20
The stretch of road is closed. Lights, cones, police tape and a cop in uniform standing guard with a torch, turning the traffic around.
I ditch the SUV short of the scene of the crash and walk up the hill.
"Sorry Sir," the pig in uniform says. "The road's closed, you'll have to follow the diversion signs back there."
Note to self—I must stop calling 'em pigs. They're not the enemy anymore. Even if I don't like 'em any more than they like me.
"I'm the bodyguard," I say.
"Whose bodyguard?" he says.
"The young lad you've got down the hill," I say. "Josh Speed."
The pig—I mean, police officer, shines his torch up and down me.
"You don't have to play dumb," I say. "I'm not with the media. I was the first on the scene. Well, one of 'em. I might have some information."
The copper eye
