Only the Dead (27 page)

His desk phone rang. He answered and mumbled a greeting.

‘You sound like you need a beer,’ Pollard said.

Devereaux laughed and closed his eyes. He put an arm on the desk and sat head in hand. ‘Too many Nurofen. It wouldn’t be a good mix.’

‘You asked me to call you back?’

‘Oh, yeah. Thanks. Have I missed much?’

Pollard said, ‘They found tyre tracks in the lawn at the Turner address. We matched them to a tread pattern they found at the Haines or Allen place or whatever the hell his name is.’

Devereaux switched off his desk lamp. The dark behind his eyelids lost its bloody tint. ‘So it was definitely Douglas who did Turner and the PI.’

‘It’s stacking up that way.’

‘And we haven’t found him yet?’

‘No. We haven’t.’

‘You’re slurring a wee bit.’

‘I’m not surprised. I’m three gins in to a long night.’

Devereaux didn’t answer. Around the room, lonely telephones rang in ragged symphony.

Pollard hissed breath through his teeth, easing the quiet aside. ‘Look, if there’s nothing else, I’ll let you go.’

Fatigue left comprehension lagging: auditory input took a second or two to decrypt. Devereaux said, ‘Yeah, sure.’ He opened his eyes. The mess around him recrystallised, and he remembered why he was here. ‘Oh, hang on, wait.’ He stirred random papers, trying to keep his brain out of bed. It wasn’t even that late.
Get a grip, for God’s sake
. ‘Are you there?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Do you know who did the backgrounding for the fight club thing?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘The fight club robbery in January. Who ran the background checks on the witness lists?’

‘It was meant to be Otara CIB. But Don McCarthy had it moved up to Central.’

‘Yeah, I know. But do you know who ran the checks?’

‘On the witnesses?’

‘Yes. On the witnesses.’

Pollard thought about it. A glass-on-glass chime preceded a gentle glugging. ‘It was Carl Grayson,’ he said.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Well, yeah. He volunteered for it. I can’t think why he wouldn’t do it if he asked for it.’

W
EDNESDAY
, 15 F
EBRUARY
, 10.27
P.M.

D
evereaux sat at his desk and felt implications drawing clearer. His last conversation with Leroy Turner was getting some good mental air time:

Because cops did it. Because cops robbed that bank. Because cops robbed that fight club thing
.

He’d dismissed it at the time. The conspiracy aspect reeked too heavily of urban myth. Plus the gospel according to Leroy had to be taken with a pinch of salt. But maybe he’d been closer to the mark than anticipated. The Douglas Allen angle raised fresh queries. Namely, was Dougie’s prior offending covered up, or was it genuinely overlooked? Maybe Douglas had official assistance in keeping his name out of the suspect pool.

As a law-breaking scheme, it probably had potential: a badge-toting inside man. Divert attention should the wrong people come under the law enforcement lens. Eliminate suspects before they were nominated as potentially dubious. Ensure the likes of Doug Allen garnered no official attention.

He rubbed his eyes and saw swimming phosphorescence. It was Grayson who distracted Lloyd Bowen long enough for Devereaux to secure a cellblock visit to Howard Ford. Maybe he’d been aware of the connection between Ford and the late Leroy Turner. Then again, he’d used Grayson’s computer
to access Turner’s details after Ford had revealed the name. Maybe Grayson thought Turner was privy to more than he was. Maybe Grayson cupped Doug Allen’s ear and whispered ‘Kill him’.

He sat there for another minute, just thinking. Then he found his car keys amid the disorder and headed downstairs. He drew some worried looks —
is that guy fit to drive
? He couldn’t help but wonder the same thing.

It was fifteen minutes from the city to Grayson’s place off Gillies Ave. He parked in the short driveway beside the house, headlamp reflection gliding orb-like across the windows.

Grayson met him at the front door. One arm propped a sleeping daughter, his neck encircled in tender embrace.

‘Hi, Sean.’ He sounded tired, not welcoming.

‘Can I come in?’

A short pause settled. Devereaux sensed the silent yearning to decline entry.

But in the end Grayson just nodded and said, ‘Yeah. Give me a second.’ He tilted his head towards the stairs, stepped away to jettison his passenger.

Devereaux took a pace inside and closed the door gently. A light clicked on upstairs. A female voice, and then Grayson’s muted tone. He heard Grayson say, ‘Sean Devereaux,’ and then, ‘I don’t know.’

Devereaux stayed in the entry hall and waited. A warm domestic odour prevailed: curried chicken, a floral aroma from a bouquet of roses on a small table. Inside the door, two miniature pairs of pink trainers were arranged neatly beside a pair of leather men’s shoes. A moment later Grayson came back downstairs, flexing pins and needles out of one arm. His hair on one side was perked, as if mussed from sleep.

Grayson smiled, ‘Not more printing, I hope.’

‘No. Just a bit of a chat.’

‘Good.’ Clipped, a hint of impatience. He finger-combed his hair to restore order, gestured down the hallway. ‘We’ll talk in the office.’

Devereaux led the way through, flicked the light. The shelves rose up, packed to topple. Grayson closed the door.

‘We’d better keep this brief, man. It’s getting round to eleven.’

‘Yeah. We’ll keep it brief.’

Grayson read something in the tone. He leaned back against the door and folded his arms. ‘What’s up?’

A chair was tucked in beneath the computer table. Devereaux would have killed to sit down. He compromised and rested a hand on the back support.

He said, ‘You did the background work on the witness lists for the fight club job.’

Grayson’s chin dipped to his chest, he passed a palm across his forehead. Bloodshot eyes settled on the window. ‘Yeah. Rings a bell.’

‘You did check them?’

‘Yeah.’ He looked worried, tried a smiled. ‘What’s with the frown?’

Devereaux shook his head. ‘How did you stuff it up so badly?’

Grayson’s expression slackened. He wiped his mouth with his wrist. Stubble scratched. ‘What? What are you talking about?’

‘How did you stuff it up so bad? Have you heard what’s been happening?’

‘Yeah. Of course. The Haines/Allen shit.’

Devereaux nodded. ‘And we would have been on to him a month ago if the background work had been done properly.’

‘Sean—’

‘No, Carl.’

‘Jesus, don’t shout. You’ll fucking wake—’ He closed his eyes, exhaled through his nose, opened his eyes. ‘You’ll wake her up again.’

‘Yeah, well. It’ll be the least of your worries.’

Grayson spread upturned palms. ‘What? This is bullshit. I don’t even know what you’re—’

‘Okay, look. Shut up and listen. I’ll lay it out for you—’

‘Yeah. Lay it out for me.’

‘Essentially, you failed to properly background-check a witness to the fight club robbery back in January. If you’d done your job, that witness would have been a suspect—’

‘We’re talking about the Doug Allen guy?’

‘Yeah. We’re talking about the Doug Allen guy.’

‘And he gave a fake name, and I checked it out, and it came back clean—’

‘Too clean. Way too clean.’

‘Yeah, but how am I supposed to know he’d given made-up details?’

‘Because it’s so goddamn obvious, Carl. That name comes back with no credit rating, no driver’s licence, no land holdings. When you hit something like that, there should be a little bell in your head that goes ding-ding-ding, I’m on to something here. So why didn’t it?’

Wide-eyed and emphatic: ‘Because I ran him through our system and it came back clean-slate.’

Devereaux shook his head. ‘Carl. The guy supposedly witnessed a major robbery. You must have realised you needed to check him out with a bit of care.’

‘Dude—’

‘Dude? Since when do you say
dude
?’

Grayson shook his head. ‘Don’t heap this all on me.’ His
knees dipped and he slipped slightly, against the door. He looked slack and worn out. ‘Don’t put this on me. I made a mistake. But I can’t deal with this now.’

‘It doesn’t look like a mistake. It looks like more than a mistake.’

‘Look, I’ve lost you. I don’t know what you’re on.’

‘You don’t have to squint too hard at things to make it look like you covered for this guy.’

‘Jesus, are you mad?’

‘One way to justify a fuck-up is to say, well, maybe it wasn’t a fuck-up at all. Maybe you covered for this guy. Maybe you knew his background was going to pick up some interest, and you made sure it stayed out of sight.’

‘I — Shit. I can’t believe you.’

‘Why did you volunteer to run the background checks?’

‘Please just keep your voice down.’

‘Why did you—’

‘Get off my case. For God’s sake.’

‘Carl, I’m pulling rank here. Answer the question. Why—’

‘Okay, okay, okay. Look.’ Grayson’s hands came up. He scrubbed madly at his face. His lips were slack and ajar. ‘I’ve just been so, so stressed out. I don’t know.’ He smiled weakly. ‘I put my hand up for something I thought I couldn’t stuff up.’

He shrugged one shoulder, a tip of the hat to the irony of it all. He looked at the floor.

‘I’m sorry, okay? I just —, I don’t know whether it’s the hours, or the pressure of it all, but I stuffed up. I stuffed up. And I promise that’s all it was. Jesus. I’m not watching anyone’s back.’

Devereaux watched and listened, and said nothing.

Grayson said, ‘I heard this afternoon those two guys are dead. You think I’d want anything to do with that? You think I’d want to hold myself accountable for that for the rest of my life? God.
I can’t believe you’d even think that.’

He looked at the ceiling and passed a tongue behind locked lips.

Devereaux didn’t answer. He saw the guy was telling the truth. He could read human behaviour: gut instinct of innocence trumped all other factors.

He said, ‘I’m sorry.’

Grayson moved away from the door and leaned sideways against the wall, held there by one shoulder. He said, ‘You keep pulling crazy bullshit like this, people really will think you’ve lost the plot.’

Devereaux didn’t answer. In his pocket his phone purred with an incoming call, but he couldn’t feel it.

‘Get some sleep or take a pill, or something,’ Grayson said. ‘But just get out of here, I mean it.’

Devereaux swallowed and opened his mouth to say something. Grayson waved him off. ‘Get lost. Just get lost.’

Devereaux opened the door and stepped into the hallway. He didn’t see Grayson’s wife standing there. He shoulder-knocked her on the way past. In the brief glimpse as he turned to apologise he saw the confusion and fear in her expression. But he didn’t break stride. He couldn’t. The voice behind him high and rushed: ‘What’s going on, Carl? Are you okay?’

A breeze sucked the door closed on his heels. Muscle memory got him to the car. He was mentally void. He backed out onto the street and drove up towards Gillies Ave. A red light halted non-existent traffic. Devereaux sat there alone and waited for green.

He drove home. He tried to stay empty-headed. He didn’t want regret gaining too strong a handhold. The night was clear and quiet. An ivory moon hung high and fat behind torn-cloth
cloud. The harbour immense and sullen as he wound along the waterfront.

It was eleven-thirty by the time he got home. The security light had blown its bulb. He stood on the doorstep in thick gloom, keys spreadeagled in his palm, hunting touch-only. He let himself in and locked the door again, put the kettle on in the kitchen. Hallway lights stayed off, like he didn’t want to wake the house. He made himself some instant coffee. Kettle roar and the gentle chime of spoon on glass. The familiar quiet nocturne. It made him wonder what other lonely beverages were at that instant being prepared.

Two mouthfuls of tap water cleansed the taste of a long day. He took cigarettes and matches from a drawer, lit himself a smoke. Winged elbows and chin to chest as he coaxed the tip alight. A grey zigzag tendril as he shook the match out. He held the cigarette in his front teeth and tilted his head back and plumed a long smoke geyser. The kettle clicked. Devereaux ignored it. He stood with palms braced against the edge of the sink and watched his reflection in the kitchen window. When the cigarette was done, he smoked another, dribbled the tap to douse the butts.

He removed his phone from his pocket and laid it on the table. Ellen had rung just before eleven p.m. He remembered the missed call in Grayson’s office. He drank his coffee slowly and tried to think what to say to her. Nothing volunteered itself. His brain was verging burn-out, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop. He didn’t want to break train of thought and squander a chance of closing the whole thing. The downside being that at some point commitment tipped into obsession. Maybe he’d already got there.

Devereaux finished the coffee and rinsed the mug slowly under the tap. He sat back down and the chair creaked, like
a wince at what might ensue. The phone waited patiently. He leaned forward on his elbows, blank-faced and still. Then he picked up the phone and dialled. It was fifteen minutes to midnight.

He raised the phone to his ear, caught the final muted purr before she picked up. She said, ‘Let’s not do this now.’

Like she knew what he was going to say better than he did.

His voice caught, low down. He cleared his throat gently and said, ‘I’m sorry. I only just got in.’

‘I’ve been trying to get you all evening. But I can’t do this now. I’ll ring you in the morning.’

‘I might not be around.’

‘You’ll have to make an exception. For once in your life you can make an exception. All you have to do is answer your phone.’

‘Please just give me a minute.’

She didn’t answer.

He said, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t stay. Two people were murdered. I had to go.’

‘You didn’t tell me.’

‘I asked Ryan to tell you I’d left.’

‘You could have told me in person. It would have taken you two minutes.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I know. I know you are. But you’ve got to start doing things differently. Otherwise it’s not going to be good for either of us.’

‘I know.’

‘I don’t want to just be some sort of — I don’t know — the hanger-on who just talks to you on the phone sometimes.’

‘I know.’

‘You keep saying that, but I just keep on thinking that you’re missing bits of the picture.’

He didn’t answer.

‘I went to John’s this evening,’ she said.

‘Why?’

‘I thought you might show up there. I wanted to see you.’

‘I was still at work.’

‘Yeah. I figured that.’

He didn’t reply.

The phone stayed quiet a long time. ‘I worry about you,’ she said.

‘Don’t say that. I worry about you worrying about me.’

‘Don’t kid yourself. You don’t worry about me.’

‘Ellen.’ He could feel the heat of the phone against his cheek.

‘Sean, you’re a nice guy. You’re a really nice guy. But you’ve got to stop doing this.’

‘What’s
this
?’

‘It’s almost twelve. We’ll talk tomorrow.’

She hung up on him.

He swore and thumped a fist on the table.

He redialled. The call connected. He heard her voice, and there was a glorious beat of warm naïve certainty that he could rectify everything. Then the pre-recorded greeting told him to leave a message. Devereaux said, ‘Please call me back.’

The phone was hot and slick in his hand. Devereaux slid it across the table, out of reach. He pictured her lying in bed, on her back, debating whether to call back. She probably wouldn’t. He crossed his fingers for an uncharacteristic lapse in principle.

No luck.

He exhaled and netted his hands behind his head. A familiar quiet came in and sat down with him. He watched the window like his own hindsight was projected against it: everything he should have done, and everything he should not.