Only the Dead (14 page)

‘We haven’t discussed anything yet.’

‘What did you say your name was?’

‘Mitchell Duvall. I worked the Langford case.’

‘Yeah, to be honest, it’s not triggering anything.’

‘I don’t know what else to tell you.’

‘You were CIB back in ’ninety-seven?’

‘Probationary. I was a uniformed tag-along.’

‘You remember the case well?’

‘I guess.’

‘So what was the first thing the husband said, during confession?’

‘I could just look it up.’

‘You could. But I want an answer right now.’

‘He said, “I saw things going differently”.’

The phone went quiet. Duvall pictured his phone credit slowly bleeding out. Asking Davis to call him back probably wouldn’t be tactful. Davis said, ‘All right. What can I do for you?’

‘What do you know about January thirtieth?’

‘Not a lot. Read my article?’

‘I have. You didn’t give many details.’

‘Wasn’t a lot of choice.’

‘I guessed that. I’m just trying to work out whether it’s because you don’t have any info, or you’ve been told to pretend you don’t.’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think you’re experienced enough you know what’s going on, but you’re operating under a media block.’

‘That’s lavish praise.’

‘Am I right?’

‘Yes, I’m very experienced.’

‘No, is there a block on information?’

Davis hesitated. ‘Yes, there is.’

‘Who requested it?’

‘The police.’

‘But who specifically?’

‘It came through a guy called Don McCarthy.’

McCarthy, hellbent on containment.

Davis said, ‘You still there?’

‘Yeah. You must know who’s involved, surely?’

‘Depends what you mean by involved.’

‘Victim names.’

‘Look, what’s your interest in this?’

‘I’m trying to solve it.’

‘Thought you said you’d retired.’

‘I’ve crossed the line. I’m a private investigator.’

‘Leaking info isn’t going to win me any favours.’

‘It will with me.’

‘Look, I’m sorry.’

The phone gave a soft beep: credit critical. ‘Please. I just need to know if you have a name.’

‘It’s covered by the block. I can’t divulge anything.’

‘I’m not looking to publicise anything.’

Maybe that was the wrong thing to say, might set the guy’s imagination working on the possibility of rival stories.

Duvall went for terse: ‘Come on. Just give it to me.’

Davis took a breath. He relented. Just like that.

Constable Ian Riley, dead by gunshot, morning of January thirtieth.

Duvall thanked him. His credit hit nil, and he lost the line.

Hale drove into town and found a bar on Ponsonby Road. It was a heritage area, hundred-year-old buildings fronting the street. Road slashed narrowly by fingers of late sun, taxis dawdling in hope of a pickup. Sidewalk tables and chairs let patronage spill outside. He saw huddled trios, a tent of hunches over tall dew-glazed glasses. Sudden hard laughter and the slow, white unfurling of smoke from laden ashtrays.

The bar was a narrow place on a corner site. An outdoor couch beneath a silver gas heater spanned the front wall. Inside, a bar along one side reached half the depth of the room, a small band podium in the back. Tuesdays must have been a slow night: patronage was him, and two guys at a table near the rear.

It was a familiar environment. He’d been exposed to it his whole life. His father had been a factory foreman, forced to pull night shifts at the local bar to make ends meet. He remembered watching from a stool behind the counter: taste
of cold Coke through a straw, acrid waft of cigarette smoke that hung like grey cloth below the ceiling. The line-up of big men crammed elbow to elbow along the counter, lined faces cut by thick wedges of gap-toothed smile. Rolled sleeves above worn forearms. The shift of atmosphere as the night progressed: rowdy blare of a packed room, to the dark quietude of the small hours. The downturned faces, the soft click of fingers as refills were summoned. The overlapped moisture rings across the counter, across the tables. The frustration at that ubiquitous chainmail print.

His phone rang. He eased himself off the stool and checked the screen. Unfamiliar number: he walked to the door and took the call outside.

‘Any luck with Mr Dryer?’

Dryer: his finance company friend from Monday night.

‘I spoke to him yesterday,’ Hale said.

‘“Spoke” doesn’t sound that persuasive.’

‘It was a firm discussion.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘Nothing concrete.’ He took a seat on the couch. Supple leather creased and caved. ‘I told him I knew he had undeclared assets.’

‘And that rattled him, did it?’

‘Maybe. Either way, if I’m right he can go down for perjury.’

‘I don’t care if he does time. I just want my money back.’

Hale didn’t reply. He sipped his drink and watched traffic crisscross his vision.

‘So what exactly did he say?’ the guy said.

‘Not very much,’ Hale said. ‘But he didn’t look very well.’

‘I was hoping for a bit of guilt.’

‘I don’t think that’s a feeling he’s familiar with.’

‘So this was a waste of time then.’

‘Not necessarily. It’s fear that’ll get your money back.’

‘And is he scared?’

‘He was initially. Question is how fast it’ll wear off.’

‘You don’t exactly fill me with confidence.’

‘I can’t force him to do anything. I’ve got no legal backing.’

‘People have lost their life savings.’

‘It’s devastating. I understand.’

‘No offence, but unless you’ve lost forty years’ worth of careful investment, you’ve really got no idea.’ He went quiet before continuing: ‘Some people here’d really like to snip his line, if you know what I mean.’

‘Best I can do is apply pressure and hope for the best,’ Hale said. ‘Which is what I’ve done.’

‘I hired you on the basis you get a quick result.’

‘Depends how hard I push.’

‘I get the feeling you could have pushed harder.’

‘Maybe. People with money and lawyers need special finesse.’

The guy laughed drily. ‘I’ll bear it in mind. You’ve sent an invoice, have you?’

Hale thought about it. ‘I want to try a new system,’ he said.

‘Does the new system benefit you, or benefit me?’

‘Both of us. We’ll give him to the end of the week. My payment is one per cent of whatever goes into your account by five p.m. Friday.’

‘One per cent of ninety million is nine hundred thousand dollars.’

‘And one per cent of zero is zero dollars. The risk cuts both ways. I’ve spent three weeks full-time on this. But if Friday comes along and nothing’s happened, I won’t charge you.’

‘Performance-based payment sort of thing.’

He felt the gentle warmth of the heater on the nape of his neck. ‘Exactly.’

‘And in the event we get to the end of the week and our account’s still empty?’

‘Then you’ll need to approach this from another direction.’

‘You’re not going to go back for round two?’

‘There’s no point. All I can do is scare him. If it didn’t work once, it’s going to work even less the second time around. Much as I sympathise, it would be a waste of time. Mine and yours.’

‘I’ll be in touch,’ the guy said.

Devereaux went back to his desk, used a double espresso to caffeinate himself back to even keel. At seven-forty he went through to McCarthy’s office. The break-in was running a constant mental loop: he couldn’t lose the feeling he’d forgotten something. An open drawer, an errant staple — had he nudged one of the photographs?

The door was ajar an inch, just as he’d left it. He knocked once and walked in. McCarthy didn’t even look up. ‘You’re late,’ he said.

‘I’ve been here since seven.’

No response. The computer had McCarthy’s attention. He’d changed since this morning: a navy blue suit in preference to his trademark grey.

‘What are we doing?’ Devereaux said.

McCarthy took his eyes off the screen and looked at him. ‘Interview work. Maybe something, probably nothing.’ He paused a moment. He grinned. ‘Promise not to shoot anyone.’

Devereaux didn’t reply. He ran a quick appraisal, eyes only: the desk, the cabinet, the printer. They seemed okay.

The Don flicked paperwork on his desk, fingertips only, like brushing off lint. ‘Go and book us out an unmarked,’ he said. ‘I’ll be down in a minute.’ He yawned and linked his hands behind his head. Elbows cocked, he had a massive wingspan.
‘And for Christ’s sake, lose that tie,’ he said.

The tie stayed on, just to spite him. Devereaux rode the lift down to the garage and signed out a CIB pool vehicle. He parked up just inside the exit and waited, window down, the garage beyond cool and exhaust-laced. McCarthy joined him a moment later. He walked over and braced one forearm against the edge of the roof, leaned in like a roadside stop.

‘Rule one: I always drive.’

He stood straight and gestured him out of the car with a flick of chin. Devereaux slid out. He kept his face empty: unperturbed, and averse to small talk. He circled the back of the car and climbed in the passenger side. The Don got in beside him. He slammed his door, belted up with a flourish.

‘Holy shit,’ he said. ‘You kept the tie.’

He drove the car out onto Hobson and hit traffic lights. The Don exposited: ‘We’re not going far,’ he said. ‘Keep your fingers crossed, this might actually be worthwhile.’

They worked north, down towards the harbour. Evening traffic was easy. McCarthy racked his seat back. ‘I’ve got an informant in an apartment down on the Viaduct. He’s been missing calls; I want to see what’s happening.’

‘And I’m your backup.’

He adjusted the mirror. ‘Yeah … nice inference.’

‘Could be a lot of fuss just to find his phone’s off the hook.’ The sarcasm slipped past him. He shook his head. ‘Guy’s a shitbag. Can be a handful, time to time.’

‘What does he inform on?’

‘Everything. He’s got his ear to the scum current. He knows about all kinds of things normal people wouldn’t dream of.’

‘Such as?’

‘Such as a certain series of robberies over the past couple of months. But we’ll see.’ He pulled sunglasses from his inside
jacket pocket, dipped his wrist to pop them open. He slipped them on. ‘When they go to ground, you know they’re hiding something. Strong correlation. People start dodging more than one call, you know you’ve found a gold mine.’

Devereaux didn’t reply.

McCarthy said, ‘So. You’ve killed a man.’ Falsely casual.

‘I don’t want to discuss it.’

‘You’ll have to eventually. It’s not the sort of thing you cart around by yourself. Or you can, but you’ll end up swinging by your neck in your wardrobe. Might even use that tie.’

Devereaux didn’t answer.

McCarthy looked at him. A long glance, amid fast-flowing traffic. He said, ‘I thought you’d be more of a talker.’

Devereaux turned and looked at him. ‘How far would you push me to make me say something?’

Northbound on Nelson Street. They pulled up at another light. McCarthy squared his glasses, two-handed. ‘That some sort of underhanded accusation?’

‘I’m sure you must have had to work pretty hard to get Howard Ford to open his mouth.’

McCarthy laughed. ‘Don’t push your luck with me, boyo,’ he said. ‘Don’t sit there thinking you’re tough.’

Devereaux held his tongue.

‘What? Nothing to say.’ He smiled to himself. ‘That’s the great thing. I’ve heard about you; I saw your interview transcript from this morning. Never short of a word, always got the right reply. So here we are, on the one hand you’re itching to hit me with something slick; on the other you’re remembering the fact your job’s on the line, and at some point you’ve got to stop pissing people off, or you’re going to end up unemployed.’ He turned. The glasses slipped on his nose. ‘It’s the beauty of the world. If you’ve got leverage, people shut up and stay in
line. Conversely, if you want something from them, and they think you hold something over them, you won’t be able to shut them up.’

They turned left on Fanshawe. The Don picked a gap in the traffic and U-turned back the opposite way. He maintained commentary. Devereaux didn’t know whether the aim was to educate, or whether he just liked the sound of his own voice.

‘Good thing about this sort of crime,’ he said, ‘is that nothing ever stays a secret. Too many angles to pin down. You’ve got to make sure your getaway driver doesn’t say anything. You’ve got to make sure your backup shooter doesn’t say anything.
You
have to make sure you don’t say anything. And it’s hard, I tell you. There’s a crack somewhere, you can guarantee it; someone’s bragged to a friend, someone’s told a spouse, someone’s mentioned something stupid to a guy in a bar. And it spreads, and it gets away on you, and as long as you’re persistent enough, as long as you push hard enough …’ He paused. ‘Long as you’ve got the right leverage, you can find out what’s been going on.’

They turned off Fanshawe and made another right into the narrow streets fronting the Viaduct. It was high-class, high-rise living: modern apartment buildings overlooking the water, strolling distance from the marina and restaurants lining the harbour. They stopped out front of a building down the western end of Customs Street. It was a corner site a block back from the water, ground floor restaurant verandas forming a skirt along two sides. The Don slowed to idle for a second and ducked low to see the upper-floor windows, then turned into an alleyway adjacent. Deep, sheer walls and low sun left the space in grey shadow. McCarthy turned off the engine.

‘Our guy’s name is Shane Stanton,’ he said. ‘This is actually his girlfriend’s place, but it seems this is where he spends most of his time. He knows me so he shouldn’t be too much of a
handful, but just bear in mind he’s done time for grievous bodily harm, so eyes forward. We’ll do it quick and no-nonsense, lean on him hard.’ He opened his door and put a foot outside. ‘Steer clear of his bodily fluids, too. He’s HIV positive.’

McCarthy got out of the car and walked to the rear. He popped the lid with the key. Devereaux got out and followed. McCarthy unlocked the gun safe and prised a Glock 17 from the foam.