by Ben Sanders
‘Didn’t have to be a brain scientist to work out what would happen if I didn’t. You know? So I let them in, and, I ain’t joking, soon as it’s unlocked, they hit the door with an axe or something to knock it back, and they came in.’
‘Did anyone else see this?’
‘Don’t think so. Just us in the caravan and the fellas outside.’
‘What did they do once they were in?’
‘Am I getting paid for this?’
‘No. Sorry.’
She nodded and thought about it. Carpet had pulled back off the skirting like a snarl. ‘How long do you think this’ll take then?’
‘Not very long.’
‘Not very long. Sweet as.’
‘What did they do once they were inside?’
Her mouth downturned as she thought about it: ‘They just came straight in the door, and one of the guys just punched Doug straight in the face.’
A flash to Rowe’s file: Douglas Haines, the second ticket attendant that night.
She said, ‘You think you break into somewhere with guns and shit, you don’t really need to do any hitting. Anyway. They did.’
‘What size guys were they?’
‘Dunno. Same size as you maybe.’
‘Big then.’
‘Yeah. Pretty big.’
‘Nationality?’
‘Dunno. They had masks on, and sunglasses over their eyes, and gloves on. Didn’t say too much, either.’
‘Did you notice an accent?’
‘No. But I’m not good with how people talk. I just hear words; all pretty much sounds the same.’ She looked at the dead TV. ‘They knew what they were doing, though, eh. Shit. They kept everything covered with those guns. My old lady used to say it’s better to be good at nothin’ at all than to be good at sin. I quite like that one.’
‘They give you that black eye?’
‘Oh, yeah. Shit.’
She touched a fingertip to her lid, glanced at it like she might have picked up a smudge.
‘Got beat up pretty bad.’ She patted her stomach. ‘Kept the baby, though.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Yeah. Fuckin’ good.’
‘How did you get the job?’
‘Guy I know offered it to me. He used to be a church minister. Now he runs fight clubs.’ She laughed. ‘Reckon they’ll let him into heaven?’
‘I’ll keep him company if they don’t.’
She nodded slowly. ‘You believe me, though?’
‘Yes. I believe you.’
‘Good. Just, normally when I tell the story, people look a bit more impressed.’
‘I guess I knew what to expect.’
‘You’re like the cop I spoke to. Gave him what I gave you and it didn’t rattle him too much one way or the other. Like he’d heard all kinds of stuff in his day and there ain’t none of it that surprised him all that much.’
He rolled in his seat and slipped his wallet from his pocket. He removed a copy of the Charlotte Rowe headshot and offered it in two fingers. She leaned in to take it, grinning with the stretch.
‘Who’s this?’
‘She was hurt during the robbery.’
‘Looks like she got hit with a hammer or something.’
‘She was.’
She drew her legs up on the cushions again.
‘Yeah. Some folks heard all the commotion or whatever, came outside to see what was happening. They had to just sort of smash their way through to get away.’
‘Have you seen her before?’
‘Maybe.’ She held the photo nails-only at one corner, waved it like airing a Polaroid. ‘I dunno. Doesn’t really ring any bells.’
Hale waited, in case of clearer recollection.
‘You want this back?’ she said.
‘Please.’
She passed it back.
‘How do I find this guy Doug?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘So who’s this friend of yours that got you the job?’
‘I call him Pastor Drinnan.’
‘Where can I find him?’
‘At home. He’s pretty much retired.’ She gave him the street name. ‘It’s a yellow place with a house bus-thing parked next to it. You’ll know the one.’
TWENTY
TUESDAY, 14 FEBRUARY, 4.25 P.M.
Devereaux didn’t think going home was a good idea. He was a recidivist over-analyser. Solitude implied an afternoon of dwelling on things best forgotten.
His former boss was a woman named Claire Bennett. She owned an old villa in Grey Lynn, just south of the central city. Her block was a line-up of houses of the same ’twenties vintage, pressed close to low front fences, footpaths cracked by root upheaval. He saw her car in the driveway and pulled in behind. She must have heard his arrival: barely a pause between his knock and the door opening.
‘Still not above cold calls,’ she said.
‘You free?’
She stood aside. A stern, heavy woman, nearing sixty. Face lined with sharp precision, as if aged by intention. ‘Yeah … in you come.’
She had a combined kitchen and living area in an addition at the rear of the house. A floating counter split the space lengthways. French doors opened onto a low deck and square back yard corralled by brush fence. A rug took the afternoon gleam off the timber flooring.
‘You had some drama,’ she said.
‘News finds you fast.’
‘I heard a cop had shot someone; you topped my list of likely candidates.’
He didn’t reply. She saw something in his expression and waved the comment off. ‘No. I’ve still got my contacts.’
‘I’m sure you do,’ he said.
‘Are you all right?’
‘People keep asking me that.’
‘And what do you keep telling them?’
He ignored the question. He stood at the French doors and looked at the yard. ‘Got any coffee?’ he said.
‘No. I can do tea, or hot water.’
‘Tea will do.’
He stayed at the window. She bustled in his periphery, filling a jug, gathering mugs. The reasons behind her resignation varied. The official line was she wanted to be at home to care for her daughter: the girl was autistic and recently expelled from high school. But gossiped conjecture held that Bennett had been asked to move on. Devereaux attributed the exit to a measure of both. The former, helped along by the latter. He turned away from the window and saw her watching him.
‘It’s giving you grief,’ she said.
‘Sorry?’
The jug built to a roar. She took teabags from a ceramic jar in a cupboard and allocated one per mug.
‘It’s on your mind.’ She smiled. ‘Made me think you popped round so you can hear me say, “Don’t worry about it.”’
He laughed. ‘Alternative was I could just go home and listen to myself say it.’
She pulled a drawer and rummaged for a teaspoon. ‘But you wanted to share the load?’
‘Something like that.’
She looked at him a moment. ‘Jesus, cheer up.’
Devereaux said, ‘He’s dead.’
She was quiet a long time. In his periphery he saw her lean against the counter and fold her arms. ‘Oh, God, Sean. I’m sorry.’ Ellen’s words exactly.
He stood facing the window. He couldn’t look at her, sensed her desire for further details. The jug clicked. He said, ‘Milk, two sugars.’
He heard the scrape of mugs on bench top. Bennett said, ‘We’ll go on the deck. Got some good sun at the moment.’ Contrived levity in her tone.
He shouldered the door against a snug frame and stepped outside and took a seat on the step down to the lawn. Bennett joined him a moment later and passed him a mug. She sat down beside him. She’d read him instantly. He’d conned himself into thinking his visit held no strict purpose, but she’d burned that: You popped round so you could hear me say, ‘Don’t worry about it.’
He dropped the mental ruse. Let’s get her verdict.
Right on cue: she leaned forward and placed her mug on the step between her feet. ‘So tell me about it.’
Devereaux said, ‘I shot him, and now he’s dead.’
‘I know. Tell me about before that.’
‘I thought you’d heard the story.’
‘Not from you.’
He took a slow swallow. ‘I feel like I’m guilty of something.’
‘You mean you feel guilt, or you’re worried someone will decide you did something wrong?’
He thought about it a moment. ‘Both, I guess.’
She nodded slowly, like she’d guessed the answer. ‘It’s a big deal,’ she said. ‘Whether it was needed or not.’
‘It was needed.’
‘So we’d better hear all the details then.’
He gave her the rundown. She listened quietly and nodded once when he was done.
‘What did the Merry Prankster think?’ she said.
‘Who?’
‘John Hale.’
‘He said it sounds like the guy needed shooting.’
‘Never did fluff around when he had something to say, did he?’ She looked at him sideways, lids low. Her lips stayed almost static as she spoke. ‘Reality is, every so often you’re in a situation where you have to shoot someone. And that’s pretty much the long and the short of it.’ She had some tea. She held the mouthful, as if second-guessing the swallow, then eased it down gently. ‘And I’ve known you long enough to know I’m sure you wouldn’t cancel anyone’s flight unless they really needed to get off the plane.’
‘Thanks, Claire.’
She gave his knee a pat.
‘You ever have to do it?’ he said.
She shook her head. ‘No.’
Devereaux didn’t answer.
‘Got any of those cancer sticks?’ she said.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Those things you smoke. Cigarettes.’
‘Why? You want one?’
She propped her elbows on her knees and nodded to herself. ‘Yeah. Why not?’
He leaned back on one elbow and pinched two cigarettes free from a flattened pack in his jacket. Kinked, but still serviceable. He passed one to Bennett. She put it in her mouth and leaned in for him to light it.
He said, ‘I thought you quit.’
Smoke leaked through a smile. ‘It’s a work in progress.’
He lit up his own. ‘Where’s Hannah?’
‘My sister’s got her today.’
‘How is she?’
She shook her head and made a face. She cupped a hand across her neck and rubbed her throat. ‘Not brilliant.’
‘She going to go back to school?’
She leaned across herself and tapped ash off the edge of the deck. ‘I don’t know. Nobody’s lining up to take her. She needs a dedicated teacher aide, and nobody’s prepared to fund it. So it’s not looking good really.’
Devereaux didn’t answer.
‘Major behaviour problems suddenly; she’s into breaking things. Plates, walls.’ She bit her lower lip lightly and watched the steam off her tea. ‘So much for an easy retirement, eh?’
‘You’re more than welcome to send her for a visit with me, if you ever need it.’
‘Yeah, thanks. You’re a honey.’ She stretched crossed ankles out in front of her. ‘Anyway. Mustn’t gasbag on.’ She glanced at him. ‘Have you been missing me?’
‘I have actually.’
‘Aw, Seany. You’re too much.’ She removed the cigarette to make room for a sip of tea.
‘You could always come back.’
She tilted her head back and laughed. It struck him as out of character: he’d known her ten years, she’d always kept amusement pinned down. Maybe quitting had agreed with her. ‘Don’t think they’d eat that one too easy,’ she said. ‘Jesus.’ She took a swallow. ‘I think I’m happier out than in, if I’m being honest.’
‘Why’s that?’
She cupped her mug in two hands and looked left, away from him. Her cigarette bled a lazy curlicue. ‘I’m not a man. And it’s definitely a man’s world.’ She tilted her head slightly, narrowed one eye as if testing a theory. ‘I don’t think I ever drank enough, or was offensive enough. Think people would have been a lot happier if I had a penis. You know?’
‘You could just come back anyway. Be an improvement on the current arrangement.’
She took a sip. ‘So I hear. Yeah, I think you’re right.’
They sat and puffed. ‘Seeing anyone at the moment?’ she said.
He nodded. ‘Forensic tech named Ellen Stipe. I met her on that bus shooting last year.’
‘She nice?’
‘She’s growing on me.’
She laughed. ‘Bet she’d be thrilled to hear that.’
‘No. She’s very nice. I like her.’
‘What does she think about this whole business?’
‘The shooting?’
She nodded.
‘I think she’d prefer it if I hadn’t killed anyone.’
She took a last pull: a fierce drag that corded her neck and dropped her eyelids. She stabbed out the cigarette in the bottom of her mug and stood up. ‘Come and have a look at my veges,’ she said.
There was a small garden by the rear fence. He followed her over. A thatch of bamboo stakes supported a dense bloom of leaves.
‘I specialise in peas,’ she said.
She bent and picked a half-dozen pods.
‘Here. Nutritious. You want some to give to John?’
‘I don’t think he’s much of a pea man.’
He cracked a husk lengthways, ate the peas one by one. Quiet and methodical as she watched.
‘Making progress with this bank robbery stuff?’
‘Probably shouldn’t tell you.’
‘I’m good with secrets.’
He shook his head. ‘No. There’s not a lot of progress. There’s no internal transparency. I’m sure there’s a tie-in with these shootings back in January, but it’s hush-hush.’
‘So make it un-hush-hush.’
‘I can’t. It’s locked down.’
She thumbed peas off a split pod and tossed the remains back into the planter box.
‘Shouldn’t stop a resourceful young lad like you.’
He turned away and headed for the house.
‘Even people you liked couldn’t make you do as you were told,’ she said. ‘Let alone people you didn’t.’
He paused on the step. ‘I’m sorry if I ever caused you any grief,’ he said.
‘Been and gone now. All you can do is pay it forward. Dish out some grief to someone who needs it.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘Make sure you talk to someone about everything. Won’t you?’
‘I talked to John Hale.’
‘Talk to someone who isn’t a psychopath.’
He didn’t answer.
Bennett said, ‘You want to stay for a bit of dinner?’
‘No thanks. I’m going to go and visit the Merry Prankster.’
‘Good for you. Can you find your way out?’
‘I’ll holler if I get into trouble.’
She laughed. ‘Take care, Sean.’
Hale found the house easily enough. The bus in the yard made it an easy find. Pastor Drinnan’s wife was waiting for him when he arrived. She opened the front door and spoke to him through the fly screen. A short, heavy woman sketched in silhouette on grey mesh.
‘Leanne called to say you were coming round. He’s not in at present.’
‘You mind telling me where I could find him?’
‘He’s taken the dog to the park. So that’d be your best bet.’
The park was a small council reserve just along the road. A guy in his late sixties and a black Labrador sat side by side on a bench atop a low rise, overlooking a playground. They were a neat pair: same hunched posture, same slackness of jowl. The guy hitched one elbow up on the backrest, glanced over his shoulder as Hale approached.
‘P
astor Drinnan?’ Hale said.
He smiled. A worn grey fedora kept his eyes in shadow. ‘More like Mr Drinnan, these days.’
‘You mind if I have a word?’
‘Regarding?’
‘Regarding a fight club robbery on the third of January of this year.’
Drinnan placed his hands in his lap, looked out over the playground. ‘Well. You’d best take a seat then.’ He glanced at the dog. ‘Scoot over, Gerry.’
The dog licked its lips and shuffled over to free up bench space. Hale sat down beside it. A hatchback was parked out on the street, a cardboard placard behind the windscreen. A request in bold marker pen: Please stop braking into my car. I am a single mum with no money.
‘Gerry’s leaving home today,’ Drinnan said.
‘Leaving the nest at last.’
The guy sighed. It sounded like closure of deep musing. ‘Something like that. No, he and the wife don’t really get on.’
‘Irreconcilable differences.’
The dog gazed down at its front paws. Drinnan smiled. ‘Yes. Exactly.’
Hale said, ‘Better the dog than you.’
‘I think the exact phrasing was “Either the dog or you”. Anyway.’ He watched a young mother pushing a little girl on a swing, placed a hand on the back of the dog’s neck. ‘He loves the park. He used to love coming here. I wanted to give him a last visit.’
The animal leaned its head against Drinnan’s shoulder.
‘I’ll miss you, Gerry. I’ll miss you, mate.’
He looked over at Hale. ‘I don’t think I caught a name.’
‘John Hale.’
He touched the brim of his hat. ‘Pleasure. Arthur Drinnan.’
‘I’m sorry to intrude like this. Your wife only told me I could find you here.’
Drinnan nodded slowly. ‘That’s okay. Margaret wouldn’t have worried about interrupting Gerry’s last visit.’ He smiled slightly, whistled faintly through his teeth. ‘Don’t you go worrying about it though, Ger.’
He reached across himself and stroked the dog’s ear, a thumb and index finger massage, eyes still with the swings.
‘You got a dog, Mr Hale?’
‘I used to. It died, I never got another one.’
He nodded slowly. ‘Must be an interesting life, don’t you think? No conscious recollection, no conscious expectation of what’s around the corner.’ He smoothed a palm over the dog’s head, animal’s eyelids lifting as he did so. ‘Must give things a certain kind of purity, even on the brink of the Big Exit.’
