He blinked. Dammed tears formed a thick bright film. ‘I’d probably go and ask Leroy,’ he said.
‘Okay. Good. Who’s Leroy?’
‘He’s just this friend I’ve got. He knows stuff about things.’
Devereaux’s crouch was burning him. A stutter of joint pops as he stood.
‘Where does Leroy live?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You must do.’
‘I know how to get there. But I don’t know what his address is.’
‘Okay. Has Leroy been arrested before?’
‘Uh-huh. Loads of times. Probably more than me.’
Devereaux dipped his hands in his pockets, felt the damp and tortured body of the chewed cigarette. He dropped it in the toilet.
‘Sean, I don’t want to stay in here tonight.’
‘I know you don’t. But you’re going to have to. There’s nothing I can do about that.’
‘I don’t want to get hurt again.’
‘You won’t.’
‘What’s gonna happen to the guys who hurt me?’
‘I don’t know yet. Nothing they’ll be pleased about.’
He stepped to the grille and called to be let out.
The constable escorted him back down the corridor, prisoner choir prevailing. He was buzzed out through the booking window gates. Blake was still at the glass, elbows on the desk, watching his departure across netted fingers.
Devereaux said, ‘You’re lucky you didn’t break his nose.’
‘I’m lucky, or he’s lucky?’
‘I’m lodging a complaint. You threatened to spray him.’
Blake laughed. ‘You should know better than to trust what comes out of the mouths of these people.’
Devereaux stepped to the screen. ‘It was the blood comingout of his nose that was most persuasive.’ The glass fogged with his words.
‘I’ve got two witnesses who’ll say the force used was necessary. Ford took a swing at me. He was out of control, I responded appropriately.’
‘Suffice to say he tells it a little differently.’
Blake creaked back in his chair. Departing headlights strafed a yellow blaze across them. Devereaux’s shadow leapt ahead of him into the office.
Blake said, ‘Everyone’s tough from the other side of the glass.’ He smiled. ‘You and the fucking miscreants they drag in here.’
‘Come out here and talk to me, if you like. I’ll wait.’
Blake said nothing.
Devereaux said, ‘Another day, maybe.’
Blake said, ‘If you’ve got a complaint, go and fucking make it. But otherwise I don’t want to have to deal with you.’
Devereaux didn’t respond. He turned away and headed for the stairs.
NINE
M ONDAY , 13 F EBRUARY , 11.13 P.M .
T he arrival woke him.
Crunch of tyres on gravel, the broken ceiling-flicker as headlights panned the frontage. Hale slid out of bed. He felt his way to the front of the house, a strip of moonlight bent between hallway floor and wall. He checked the kitchen window. A silver sedan was idling at his garage, reflected headlamp blaze pooled around it. He backtracked to the bedroom, unseen edges nudging him in the gloom. A Remington 12 gauge lay loaded within snatch distance in the space beneath his mattress. Devereaux called it paranoid. Hale called it ‘sensible’: fourteen years’ law enforcement had accrued a thick catalogue of people worth fearing. All firearm-based security measures were acutely necessary.
He kept the gun close as he dressed, awkward and unbalanced in the semi-dark. He made the front door in a crouch, fumbled to free the deadbolts. Two doors slamming. He stepped outside. The gun grips were sweating up already: he gathered a shirt hem and dried them, trotted down the stairs that led to the front left corner of the house.
His property was steep, the garage set in against the slope beneath the main floor. The car was parked nose in to the house, kissing distance to the garage door. Alan Rowe and hisminder stood hands in pockets beside it, shoulders hunched against the evening chill, ankle deep in bright light.
Rowe heard the squeak of the stairs and glanced at him. He nodded at the gun. ‘Expecting somebody
‘Okay. Good. Who’s Leroy?’
‘He’s just this friend I’ve got. He knows stuff about things.’
Devereaux’s crouch was burning him. A stutter of joint pops as he stood.
‘Where does Leroy live?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You must do.’
‘I know how to get there. But I don’t know what his address is.’
‘Okay. Has Leroy been arrested before?’
‘Uh-huh. Loads of times. Probably more than me.’
Devereaux dipped his hands in his pockets, felt the damp and tortured body of the chewed cigarette. He dropped it in the toilet.
‘Sean, I don’t want to stay in here tonight.’
‘I know you don’t. But you’re going to have to. There’s nothing I can do about that.’
‘I don’t want to get hurt again.’
‘You won’t.’
‘What’s gonna happen to the guys who hurt me?’
‘I don’t know yet. Nothing they’ll be pleased about.’
He stepped to the grille and called to be let out.
The constable escorted him back down the corridor, prisoner choir prevailing. He was buzzed out through the booking window gates. Blake was still at the glass, elbows on the desk, watching his departure across netted fingers.
Devereaux said, ‘You’re lucky you didn’t break his nose.’
‘I’m lucky, or he’s lucky?’
‘I’m lodging a complaint. You threatened to spray him.’
Blake laughed. ‘You should know better than to trust what comes out of the mouths of these people.’
Devereaux stepped to the screen. ‘It was the blood comingout of his nose that was most persuasive.’ The glass fogged with his words.
‘I’ve got two witnesses who’ll say the force used was necessary. Ford took a swing at me. He was out of control, I responded appropriately.’
‘Suffice to say he tells it a little differently.’
Blake creaked back in his chair. Departing headlights strafed a yellow blaze across them. Devereaux’s shadow leapt ahead of him into the office.
Blake said, ‘Everyone’s tough from the other side of the glass.’ He smiled. ‘You and the fucking miscreants they drag in here.’
‘Come out here and talk to me, if you like. I’ll wait.’
Blake said nothing.
Devereaux said, ‘Another day, maybe.’
Blake said, ‘If you’ve got a complaint, go and fucking make it. But otherwise I don’t want to have to deal with you.’
Devereaux didn’t respond. He turned away and headed for the stairs.
NINE
M ONDAY , 13 F EBRUARY , 11.13 P.M .
T he arrival woke him.
Crunch of tyres on gravel, the broken ceiling-flicker as headlights panned the frontage. Hale slid out of bed. He felt his way to the front of the house, a strip of moonlight bent between hallway floor and wall. He checked the kitchen window. A silver sedan was idling at his garage, reflected headlamp blaze pooled around it. He backtracked to the bedroom, unseen edges nudging him in the gloom. A Remington 12 gauge lay loaded within snatch distance in the space beneath his mattress. Devereaux called it paranoid. Hale called it ‘sensible’: fourteen years’ law enforcement had accrued a thick catalogue of people worth fearing. All firearm-based security measures were acutely necessary.
He kept the gun close as he dressed, awkward and unbalanced in the semi-dark. He made the front door in a crouch, fumbled to free the deadbolts. Two doors slamming. He stepped outside. The gun grips were sweating up already: he gathered a shirt hem and dried them, trotted down the stairs that led to the front left corner of the house.
His property was steep, the garage set in against the slope beneath the main floor. The car was parked nose in to the house, kissing distance to the garage door. Alan Rowe and hisminder stood hands in pockets beside it, shoulders hunched against the evening chill, ankle deep in bright light.
Rowe heard the squeak of the stairs and glanced at him. He nodded at the gun. ‘Expecting somebody
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