so I boxed it in. I found Matt in the office, reading through the mail and stacking the bills in a neat pile that I knew I’d ignore until the last possible moment. He was in my chair, behind my desk, but I didn’t mind because he pretty much did my job.
    “Hey, boss.” He didn’t look up from the letter until he’d finished reading it. When he did, he played a familiar tune. “You look like shit.”
    “I could fire you, you know, I really could.”
    “But then who’d do your job for you?”
    I raised my hand and held my thumb and forefinger a couple of inches apart. “Seriously, this close.”
    He smiled and put his hands up in mock surrender. I eased into the chair on the visitors’ side of the desk and scratched my nose, looking for a subtle way into the conversation.
    “Seen Jellyfish lately?”
    He shook his head. “Nah. I try and avoid mixing with guys who still use.”
    “So he was?”
    “As far as I know.”
    I thought back to the drugs at the scene. “Is he still selling?”
    “Don’t think so. He’s not as well connected since Marv and Letisha left town, but he still goes for it at parties and gets high himself.”
    I’d never told Matt the truth about Letisha, and he seemed happy not to ask. His recovery had been a slow and fragile one, and there were certain things he still couldn’t deal with.
    “And you don’t want to be around someone who’ll just casually get wasted.”
    He nodded. “Right. Too much to lose, you know.”
    I did, so I didn’t push it. I also didn’t tell him about the drugs in my pocket. “Do you know who he hangs around with? He seems to have fallen off the radar.”
    “He had a job for a while, out at the speedway, but he got sacked. As far as I know, he’s hooked up with someone I used to know at the Uni—a media studies student named Simon. He and Jelly started making Internet porn videos and selling ’em on a website. You know, a fiver for a ten-minute clip, or thirty quid for unlimited access.” He paused before adding the expected joke. “At least I’m told that’s how it works.”
    Would there ever, in the history of the world, be a conversation about porn that didn’t involve someone cracking a variation on that joke? I wondered if, even in the porn industry, people would stop between takes and say, “Hey, I’m told that’s how it works.”
    Chris’s words were still fresh in my mind, about Jelly wanting to film the two of them having sex. “When you say he makes porn—”
    Matt smiled. “Relax. He’s behind the camera. Well, he does handle the talent, too, if you want to call it that. As far as I know Simon handles the technical side. You seen Si’s girlfriend? She’s been in a few of the films and she’s hot.” Then he paused, and his face asked his next question before the words came. “Are they in trouble?”
    I didn’t answer straight away. I waited just long enough for him to know I was lying, but not quite long enough to invite a question