‘You have any idea who robbed you?’
‘Wasn’t me that got robbed. Physically or financially. I’d like to make that clear as I can to you.’
‘I wasn’t meaning to cause offence.’
‘No, I’m sure you weren’t. I just don’t want you getting the wrong idea about the kind of arrangements I had in place.’
‘But do you have any idea who’s responsible?’
‘If I did I wouldn’t have waited this long to tell someone.’
‘Who would have known the money was stored on the premises as it was?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t seem too worried about it.’
‘Don’t get me wrong, it’s a tragedy. But everybody pays. This side of the grave or the other.’
The dog dipped its head, as if to concur.
‘How did you advertise it?’ Hale said.
‘The fight?’
‘Yes.’
‘Word of mouth. Ghastly how quick it spreads. Couldn’t get good news to move that fast, I tell you.’ He was wearing a green work shirt, unbuttoned to the chest, a scrunched plastic bag blooming from a breast pocket. He leaned forward, elbows on knees and watched the swings. ‘You ever seen a cage fight, Mr Hale?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘It’s fairly self-explanatory. They brought in a steel cage off the back of a truck and put two guys in there and watched them beat each other half to death. Or that’s what I imagined. Pretty bleak social commentary, wouldn’t you reckon? That’s what constitutes evening entertainment.’
‘But you needed the money.’
He nodded. ‘Well. The church did.’ He smiled. ‘Guess my morals aren’t that hard to sway.’ He thought about it a moment. ‘Or maybe they aren’t morals, if you can sway them.’
‘I’m looking for a man named Douglas Haines.’
‘Ah, Douglas. He was doing the money.’
‘Do you know where I can find him?’
‘No. But a phone book might prove useful.’
‘I appreciate your time.’
‘May I ask who you’re working for?’
‘A man whose daughter was injured during the robbery.’
‘What’s her name? Might know her.’
‘Charlotte Rowe.’
He pouted and shook his head. ‘Doesn’t ring any bells.’
The dog commiserated with a sloppy tonguing of jowls.
Drinnan looked down at it. ‘Taking him down to the SPCA
this evening,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what’s worse. Having him here but needing to say goodbye, or not having him at all.’ He clicked his teeth together gently. ‘I know which one Marg would pick. No questions there, m’boy. None at all.’
The little girl dismounted the swing. A shrill refusal for assistance, a clumsy hands-and-feet impact as she dropped to the ground. A swift whirling of arms as she regained balance. Drinnan observed the little manoeuvre, unfurled a coiled lead from the bench beside him. The dog heard the clasp’s telltale tinkle and its tail gave a quiver. ‘I really do hope you make some progress,’ he said. ‘Let me know if you do.’
He clipped the lead to a hoop on the dog’s collar. ‘We’re well overdue for some good luck.’
Hale thanked him and stood up, then walked back to the car. The pair of them were still seated on the bench as he’d found them, even as he drove away.
T
UESDAY
, 14 F
EBRUARY
, 6.00
P.M
.
D
evereaux’s Commodore was waiting for Hale when he arrived home. He parked and went inside, found the man himself stretched out on the couch in the living room: one leg hiked, an arm draped across his forehead. His eyes stayed closed, even as Hale entered the room.
‘I can leave out a spare key, if you want.’
Devereaux said, ‘I like to keep my skills honed.’
‘How long have you been here?’
‘Don’t know. Twenty minutes.’
‘Lucky I wasn’t home. Might have shot you.’
Devereaux sat up, hair fuzzed from the cushion. ‘I always knock before I pick.’
Hale didn’t answer.
Devereaux glanced up. ‘He’s dead.’
‘Your friend from Monday?’
‘Yeah. Him.’
‘Since when?’
A wry smile. ‘It’s too late to bring him back.’
Hale said, ‘Maybe we should have a beer.’
‘Yeah, I think maybe we should.’
Hale visited the fridge. Supplies were dwindling: four Heinekens and a solitary Corona. He brought the Heinekens
back to the living room, placed them two by two on a side table. Devereaux leaned across for a bottle and flipped it lip to lip against another and popped the cap. Hale took the second bottle and cracked the top with an opener off his key ring. They sat, side by side, on the couch.
‘Have you seen Ellen?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Did you tell her about it?’
‘Yeah. She already knew.’
‘Telling her and her already knowing aren’t the same thing.’
Devereaux palmed his hair flat, shrugged a concession. He stood up and found the wall dial for the ceiling fan and set it running. ‘Whatever. She knows about it.’
‘How is she?’
‘Okay. Probably equal parts worried and angry.’
‘Why angry?’
He sat down. ‘Apparently, I don’t communicate.’
‘You communicate with me.’
‘I told her that.’
‘Not good enough?’
‘No. I have to communicate with her, too.’
Devereaux stretched his feet out in front of him. The bottle took up roost in his lap. He propped his elbow on the rest and leaned his head against his hand. ‘I always thought I was pretty black and white,’ he said.
‘Like how?’
‘Like I thought I’d be okay if I had to do something like this one day.’
‘Kill someone.’
He arched one foot and tapped the heel against the ground. The fan wound up and settled into a light rhythmic click. ‘Yeah.’
Hale didn’t answer. Late afternoon gave the light through the ranch slider a molten tint.
Devereaux said, ‘I always had the sense I was given an inside line on how the world works. Now I don’t feel like I do.’
‘Shooting people isn’t easy.’
‘No. It isn’t.’
‘So what did you think it would be like?’
‘I don’t know. Something clear-cut. Acceptance, if he deserved it, regret if he didn’t.’
‘Regret tends to spread itself fairly wide.’
He nodded. ‘Question is whether it’s better to regret something you did or something you didn’t.’
Hale didn’t reply. They had some beer: neat fluked symmetry as bottles tipped in unison.
‘You tell Ellen this?’ Hale said.
‘Sort of.’ He paused. His cellphone caught a text: a muffled triple buzz left unanswered. Outside on the deck, a neat slatted shadow pattern courtesy of the handrail. ‘I told her about Derren and his wife.’
‘What did she have to say about it?’
He shrugged. He cleared his throat gently against his fist. ‘Nothing really. She probably would have been happier if I’d kept it to myself.’
Hale didn’t reply. They sat there in silence, eyes forward, this strange couch confessional.
Hale said, ‘You ever wonder if there’s a parallel universe in which you’re slightly better off?’
‘No.’
‘I do. If you graphed the misfortune corresponding to every separate John Hale in the cosmos, you’d get some sort of bell curve, and I’d be closer to either one end or the other.’
‘Maybe you are one end or the other. Maybe you’re one of
two possible extremes.’
Hale didn’t answer.
‘They interviewed me this morning about the shooting,’ Devereaux said.
‘And?’
‘I think they want to get rid of me.’
‘What makes you think that?’
He was quiet a moment. ‘Actually, I don’t know. They could if they wanted to. I didn’t follow procedure.’
‘You’ve done that before.’
‘Yeah. At some point they’ll get sick of it.’
‘Could always come and work for me.’
Devereaux leaned back and watched the fan, ran a hand across the stubble on this throat. ‘For or with?’
Hale took a drink. The bottle had stamped a ring of moisture on his thigh. ‘We could negotiate on that point,’ he said. ‘Should the need arise.’
Devereaux tipped his bottle vertical and downed the last of it. He set the empty back on the side table, cracked his second off another bottle: his neat little flip-trick. He took a quick pull to clean a swill of foam that rose above the lip.
Hale said, ‘Are you going to quit?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. I honestly don’t know.’
‘You know you’d be more than welcome to work for me. If you wanted to.’
‘I know. You’re a first-rate human.’
They had some more beer.
‘I met two suspects last night that said they’d been assaulted,’ Devereaux said.
‘Badly?’
‘They were still walking around.’
‘Maybe it’s just normal wear and tear. Folks get arrested, stuff can happen.’
‘This wasn’t normal wear and tear.’
‘Stuff happens. I caused a few bloody noses in my day. So did you.’
‘When necessary. We never crossed the line.’
Hale didn’t answer. His arm was outstretched beside him, elbow propped, neck of the bottle snagged through two fingers.
Hale said, ‘How was my old friend Don McCarthy today?’
Devereaux laughed drily. ‘You know how some people you instinctively trust and some people you don’t?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Yeah. I don’t trust him. He’s got me lined up for something this evening.’
‘Doing what?’
‘I don’t know.’
Hale placed his bottle on the floor. He said, ‘I took that Alan Rowe job I told you about.’
‘So you caved then.’
‘I caved.’
‘What does he want you to do?’
‘His daughter was hurt in the fight club robbery. He wants me to find who did it.’
‘Solve a crime there’s been no progress on for weeks.’
‘Essentially.’
‘Have you made any progress?’
‘I accrued some good hearsay.’
‘Hearsay.’
‘Apparently, there’s a contract out on whoever did the robberies.’
‘Who issued it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘How much is it?’
‘I don’t know. Evidently, they got some drug dealer fired up as well, and now he’s looking for them too.’
‘Where’d you get all this from?’
‘Just some caustic sleazeball.’
‘Right. Try not to get under anyone’s feet.’
‘You can save me if I do happen to.’
‘I think my clout is pretty well shot, so to speak.’
Devereaux downed the rest of the bottle in one swallow. He stood up: a slow unfolding, creased clothes and a symphony of joint clicks. ‘Let me know if you turn up anything good,’ he said.
‘Yeah. You staying for some dinner?’
‘No.’ Devereaux paused in the middle of the room, facing the window. A wince into dying light as he rolled his shoulders.
Hale said, ‘I wouldn’t worry about it.’
Devereaux didn’t answer. He turned and headed for the door, flicked a loose salute as he went out.
T
UESDAY
, 14 F
EBRUARY
, 7.00
P.M
.
T
he trip back to the city was easy against the rush-hour flow. Devereaux left the car in the basement garage and rode the lift up to CIB. McCarthy’s office was locked, peep glass blocked by a sheet of newspaper taped behind it. A Post-it note blamed his absence on a case meeting due for wrap-up at seven-thirty.
He walked through to the situation room. Productivity had lulled: screensavers, the smell of fast food. Stretched phone hand sets and whispers as overtime was justified to those at home. He saw Grayson at a desk, and pulled a chair up opposite. He looked strung out: hair awry, workspace a Stonehenge of empty coffee mugs.
‘Progress?’
He looked up. ‘No. I’m working on something else. Everything’s piling up.’
Devereaux said, ‘Can you do me a favour?’
Grayson smiled but his eyes stayed flat. Mouth parted, tongue probing one molar. ‘What is it?’ he said.
‘Lookout duty.’
‘Breaking and entering again?’
‘Sort of.’
He laughed drily. ‘No thanks. I mean, no offence.’
‘I’ll owe you.’
‘You already do. People aren’t stupid.’ He leaned forward. ‘Bowen’s not an idiot. He knew I was up to something last night when I got him out of his office.’
‘I don’t need you to—’
‘Okay. What I hope you’re going to say is, “Actually, I don’t need you to do anything at all.” Because, to be honest, I’ve got enough on my plate.’
His voice had risen as he built steam. People looked across at them. Devereaux walked away from it, feeling like an idiot. He felt eyes riding his back all the way to the door. He checked his watch. Seven minutes after seven. McCarthy would be back in about twenty-five minutes.
He went back to his desk. His tie was still in the top drawer. He popped his collar and slipped it on and knotted it. Might as well do things dapper. He took a torsion wrench and a rake pick from his bottom drawer. The Don’s door was a standard keyed deadbolt. Reasonably robust, but he’d done office work before. He was fairly sure he could crack it.
The office itself was in a short corridor off the main suite. He jiggled the handle again and knocked. Still empty. He checked Bowen’s office next door, but it bore the same Post-it note: estimated time of return, 19:30.
Make it quick.
He’d chosen a good time. Shift change wouldn’t start for another three hours. Meal time had thinned office occupancy. The corridor saw through-traffic roughly every thirty seconds. Initial lock appraisal suggested a twenty-second pick time. He waited for a clear hallway, and then he went in hard with the torsion wrench. Good movement: he felt the barrel free up. Another anxious twelve seconds with the pick, and he was through the door.
Trapped office air: stagnant, and dog breath-hot. He couldn’t
afford to run the air-con. He moved around the desk. A dormant monitor. Three wife and daughter colour snapshots framed side by side, a World’s Best Dad mug, still dregs-stained. A penned reminder to get milk, a framed MBA degree dated 1986. Human touches that jarred with the hard-arse demeanour. It was tidy, though: no case files left for prying eyes. A four-drawer steel filing cabinet stood adjacent. He rolled the chair in close and sat down, the lock at eye level. He tried the rake pick. Too fat.
Shit.
He couldn’t risk going back to switch gear. He wished he’d had the balls to do this earlier when the office had been unlocked.
He checked his watch. Thirteen minutes after seven. Call it a fifteen-minute safe window. He wiped his forehead with his tie. Improvise: bent paperclips made ideal backup hardware. He rifled drawer contents, took one off a stack of blank 258 forms. His hairline trickled cold beads. Sweat fell and ticked against the desk top. He drew his hand inside his sleeve and palmed it clear, flicked the desk lamp on and angled it until the lock was spotlit. His hands shook as he lined up the insert. Thirty seconds, and he was in. The top drawer rolled out seamlessly, drew up short against the end stops. Devereaux paused. His pulse ran at a high patter.
Fifteen minutes after seven.
The cabinet was choked, bound documents crammed front to back, breath held. Everything in numeric sequence by file number. Neat printed spine labels: McCarthy-grade organisation.
He found the January thirtieth shooting file in the second-to-bottom drawer. It was an impressive item, maybe two hundred pages. He wasn’t going to be able to get all of it.
Eighteen minutes after seven.
A compact printer-cum-photocopier/scanner was on the floor beside the desk. He powered it on and configured it for scan to email. There would be a record, for anyone who cared to check. But no one would check, because no one was going to know.
He thumbed the file. The front half was page protected in plastic sleeves, the back portion loose sheets hole-punched and bound. He removed the second half of the file and set it in the feeder tray, one hundred pages worth of A4. The scanner started in, sheet by sheet. How fast could they operate? Ten pages a minute? Fifteen? He had no idea.
Twenty-two minutes after seven.
He hoped they didn’t wrap up early. It had been known to happen. He ran a quick search. There were more paperclips in another drawer. He matched one colour for colour with his stand-in pick, attached it to the stack of forms. He looked at the photographs: three shots, a stuttered time lapse that tracked about fifteen years. Their presence made him feel guilty, like he’d strayed inside the guy’s sentiments. Lock-picked past the hard exterior to this place of things dear.
Twenty-seven minutes after seven. He moved around to the printer. It had managed about half the stack. He stopped it there and watched the scanned pages transmit through to his email, picked up the documents and tamped them square. Mistake: it skewed the original alignment. He couldn’t get the binder hole to line up.
Twenty-eight minutes after seven. Feet in the corridor.
He braced the open folder across his knees and held the loose papers in two hands and ground them onto the steel binder.
Voices in the corridor. The filing cabinet drawer began to roll shut on its own accord. Murmur that sounded like McCarthy.
Key-chime, and then the door handle turning.
Devereaux just sat there blankly, the open folder across his knees. Sweet talking would be futile. He just waited for impact.
It never came.
The door cracked an inch. Hallway light slipped in, shy. Keys clacked and peeped around the edge of the frame. Bowen’s voice further along the corridor — a question — McCarthy’s reply from the other side of the door, terrifyingly clear. Footsteps as The Don moved away down the hallway to Bowen’s office.
Devereaux let out held breath through ground teeth. He got the folder contents square and pulled the drawer back just before it closed, slotted the binder home. He realised he wouldn’t be able to relock it: a key was needed whether you wanted to open or close. Leaving it as he’d found it would mean repicking the lock.
No time.
No choice either: a clean scene was paramount. He knelt close and worked the paperclip, clenched teeth, focus split between the lock and the door.
Six seconds. Seven. A frantic inverse break-in. McCarthy’s voice faint in the corridor, filtering from Bowen’s office.
Fifteen seconds.
This is madn
—
The pins aligned. The barrel twisted. He tried a drawer for certainty: locked.
He stood up and rolled the chair back behind the desk and shut the photocopier down. He stepped across the room, reached around and cupped the keys to stop them ringing, then pulled the door and slipped into the corridor. A neat escape: tiptoed, like some dance move, heart in mouth.
Canned food wasn’t going to cut it.
Duvall ordered pizza for dinner, treated himself and had
the thing delivered. He paid cash. The transaction almost cleared his wallet. It was a fitting analogy for his net worth: combined savings from the Baghdad work, plus his parents’ now-liquidated property, were fast declining. Bank statements didn’t make for happy reading. Somehow he’d reached the point where he had only two grand to his name. Either he made some money or he’d have to sell the house.
He collected the laptop and his case folders and brought them through to the living room and sat cross-legged on the floor under a narrow tent of lamp-glow. A sitcom from a neighbouring unit reached him word-perfect. Ten years ago the intrusion might have pissed him off, but the Iraq work had reset his datum for tolerance: two or three times out of ten, Baghdad apartment noise meant an armed break-in. Regular exposure to danger had bolstered his lenience, tenfold. Any noise that didn’t imply kidnap was imminent, he could live with. So he blocked out the blare and focused on his files. He had reams’ worth of redacted witness testimony. Compiling it had been a nightmare. He interviewed bank employees after the October eight robbery. He assuaged suspicion with claims he was a police consultant. His PI licence made for enhanced veracity. People were very helpful. He ran a solid week’s worth of questioning. He canvassed the street following the armoured van robbery, got vague descriptions of gunmen and hyperbolised robbery recountals. All a waste. He had nothing tangible to pursue. The cars used had been stolen. Nobody even glimpsed a skin tone, let alone facial attributes. He tried searching for related crimes going back five or ten years, but robberies were too numerous and imprecisely documented. It was impossible to establish correlations. And Google only got you so far.
He switched his attention to January thirty: his hypothesised botched witness protection job. His background on it ran
light. He had three newspaper items, single-column pieces, a cumulative twelve inches of reportage. Details were scarce. He guessed a media block was in place — he’d worked a mid-’eighties kidnapping under similar circumstances. The exposition was bare bones, fleshed out with bold supposition: drugs/gang activity/organised crime. None of the victims was named, although all three pieces noted that both civilians and police staff had been killed. How hard would it be to fill in the blanks? He’d done doorman work at joints frequented by cops, he could probably gain some ground by questioning them directly. Bit of luck, he could even unearth some of his old contacts. ’Eighties policing had been a different flavour. Criminals and detectives had frequent social contact. Friday afternoon bar visits facilitated easy hobnobbing: he’d built a thick portfolio of people privy to unsavoury happenings. But that was twenty-five years ago. By now they’d be either dead or eaten by the system. Same was probably true for the other side of the equation. He stared at the computer screen. He had database subscriptions to births, deaths and marriages; credit ratings; vehicle ownership; but all they were doing was steadily draining his net worth.
He rubbed his eyes. The print was ghosting double. He squinted in favour of finding his reading glasses in the box clutter.
Maybe he was yet to exhaust Google. He fired up the search engine. He tried variations of ‘30 January shooting’ and ‘30 January murder’ and ‘30 January multiple homicide’. The system returned a page worth of hits. Most were regurgitations of what he had: verbatim reprints under a
Guardian
or
New York Times
or
Weekend Australian
header. He trawled the archive sites of the local publications that had filed the original pieces. He skimmed and sparked on a name: Robert Davis.
He’d authored a three-inch
Herald
piece. He couldn’t think why it had tripped his recall. He checked his original hard copy, but his scissoring had excised the author’s name.
He ran a search on Robert Davis. Links to archived news articles unfurled. He skimmed headlines. Pages one through five, nothing triggered. Memory flared halfway down page six:
In retrospect: the Marie Langford murder, fifteen years on. Robert Davis investigates
.
Marie Langford, the body in the van. His first CIB case, vintage ’ninety-seven.
Had he met Davis? He must have, otherwise why the recollection?
He navigated back to the paper’s web page, found a general enquiries contact number. He stretched his mobile tight against the charger cable and dialled. A courteous female tone informed him his balance had dropped below the five-dollar mark. Shit. So let’s make it quick.
An automated system answered his call and launched a flavourless welcome. He button-pushed his way through the proffered options until reception picked up. He crossed his fingers and asked for Davis.
‘He’s out of the office until Monday.’
He asked to be put through anyway, hoping the answer machine message included a cell number. Reception complied. Alas, he got a stock-standard speak-after-beep instruction. No mobile.
He persevered. He brought up the digital archives and found Davis’s piece on the January thirty shootings. His name and email address were footnoted. Duvall opened a blank email and sent it to Davis’s listed address. He got an automated out-of-office reply in seconds. It was more informative than the answer machine: a mobile number was conveniently listed for
after-hours contact. He called it. Davis picked up. Duvall took a breath and went for it, reeled off a haughty announcement that they’d met during the Langford case back in ’ninety-seven.
Davis met it with a long pause. He said the name rang a bell.
Duvall stayed on the front foot: ‘I saw your retrospective piece earlier this year; it was very well done.’
‘Thanks. What can I do for you?’
No small talk: the guy didn’t remember him.
Duvall said, ‘I’m looking at these shootings in West Auckland, back on January thirtieth.’
‘In what sense?’
‘I’m investigating them.’
‘You’re still with the police?’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘Then I don’t think I’m going to be of much use to you.’
‘If you could just bear with me a moment I could run some questions past you anyway.’
‘Unless you’ve still got a badge in your pocket, I don’t think it’s appropriate for us to be discussing this.’