Only the Dead

by Ben Sanders

  ‘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.’
<
br />   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.

  THIRTY-SIX

  THURSDAY, 16 FEBRUARY, 12.01 A.M.

  Sleep eluded him.

  Hale tried to rest, but suture ache kept him edgy. He couldn’t shake a heavy feeling of what if?

  What if the girl’s injuries were more than just unusual?

  What if he’d been bullshitted?

  He endured inaction until quarter past midnight. Then he rose and dressed and took the shotgun with him down to the car. The world dim beneath that pale lunar half-light. He drove east and was at the office by fifteen minutes to one in the morning. High Street was quiet. Balled litter tripped and tottered in the lonely thoroughfare. The façades sheer and deep-shadowed. An almost Gothic backdrop, in the absence of normal hustle.

  He let himself into the office, locked the door behind him. Rowe’s file sat amid clear desk space, as if expecting company. Hale sat down and brought the lamp in close.

  Page one: the pulped and bloodied Charlotte Rowe. The massive facial injuries: the broken jaw, the broken teeth, the broken eye socket. The flesh a swollen palette of reds and purples. The hair knotted and claggy with blood, shaved in places to expose the full extent of the injuries.

  Hale browsed. He found the attending police officers’ reports. Photocopied handwritten notes described a ‘young female’ with injuries consistent with those photographed. No explicit mention of a Charlotte Rowe.

  He got up and went to the cabinet opposite the desk. The grog cache had dwindled to a bottle of Cointreau, and some Langs Supreme Scotch whisky. He put a finger of the Scotch in a tumbler and sat back down, behind the desk. He checked drawers and found a phone book, located a number and dialled.

  Early morning, staffing was light. It took him a long time to come off hold. He made a polite enquiry, regarding Charlotte Rowe. He gave his name as Detective Sergeant Sean Devereaux. Even claims of official standing won him few favours: divulging information over the phone contravened approved protocol. He said he was just trying to chase down minor details; that is, dates only. He was told the system held no records corresponding to the name Charlotte Rowe.

  He tried two more numbers. More hold music, and then a null result in both instances.

  The clock hit one-fifteen. He tried another number. He spieled his introduction for the fourth time, made his request.

  He was put on hold. Hale waited, pulse in his ear leaping heavy.

  ‘You still there, detective?’

  Hale said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘I think I’ve got it.’

  ‘Let’s have it.’

  Hale listened to the reply, and clicked off. Then he said, ‘Well.’ He held the glass in his lap and leaned back in his chair and thought about what to do next.

  Devereaux didn’t make it to bed. He fell asleep on the couch: arm across his eyes, The Smiths on the stereo — the same CD he’d mused to Monday night, post-shooting.

  He kept the phone close at hand. He couldn’t help but hope that maybe she’d ring back.

  The call came at one-thirty. He caught it just before the voicemail was due, and didn’t check the screen. From the pause after he answered, he could tell it wasn’t Ellen.

  Don McCarthy said, ‘Hello, sergeant.’

  McCarthy. Shit. His wish for a call-back couldn’t have gone more awry.

  Devereaux said, ‘What do you want?’

  ‘We’re going to have to work on your basic etiquette, aren’t we?’

  ‘Nobody’s polite at this time of night.’

  McCarthy laughed drily. ‘If you go and open your front door, you’ll find a large, middle-aged police detective sheltering beneath the eave. Do yourself a favour and let him in.’

  Devereaux ended the call. He dropped the phone on the floor beside him, didn’t move from the couch. After a minute there was a hammering at his front door.

  ‘Jesus. All right. I’m coming.’

  He rolled sideways and found his feet. The hammering continued until he reached the door. He opened up, and Don McCarthy stood looking in at him. Typical wolfish attire: a grey suit, neatly buttoned over grey tie and white shirt. His hair bore a faint Brylcreem gleam.

  ‘Hello, Sonny Jim.’

  ‘Now’s not a good time, Don.’

  McCarthy ignored him. He stepped inside. ‘I think your security light’s busted. Shit, it’s dim in here.’ He found the switch by guesswork, lit up the hallway. ‘We need to have a bit of a talk. Where’s your living room?’

  He didn’t wait for a reply. Devereaux closed the door, went back to the kitchen for his cigarettes and lighter. He went through to the living room. McCarthy was perched on the edge of the chair facing the couch, fingers meshed gently. The ash-heaped saucer still adorned an armrest.

  ‘Smoking gives you cancer,’ McCarthy said.

  Devereaux lit a cigarette. The flame bestowed ghoulish face shadows. ‘I’ll risk it.’

  McCarthy smiled thinly. Devereaux sat down opposite him, mirrored his pose. A metre or so separation. Devereaux moved the cigarette to the corner of his mouth, secured it with molar pressure. He spoke through clenched teeth. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’ve been doing some reading.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ Devereaux stretched and tapped ash into a coffee cup.

  McCarthy’s eyes followed the movement. ‘A neighbour reported seeing a black Ford Escort leaving Douglas Allen’s street shortly after a shot was heard this afternoon.’

  Devereaux didn’t answer.

  McCarthy grinned broadly. He tightened his grip. Knuckles cracked in neat sequence. ‘You’ve got a great poker face,’ he said.

  Devereaux shrugged. ‘I don’t know what we’re talking about.’

  ‘Well, how’s this: your old friend John Hale drives a black Ford Escort. Are we almost on the same page now?’

  Devereaux didn’t answer.

  McCarthy said, ‘I thought it was funny you were so eager to get down there. But what could explain it?’ He smiled and narrowed his eyes, tipped his head back and forth in mock thought. ‘Maybe because Mr Hale called you in a panic and told you what had happened? Am I getting slightly warmer here?’

  Devereaux held the cigarette two-fingered, watched the ember crawl nearer as he drew in.

  McCarthy stood up suddenly, crossed the room in one step. Devereaux worked hard to suppress a flinch. McCarthy leaned and picked up the cigarette box. He rattled it gently: a kid testing a wrapped gift. ‘May I?’

  ‘Please do.’

  McCarthy popped the top, inspected the contents carefully. He selected a cigarette and placed it in his mouth. It took him three flicks to get the lighter to flame.

  He blew twin smoke trails out
his nostrils, set the cigarettes and lighter back on the shelf. He raised an open palm, waggled the thumb. ‘Ageing joints,’ he said. ‘I guess arthritic smokers have to use matches.’

  McCarthy sat down again. He held the cigarette delicately between thumb and index finger. He looked at it with deep interest. ‘My first one in more than twenty years,’ he said. His eyes came up, shined and malevolent. ‘You just bore witness to a milestone event, sergeant.’

  ‘Don’t drop any ash.’

  ‘I had your phone records checked,’ McCarthy said. He returned the cigarette to his mouth, smiled around it. ‘You took a call from John Hale at two this afternoon. I trust I’m making sense here.’

  He was making sense. Devereaux hoped it didn’t show. ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘Talk slowly.’

  McCarthy hollowed his cheeks with a long drag. ‘Drop the bullshit. I know Hale was in the house. He called you afterwards and told you he was.’ He jabbed the cigarette for emphasis. ‘The big question here is why you kept it quiet.’

  Devereaux didn’t answer. He could feel the poker face slipping.

  McCarthy said, ‘There’s blood in the house, he probably left other evidence, too.’ He spread his hands, shrugged. ‘I don’t know, maybe I’ve lost the plot. Here I was thinking maybe he’d called you down to try to clean up after him.’ A smile inched through one cheek. ‘Do you see what I’m getting at?’

  ‘Speculation doesn’t carry a lot of weight.’

  ‘I’m just tossing some theories around, see where they lead us.’

  ‘Frank Briar was with me. I think if I’d tidied the scene he would have noticed.’

  McCarthy laughed. ‘You indicated in our meeting this afternoon that Frank Briar isn’t such a trustworthy character. But now you’re telling me he’s reliable enough to corroborate your innocence?’

  ‘I didn’t mention anything about trustworthiness. I said he assaulted a suspect.’

  McCarthy smoked some cigarette. ‘Irrespective of what you did or didn’t do, you took the call, and you went down there thinking you should help him out. I know you did, and you sure as hell know you did, too.’

  McCarthy leaned back, blew a near-perfect smoke ring ceiling-bound. ‘Anyway, bottom line is: I know there’s stuff you’re not telling me.’