of his glass. ‘Well, if Tara’s vouched for you, that’s good enough for me,’ he says finally. ‘So what’s your interest in that story? There’s not been anything new on it for ages.’
‘I know the sister of one of the victims. And . . . I think that story, the Ghost, is about to blow up again.’
‘OK.’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘You’ve got my attention. What makes you say that?’
‘Can I ask you a few things about the case first? Strictly off the record?’
‘Sure, you can ask.’
‘You contacted the family of the third victim, right?’
‘A few times.’
‘So when it says in your story that someone “declined to comment”, does that mean you couldn’t actually get hold of them, or . . .’
‘I tried, but they weren’t interested. Went out to the house myself the first time but never got past the gates. Sent a casual a couple of times after that, it’s a right ball-ache to get to from here, you can waste half the day going there and back.’
‘A casual?’
‘One of the general news grunts, given three or four casual shifts a week,’ he says as if this should be obvious. ‘New guys, paid on a day rate rather than a permanent contract.’
‘Right,’ I say with a nod. ‘So you know where the family lives?’
‘Makes the doorknock more straightforward if you know which door you need to knock on.’ He gives me a wink. ‘I mean, yes, I managed to get hold of the parents’ address.’
‘How’d you do it?’
‘Does it matter? Anyway, like I said to Tara on the phone, the name of the third victim is covered by anonymity, so I can’t really discuss it with you.’
‘I already have her name, I’m not asking you for that.’ I run a finger around the rim of my glass. ‘I’m just intrigued. Tara said you were a good operator, one of the best. She speaks very highly of you, how you get stories that other reporters can’t.’
Simms shrugs, but allows himself a small smile. ‘Called in a few favours, that was all. Then it was just a case of making some calls, asking the right people the right questions, wearing out the shoe leather the old-fashioned way.’
‘The thing is, Matt . . . I really need to see them. I know they’re in Prestwood Ash, but I don’t have a street address.’
‘And you think I’m going to hand it over, do you?’
I lean forward, my hand inches from his on the stained wooden table. ‘I need to see them urgently, Matt, and I would really appreciate your help.’ When he doesn’t respond, I add, ‘Please?’
Simms leans forward on the table too, his head close to mine. The move is familiar, almost intimate, and brings with it the smells of exhaled beer and old clothes not properly dried from the rain.
‘Love your perfume, by the way,’ he says. ‘You smell amazing.’
‘Thanks,’ I shift back a little in my seat.
‘So, Ellen Devlin,’ he says. ‘If I give you their address, what’s in it for me?’
51
‘How about if I said I had a story for you?’ I say. ‘A great story, an incredible one.’
‘About the Ghost?’
‘I can’t tell you right now, but I promise you it will be worth it. Soon.’
Simms lifts his glass to his lips. He’s well into his second pint now and I can sense the alcohol starting to kick in, the gentle loosening of his shoulders, a relaxation in his jaw. He glances at the bar, where a crumpled middle-aged man is hunched alone on a stool, nursing a pint of his own. The guy looks at Simms, then at me, then at Simms again, before going back to his own drink with an envious shake of his head. Simms notices it too and smiles, returning his attention to me. He takes another sip of beer, puts the glass down so close next to mine that our hands almost touch.
‘All right, if you mention this to anyone, I will deny ever having this conversation. I will deny ever meeting you.’
‘Understood. But I won’t say a word, I swear.’
He checks that no one is in earshot before leaning forward again.
‘The third victim was Zoe Clifton, eldest daughter of Gerald and Angela Clifton.’ He picks up his phone, scrolls through a few screens, lays it face down on the table and pulls a pen from his jacket pocket, scribbling on the edge of his beer mat. ‘That’s where you’ll find them.’
I turn it around, study what is written there and tuck