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"We need to talk to this guy," I said, tapping the paper for emphasis. "I agree," Campsie said distractedly, still looking over the full list of names and addresses on the paper, while making a copy of them into her ever-present notebook in her neat round hand. "And we need to check out these other names, too," I added, half-talking to myself, "There's got to be more than one rotten apple in this particular barrel." Campsie perked up at that statement. "I can do that," she said brightly, looking eagerly at me. "Huh? You can?" "Sure," she said, her face now seguing into looking smug, "I have a contact or two who still owe Dad a favour. I can talk to them, if you like." I shrugged. Most of my contacts in the official services wouldn't have given me the time of day anymore; too many favours, too much water under the bridge. If she could get anywhere with the cops or the customs guys, it would really help. "Go for it," I said, "Knock yourself out. I'll go and talk to Drumfin myself. Maybe he'll remember me. Let's meet up back here when you've got anything." "Of course." Campsie finished copying the last few names into her little book, then grabbed her pack and hurried out with a distracted wave. I sat a little longer, just musing on the intersection of employees and employers, and what the real relationships might be. Then I locked the list I had been given by Broxden in the desk drawer, tugged my hat into a suitably jaunty angle and set off to talk to Pow Drumfin.
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Part 26