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Every Stone A Story
Every Stone A Story
Every Stone A Story
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Every Stone A Story

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It’s a clusterfuck..... a missing woman, an earl, who also happens to be a Catholic bishop, with his young male companion facing the threat of a murder charge. The missing woman was his girlfriend, and also the daughter of a senior police officer, and the copper himself is out of control. And Stevie McCabe is in the middle of it.
McCabe quickly discovers that more - many more - women have been disappearing and he embarks on a harrowing journey through the far reaches of the night, travelling deep into the dark heart of the city, where there are no easy answers and definitely no happy endings.

Every Stone A Story, the second Stevie McCabe novel.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateFeb 2, 2012
ISBN9781465719096
Every Stone A Story
Author

John Callaghan

Vice Principal and English teacher in catholic school in Essex. Born in the East but raised in the West of Ireland. Married with two children. Writer of plays, short stories and two novels.

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    Every Stone A Story - John Callaghan

    Chapter 1 – Kind of a Girlfriend

    It was very seldom that I had a member of the aristocracy in my office (much though I loved my abode, it wasn’t the grandest in my street, never mind Glasgow, never mind anywhere else) and the Earl of Auchenmyres wasn’t making me yearn for that to become any more regular. The strange thing was that I had not the least nodding acquaintance with the earl of anywhere, but something about this one seemed unsettlingly familiar.

    You must understand that this is a very serious business. This girl could be in very bad trouble.

    Well, Earl – sorry about the protocol, should I call you Earl? I’m worried it’s making you sound like a bandleader, not a lord.

    Calling me Alastair is what you should do. And that kind of remark doesn’t tell me you’re taking this any more seriously.

    Oh, rest assured, Alastair. A young woman has disappeared here, and that’s something I take about as seriously as I can do anything.

    And the police are treating Rosemary’s disappearance as suspicious, they say.

    For sure. And, actually, that’s where I start to struggle. I’m just a private detective, and nowadays I’m also a one-man show, what you see sitting here is all there is. A missing person, okay, somebody that skipped on a wheen of debts, somebody that nobody else notices is missing, okay, but from the way you’ve described it, this might become a murder investigation – sorry to be blunt – and that’s not something I’m set up to handle.

    Is it a question of money?

    Nothing like that. It’s resources. One man can’t do anything like tackle a murder enquiry – only the police can. Anyway, that’s what they’re there for - it’s their job. And, since the missing woman is the daughter of a police officer, you can absolutely bet they’re all over it. They’ll all be pulling double overtime until they get a hit.

    What you need to know at this point is that there was a third person in the room, not just myself and Alastair the Earl. The two of them had come in together and the other man, much younger, maybe in his early 20s set against the Earl’s late 40s, introduced himself as Andy, no second name. And that was the last and only thing he had said so far.

    By now, his porridge-faced silence was starting to irritate me as much as it intrigued. He didn’t look worried or anxious; he just looked bored. I glanced blandly in his direction, giving him permission to speak, but he remained an absence. Instead, it was my new noble acquaintance that answered my unspoken question.

    You’re wondering why Andrew is here? It’s simple. Rosemary Kilmartin was a friend of his.

    My girlfriend, kind of, said Andy in person, doing himself no favours in my mind. At least he could speak.

    "Kind of? Why do you say kind of? Why not just ‘my girlfriend’?"

    It wasn’t such a serious thing, you know? We, um, we knew each other for quite a while, and we went out before, years ago. And every so often, we’d go somewhere or do something, just pretty casual. Kind of a weekend thing, just. But she didn’t have a boyfriend, not really, so I guess that means I was the title-holder.

    So you didn’t have any other girlfriends of your own?

    No. Just Rosie.

    Well, Andy, I’m awful sorry that this should happen to your girlfriend. It’s a worrying thing.

    Aye, thanks….It’s just like you read about, you know? I’m just numb. Something tells me I should be feeling some different way, but I don’t. It’s just kinda a blank, I’m just sitting and waiting for some time when it’ll change. Maybe it will. Or maybe I should just move on?

    Hold that bus…..maybe he thought he should ‘just move on’? Not what I was expecting him to say, not at all. Either way, I knew that was the last we’d be hearing from Andy for a while, but I still needed to say another empty condolence to him. See? I’m no better than the next guy at these things. Half my mind was still on why I thought I knew the Earl from somewhere.

    Sometimes these things sort themselves out. Like I say, I’m awful sorry for your troubles….but as I said to Alastair, I’m not the man you want to help with all this. Maybe it’ll work out all right in the end.

    Well, Mr McCabe, it could be when Andy and I explain the whole background to you, you might see it differently. You see, we’re not asking you to solve a murder, we’re asking you to eliminate a suspect.

    Eliminate? How, eliminate?

    Oh, wait – I don’t mean…..no, just rule him out. Not do anything to him.

    Uh-huh. Who’s the suspect?

    Andrew is. He was the last one known to have seen Rosie and he doesn’t have any alibi.

    Well, so what?

    They were seen to argue, in public, that last time. It was in a pub, a bar. It was the night she disappeared.

    OK, Andy, she was enough of a girlfriend to argue with…and what’s an argument, when it’s in a pub? Was it just verbal, a few ‘get it up ye’s’? Flipping tables over, what? A raging barney? How’d it end up? And – where were you? When she disappeared?

    Andy looked at the Earl, and it was the Earl who answered.

    Blows were struck – one blow, actually. Rosie struck Andrew in the face. Then she left the bar they were in, while he stayed. Afterwards, he was with me, all night until the next morning.

    You say ‘afterwards’, how soon afterwards? Right from the time she left the pub?

    Andrew was still in the bar when I went to collect him from there. She was long gone, but he never left.

    So there’s your alibi, that accounts for all the time, if she went missing that night. Where’s the problem?

    "Mr McCabe, that will be Andrew’s alibi, if it has to be, in the end. But right now, he’s not talking to the police, so they don’t know where he was, if anywhere."

    If you’re declining to talk to the coppers, that’s going to put you right in the frame, alibi or no. You’ve told me that Rosie Kilmartin is a chief inspector’s daughter.

    Of course, we know that. Andrew tells me he has good reason not to trust police, leave it at that.

    And what about you? Why doesn’t the bold Earl step forward and sort it out? Is there some reason you don’t want to tell the police Andy spent the night at your house? Not a one-bed place, is it?

    Somebody in my position has to be aware of how things look to outsiders. And no, it’s a large house.

    I still don’t understand. You can deal with this now, and it’s done. If you don’t speak up now, and change your story later, nobody will believe Andy was with you when you say he was. And what position is ‘somebody in your position’ actually in? Who cares if the Earl of Auchenmyres is gay? So long as Andy’s of age, it’s a nothing story. Tell the police and everything’s sweet.

    I understand what you’re saying but nonetheless, this is how we have to play it. I want you to establish enough evidence to show that Rose Kilmartin’s disappearance had nothing to do with Andrew. Are you going to accept the job, or am I wasting my time here? You came highly recommended by our solicitor, but if it’s not to your taste….

    Well, I’m sure you know how hard…..impossible…..it is to prove a negative. But, as it happens, you don’t actually have to prove anything at all, that’s the other side’s job. But I have to repeat my advice – just tell them where Andy actually was and that’s the job done.

    As I said, if we have to, we will, but that’s a last resort. Do what you can until then. We have arranged to speak with an investigating officer at Stewart Street police station tomorrow morning. It’s voluntary and without prejudice – we thought it was best to agree when they asked. Can you attend?

    "If they’ll let me. We’ll need to meet between ourselves first, though, before we go there to get Andy’s answers sounding right. Because the missing…..because Rosie was a senior police officer’s daughter, they’re going to come heavy. "

    Fine. We’ll be here at 9am, if you like; Stewart Street is 10.30.

    OK, I’m on board. Before you go……can I ask a silly question – your title? The Earl of Auchenmyres? Where is Auchenmyres anyway?

    It’s an old name, it isn’t anywhere really nowadays.

    OK, where was it, when it was somewhere?

    It was between Glasgow and Paisley. Follow the line of the river out past Govan and stop when you’ve gone past the Clyde Tunnel. That area around there.

    On the south bank? Where the Southern General is?

    That’s it. The hospital was built on land the family used to own, until the Fifth Earl lost it, to pay the debts he ran up in supporting the Darien expedition. It was Scotland’s -

    - only colony, I know. In Panama. That must have been around 1700 – well, your family does go back a long way.

    Doesn’t everybody’s? But yes, after Darien failed, the last thing the family had left was a small castle on the banks of the Clyde there.

    ’Small castle’ – that’s not a phrase you get to hear often.

    Well, maybe ‘a big house’ is a better description. And that went, too, when Victoria was queen. The Twelfth Earl sold it to buy shares in the East India company, just before the Sepoy Mutiny. A year later, the company was all but bust and all he got was a boatload of tea.

    They didn’t have great business heads, your family, did they? Pissed away a fortune, so nowadays I guess you’ve all got to find yourselves a job.

    Well, I still have some assets, but you’re right. Now, all that’s left is the name, the title. Doesn’t do me a whole lot of good in my line of work.

    What neither of us said, but both of us knew fine well, was that the place where the ‘small castle’ had once stood on the banks of the Clyde was now the site of a huge sewage plant, chewing and cleansing the waste of half the city, spreading its suffocating odour far and wide, choking the patients in the hospital across the road on hot days when their windows were helpfully left open for the fresh air. The Earl might have fallen a long way, but at least he wasn’t shovelling shite.

    And as the Earl of Auchenmyres and Andy left the office, I still couldn’t pin down the fluttering butterfly of ignorance, that nagging feeling I had that I should know the earl from somewhere other than Debrett’s. I hadn’t even asked him what his line of work was.

    *** *** ***

    I called Bernadette Feeney on her direct line and got her first time. Ah, Stevie, I was hoping you would call. Listen, we need bread for tonight cuz I’m going to be stuck here gone 6. Could you get something? That place on Dumbarton Road is good, you know La Crolla? Get some Italian bread, anything would be fine.

    What’s wrong with Morrison’s?

    Whatever, I don’t really care, but if you could get a Morrison’s loaf in a La Crolla bag, that would be perfect.

    Is your sister that much of a snob? Or is it you?

    I’m ignoring what you just said, and assuming that you didn’t voluntarily call me up just to take my ciabatta order.

    Ah, no, it was business – I just took on a job from the Earl of Auchenmyres, Alastair of the same name, his card says.

    Auchenmyres? Where’s that?

    Govan, it seems. Or it was. Thing is, somebody at your firm recommended me to him. You do work for him. Do you know who he is?

    Never heard of him…..let me check with the database….just hold on while I do that…..here he is, Alastair Auchenmyres.…OK, click. Oh, shit, yes, I know who that is, didn’t know that was his family name. We do a lot of work for them, for the diocese.

    What? Diocese?

    Yes, Alastair Auchenmyres is the Catholic Bishop of Strathduie.

    *** *** ***

    The Bishop answered his mobile on the first ring. Something you forgot to ask, Mr McCabe?

    Yes, I forget to ask what you did for a living, your line of work, you called it. I knew you from somewhere, I knew your face….and that face was sitting across the desk from me saying you didn’t think I was much of a detective because I couldn’t remember who you were.

    No, it wasn’t that at all, Stevie. Maybe my face was saying I don’t think you’re much of a Catholic. But that’s not a sin, not as such.

    So now I know – you’re the Bishop of Strathduie.

    And now you also know why I’m not going to go to the police to tell them Andrew spent all night with me at Strathduie House, not unless I absolutely have to.

    Chapter 2 – Ciabatta By Any Other Name

    I couldn’t get anywhere near that Italian deli Bernie had mentioned, because the police had blocked off Dumbarton Road, yellow tape across the street, but not for anything to do with a traffic accident. Worse, the buses were all being diverted back through god knew where to loop around the scene, which was right in the main road. I could still have walked to La Crolla, but it would have four long blocks, round and round and round again, to reach a shop I could see eighty feet away behind the tape.

    Excuse me, I said to the big sergeant who was the loosely-appointed proprietor of the tape can I just nip through for a second? I just need to get to La Crolla, see, just there?

    Sorry, nobody can get across the scene, we’re sealing the area. But we’ll open the perimeter soon enough, it’s really just up the close we need to have secure.

    What’s happened?

    Crime scene, like the tape says, that’s all I can tell you. Listen, if you want to get to your shop, you can just go round the block…

    I know, thanks. Maybe I’ll just wait in the Towers anyway.

    It wasn’t just the lure of the Three Towers, in itself, it was the knowledge that the buses were buggered, so as a consequence there would be an immediate drought of taxis in the heart of Glasgow’s west end, and the subway went nowhere near Bernie’s place, since those affluent avenues weren’t where anybody wanted to travel in 1896, the last time the subway was extended. Which is to say, never.

    So what else could I do but rest a while with a pint of Lomond Gold, until the disruption subsided? I couldn’t get back in any case. I called Bernie and told her the news, but promised I would collect the ciabatta anyway.

    Some fuckin’ fuss up the road there, muttered one the old guys who sat around the Towers making remarks like that one. I didn’t know his name.

    Aye, sure is – what’s the score, do you know?

    Sumdy said they found a lassie’s body up the close there, just by the carpet shop, know? Real mess, that’s how come they’ve closed off the whole road. Probly a junkie, they said. Bad news, all of that.

    An hour later, when I left the Towers, the crime scene tape had indeed retreated to the point where the cordoned area had been reduced to the immediate pavement on either side of the tenement close-mouth where the body had apparently been found. The traffic was flowing freely and La Crolla’s enticing window display was now notable for the sign that read closed.

    So, I was rolling back to Bernie’s house with my Morrison’s bag, complete with two Mediterranean-style loaves. After an hour or so in the Three Towers, buying an extra loaf seemed natural, if completely unnecessary. On the way home, the bus was delayed even further as it stutter-stepped round yet another police incident scene, this one in the city centre at West George Street. This time, only one lane was lost to the intrusion of police cars into the traffic flow, because the focus of attention was not on the street but on one of the wide alleys that led off it. Behind the lines of police tape, cars and officers, a white crime scene tent had been erected. Among the scatter of concerned faces padding around, I could make out the features of my old buddy, Detective Sergeant Paddy Haldane…oh, excuse me, nowadays that should be Detective Inspector

    West George Street ran into Blythswood Square, traditional centre of Glasgow’s red light district. William Hill’s would be offering short odds on the specific type of incident that had drawn what looked like a police murder enquiry team to that particular spot.

    Jesus, mayhem was afoot in the old town tonight, and here was me, worried about having bread in the wrong bag and a little more of a personal cargo on board than was reasonable for so early in the evening. That was a perspective I wasn’t planning for – and it was a surprise, as it usually was.

    *** *** ***

    Bernie’s sister Angela was charming and she was also on time, unlike either Bernie or me. Still, we compensated with a quite reasonable saffron seafood linguini which I had made, although I don’t like seafood. That, and the fact that I also let Bernie take credit for cooking it made up, I felt, for the ciabatta-branding disaster.

    Angela had brought the dessert, death by chocolate, although I have to report that no fatalities resulted.

    Chapter 3 – Nothing Serious

    I wondered whether I had time to clean up the office before I interviewed Andy Kyle again.

    The office was no more of a mess than when the bishop/earl had left it the day before, but still much more of a mess than it had been, back in the misty-rimmed past, when Mrs Mac ran it. She ran it very effectively with minimum effort from me, kept it tidy, clean, well-organised and fully stocked.

    The problem with my minimum effort was that she had also ransacked the petty cash for – I don’t know – probably years, and I never noticed. Nothing too stupid, nor too ambitious, just enough to keep her in Smirnoff and JPS Blacks, with enough over to boost the Christmas dividends of Joe Coral shareholders. The old besom had robbed me blind and I had been too dull-witted to notice.

    Oh, well, I said when my new accountant, Manny Singh, eventually got me to investigate my own petty cash account, a money pit that my recently-retired former accountant had never noticed.

    Dear me, Mrs Mac, I said when I confronted her, you are a thieving old shitehawk. You’re bagged.

    Which – briefly and flatly – is why my former office administrator was taking me to an employment tribunal, claiming unfair dismissal. She claimed that her extra payments were implied conditions of her contract of employment, to which I had been a willing party. If this was not so, why did I not report her theft to the police? Mrs Mac, of course, was quite savvy enough to know exactly why a private investigator is never going to limp along to the pros, busted balance-sheet in hand, to complain that the pensioner who ran his office had thieved the kitty.

    And, in turn, this was why my office was a mess and also why the morning’s post contained a letter from Mrs Mac’s legal representatives, Matzdorf-Gourlay-Allan, offering to settle for a year’s salary, plus their costs, generously offering not to press for punitive damages. My own legal counsel had so far proved a little less aggressive in pursuing my interests, despite the fact that I was sleeping with one of the company partners. And I couldn’t even complain to her about it, she told me, (although I did) because that was confusing the personal and professional. Which confusion, she further pointed out, I was very much in the habit of achieving.

    I wish Bernie had told me that before I engaged her firm to represent me.

    Thank Christ, I was now thinking, that the old witch had never managed to get a tune out of a computer. If she had been able to do that, I would be standing in the street in my Ys, wondering how I could have been defrauded by one of the grannies from the adverts in People’s Friend.

    Nor, come to that, had she ever mastered a coffee pot, but at least I was able offer something more than tea to Andy and the Bishop when they arrived, promptly at 9, as I knew they would.

    I wondered if Andy had spent last night at Strathduie House again. Either way, it looked like he still hadn’t engaged his brain any better than he had yesterday. He needed preparation, no question. If his habits of long silences interrupted by inappropriate remarks sounded strange to me, they would clang a lot louder to police detectives investigating the disappearance of a chief inspector’s daughter.

    Now, Andy, you won’t be under arrest, so it’s all going to be low key. You’ll be ‘helping them with their enquiries’, that’s all.

    Like they say on TV.

    Er, yeah, exactly, but this isn’t TV. Now, there’ll be one, probably two, coppers there, there will be me – if they wear that – and your solicitor from Hutchison Barclay Skivington – who is that, by the way?

    Eh.…Alastair, who’s my lawyer?

    Vincent Connarty. I know him from other work he’s done. Of course, it was his company who recommended we come to you for help, Stephen.

    What does he do? He’s not some kind of property lawyer, is he? You need a criminal brief for this.

    We’ll be fine. As you say, Stephen, Andrew is not under arrest.

    OK – Andy, what we’re trying to do is establish how you should react to the things they are likely to ask, so just imagine I’m them…….what is your full name, address and age?

    Andrew Alexander Kyle, 286B West Princes Street. I’m 22.

    What do you do for a living?

    I’m a postgraduate student, and I do some translation work, as well, freelance.

    You live alone?

    Yes, since my mum died. I inherited the flat from her, it’s all paid for. I like living there because -

    Wait, hold on – no need to go telling them too much…..it’s not going to do you any good. You never know how something can spin off in the wrong direction. Now……what was your relationship to Rosemary Kilmartin?

    Friends.

    For how long?

    "Must have met her about a year ago, in the pub.

    Whoa, hold on, now. Stepping to one side, Andy, you said to me yesterday that you’d known Rosie before, years ago, I think you said. You went out then. Now you met her a year ago?

    Same thing, really. Friend of a friend and that, you know?

    Okay. Well, you need to say the same thing, be consistent. Who was the friend that you were a friend of?

    Don’t really remember, it was more a kind of, you know, people milling about in the pub, late, we were both there. Nothing special, no reason to remember why we were there. We just were.

    Do you remember which pub?

    Probably The Oracle, we both go there a lot.

    Would you say you were a couple?

    No.

    Just ‘no’? In the last year, did you out together, just the two of you? Frequently? Were you lovers?

    We went out more and more, I s’pose. At first it was just ‘let’s have a drink sometime’ and then we went to a gig or two, then, you know…..

    You were lovers?

    "Yeah, sometimes, but it was casual. She had to spend a lot of time in Edinburgh, because that’s where she was a student. She was only in Glasgow to do her research, so I only saw here when she was here."

    You didn’t go to Edinburgh then?

    Once. That was it. Her mother was kinda…..weird.

    Travelling forty-four miles to meet somebody’s mother, most people would call that being a couple. I suggest you do the same. So, did you see other people when she wasn’t around?

    Andy Kyle was silent but not because he was being evasive; he’d just switched off and was looking out of the window.

    Andrew? You need to focus. Did you see other people when Rosie wasn’t around?

    A bit. But that’s personal, I don’t see what it has to do with this.

    Well, it’s the kind of thing that -

    No. I don’t have anything else to say about that.

    I’m not talking about Alastair, now, that’s not what I meant. OK, move on……how would you characterise your relationship with Rosemary – did you get on well?

    We must’ve.

    Well, did you fight, argue?

    "Everybody does, don’t they? But nothing serious. I mean, the whole thing wasn’t that serious in the first place, so we had nothing serious to argue about, do you see?"

    So why did she hit you the night she disappeared?

    What? I….didn’t know she was going to disappear, did I? I don’t know. That’s nothing to do with anything.

    You don’t know why she hit you? It must have been something pretty serious, she hit you in the face, in front of a load of people in The Oracle bar. I don’t think Rosie would do that for no reason, would she?

    No, I know why she hit me, I meant about her disappearing. You were making it sound as if the two things were connected.

    Well, are they?

    I don’t know…..no, they’re not. She left The Oracle right afterwards and I haven’t seen her since.

    You didn’t follow her out the door?

    No, all the people who saw her hit me will also tell you that I sat down in the pub and had a laugh about it.

    And later? Did you go to Rosemary’s flat, or somewhere else she might have been? To try and see her again?

    No, I went somewhere else and spent the night. I can’t say where, that’s private, but it was somewhere else…..this is what I’m saying to the police, right? You know that I was actually at Strathduie House.

    Yes, yes – is there anybody who can confirm where you were afterwards, where you spent the night?

    Yes, but it’s private for them, too. They won’t come forward, not unless they absolutely have to. So that’s it.

    Andy, what was the argument about? Why did Rosie Kilmartin hit you?

    She said I was getting too interested in her research and it was starting to creep her out. I said, I said…….. I had been drinking, you know? So I said maybe that stuff actually was a wee bit more interesting than her own fucking life. Why was she doing that stuff for a PhD anyway?

    What was her research about, Andy?

    Prostitutes. Particularly why people murder them.

    *** *** *** ***

    There had just been a train crash in my head. For a while now, there had been a muted buzz, growing in some media, about the number of women working the streets of Glasgow who were missing. I didn’t pay it that much attention – unless a family member came to me and asked me to find the missing woman, it was not of professional interest and, as a citizen, well……for the rest of us, life just goes on. And the buzz was muted, y’know?

    And yesterday, a female junkie had been found dead on a stairwell, I knew that for a fact because I had seen the police tape with my own eyes. Was she more than just a junkie? And if the incident that had drawn Paddy Haldane’s scene-of-crime people to an alleyway in the guts of the city’s red-light district was anything other than an assault, or worse, on a working girl, then rain would be falling upwards.

    Now, Andy Kyle had just told me that his kind-of girlfriend had just gone kind-of missing in the middle of her research into why sex workers are murdered – no kind-of about the last bit.

    And he had said it as casually as if he was ordering a Big Mac.

    Andy, we need to talk about that some more. This could be a real complication. We have to get down to Stewart Street now, but how about I come round to your place this afternoon?

    Sure, we can do that later, but first we have to play dumb to the busies, eh?

    Andy Kyle was grinning broadly as he said that and there was real amusement in his eyes. Not good, not good at all.

    Chapter 4 – Indoor Sanitation

    Detective Inspector Paddy Haldane was not being helpful this wet Wednesday morning. Several people were looming around in an interview suite at Stewart Street, location of what I still thought of as Strathclyde Police’s C division, but what nowadays bore a more user-friendly name like Castle Cuddly. One of the miller-abouters was me, one was Andy Kyle and the rest, I assumed, were police officers. Paddy Haldane certainly was and he was letting us all know about it.

    I don’t think we’ll be needing Mr McCabe’s presence today. This is just an informal interview, more a chat kinna thing, really.

    Oh, go on, DI Haldane, let me hang around…think of it as a wee concession. If it’s just a wee chat, after all...and anyway Paddy, I saw your face last night in West George Street, up some alley. What’s the score on that?

    You’re wandering well over the line, Mister McCabe……and I think Mr Kyle will be fine with just his solicitor riding shotgun. Is he here yet? We don’t need any other detectives here, certainly not you, Stevie.

    "If I could introduce myself, DI Haldane? My name is Vincent Connarty and I actually am Mr Kyle’s solicitor, so I can speak on his behalf to attest that, if this interview is all that informal, well…..we can either have whoever we wish

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