Only the Dead (5 page)

M
ONDAY
, 13 F
EBRUARY
, 9.58
P.M
.

I
t was always going to be a shit night.

Shooting a guy was guaranteed to keep him sleepless. Devereaux sat in the living room and put The Smiths on the stereo. Morrissey sang to him about a light that never goes out. Thematically pertinent, if nothing else. He kept the volume low and tried to read. Nothing went in, words just toed the surface. He gave it up and just sat there. It was the downside of being alone: solitude left him torturously undistracted.

He dialled the cop who’d given him the backseat debriefing, but couldn’t get through. He called Lloyd Bowen’s office, but it rang to voicemail.

A saucer loaded with ash dunes sat on the floor beside his chair. He promoted it to an armrest perch, then stood and rearranged his bookcase. Anything to take the afternoon off mental replay. He grouped his vinyl collection on the bottom level, worked up shelf by shelf. Careful adjustments to get the spines flush. He thought about memorising the configuration. Six storeys high brought it to door level. He could spend days trying to rote-learn the line-up.

His cell rang. He hoped it was Bowen calling him back. It wasn’t. It was a detective constable named Carl Grayson.

‘I heard you had a rough afternoon,’ Grayson said.

Devereaux lit a cigarette and thought about shifting Hemingway down a level. ‘It wasn’t one of my better ones.’

‘Are you all right?’

He laughed. ‘Don’t go mushy on me, Carl.’

Quiet for a moment. Grayson said, ‘People say you’re going to quit.’

‘Yeah, well, don’t listen to them. And for God’s sake, don’t pass it on.’

No answer. He sensed the instruction was a bit belated. Devereaux said, ‘So what’s up?’

‘They brought in that guy you wanted me to find.’

Devereaux sat down. ‘You’ve lost me.’

‘The bank job back on October eight. The Savings and Loan thing.’

The Savings and Loan. The armoured van. The fight club robbery. They ruled his life. They hogged his pre-sleep musings. They had his kill tally pencilled in at
one
. ‘Uh-huh,’ he said.

‘You said you had an informant you’d used a couple of times but you couldn’t track him down. Guy’s name was Howard Ford.’

‘Yeah. You found him?’

‘Someone did. He got brought in tonight on something unrelated. He’s downstairs.’

‘In lock-up?’

‘Yeah. In lock-up.’

‘What was the unrelated charge?’

‘Well, I don’t know the exact details. Apparently, he was urinating in public, got brought in for the night. I don’t think he’s in good shape. He resisted arrest, and they came on pretty hard. He was bleeding when they brought him in.’

‘Ah, shit. Have you spoken to him?’

‘No. Well, I tried. I went down to see him, but Bowen won’t
let anyone in. Don McCarthy’s supposed to be talking to the guy tomorrow.’

‘Okay. So you haven’t spoken to him at all?’

‘No. The custody sarge wouldn’t let me past the gate. There were some other patrol guys down there at the time. Apparently, this guy Ford got roughed up pretty bad.’

‘What’s Bowen doing?’

‘I don’t know. He’s in his office.’

‘I just called his line, he didn’t answer.’

‘He never picks up.’

‘Has anyone else been in to see Ford?’

‘Bowen left his office for about half an hour, but I don’t know what for.’

‘Where are you?’

‘At my desk.’

‘Until when?’

‘I’m off shift at twenty-three thirty.’

‘Okay.’ The cigarette was still young, but he stabbed it out. He missed saucer and got chair.

‘Are you going to try to see him tomorrow?’ Grayson said.

‘No. I’m going to see him now.’

He shut off the stereo and left. His home was in Mission Bay, east of town, separated from the central city by a fifteen-minute journey along the harbour’s southern lip. Bright restaurant windows invited patronage. He blanked them out and looked over at the Gulf. All sullen and without end. He liked his little nocturnal excursions. The quiet appealed to him. He lived in anti-phase with urban clutter.

Auckland Central Police is up on the corner of Cook and Vincent streets. It was closing in on eleven p.m. by the time he got there. The vehicle entry was choked with patrol cars, roving
officers returning early to clear paperwork before clock-out. He stayed clear and parked in the Civic parking building under Aotea Square, walked back across the street to the station and entered through the Hobson Street garage.

Two officers manhandled a handcuffed youth out of the back of a patrol car. A teenage girl collapsed hands-and-knees from another vehicle, arched, and spilled a wide vomit pool. He queue-cut the wait at the booking window and rapped the glass. A custody sergeant called Eric Blake sat at a desk behind a sheet of Perspex. He was late forties, hair thin and mussed, like plughole trappings. Teeth crowding for centre stage. A constable typed at a computer on a table against the opposite wall, back to the window. A phone handset crushed between ear and shoulder.

‘Sean Devereaux,’ Blake said.

‘Got a Howard Ford in tonight? He was bleeding a lot, you wouldn’t miss him.’

Blake checked his screen. A thin white tracer of scar tissue marred a thick forearm. Worn knuckles hinted at a hands-on approach to prisoner custody. ‘Drunk and disorderly,’ he said. ‘Resisting arrest.’

‘I need to see him.’

‘You can’t. And you cut the queue.’ He smiled, mouth only, corners of his eyes unchanged.

‘Don’t dick about with me. Let me through.’

The guy propped his elbows on the desk, linked his fingers to form a fleshy arch. All the time in the world. He leaned in towards the glass. A straining gut swaddled the desk edge.

‘Bowen’s got him off limits,’ he said. ‘So unless you’re his lawyer, you need to fuck off.’

‘Why’s he off limits?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know, or you don’t want to tell me?’

‘I wouldn’t worry about it too much. Either way, you’re not getting in.’

‘I just want to check he’s okay.’

‘He’s fine. Trust me.’

A fitting interjection: dulled screams and the frantic staccato slap of fist on steel. Blake smiled again. Lord and gamekeeper of his obscure little domain. The queue was building. Devereaux was causing a snarl-up. He checked the set-up. Left of the glass, sequential steel gates corralled the entry to the cell block. On the desk, two side-by-side red slam-buttons released the locks electronically. In the office: Blake and his backup constable, two phone lines, two chirping digital radio units.

‘Go and have a cigarette,’ Blake said.

‘Open the gate.’

‘Get out of my face.’

He gave it up. He shot Blake the finger and walked away.

Howard, I hope you’re all right
.

Another vomit launch served as exit music. He rode the elevator up to CIB. It was shift changeover, occupancy had hit a lull. He went through to the incident room for the October bank robbery. Grayson was at a desk reading paperwork, fingers skewering his hair.

Grayson glanced up. ‘Shit. I didn’t mean for you to come in tonight.’

‘Doesn’t matter. I need to see the guy.’

‘I don’t think you’ve got a chance.’

‘We’ll see. You get anywhere today?’

‘Not really.’

Devereaux checked his watch. Eleven-twenty. ‘Go home,’ he said.

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Chat to Lloyd Bowen. You might want to avoid the fallout.’

Bowen’s office was in a nearby corridor. Devereaux opened the door and walked in unannounced. Bowen looked up, closed the binder in front of him. A lamp held his desktop in fierce clarity.

‘Don’t you know how to knock?’

Devereaux pulled up a chair. The office was tiny. Table and filing cabinets made breathing space tight. Lack of windows left a ceiling fan struggling to stir up airflow.

‘I was just down at custody,’ Devereaux said. ‘They’ve got an informant of mine.’

‘Howard Ford.’

‘They wouldn’t let me in to see him.’

Bowen knuckled fatigue out of one eye. ‘I don’t want anyone seeing him until Don McCarthy gets in tomorrow.’

‘He’s my contact.’

‘You can’t see him. We’re tightening things up.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means McCarthy’s the officer in charge, he’ll run the interview.’

‘Right. He was bleeding when he came in. You might want to look at tightening up arrest protocol, too.’

A long silence, tripwire-tight. Bowen rolled his chair back and linked his hands behind his head. He said, ‘Watch your mouth when you’re sitting in this office.’

‘I’m concerned that a detainee in this station has been assaulted, and I want to ensure that he doesn’t require medical attention.’

Bowen smiled: Blake-brand emotion, mouth only. ‘Remember you shot a guy today.’

‘So?’

‘So don’t try to pull the “concern for others” card on me.’

Devereaux didn’t answer.

Bowen centred his tie. ‘He doesn’t require medical attention,’ he said.

‘I’m still suspicious he’s been mistreated. He’s got an intellectual disability, he needs to be handled carefully.’

‘I wasn’t aware of that.’

‘That still doesn’t resolve the issue.’

‘If you want to make a complaint, this is the wrong way to do it.’

‘So outline the right way for me.’

Bowen didn’t answer.

‘He’s my contact,’ Devereaux said. ‘I’ve dealt with him before. He’ll talk to me. If he has any information, he’ll give it to me. I can guarantee he won’t give anything to Don McCarthy, and he won’t give anything to you.’

‘I disagree. And, unfortunately, I’m in charge.’

‘You’re making a mistake. And, unfortunately, I tend to be right.’

‘Sergeant, I’m new to this job. Bear in mind first impressions last a long time.’

‘I will if you will.’

‘Part of the reason my predecessor was asked to move on was because you, among others, were given too much slack.’

‘You’re planning on keeping me on a tight leash, are you?’

He shrugged, swivelled his chair back and forth. ‘Either that, or find a new job.’

Tempting.

Devereaux kept the retort private, scanned the desk: the binder, miscellaneous printed paperwork. He skimmed for the name Howard Ford. He said, ‘Has his lawyer called?’

‘Whose lawyer?’

‘Ford’s.’

‘No. I suggest you go home and forget about it.’ He made a
show of checking his watch. ‘You’ve got bigger things to worry about.’

Devereaux gave it up. He walked out and went back to his desk. His in-tray was loaded: everything robbery related. He shunted clear space and cupped his face in his hands and thought about what to do. A phone was ringing. On and on, like some panicked bleating for him alone. He tried to block it out. Tactics began to cohere. A plan took shape. He stayed seated a minute longer. Committing fully was difficult: everything proactive had high risk attached. The phone finally cut out.

Just do it
.

Devereaux put a cigarette in his mouth but didn’t light it, got up and walked back through to the incident room. Grayson was about to head out the door, jacket slung behind him off a hooked finger.

Devereaux blocked the door. ‘Need you to do me a favour.’

A smile. ‘Could it wait until nine o’clock tomorrow?’

‘It’ll only take a minute.’

Grayson checked his watch. A curse on sighed breath. He turned back to the room and dropped his jacket across the back of a chair. ‘What is it?’

‘I just need you to tell Bowen you’ve got a call come in for him on one of the lines in here.’

‘Why?’

‘I just need thirty seconds in his office.’

‘Ah, shit.’ He raked his hair back, one-handed. ‘Don’t tell me that.’ He spun the chair round and sat down again. His computer was still running, he shook the mouse to clear the screen. A wife and baby daughter snapshot adorned the background. Maybe subliminal guilt messaging:
look what you’re keeping me from
.

Devereaux said, ‘I need to go down and see this guy Ford.’

‘Yeah, but he’s hardly going anywhere.’

‘Look, if you’re right and he got the shit beaten out of him, I need to check he’s okay, and if he knows stuff about October eight, I want to get it out of him before he sees McCarthy and decides to hold his tongue.’

Grayson chewed his lip and thought about it. ‘What are you going to do in his office?’

‘Just use his phone.’

‘That’s all?’

‘That’s all.’

‘Who should I say is calling?’

‘Nobody. Just go into his office and tell him he’s got a call.’

‘He’ll wonder why I didn’t just transfer it.’

‘Maybe you don’t remember his extension.’

‘I transfer shit through to him all the time.’

‘Look. Please just do it.’

‘Man. It’s dishonest. It’s probably misconduct.’

‘You told me yourself this guy Ford had been roughed up. Nobody seems to care. But he’s my guy, my contact. I had his name on a list, and that’s why they’ve got him, and I need to get in and check that he’s doing okay.’

‘Ah, Jesus.’ He flapped his hand. ‘Yeah. Okay. Get out of here before I chicken out.’

‘Just wait until I’ve got back to my desk, and go and tell him.’

‘Yeah, yeah, I know.’

He left the room and went back to his desk. He still had the cigarette in his mouth, sodden and flaccid from talking. Grayson didn’t leave him much of a cushion: he’d barely sat down and the younger man was heading across the room, Bowen-bound. A second later and the pair of them were walking back across the room: Grayson’s half-speed stymieing the inspector’s quick-march.

Devereaux stood up. Perfect timing: shift changeover had left the room half full. Risk of being witnessed was appreciably low. He selected an unused desk phone and dialled custody and left the handset face up off the cradle, dial tone trilling faintly. Bowen’s door was agape. He walked in and leaned across the desk for the phone and punched custody’s second extension. Upside down from the visitor’s side, cord stretched taut. Lamp heat warm on his cheek. He wanted the young backup constable, not Blake. He figured the first extension would ring and Blake would take it, the backup guy would pick up the second call. Held breath ramped his heart up to full hammer.