Water's Edge

Chapter XXXVIII

Spectator Sport

Addyes, with the boundless energy of Bambi's Thumper, and the physique of a Pokémon Card Collector, took me to a cocktail bar called De Pfeffel's, recounted what seemed to be a hundred stories about famous Conservatives he had met before they died, before finally saying he would buy the first round.

He'd be buying the only round at these prices. The cigarillos, I had to admit, were fantastic.

"But this is what I mean," He continued, putting his feet up on the next chair at our table. He had forgotten his shoes. "People think that everyone from London are just... just... rude! Or brash! But I'm not like those who ran The Spectator before me. Oh no." He sipped a pink daquiri I could smell from here, "It used to be all about Brexit. Now I want it to be about England." I didn't want to tell him that those things were practically synonymous now; it'd have broken his heart.

"Berg." I tried to say between his gulps of drink and splurges of verbs.

"The Bow Street Runner article was not fair, old boy. I read it. Well written. I think I hired whoever wrote that."

"Did you." I said, dispassionately.

"Very well written. But not fair." He juggled, "You were doing sterling work in the force. Shame it all went a bit sour. But blue lives matter, old sport, am I right?" He lifted his glass for a cheers, and I realised I couldn't be angry at him, because he wouldn't know why.

"Berg." I tried again.

"My great great great... whatever great grandpappy... Richard Rintoul. He thought we were here to spectate. I want to bring us back to those roots. Properly investigating and reporting. Without all the Unionist bollocks or rainbow flags and all that shite." He put a hand to his lips, "'Scuse my French, old sport, I don't want to get all Hebdo on you." Another laugh at a joke that didn't make sense, "What did you say?"

I sipped at my Stella, letting him stew in the silence he had made for himself. He twitched when I didn't fill it immediately, "Andrew Berg."

"As I say, old bean, if he was freelancing..." Addyes paused suddenly, "Berg, you say."

"Berg." I said for the eighty-millionth time.

"I remember having a Berg in my office a while back." He looked up, and as if by magic, his secretary had appeared beside him with his brogues. Even I raised an eyebrow at the timing of it all. I had seen him texting but thought nothing of it. Maybe the kid could juggle more things than I gave him credit for, "Susie?"

"Yes?" She bent down a little.

"Do you have my diaries on you... that Berg chap?"

"That wasn't long ago, I recall. He was investigating the Humber Dam."

A lead? Rintoul sent Susie away with a pat on the bottom, and no one in the entire bar complained; some yuppies seemed to cheer. I didn't have time to see how Susie had reacted, she had left faster than she arrived.

"The Dam?" I said, bringing Rintoul from hormonal revery.

"Aye! I do recall him. Strange boy. Wanted paying up front." He shook his head, "But he had been interviewing an old friend of the party, a Suggitt."

I would hate it if this boy turned out to be useful.

"Winthrop Suggitt?"

"That's the old bear!" He was finding more and more surreal things to make old, "Apparently he opposed to the whole damned thing. Haha, pun intended!" It wasn't.

"I need to see what Berg found out."

At this Addyes leant across the table, nearly spilling his daquiri, "What do I get out of this, old sport?" He offered me another Julieta and I declined. I never declined. But this kid—"I respect what you do, I really do... but I have quotas like any man." He sipped his daquiri, fighting the straw with his tongue to get it into position, before a gulp, "Runners sell papers."

"I hate that term."

"I know you do!" No he didn't, "Which is why I want an exclusive. The first Bow Street Runner, Harry Jake Fields." He had done his research, which made me trust him less somehow, "Ex-copper. Ex-detective. Now skiptracer to the stars!"

"I don't do that." He was pissing me off now. Skiptracers were dangerous. I was still for the law, whatever that meant now in a world where jumped up coke-addled children ran newspapers, "I can't give you that."

"Whatever, old boy." He winked at me, "You can have Berg for free." He shrugged; he hadn't even asked about the deaths. Journalism flourished at its finest when it drank empathy through a cocktail straw, "But one day, Fields, I want you."

He did, at least, pay for the round.