Only the Dead (19 page)

‘Journalist have anything else to say for himself?’

‘No. He just gave me the name.’

‘How did you find me?’

‘I looked up Riley in the phone book and just started ringing.’

She made a little shape with her mouth like it struck her as sensible. ‘Well. I don’t know what to tell you other than he was forty-eight and he was a policeman, and there were fewer people than I’d have hoped for at his funeral.’

‘Did they tell you how he died?’

She looked up. ‘Quickly.’

Duvall didn’t answer.

She glanced down and pinched something from the cat’s fur. ‘No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get sharp with you. They said he was shot.’

‘Okay.’

She said, ‘I’m not so sure on how quick that would actually be. Got a feeling you’d have time enough to suffer.’

Duvall left a pause to let that settle. He said, ‘Do you know what division he was with?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘With the police. Did he do patrol, or investigations?’

‘Patrol. He wore a uniform and drove a car. He was based in the central city awhile, then, heaven knows why, he volunteered to do a bit of a stint down Manukau way. Why he wanted to drive all the way down there, I’ll never know.’

‘He was still based down there early last month?’

‘Yes. He got seconded to a big investigation down there. Those bank robberies that started up back in November. You know the ones?’

‘Yes.’

‘He was assigned to do work on that.’

‘What sort of work?’

‘I don’t really know. Talking to people, I think. Way I understand it is they had a whole list of people who could have done it, or might have done it, or might know something about it. And then they went out and talked to them, and people they knew, tried to squeeze out some gossip. Apparently, they reckoned if you stole as much money as these fellas did, you’d be driven to gloat about it at some stage. And so I think they spent a fair bit of time eavesdropping underworld tittle-tattle.’ A soggy cough flared. She doused it on a sleeve.

‘Did you see much of him, day to day?’

‘Towards the end I didn’t. He did a lot of night work. I think they liked to knock on people’s doors after the sun’s gone down. But I’m a day creature, so I suppose we lived in a different pattern. Often I’d be getting up just as he got in, and he’d bring me a cup of tea. Which was nice.’

The couch was too low. Duvall stretched his legs to ease a calf cramp. ‘How did he seem during the last few weeks?’

‘I haven’t seen him the last few weeks. He’s been dead.’

‘I mean the weeks before he passed away.’

‘I don’t think he was all that good, to be honest.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Don’t know, really. Although there wasn’t much else in his life beyond work, so I’d say at a bit of a guess that something with his job was eating at him.’

‘Was he okay, financially?’

‘Casino ate his savings. But I’d say his income was probably okay.’

‘Did he talk to you about why he might have been upset?’

‘No. I just deduced it, I suppose.’

‘Based on what?’

‘The happy pills he kept in the bathroom. Prozac or what’s it called.’

‘Had he been on antidepressants before?’

‘Not as far as I know. Can’t hardly blame him for taking them when he did. Wife had gone, money had gone, and he was sharing his bedroom with a dozen cats. Lucky he wasn’t allergic, or life really would have been a shambles.’

‘Do you know of anyone else I can speak to who might be able to help me?’

The infomercial ended. The woman watched the transition to an
Oprah
re-run and then looked back at him.

‘Not really,’ she said. ‘A lot of his friends were through his wife. I think he lost touch with them after the split.’

‘What about people at work?’

‘There’s a guy called Charlie. The surname’ll come to me in a minute.’

‘Okay. Who’s Charlie?’

‘He knew Ian. They worked together a lot, I think. He’s still with the police.’

‘Have you met him?’

‘I did actually. Many years ago. They graduated Police
College together. I met him then.’

‘Do you have any way of contacting him?’

‘Ian will probably have a number somewhere. It’ll be with all his things.’

‘You mind if I have a look?’

‘No, I don’t mind.’

She looked at him quietly. ‘What’s made you feel you got to dig through all this misery?’

‘I just feel like I should.’

She didn’t answer.

He said, ‘I’ve done a lot of things in my life I regret. I just want to do something that I don’t.’

She smiled. She said, ‘You seem like a decent chap. I wish I could absolve you of whatever it is that makes you feel you’ve got to do what you’re doing.’

Her eyes teared up. She removed her glasses and cleaned them on a sleeve and slipped them on again. She watched
Oprah
for a brief moment. ‘I remember holding him at the hospital,’ she said. ‘Probably the happiest day of my life. But maybe I should have left him there for some body else if I knew where he was going to wind up a little further up the street. I don’t know.’

Duvall didn’t know what to say to that. He stood up. The woman set the cat on the floor and gathered the crutches. She stood awkwardly: gulps and a grimace. A wide stance and hunched posture stabilised a shaky equilibrium. She nodded at the door. ‘Head on through. It’s in the garage. I’ll bring up the rear.’

He walked through to the garage. Animal stench greeted him: dense and heated, like inhaling a used glove. Cats swirled and mewed at ankle height. Taped cardboard boxes were stacked against a metal vehicle door. He threw a switch and
got weak single-bulb illumination. The camp stretcher was crisply made up. A small dresser stood adjacent, lamp and a couple of paperbacks atop it.

The woman clattered through behind him. A feline entourage rode her wake. ‘All that boxed stuff is his. Police only just gave it back.’

He crouched and checked out the dresser. It was only three drawers deep. A broken tongue of masking tape ran lengthwise. He found a framed wedding photograph and a creased passport in a worn envelope. A wad of bank statements not much cheerier than his own. A Prozac prescription. Framed headshots of two young children. He tilted it under the light and picked out a smeared thumbprint collage. He imagined Ian Riley looking at it in the dim solitude, reliving better days.

The top drawer held a softback address book. He thumbed it, front to back. Entries were seldom. He found a Charles Easton. He showed it to the woman.

She raised her glasses, brought a harsh squint in close. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s the boy.’

The second drawer held a ballpoint pen. He transcribed the Easton details to a receipt stub in his wallet. She watched him, breath short, propped up in teetering stability. He thanked her for her time. He offered his condolences. She didn’t reply. His sympathy hung out there unacknowledged. He made for the door.

She said, ‘I’m not normally one to be asking favours of strangers, but if you get a hold of whoever did all this, you can look them in the eye and tell them perdition’s waiting, and he’s got a wry grin.’

She eased herself down onto the stretcher. The mattress sagged deep and met the floor. She looked at the bedside table.
The book and the lamp. Artefacts of life wasted, an unintended tribute in household clutter.

Duvall said he could let himself out. He nudged through eddies of roaming cats to the front door and left.

He walked down to the busway and found a public phone beside the platform. Thank God it took coins. He consulted his receipt stub and dialled Charles Easton’s home number. The call rang unanswered. No message service. He dialled Manukau Police Headquarters from memory, and a patrol administrator put him through to Easton’s desk. No answer there either. Duvall shook his pockets for change and heard a feeble jingle. He fed the slot and called the same number, got hold of Charles Easton’s supervisor. The guy told him Easton was out on patrol. Duvall asked for a cellphone number, and the guy transferred him direct. Third time lucky: Easton picked up.

Duvall said, ‘Mr Easton, my name’s Mitchell Duvall. Susan Riley gave me your number.’

‘I didn’t realise I knew a Susan Riley.’

‘Ian Riley’s mother.’

Three seconds. ‘Okay.’

‘I was just wanting to ask you some questions about Ian.’

‘Convince me you’re not a journalist.’

‘I’m a private investigator.’

‘Who’s your client?’

‘I can’t reveal that.’

Easton didn’t answer.

Duvall decided not to lie: ‘Look, I’m not working for anyone; I’m not looking for a story. I just want to know what happened.’

‘That’s some pretty intense curiosity.’

Duvall said, ‘I’m not bullshitting you. I just met his mother; she said she was at your graduation.’

‘What year was that?’

‘She didn’t tell me.’

‘What’s to say you weren’t bullshitting her?’

‘All I want is to meet and ask you some questions.’

‘We’re not meeting. I’ll tell you that now.’

‘Five minutes of your time.’

‘Well, we’ve been talking for thirty seconds, so you’ve got four and a half minutes left.’

‘She said you and Ian worked closely.’

‘On and off.’

‘So do you know why he was on antidepressants?’

‘Ever had someone just ring up and start asking questions about a dead friend? It’s a bit weird.’

‘I’m sorry. I’m just trying to help; you didn’t want a face to face.’

A brief stretch of quiet. ‘No, I don’t know why he was taking the pills.’

‘His mother said he seemed withdrawn before his death. Do you know anything at all about that?’

‘Have you got a pen?’

‘No. Why?’

‘I’ll give you a number and you can call me back.’

‘Just bear with me. Two minutes.’

‘No. Listen to what I’m saying: I’m going to give you a different number, and you’re going to call me back on it. Okay?’

‘Okay.’

‘You got that pen?’

A bus passed: he palmed his free ear to suppress the roar. ‘Yeah. Give it to me.’

Easton recited another mobile number. ‘I’m driving,’ he said. ‘Wait two minutes, and then call me back.’

‘I’m at a payphone, and I’m running low on change.’

‘Tough shit, you should have thought ahead.’ He hung up.

Duvall emptied his pockets and topped up the phone, repeated the number continuously under his breath. The handset was dewed with palm sweat. He wiped it off, let his watch step around two minutes. He dialled, fingers timed to the spoken mantra.

Easton answered. ‘Well done,’ he said. ‘Two minutes, bang on.’

‘Look, as I said, I’m low on money here so it would be great to keep this brief.’

‘Uh-huh. Well, shut up and listen carefully. I’m going to give you some info, and if it gets out that you got it from me, I’m going to break your spine. All right? If the sergeant or receptionist or whoever patched you through, asks you what we spoke about, you can tell them I was absolutely fuck-all use to you. understand?’

‘I don’t really get where we’re going with—’

‘Do you or do you not understand?’

‘Yes, yes, I understand. Okay.’

‘Good. So here’s some good tattle for you: back in January, Ian was assigned to this robbery investigation shit—’

‘His mother told me.’

‘Okay, right. Just temporary help-out work. He said he got allocated to run interviews with this detective — guy was called Frank Briar — remember the name. Anyway, they went out to this address in Avondale to talk to some guy Leroy Turner, this is last month, beginning of January, because someone thought he might have had an inside line on some of these robberies. Cut a long story short, turned out he didn’t. But they knocked on this guy’s door and got him outside and put him in the back of the car for an interview; Ian driving and Briar in the back running the questions. And as I said, the guy’s got nothing to
give, so he clams up, says nothing. So Briar punches him in the side of the head, threatens to burn his ear off with a lighter if he doesn’t start spilling something. And the guy’s freaking out, because obviously he’s got nothing to say. Anyway, this keeps up; Briar’s asking his questions, the guy’s saying he knows nothing. Eventually, Briar clicks that the guy’s none the wiser, so he packs it in, lets old Leroy out of the car, and gives him a kick in the guts to get him on his way. That’s how Ian told it, anyway.’

‘How long have you known this?’

‘I don’t know. Since after it happened, I guess. He was a good guy. Ian, I mean, he knew where the line was. If he was down, odds on it was something to do with what I just told you.’

‘You think he felt guilty at not doing anything?’

‘Yeah. Well, not doing anything to help.’

‘Would you be prepared to testify to what you just told me?’

‘No.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I wear a uniform and drive a patrol car. I can’t afford to stand up and put my name to something like that and put my livelihood on the line. Simple as that.’ He paused. ‘Do with it whatever you want,’ he said. ‘But leave me out of it.’

W
EDNESDAY
, 15 F
EBRUARY
, 10.37
A.M
.

H
e needed breathing room.

Devereaux left the file with Hale and went out for a walk. He headed north down to Quay Street and the waterfront. The whole atmosphere was a head-clearer. That salt-diesel maritime odour. A roadside doughnut trailer’s hot grease aroma. The idle swill of pedestrians, the manic Stuka-style dive bombs of gulls seeking food scraps. He lit another cigarette and leaned on the railing past the Ferry Building, face to the harbour. A group of school kids passed behind him: a single-file parade of merry pastels and a whiff of sunblock. He wondered what they thought of him: this strange grey figure, propped on a rail. Smoke and furrowed brow. He looked at the water. A malformed fluid shadow gazed back, dimpled by ash. He couldn’t recall past aspirations embodying this moment. He wondered if it was true for anyone.

He was geared towards response to aftermath. But he couldn’t reconcile a wait-and-see approach when it came to Don McCarthy. He needed an indication of mindset: was the guy going to indict him, or was there too great a risk if the Devereaux side of the story went public?
He pulled a gun on me. But he was assaulting a suspect at the time; he’s made a habit of it
. Vote now on the lesser of two evils.

Devereaux stabbed the cigarette dead on the rail and binned it. He walked across to the corner of Queen and Customs and browsed a music store. Finger-walking CD rows had a therapeutic effect. He bought some Ryan Adams. His phone rang. Caller ID said Lloyd Bowen. The pessimist in him ruled the call a dismissal announcement. He got mental audio snippets of potential phraseology. He blocked it out and answered.

Bowen said, ‘Sergeant, when your phone rings, it’s a good idea to pick up fast.’

‘What can I do for you, inspector?’

‘I want you in my office in ten minutes. We need to get this shit cleared up.’

Devereaux checked his watch. Ten-fifty. He said, ‘What shit?’

The line went quiet. He thought Bowen almost laughed. ‘You shot a man on Monday, sergeant. If your memory’s going after two days, you need to rethink your chosen profession. Ten minutes.’

‘I’m down the bottom of town.’

‘So walk fast.’

Out of habit, he’d dressed for work: suited, but no tie. He needed a tie. He bought one on the way up High Street, knotted it on the run. Must have been the fastest purchase the place had seen: cash and keep-the-change. He’d barely broken step.

Devereaux checked his watch. Ten fifty-two. Eight minutes to get up to Cook Street. He wasn’t much of a runner. Smoking ensured it. He tried for a jog. Lung capacity permitted a brisk walk. Footpath traffic was slow-moving. He kept to the gutter to dodge congestion. Wing mirrors made swipes for his elbow. He reached the station, dead on the hour. A uniformed officer met him outside Bowen’s office.

‘Where is he?’

‘They’re in a meeting room, I’ll show you through.’

He was led to the same conference area they’d used for him on Tuesday morning. Lloyd Bowen, Frank Briar, and Thomas Rhys from Police Conduct sat dour-faced behind a long table. An empty straight-backed chair faced them. The room was hot. Bowen was sideways in his seat, legs crossed, an impatient toe tapping a table leg. A glass of water sweltered under his stare. Devereaux stepped inside. The uniform closed the door behind him. Three glances in neat unison.

Briar said, ‘You’re a minute late, but we decided to wait anyway.’

‘You’re a sweetheart.’

Briar didn’t answer. He topped up his own glass from a communal jug. Rhys dropped his gaze and jotted something on a pad.

Bowen said, ‘Sergeant, if you’re ready, we’ll begin the interview.’ He nodded to his left: a camera and mic system ready and waiting on a tripod. Briar did the honours and got up and started the recording. He recited the standard litany: time, date, persons present. He said, ‘Sergeant, you look a little flustered. Do you want a drink of water?’

‘Clear the recording and start again,’ Devereaux said.

‘May I ask why?’

‘You’ve inferred for the record that I’m somehow uncomfortable. You’ve prejudiced the interview before we’re even under way.’

Rhys and Bowen said nothing. Briar shrugged, affected confusion, like he’d enquired in good faith. He stopped the recording and erased the brief exchange, recited the requisite preliminaries for the second time.

Devereaux slid low in his seat and got comfy. He poured
himself some water. Half full, to prevent a nervous slosh.

Briar leaned forward on his elbows and spun his wedding ring. ‘Sergeant, the purpose of this interview today is to discuss some of the violent situations you’ve previously been involved with.’

‘I thought we’d covered that in my first interview.’

‘Only briefly.’ Briar paused and took a small mouthful of water. ‘You seemed reluctant to address the topic.’

‘Only because I can’t see how past events bear any relevance to the shooting I was involved in this week.’

‘One of our aims is to determine whether there was any element of prejudice or recklessness on your behalf when these incidents occurred.’

‘Well, don’t worry. There wasn’t.’

‘If you could agree to bear with me and answer the questions, maybe we can determine that.’

‘I can’t think of better irony than you probing me on prejudice and recklessness.’

Bowen pinched the bridge of his nose, swore on expelled breath. He stood up and stopped the recording. ‘Sergeant, I’ll tell you now, we’re not going to have the same bullshit we got last time. Get rid of the attitude and answer the questions.’

‘You can’t deny me right of reply.’

Bowen started to say something then clenched his jaw on it. His cheeks were colouring. ‘Answer. The fucking. Questions.’ Spoken like a dripping tap.

Devereaux took a sip of water.

Bowen hit Record and sat down. Briar said, ‘August of two thousand eleven, you were involved in an arrest during which a suspect was fatally shot in the neck.’

‘The suspect in question was a paedophile.’

‘It doesn’t alter the fact he was shot.’ He checked his notes.
His gaze flicked back up. ‘Name was Jon Edward. I take it the name’s familiar?’

‘Uh-huh.’

The room went quiet. Three seconds. Four.

Devereaux said, ‘Was there another question there I’m supposed to be answering?’

Briar said, ‘Can you describe what happened?’

Devereaux said, ‘Me and a private investigator named John Hale had been kidnapped by Edward and a gang member named Clayton Cedric Moore. When Hale attempted to apprehend Moore, Moore’s firearm discharged a round which hit Edward.’

‘And that round proved fatal?’

‘That’s correct.’

‘So how did the gun discharge?’

‘Moore’s finger was on the trigger at the time.’

‘How do you know this?’

‘John Hale told me.’

‘Okay. Moore’s testimony at the time was that you executed Edward, and subsequently modified the crime scene to reflect the scenario you just described.’

‘That’s a lie.’

Briar moved on. ‘Do you typically involve private investigators in official police operations?’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘So can you explain the circumstances that led both you and John Hale to be kidnapped?’

Devereaux took a breath. He had some water. ‘It’s all laid out in the report. Pull it and read it. But I’m not going to answer any more questions on it in the context of an interview relating to a completely separate event.’

He drained his glass and stood up. Bowen twirled his pen.
He said, ‘Walkouts are never a good look.’

Devereaux slid his chair in.

Bowen said, ‘Sergeant, you’re here voluntarily, but I’d strongly recommend you sit down.’

Devereaux drew himself square. He centred his tie and said, ‘In light of the fact Detective Sergeant Briar is the subject of a complaint regarding the assault of a suspect in custody, I don’t feel it’s appropriate for him to be conducting this interview.’

Briar didn’t flinch. He glanced at the recorder, quashed the urge to turn it off. Bowen stalled a beat and then shook his head and said, ‘I wasn’t aware of such a complaint.’

‘That’s because I haven’t filed it yet.’

Briar lost patience. He stood up suddenly, and his chair toppled. He stopped the recording. ‘Fuck you, Devereaux,’ he said.

Bowen raised a finger to cut him off. Devereaux didn’t even bother replying. He stepped to the door. Bowen said, ‘We’ll let you know if we’re going to charge you. Keep your phone close.’ He dropped his pen on the desk. ‘And keep your fingers crossed.’

Devereaux glanced back at them as he stepped out. Briar was staring at him, a real white-knuckle gaze. He mouthed something that looked like ‘Toast’.

Devereaux checked McCarthy’s office, but he wasn’t in. He found his cellphone number and dialled it from his desk line. McCarthy caught it on ring three.

‘Mr Devereaux. What’s your current employment status?’

Devereaux said, ‘We need to talk.’

The Don laughed. ‘Will the phone not do?’

‘I like being able to look people in the eye.’

‘So where and when?’

‘Where are you?’

‘I’m at home. If you want you can look me in the eye in the comfort of my own living room.’

Devereaux thought about it. ‘Okay,’ he said.

McCarthy gave him directions, and hung up.

It was a Parnell address, five minutes south of Auckland Central. Upmarket, a couple of blocks back from the main drag. Streets were narrow, plush housing on small sections crowded tight to the footpath. The Don had a two-storey sandstone-coloured place on a corner site, sheer plaster walls on both street frontages. Devereaux left the car straddling the kerb, and knocked on the front door. McCarthy opened up and waved him in without a word. They went upstairs. An open-plan kitchen and living area shared polished timber floor space. A wide east-facing picture window was shielded by a wooden blind at one end. Couches formed two sides of a square in the ladder-grille of light that filtered through.

Devereaux took a seat on a couch. The adjacent wall boasted blow-ups of the family photographs he’d seen in McCarthy’s office.

McCarthy said, ‘I hope you haven’t come here to bargain.’

Devereaux didn’t answer. McCarthy sat down on the adjacent couch, in profile against the window.

Devereaux said, ‘Normally, people offer me coffee.’

McCarthy grinned thinly. ‘I would normally. I make an exception for people I don’t like.’ He leaned forward, elbows on knees. ‘I think we can safely say the number of people who want you gone now outnumber the people who want you to stay.’

‘And what camp are you in?’

McCarthy shrugged, rubbed cheek bristles. ‘For a while
I probably would have voted to keep you. Now I guess I’d advocate for dismissal.’

‘Because you think I’m a threat to you, not because you think I was out of line.’

‘Yesterday evening you pointed a gun at me.’ He laughed and looked at him again. ‘How out of line do you want?’

‘You assaulted a potential witness.’

McCarthy stretched his legs out and knitted his fingers behind his head. Eyes still on edge. He said, ‘Don’t make the mistake of thinking you hold something over me.’ He licked his lips. ‘Don’t pretend you have clout, or that your testimony could someway outweigh what I have to say. I’ve got a distinguished thirty-year career behind me. Your CV boasts a handful of years and a fatal suspect shooting. Give it a while, it might read “fired” as well.’

‘We’ll see.’

McCarthy shook his head. ‘Bad deeds have a scale. Up one end you’ve got sadist sociopathic shitbags like Jeffrey Dahmer; near the middle you’ve got the sorts of guys who dished out torture at Guantanamo Bay; then down the other end you’ve got the likes of me.’

‘Putting things in relative terms doesn’t change anything.’

McCarthy laughed. ‘There are terror suspects in Middle East jails putting up with all kinds of shit. Sensory deprivation, water-boarding, probably electrocution. You get all sanctimonious over a coke addict in a bar getting a dig in the ribs. You’re stupid.’

Devereaux didn’t answer.

McCarthy smiled. A cloud shrouded the sun and the ladder-grille light pattern softened. ‘Here’s the difference between you and me: I never regret anything. I act decisively and have faith that I’m in the right. I know I’m in the right. Hindsight means
jack shit to me. In contrast you do things that strike you as good at the time, but then fret about them afterwards.’

He looked at Devereaux hard.
Am I right
?

‘I only regret action not taken,’ Devereaux said. ‘I regret not kicking your head in while you were going through that girl’s medicine cabinet.’

McCarthy shrugged. The threat didn’t faze him. ‘Don’t know about you, I think one messy bathroom and one mildly intimidated drug addict is okay collateral in the context of a major robbery investigation.’

‘I think said drug addict had a different opinion.’

‘Yeah, well.’ He found a hangnail by touch and bit it clear. ‘Maybe a few more loops of the block will work the bullshit out of you.’

Devereaux said, ‘So what are you going to do?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You claim I’m not a threat to you. So when are you going to tell someone I had you at gunpoint?’

‘Maybe I already have.’

Devereaux shook his head. ‘I saw Lloyd Bowen this morning. He didn’t mention it.’

‘Maybe I’ll take my time. Make you sweat.’ He leaned forward, slid along in his seat and turned so they were face to face. Contempt left his eyes hooded. ‘You’re already nervous enough you made the trip out here to try to talk me out of it.’

‘You’ve talked yourself out of it already. If you were going to make a complaint, you would have done it.’

A shimmer of a smile. Devereaux caught his scent: caffeine and aftershave, riding heated breath. McCarthy said, ‘So then why are you sitting in my living room, trying to feel me out?’

‘If they sack me, I’ll have nothing to lose.’

‘So?’

‘So there’ll be nothing to stop me telling someone about what I’ve seen you do.’