supernatural experiences, Kippo. I did it for the cash and the chicks and the Saab and for the incredibly long lenses, and for a nickname ending in ‘o’.”
Kippo thought about it. He didn’t look convinced. “Well, if your dead father is going to send you messages, Marko, it would be great for the piece.”
[Groan] I’d been really hoping he wouldn’t say that. It was exactly what Jules had said when she phoned me up. People who work on newspapers always just want the STORY; it’s a bit depressing, if you ask me. “We can USE your dad, if he’s going to come through like this!” she said. “I could interview him from beyond the grave!” I could see her thinking, Broadsheet Stuck-up Feature Writer of the Year 2005, here I come.
“Kippo!” I said.
“I think you should do the two on Wednesday—”
“TWO?” I said.
“Do the two on Wednesday and see what happens, Marko. That dry-cleaning ticket thing was obviously just a way of convincing you that it was really him.”
I didn’t say anything. It had never occurred to me that it wasn’t really Dad. Why on earth would Mister Lister pretend he had a message from my dad?
“You got on well with your dad, didn’t you, Marko?”
“Well, my dad got on with everybody. He was a nice bloke.”
“You think everyone’s a nice bloke.”
His phone rang.
“Juliet Frampton isn’t,” I muttered, darkly.
And he laughed and said, “Yeah, but that didn’t stop you banging her for two years twice a week at that flat in Broadwick Street, did it? No such thing as a secret, Marko. Hello, picture desk.”
Scene Three: in the car again, but stationary with the windscreen wipers going
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