Read Online Jamaica Plain (9780738736396) by Colin Campbell - Free Book Online Page A

suspect admitting the offense was exactly what you wanted. It was the whole purpose of an interview. Box them into a corner until they confessed everything, then get details that only the thief would know so they couldn’t say they made it up later.
    These weren’t normal circumstances.
    Ten seconds ticked by.
    Fifteen.
    Then Grant spoke firmly into the speaker. “Interview terminated at”—he stated the time and wrote it on the form—“for the interviewee to take legal advice.”
    He snapped the recorder off. “What the fuck do you mean, ‘I did it’?”
    â€œI did Patel’s.”
    â€œAll this ‘it’s a fair cop, guv’ bullshit only happens in the movies. What the fuck are you playing at?”
    Sullivan wasn’t afraid of Grant. Never had been. But there was fear in his eyes now. Nerves twitched in his left eye. He drummed the fingers of his right hand on the table. He was sweating. “I can’t stay here. You got to take me back.”
    â€œTake you back where?”
    â€œExtricate me. Back to Ravo.”
    â€œThey aren’t going to pay to extradite you for a corner shop burglary.”
    â€œThey paid for you to come over here for a corner shop burglary.”
    Grant ignored that and leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You’ve never admitted your name and address before. What you confessing to burglary for all of a sudden?”
    Sullivan glanced at the window, then at the door. He looked like a junky on a comedown seeing spiders on the walls. He began to bite his nails. There weren’t any nails left to bite, so he nibbled his fingertips. Grant sat upright and pushed his chair back from the table. It scraped across the carpet. “What’s going on?”
    Sullivan stopped nibbling. He stared at the table and shook his head slowly. “This shit ain’t my fault.”
    Grant looked blank and kept quiet.
    â€œI was just the importer.” Sullivan was almost crying. “This long in the nick. They ain’t gonna believe I said nowt. I’m dead.”
    â€œSlow down, Freddy. What you talkin’ about?”
    â€œExtricate me. Get me out of here. But promise me.” He was practically wringing his hands. “Officer Grant. Promise you’ll protect my brother. He’s nowt to do with this.”
    Grant leaned back in his chair to give Sullivan some space. He didn’t want to crowd him. Keeping his voice conversational, almost friendly, he tried to take the sting out of the situation while still getting an important piece of information.
    â€œWhat you been smuggling, Freddy? Dope again?”
    It was Sullivan’s turn to look blank. His lips moved, but no words came out. Grant was about to probe with gentle questions when a loud bang on the window snapped his head around.
    The wired glass splintered. A large hand, fingers splayed, was silhouetted black against the daylight. It was the size of a baseball glove. A giant’s hand. Slivers of glass from the inside dusted the carpet but the window held. Sullivan’s eyes were bulging out of his head in panic. Grant was halfway to his feet and turning towards the window when the door opened.
    The distraction was complete.
    Neither of them noticed until the door slammed shut. The nasty black object bounced across the carpet and under the table. Sullivan screamed and stood up so fast he flipped the table forward. Grant recognized the grenade a split second before it exploded, then the world was full of light and pain.

nine
    i was a typist.
    The words echoed through Grant’s brain.
    i hate guns .
    The follow-up words boomed just as loud.
    and i’m not that struck on bombs either .
    In his mind’s eye he saw legs clad in desert camouflage combat pants. Dusty boots laced up beneath canvas anklets. Blancoed webbing belt and straps with dull, tarnished brass fittings. Sand and stones and debris choked his lungs.
    i was a typist