Only the Dead

by Ben Sanders

  ‘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.’

  ‘You’ll be a disgraced former policeman. Your word won’t be worth a lot.’

  ‘Maybe. But you can just about guarantee others will step forward to back me up.’

  ‘“Just about” doesn’t seem that certain.’

  ‘Take the risk then. I just wanted to lay it out for you. Keep your nose clean and I’ll keep my stories private.’

  McCarthy grinned. ‘You’d do well in prison,’ he said. ‘They’re always needing ex-cops to play pick up the soap.’ He reached across and clapped Devereaux on the side of the knee.

  ‘Where’re your wife and daughter?’ Devereaux said.

  McCarthy’s eye line tracked slowly. The photographs, then back to Devereaux. He clucked his tongue gently. ‘It’s none of your fucking business,’ he said.

  Devereaux shrugged. He stood up. ‘Whatever,’ he said. ‘They must be ashamed of you.’

  McCarthy said nothing. Devereaux headed back down the stairs to the door.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  WEDNESDAY, 15 FEBRUARY, 12.26 P.M.

  Hale took a drive south, Otara-bound.

  A phone book check for Douglas Haines had yielded nothing. He’d delved deeper. Alas, nothing on the Securities Register, ditto for Land Information and the credit rating databases. He’d called Devereaux’s desk line, but it rang through. He did a ring around, got hold of Pollard down in Manukau.

  ‘Can you background-check a Douglas Haines for me?’

  ‘I’m on lunch.’

  ‘You could talk and chew.’

  ‘Yeah … hang on, I’m not at my desk. I’m eating a lamb kebab.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Give us the spelling on “Haines”.’

  Hale spelled it. Keyboard noise as Pollard checked the system. A wet noise in his ear, like sauce kissed off a finger.

  Poll
ard said, ‘Nothing. Sorry.’

  ‘Securities and Land Information was empty, too.’

  ‘Then I think someone’s passed you a fake name.’

  Hale didn’t answer.

  ‘What’s he done?’ Pollard said.

  ‘Nothing I know about. He’s just a witness.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘That fight club robbery back on January third.’

  ‘Huh. Shit. I wonder if they’ve checked him out properly.’

  ‘If you’ve got the witness lists, they might have got a driver’s licence or an address.’

  ‘I don’t have the witness lists.’

  ‘You can get them.’

  ‘I’ve got mayonnaise on my fingers.’

  ‘I’d appreciate it.’

  Pollard said, ‘Look. You might want to back off and just pass this on to someone.’

  Hale said, ‘Yeah. Maybe.’

  He pulled up in front of Pastor Drinnan’s house a little before one p.m. The man himself was on weed duty: crouched with shears in hand, tending to a parched tongue of lawn. Low hunch like a parody of prayer.

  He stood when he heard Hale’s door close. They shook hands across the low garden fence.

  ‘Mr Hale. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m having trouble finding this Douglas Haines.’

  Drinnan stabbed the shears in the grass. He smiled. ‘He’s out there somewhere. Maybe you need to look harder.’

  Hale smiled back. ‘He wasn’t in any of the usual places.’

  ‘Well, that’s funny.’ He braced a palm on the small of his back, ironing out an ache.

  ‘Do you have an address or phone number for him?’ Hale said.

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  Hale looked at him. Drinnan met the gaze calmly, unblinking and unperturbed. He said, ‘Don’t do me the discourtesy of thinking you’re going to catch me in a lie. I don’t know how to find the man.’

  ‘So who does?’

  He reached across himself and massaged a tender shoulder. Perspiration had moulded his shirt to his skin. ‘I don’t know. You’re the detective. Ask Leanne. She got him the job.’

  ‘Leanne Blair?’

  ‘Yes. I think you spoke to her yesterday.’

  ‘She told me she hadn’t met him before.’

  ‘Well. Maybe that was a mistruth.’

  ‘You mean a lie.’

  Drinnan didn’t answer.

  Hale said, ‘You think it’s wise to trust someone you know nothing about to be left in charge of money?’

  A truck passed on the road behind them. Drinnan waved off the fumes. ‘I trust Leanne’s judgment of character. She’s a good person, Mr Hale. You shouldn’t assume every one’s out to deceive you.’

  ‘It’s safer than believing nobody is. Thanks for your time.’

  Drinnan stood and watched him as he drove away, miniaturised by the rear view. Hale headed round to the liquor store on Everitt Road. Two cars were leaving just as he arrived. He parked nose-in beside the front door and walked in. Leanne Blair was behind the counter. The door buzzed and she glanced up and saw him. He checked the shop as he walked towards her: no customers, two kids from yesterday kicking a ball in the centre aisle.

  Blair flicked her eyebrows at him when he reached her.

  Hale said, ‘Step outside with me for two minutes.’

  ‘I’ve gotta watch the till.’

  ‘Step outside with me for two minutes.’

  ‘Someone might come.’

  He aimed a cocked finger at his lips. ‘Step outside. With me. For two minutes.’

  He exited the store and sat on the hood of the car and waited. A moment later the door buzzed and she followed him out.

  She stopped in front of him, ducked a cigarette to a cupped lighter. She looked at him over the flame. ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘How do I find Douglas?’

  ‘I don’t know. Look in a fucking phone book.’ She laughed.

  He stood up, directly in front of her. She took a step back. The wall of the shop was behind her.

  ‘You told me yesterday you hadn’t met the guy before.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Her cheeks hollowed as she sucked smoke. ‘I hadn’t.’

  ‘But you got him the job counting cash back on January third. So how does that work?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I didn’t realise you were hard of hearing.’

  ‘Friggin’ hell. What happened to Mr Polite from yesterday?’

  Hale didn’t answer.

  ‘Who told you that?’ she said.

  ‘Who cares? It’s the truth.’

  She was backed up against the wall, cigarette in two fingers of an upturned hand.

  ‘Where does he live, Leanne?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Her gaze ran back and forth. There was a lie floating there somewhere, close to the surface. She brought the cigarette to her mouth. He reached out and took it from her. Fluid and precise, thumb and forefinger, somehow unrushed. The thing just left her grip. She stood there a second empty-handed, lips ajar: an accidental mime.

  ‘Where’s Douglas, Leanne?’

  She held her tongue, ogling the cigarette snatch. He dropped it on the concrete and stomped it dead.

  ‘Where’s Douglas, Leanne?’

  ‘Back off. Jeez. I barely even know him.’

  ‘You’re dodging the question. Where does he live?’

  He stepped to within kissing distance. Her face was upturned. Hale turned and saw a patrol car idle through the intersection, a slow flare of sun sliding off its windscreen. He dropped back a half-pace.

  She smiled slightly. ‘Maybe I could start hollering. Then you’d be in trouble.’

  He watched her face. An eyelid gave a subtle quiver. He gambled: ‘Get them over here. We’ll tell them about Doug.’

  She didn’t reply. They stood there face to face as the car slipped past. Crackle of grit beneath slow tyres. A skin-deep tingle as wary eyes roved. His guts cooled at the thought of it turning into the parking lot. But it didn’t. It carried on past the intersection and vanished around a bend.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘That was your chance.’

  She didn’t answer.

  Hale said, ‘Who is he, and where is he?’

  He stepped forward again. He could smell the cigarette on her. The closeness had her rattled: she winced slightly, like anticipating a strike.

  ‘Look, he’s the kids’ dad and he’s not meant to be living near them but he is.’

  ‘Is Douglas his real name?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Either it is or it isn’t.’ He hadn’t blinked in a while. Her lip started to quiver.

  She said, ‘He’s got some stuff in his past that he’s kind of not that proud of. So he uses a different name than his real one to sort of try to keep it all out of the way. You know?’

  ‘What’s he not proud of?’

  She shrugged. Her mouth opened and closed, like she’d opted out of saying something glib. Hale’s proximity encouraged good behaviour. ‘Little stuff, I guess,’ she said. ‘He used to rough up the kids a bit. Cops told him he’s got to stay clear of everyone. But I like to see him, now and then.’

  ‘Where can I find him?’

  ‘Well, he’s not working, so at home probably.’

  ‘Where’s home?’

  She paused.

  Hale said, ‘Either you can tell me now, or you can come in the car with me and point it out. You choose. But don’t lie about anything.’

  His tone had harshened. It brought a stuttered reply: ‘I — I’m not lying.’

  ‘Where does he live?’

  She looked at the ground, gestured circularly, searching for words. ‘I don’t know the address, but I can tell you where the house is.’

  ‘I’m all ears.’

  He still hadn’t backed off. Tears started to well. She laid out some local directions. ‘It’s sort of on a corner. Not the one on the corner, but the one next to it. It’s a y
ellowy colour.’

  ‘What’s his real name?’

  ‘Why are you asking me all this?’

  He put a hand on her shoulder and pushed her hard against the wall. She gasped at the jolt, winced and shied away. ‘Jesus, don’t hurt me. He’s Allen. Doug Allen. His name’s Doug Allen. Please don’t hurt me.’

  He let her go and stepped back. She stayed against the wall, bent-kneed and tear-rimmed. Her vulnerability finally registered, and he backed off. The shove had been reflexive. She’d clammed up, and he’d transitioned to use of force, as per long practice.

  ‘Get away from me, you pig. Jeez.’

  The two kids were watching from inside, just out of buzzer range. Wide-eyed, like they’d been front row through the whole ordeal.

  Hale moved away and got back into the car. Leanne Blair wiped tears from her eyes and gave him the finger as he pulled away.

  Violence found him early.

  ’Eighty-four. Cancer had claimed his mother that April. It didn’t muck about: three months, diagnosis to death bed. The memories are discontinuous: he recalls the angst of the prognosis, the bedridden final weeks in wasted delirium. And then she was gone. She wasn’t a smoker, she wasn’t a drinker. The local pastor was stretched to justify the Lord’s reasoning. Everybody was. He remembers them standing there as the hearse pulled away, petals scurrying in its wake, the downcast faces and quiet thoughts of the departed.

  His father took it hard. He’d been resolute through the whole ordeal, but post-funeral he went downhill. Grief imposed an inversion of routine: he drinks long into the night, and sleeps long into the day. Despondency is absolute. But a long-established image of hardened self-reliance rules out the notion of seeking help.

  Hale is young, but prevailing common sense indicates that if his father isn’t working, income is nil. At some point the jar of change in the kitchen will need replenishing. At some point the generosity of his father’s sister will dwindle, and groceries will stop arriving unbidden. The burden of those economic logistics keeps him sleepless and frightened for every minute his father walls himself away, in steadfast pursuit of an empty bottle.

  Visitors are rare, but one day a tray-back ute pulls in off the road and winds its way up the driveway towards the house. Hale watches from a window as the car pulls into the turning bay out front. There are three men in the cab, two big black and tan huntaways tethered in the back. Ears pricked and leashes stretched taut. Bright-eyed and slick-tongued. The engine quits. A weak thread of diesel smoke drifts and disperses. The truck’s doors are grimed with road dust, deep tyre tread traced whitely by lime powder.