by Ben Sanders
Devereaux took the stairs down and crossed Vincent Street to his car. He cruised up town to K’ Road and stopped at the lights. The grimed and weary frontages, the stencilled signage in paled pastel. A prostitute made a slow strut across the intersection, gloss-slicked lips pouted to entice, heading west. Devereaux stayed straight ahead and worked his way down to New North Road, southbound.
He got across onto Georges Road fifteen minutes later. Beer-toting teens lined the kerb beneath the Hollywood Cinema’s brick façade. Gazes tracking in perfect sync as he passed. A homeless man draped a bench in the reserve opposite, arms crossed as if arranged for burial.
Leroy Turner’s address was a minute’s drive further south, a single-storey weatherboard unit backing the railway line. A grey Fiat Punto sat beneath an open-end carport. A mail-choked letterbox bookended a limp wire fence across the yard. Devereaux parked behind the Punto and climbed out. His door slam set a curtain rippling. The front entry was recessed in a little alcove above a concrete step, spotlit by a single bulb. He walked over and knocked twice.
A voice called through the door: ‘Who is it?’
‘Police, Leroy.’
‘What do you want?’
‘A chat about Howard Ford.’
‘I’m not Leroy.’
‘Then get him.’ The request harsh and echoic in the little alcove.
‘Leroy isn’t here.’
‘He’d better be. His parole conditions say if he’s somewhere else at this time, he’s in trouble.’
‘Well, whatever. I don’t know where he is.’
‘Well, either he’s here, and he needs to let me in, or he’s not here, and you need to let me in so I can find out where he is.’
No reply.
Devereaux said, ‘So which is it?’
‘Ah, Jesus. Yeah, I’m Leroy.’
‘Right. So open up, now.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Sean Devereaux.’
‘You’re the cop Howard knows.’
‘I am.’
The handle turned and the door eased back an inch off the catch. Devereaux leaned forward and straight-armed it the whole way open. A man he recognised from the file photograph as Leroy Turner tripped back a step. ‘Whoa, man.’
‘Whoa, man, what?’
‘You can’t just come barging in like this.’
‘You lied to a police officer. It waived your rights.’
‘That’s not in my parole rules.’
‘It’s in everyone’s parole rules. It’s called not breaking the law.’
Turner didn’t reply. He was a short, slight man in his late twenties. A string of pink scar tissue arced from cheek to hairline. Devereaux knocked the door closed behind him with his heel. The serious assault record dictated eyes forward at all times.
‘Have you got, like, ID or something?’
Devereaux took his badge and ID from his coat pocket. He flipped them open, eye level.
Turner leaned in: a squint to check face and photo were in agreement. He took a step back and pocketed his hands. He wore a grey hooded jumper above jeans that slippered his feet. Toes protruding past frayed edges. An open door to the left framed a muted television, DVD cases on the floor scattered agape. ‘What do you want?’ he said.
‘Just a sit-down and a chat.’
‘About Howard?’
‘Mostly.’
‘I might have been in bed, man.’
‘You weren’t, though. You were up drinking, which is a parole violation.’
‘You can’t prove—’
‘Leroy. I’m not an idiot. I could smell your breath through the door. Do not try to sell me bullshit. Have you got any cigarettes in the house?’
‘Yeah, I’m allowed to.’
‘I know. All I’m after is a cigarette and a bit of a talk, and then I’ll get out of your hair. Okay?’
He leaned against the wall. He had dark hair, glazed with a thick waxen coating. Narrow frame, weak lumps of shoulder pressing his jumper as he folded his arms.
‘Howard reckons you’re an okay dude,’ he said. ‘For a cop.’
‘Yeah, I am an okay dude. Where can we sit down?’
‘I dunno. Kitchen.’
‘Good. Let’s go.’
The kitchen was at the rear of the unit. Turner swiped a switch. A neon light tube hummed and found full wattage on the third flicker. A bench and fake wooden cupboards wrapped two walls. A frosted glass door accessed the back yard. A cat flap whistled softly through its teeth.
Folded newspaper chocked the fridge level. The seal broke with a wet sigh as Devereaux pulled the door.
‘Dude. You can’t just raid the fridge.’
‘I’m not. Just wondering what you’ve got all this beer for, given you’re not allowed to drink it.’
Turner didn’t answer. Devereaux closed the fridge. He took a seat at the small table.
‘I don’t normally just let pigs in for a chinwag. But Howard said you’ve been all right to him.’
‘I’m touched.’
The cat flap clacked. A grey tabby slunk in, hugging the baseboard. Devereaux leaned down and waggled a finger at nose level.
‘You like cats?’ Turner said.
‘No. But it’s his house, I’d better be polite.’
‘It’s a girl. She’s called Millie.’
Devereaux stroked the animal’s head. It closed its eyes, pushed up against his hand.
Turner said, ‘So what are we talking about?’
‘October eight.’
‘What’s happening on October eight?’
Devereaux took his hand back. ‘Don’t know. It’s October eight last year I’m interested in.’
‘The Savings and Loan job?’
‘Yeah. Well done.’
‘I didn’t do it. Who told you I did it?’
‘Nobody. I’ve got it on good info that you might know something about it.’
‘“Got it on good info.” What’s that meant to mean?’
‘Howard thought you might know something.’
Turner grinned. He propped himself against the doorframe. ‘You won’t get far if you’re just asking for gossip.’ He checked his watch. ‘At half past one in the morning.’
‘That doesn’t answer my question.’
‘The fuck should I know anything?’
‘Because you’ve pulled robberies before.’
‘So?’
‘So you’ve got connections. People keep you in the loop.’
‘Connections. How would you know?’
‘I read your file and extrapolated.’
‘Extrapolated. Whatever.’ He laughed. ‘October eight last year, I was in prison.’
Devereaux didn’t reply. The cat traced a figure eight around his ankles.
‘You said you wanted to talk about Howard or something,’ Turner said.
‘Howard’s been brought in because they think he might know something about October eight. And he doesn’t, so now I’ve got to ask you.’
‘Is he okay?’
‘Yeah, he’s okay.’
‘He doesn’t know anything about October eight, though.’
‘I know. So I’m asking if you know anything about it.’
A smirk. ‘Yeah, well, it’s all bad news, man.’
‘How?’
‘What, you want to hear the rumours?’
‘Lay them on me.’
‘I heard cops did it, and the reason you’re making fuck-all progress is because the guys who did the job are the ones in the investigation. Shit’s just getting stalled and obscured and stuff. Like, I bet you’ve got all kinds of dead ends and stuff that just goes nowhere.’
Devereaux said nothing.
‘That’s why that shooting that happened has been so hush-hush. The one where those cops got cooled out, you know? Like, people got killed, but we hear almost nothing about it in the news because they’re keeping it super, super tight. And you want to know why?’
‘Why?’
/> ‘Because cops did it. Because cops robbed that bank. Because cops robbed that fight club thing. Cops thought someone was going to snitch them, and killed those people in that shooting a couple of weeks back.’
‘Who told you this?’
He shrugged. ‘I dunno. It’s just info that people know. You know?’
A train passed: a laboured seismic rumble. Different regions of the room rattled faintly in loose sequence. A shiver beneath his fingertips as the table trembled.
Devereaux said, ‘So who should I be talking to?’
‘I don’t know. Not me. I’ve already been talked to anyway.’
‘By who?’
‘I don’t know. Cops. Maybe even the cops that did the job. They thought they were hardcase.’
‘What did they do?’
‘There were two of them. They just came to the door, like you did, and one of them gave me this big-as grin and flicked his head and was like, “Why don’t you come for a bit of a drive with us, Leroy?” And what choice have you got when a cop says something like that to you?’
Devereaux didn’t answer.
‘So I got in the car with them. In the back. One of them was in the back with me, one was driving, obviously. They took me for a drive just around the block. They’d had me on what they called “rolling recon” or some shit, where they’d just had a dude following me for a few days. They’d got this long-shot photo of me buying half a gram of speed. They showed me that, like it could be some sort of leverage to get me to say whatever. But the guy in the back with me was playing it super-cool. He had one arm stretched out along the back of the seat, holding up the photo in front of my face. And he said something like, “Boy, Leroy, if this ever got out, you’d be going straight back to prison.” You seen much of what prison’s like?’
Devereaux nodded.
‘Yeah. Me, too. And I didn’t like any of it. And I was telling this guy I didn’t know jack shit about what had happened with this bank job thing, but he just said, you know, “Don’t believe you.” He had this lighter that he whipped out and he held it next to my head, under my ear, and said he was going to start sizzling my earlobe if I didn’t give. Man, I’m not a bad guy. I drive getaway cars. I’m not in there telling people to get on the ground. I’ve never shot anyone.’
The cat mewed. Devereaux leaned down again and ran a hand along its back. ‘When was this?’
‘I don’t know. Good few weeks back. Early January, I guess.’
‘They tell you their names?’
‘No.’ He folded his arms and hunched into them. Features vacant, eyes with the floor.
‘What did they look like?’
He shrugged. ‘Medium-sized guys, maybe forty or so. They laid into me.’
‘What do you mean?’
His tongue traced his top lip. ‘I mean they laid into me. Or the guy in the back did. He was fucking quick. He’d just reach across and hit me upside the head; I’d knock straight into the window. The window hurt more than his hand. But I didn’t give them anything; I didn’t know what they were after. They drove me back here and parked, and the driver got out and opened the door for me, like a chauffeur or something, but the guy in the back with me just reached up with his foot and gave me a couple of kicks to get me out the door. Hurt like shit. Glad Millie didn’t see, or she’d be off.’
He pulled his shirt and twisted sideways. The skin above his hip wrinkled. A U-shaped bruise stamped his lower ribcage. ‘See. I’m not even bullshitting.’
A car turned in off the road. A thump and a suspension squeak as it crossed the kerb. Turner dropped his shirt and hit the light switch. The room darkened. The cat slipped beneath the table.
‘I’m near paranoid now. Every time someone comes round, I gotta kill all the lights and check the peephole first, you know? Jittery as hell.’
He left the room: light footsteps towards the front of the house. Darkness deepening as he killed the lights in the front room. Devereaux pushed his chair back, palmed his way around the edge of the table. He followed Turner down the hallway: direction obscured, weaving wall to wall as he moved. Right into the television room, plastic disc cases cracking under blind feet. Turner was at the window: a cupped gaze to a gapped curtain. Everything a faint sketch under weak light.
‘Oh, shit. It’s another cop.’ He pulled away from the window, face ashen. ‘This your backup or something, what’s going on?’
Devereaux pulled him back and looked outside: one unmarked police car behind his own, Don McCarthy silhouetted mid-exit.
‘I didn’t call him.’
‘So what’s going on?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘So, then, what the hell? Man, cops are the last people I want round here. Last time cops came here I got the shit beaten out of me. I tell you. Vicious as hell.’
He exhaled and linked his hands behind his neck. Leroy Turner, assault and burglary record, almost frantic.
Devereaux stepped away from the curtain and moved through to the entry.
Leroy’s hissed whisper: ‘Don’t let him in. Please. You’ve gotta make him leave. I don’t want anything to do with this.’
Devereaux ignored him. He opened the front door and set the lock. Then he stepped outside and closed the door behind him.
ELEVEN
TUESDAY, 14, FEBRUARY, 1.42 A.M.
The Don was dressed suave: a gleam of shoeshine as he crossed the headlamp glare. He smoothed his tie and buttoned his jacket, a neat one-handed pinch.
‘Thought I might find you here,’ he said.
Devereaux stayed on the step, back to the locked door. The Don’s high beams swamped the yard, blades of grass etched in stark monochrome.
‘Didn’t realise I needed a minder,’ Devereaux said.
McCarthy shrugged. ‘Thought you might need backup.’
‘I’m fine. I appreciate the concern.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I could ask you the same thing.’
The Don smiled. He pocketed his hands and propped a foot up on the edge of the step. Loafer: black leather, laceless, a deep heel. ‘You first.’
‘Howard Ford told me the occupant of this address might know something about October eight.’
‘And does he?’
‘I don’t know. He isn’t in.’
‘His car’s here.’
‘But he definitely isn’t.’
The Don’s gaze roved: Devereaux’s eyes, the window, back to the eyes. Lie detection with an ice-blue tint. He said, ‘The lights were on a moment ago.’
‘That was me.’
‘You entered the house uninvited?’
‘I knocked and nobody answered. The door was unlocked. I went in and found the house empty, turned the light off and locked the outside door.’
The Don smiled thinly. ‘A good faith entry, then.’
‘Yeah.’
‘You have no idea where he is?’
‘No.’
‘That’s a worry. If he’s got information about an active investigation, it would be good to get hold of him.’
‘Won’t be able to now. I locked the door.’
McCarthy came up onto the step. Half a metre between them. ‘You know how to pick locks?’ he said.
‘I do.’
‘Now might be a good time to get some field practice in.’
‘I don’t think so.’
McCarthy didn’t reply.
Devereaux said, ‘I can’t justify re-entering the house. I checked it a moment ago and found nothing suspicious. There’s no reason to go in a second time.’
McCarthy scanned the eaves. ‘How did you come to be talking to Howard Ford,’ he said. ‘Given you had strict instructions not to interview him?’
‘Custody sergeant let me in.’
‘Clearly.’
‘I was concerned Ford was being mistreated. I didn’t want to wait until morning to find out.’
‘And was he?’
‘He’d been punched in the face
. So, yes, I’d say so.’
‘And in the process of assessing his health, you somehow elicited the name Leroy Turner.’
‘That’s right.’
The Don nodded and mulled it over.
Devereaux said, ‘What are you doing here?’
McCarthy raised his hands and jiggled his jacket by the lapels. ‘One of the privileges of rank,’ he said, ‘is that you get to ask questions, but you’re not obliged to answer them. How’s that?’
Devereaux didn’t reply. He felt his pulse ticking at high revs.
McCarthy said, ‘Am I going to have problems working with you, sergeant?’
‘Let’s hope not.’
McCarthy took a step back. ‘You shot a guy yesterday. That in mind, I think it would pay to be doing exactly what you’re told until everything is ironed out. And carrying out an investigation by yourself at quarter to two in the morning is not what you have been told to do.’ He half turned and scanned the street, keeping a tab on his blind spot. ‘Don’t do anything,’ he said, ‘unless so instructed by these very lips.’ He turned and walked away.
Devereaux didn’t answer. He pictured Turner, eye to the split curtain. The Don clicked his tongue and jerked his head, a slight wink of incisor, beckoning him towards the road. Devereaux followed as he walked back towards the drive. McCarthy drew his keys and blipped his locks. He pulled his door and slid in. His lights stuttered as he started the motor. The driver’s window dropped.
Parting scorn: ‘Remember, sergeant: from these very lips.’
He propped an arm atop the sill, raised a cocked thumb and first finger and shot him once in the chest. Devereaux waited until the car had disappeared from sight, and then he climbed into his Commodore and drove home.
Sean Devereaux is ten years old, and through the wall he can hear the officer fighting with the new wife.
The officer’s name is Derren. He’s British, ex-air force, clipped and square. Sean’s been with him close to six months, only since his mother went into hospital, and each week he hopes it’s the last.
The wife is a relatively new pickup. The relationship has freight-trained from just met to just married in the space of three months. Sean thinks the wife probably regrets it, because these late-evening face-offs are beginning to be a nightly occurrence.