But the people from Greenwatch didn’t.
He could still hardly believe they had managed to track him down from just that snippet of film, on the snowball principle, as Loreena Keowa, the high-cheekboned, not particularly pretty and yet somehow sweat-inducingly arousing native Indian girl had explained to him. Greenwatch had quickly come to the conclusion that the men next to him, who were easier to make out on the film, must be his friends, and then one of them had said something to an old man in the row in front of them. It was Jack ‘pain-in-the-ass’ Becker of course, he could still remember that, because Becker had wound him up no end with his sentimentality. Unlike the others, Becker, who had worn his Imperial Oil overalls that day, had been captured sharply on the film, and Keowa clearly had contacts in the human resources department of the company. She had identified him, called him and showed him the recording, upon which ‘what’s-in-it-for-me’ Becker had named both Bruford’s friends and Bruford himself.
And now he was sitting here. It was a scary world! Anyone could be tracked down. On the other hand, there were worse things than sitting next to Loreena in her rented Dodge, fifty Canadian dollars richer, watching her as she loaded his blurry videos onto her computer. Loreena in her chic clothes, which didn’t seem quite right for an eco-girl. A number of things were going through his head. Whether he should have asked for more money. What Greenwatch intended to do with the films. Why native Indian hair was always so shiny, and what he would need to do to make his that shiny for his career in Hollywood.
‘Shouldn’t we go to the police?’ he heard himself suggest. A sensible question, he thought. Loreena stared at the display, concentrating on the transfer process.
‘Rest assured, we will,’ she murmured.
‘Yes, but when?’
‘It doesn’t matter when,’ grumbled Loreena’s companion from the back seat.
‘I don’t know.’ He shook his head and made an expression of genuine concern, proof of his acting talents; he’d always known it, it was what he’d been born to do. ‘I don’t want to get dragged into anything. We’re obligated to tell them really, aren’t we?’
‘So why didn’t you do it?’
‘I didn’t think of it. But now that we’re talking about it—’
‘Yes, you’re right of course, we should reconsider the deal.’ Loreena turned her head towards him. ‘Do we know whether the material is worth fifty dollars? Perhaps there’s not even anything on there.’
Bruford hesitated. ‘But that would be your problem.’
‘But then perhaps it’s worth a hundred dollars, you see?’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Don’t you think, Sid? On the condition that a certain someone stops asking questions and worrying about the police?’
Bruford suppressed a grin. That was exactly what he had wanted her to say.
‘Sure,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I think that could be the case.’
She reached into her jacket and brought out another fifty, as if she had reckoned on this development. Bruford took it and put it with the other one.
‘There seems to be quite a nest in your jacket,’ he said.
‘No, Sid, there were only two. And perhaps they’ll have to go back in if I come to the conclusion that you can’t be trusted.’
‘Then I’ll just take something else.’ Now he couldn’t help but grin. ‘You have other good things inside your jacket that come in twos.’
Loreena glanced at her companion, who looked willing to resort to violence.
‘Okay,’ he muttered. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No problem. It was a pleasure meeting you.’
He understood. With a shrug of his shoulders he opened the passenger door.
‘Oh, and one more thing, Sid, just in case you do decide to call the police in a sudden passion of loyalty to the law: the money in your pocket constitutes withholding evidence for the purpose of your own personal gain. That’s an offence, do you understand?’
Bruford stopped short. He suddenly felt deeply offended. With one leg already on the pavement, he leaned back in towards her.
‘Are you trying to threaten me?’
‘Now, you listen up, Sid—’
‘No, you listen up! My job has gone down the crapper. I’m trying to get what I can, but a deal is a deal! Is that clear? I may have a loose tongue, but that doesn’t mean I shit all over people. So kiss my ass and look after your own business.’
‘What a snitch,’ said the intern contemptuously as Bruford set off down the street without looking back at them. ‘For another hundred dollars he’d have flogged his own grandmother.’
Loreena watched him go.
‘No, he was right. We insulted him. If anyone behaved dubiously then it’s us.’
‘While we’re on the subject – shouldn’t we hand this footage over to the cops?’
Loreena hesitated. She hated the idea of doing something illegal, but she was a journalist, and journalists thrived on having a head start. Without giving an answer, she connected her computer to the in-car system. The Dodge she had rented at the airport had a large display.
‘Come up front,’ she said. ‘Let’s have a look at what good old Sid has to offer first.’
‘It’s a bit of a blind bargain.’
‘Sometimes you have to take risks.’
They saw a blurred panning shot, a crowd of people, food stalls, the headquarters of Imperial Oil, a podium. Then Bruford’s friends, grinning broadly into the camera. Bruford had been filming straight ahead initially, then he started to swivel round. Two young women came into shot, noticed that they were being filmed and started fooling around.
‘They’re having fun,’ laughed the intern. ‘Pretty hot, too. Especially the blonde.’
‘Hey, you’re supposed to be paying attention to the background.’
‘I can do both.’
‘Oh, sure. Men and multi-tasking.’
They fell silent. Bruford had used up a lot of memory space on the two backwater beauties’ performance, in the course of which several people walked into shot, three policemen appeared, two of them took off again, and one took up his post in the shadow of the building. The girls contorted themselves into a clumsy performance, the significance of which Loreena couldn’t decipher at first, until the intern whistled through his teeth.
‘Not bad at all! Do you recognise it?’
‘No.’
‘That’s from Alien Speedmaster 7!’
‘From what?’
‘You don’t know Alien Speedmaster 7?’ His amazement seemed to know no bounds. ‘Don’t you ever go to the cinema?’
‘Yes, but it sounds like I see different films to you.’
‘Well, there’s a gap in your education there. Look what they’re doing now! I think they’re re-enacting the scene from Death Chat, you know the one, where those small, intelligent creatures go for the woman with the artificial arm and—’
‘No, I don’t know.’
The girls doubled up with laughter. This was disheartening. They had already looked at half of the material without seeing anything more than pubescent nonsense.
‘What are they doing now?’ puzzled the intern.
‘Would you just keep your eyes on the building?’
‘It looks like—’
‘Please!’
‘No, wait! I think that’s from the slushy love film that was hyped up so much last year. A bit cheesy if you ask me. That guy’s in it, that horny old man – you know the one. God, what’s his name? Tell me!’
‘Absolutely no idea.’
‘Yeah, the old bastard who recently got an honorary Oscar for his life’s work!’