Only the Dead (28 page)

T
HURSDAY
, 16 F
EBRUARY
, 12.01
A.M.

S
leep eluded him.

Hale tried to rest, but suture ache kept him edgy. He couldn’t shake a heavy feeling of
what if
?

What if the girl’s injuries were more than just unusual?

What if he’d been bullshitted
?

He endured inaction until quarter past midnight. Then he rose and dressed and took the shotgun with him down to the car. The world dim beneath that pale lunar half-light. He drove east and was at the office by fifteen minutes to one in the morning. High Street was quiet. Balled litter tripped and tottered in the lonely thoroughfare. The façades sheer and deep-shadowed. An almost Gothic backdrop, in the absence of normal hustle.

He let himself into the office, locked the door behind him. Rowe’s file sat amid clear desk space, as if expecting company. Hale sat down and brought the lamp in close.

Page one: the pulped and bloodied Charlotte Rowe. The massive facial injuries: the broken jaw, the broken teeth, the broken eye socket. The flesh a swollen palette of reds and purples. The hair knotted and claggy with blood, shaved in places to expose the full extent of the injuries.

Hale browsed. He found the attending police officers’
reports. Photocopied handwritten notes described a ‘young female’ with injuries consistent with those photographed. No explicit mention of a Charlotte Rowe.

He got up and went to the cabinet opposite the desk. The grog cache had dwindled to a bottle of Cointreau, and some Langs Supreme Scotch whisky. He put a finger of the Scotch in a tumbler and sat back down, behind the desk. He checked drawers and found a phone book, located a number and dialled.

Early morning, staffing was light. It took him a long time to come off hold. He made a polite enquiry, regarding Charlotte Rowe. He gave his name as Detective Sergeant Sean Devereaux. Even claims of official standing won him few favours: divulging information over the phone contravened approved protocol. He said he was just trying to chase down minor details; that is, dates only. He was told the system held no records corresponding to the name Charlotte Rowe.

He tried two more numbers. More hold music, and then a null result in both instances.

The clock hit one-fifteen. He tried another number. He spieled his introduction for the fourth time, made his request.

He was put on hold. Hale waited, pulse in his ear leaping heavy.

‘You still there, detective?’

Hale said, ‘Yes.’

‘I think I’ve got it.’

‘Let’s have it.’

Hale listened to the reply, and clicked off. Then he said, ‘Well.’ He held the glass in his lap and leaned back in his chair and thought about what to do next.

Devereaux didn’t make it to bed. He fell asleep on the couch: arm across his eyes, The Smiths on the stereo — the same CD
he’d mused to Monday night, post-shooting.

He kept the phone close at hand. He couldn’t help but hope that maybe she’d ring back.

The call came at one-thirty. He caught it just before the voicemail was due, and didn’t check the screen. From the pause after he answered, he could tell it wasn’t Ellen.

Don McCarthy said, ‘Hello, sergeant.’

McCarthy. Shit. His wish for a call-back couldn’t have gone more awry.

Devereaux said, ‘What do you want?’

‘We’re going to have to work on your basic etiquette, aren’t we?’

‘Nobody’s polite at this time of night.’

McCarthy laughed drily. ‘If you go and open your front door, you’ll find a large, middle-aged police detective sheltering beneath the eave. Do yourself a favour and let him in.’

Devereaux ended the call. He dropped the phone on the floor beside him, didn’t move from the couch. After a minute there was a hammering at his front door.

‘Jesus. All right. I’m coming.’

He rolled sideways and found his feet. The hammering continued until he reached the door. He opened up, and Don McCarthy stood looking in at him. Typical wolfish attire: a grey suit, neatly buttoned over grey tie and white shirt. His hair bore a faint Brylcreem gleam.

‘Hello, Sonny Jim.’

‘Now’s not a good time, Don.’

McCarthy ignored him. He stepped inside. ‘I think your security light’s busted. Shit, it’s dim in here.’ He found the switch by guesswork, lit up the hallway. ‘We need to have a bit of a talk. Where’s your living room?’

He didn’t wait for a reply. Devereaux closed the door, went
back to the kitchen for his cigarettes and lighter. He went through to the living room. McCarthy was perched on the edge of the chair facing the couch, fingers meshed gently. The ash-heaped saucer still adorned an armrest.

‘Smoking gives you cancer,’ McCarthy said.

Devereaux lit a cigarette. The flame bestowed ghoulish face shadows. ‘I’ll risk it.’

McCarthy smiled thinly. Devereaux sat down opposite him, mirrored his pose. A metre or so separation. Devereaux moved the cigarette to the corner of his mouth, secured it with molar pressure. He spoke through clenched teeth. ‘What do you want?’

‘I’ve been doing some reading.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ Devereaux stretched and tapped ash into a coffee cup.

McCarthy’s eyes followed the movement. ‘A neighbour reported seeing a black Ford Escort leaving Douglas Allen’s street shortly after a shot was heard this afternoon.’

Devereaux didn’t answer.

McCarthy grinned broadly. He tightened his grip. Knuckles cracked in neat sequence. ‘You’ve got a great poker face,’ he said.

Devereaux shrugged. ‘I don’t know what we’re talking about.’

‘Well, how’s this: your old friend John Hale drives a black Ford Escort. Are we almost on the same page now?’

Devereaux didn’t answer.

McCarthy said, ‘I thought it was funny you were so eager to get down there. But what could explain it?’ He smiled and narrowed his eyes, tipped his head back and forth in mock thought. ‘Maybe because Mr Hale called you in a panic and told you what had happened? Am I getting slightly warmer here?’

Devereaux held the cigarette two-fingered, watched the ember crawl nearer as he drew in.

McCarthy stood up suddenly, crossed the room in one step. Devereaux worked hard to suppress a flinch. McCarthy leaned and picked up the cigarette box. He rattled it gently: a kid testing a wrapped gift. ‘May I?’

‘Please do.’

McCarthy popped the top, inspected the contents carefully. He selected a cigarette and placed it in his mouth. It took him three flicks to get the lighter to flame.

He blew twin smoke trails out his nostrils, set the cigarettes and lighter back on the shelf. He raised an open palm, waggled the thumb. ‘Ageing joints,’ he said. ‘I guess arthritic smokers have to use matches.’

McCarthy sat down again. He held the cigarette delicately between thumb and index finger. He looked at it with deep interest. ‘My first one in more than twenty years,’ he said. His eyes came up, shined and malevolent. ‘You just bore witness to a milestone event, sergeant.’

‘Don’t drop any ash.’

‘I had your phone records checked,’ McCarthy said. He returned the cigarette to his mouth, smiled around it. ‘You took a call from John Hale at two this afternoon. I trust I’m making sense here.’

He was making sense. Devereaux hoped it didn’t show. ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘Talk slowly.’

McCarthy hollowed his cheeks with a long drag. ‘Drop the bullshit. I know Hale was in the house. He called you afterwards and told you he was.’ He jabbed the cigarette for emphasis. ‘The big question here is why you kept it quiet.’

Devereaux didn’t answer. He could feel the poker face slipping.

McCarthy said, ‘There’s blood in the house, he probably left other evidence, too.’ He spread his hands, shrugged. ‘I don’t know, maybe I’ve lost the plot. Here I was thinking maybe he’d called you down to try to clean up after him.’ A smile inched through one cheek. ‘Do you see what I’m getting at?’

‘Speculation doesn’t carry a lot of weight.’

‘I’m just tossing some theories around, see where they lead us.’

‘Frank Briar was with me. I think if I’d tidied the scene he would have noticed.’

McCarthy laughed. ‘You indicated in our meeting this afternoon that Frank Briar isn’t such a trustworthy character. But now you’re telling me he’s reliable enough to corroborate your innocence?’

‘I didn’t mention anything about trustworthiness. I said he assaulted a suspect.’

McCarthy smoked some cigarette. ‘Irrespective of what you did or didn’t do, you took the call, and you went down there thinking you should help him out. I know you did, and you sure as hell know you did, too.’

McCarthy leaned back, blew a near-perfect smoke ring ceiling-bound. ‘Anyway, bottom line is: I know there’s stuff you’re not telling me.’

Devereaux didn’t reply. It was going on two a.m.

McCarthy said, ‘If I have to step out your front door with no more information than I came in with, I’m not going to be a happy chappie. At which point things’ll get unpleasant for you and Mr Hale.’

‘How many people have you told about assaulting Shane Stanton?’

McCarthy smiled, shook his head. ‘Don’t act like you’ve
got chips to bargain with. You pulled a gun on me. Nothing trumps that.’

‘How about the fact it’s two in the morning, and it’s my house?’

McCarthy laughed. ‘What are you going to do when they analyse the blood in the house, and find it’s John Hale’s, and you told no one?’

‘I don’t think that’s going to happen.’

‘Stoic. I can almost respect that.’

Devereaux didn’t answer.

McCarthy said, ‘Look. I don’t give a fuck about your little indiscretions. If Hale was in the house, I don’t really give a shit. All I want to know is why he was there, and how he knew to turn up. And if I know that, maybe I know enough to be able to find old Douglas. You see what I’m getting at?’

Devereaux watched him. ‘You’re sweet on this guy Doug Allen.’

McCarthy shook his head. ‘Sweet on him doesn’t even come close.’

‘You think he killed Turner and that investigator?’

‘Yeah. And I think he’s complicit in robberies dating back to last October.’ He fell quiet and smoked a bit. ‘Sure as God in heaven.’

‘You a religious man?’

‘No. I just wanted to say something that would help convey the certainty of my convictions.’

He stood up, slipped his hands in his pockets. The cigarette sat restless on his lip. A light fog lingered at the ceiling. ‘I’ll grant you full amnesty,’ he said. ‘Anything confessed within the safety of these four walls will be kept in confidence.’

‘Generosity. I can almost respect that.’

McCarthy smiled. ‘Touché.’ He sized up the bookcase, top
to bottom. He smoothed his tie. ‘Perdition catch my soul,’ he said. ‘You’ve even got some Shakespeare.’

Devereaux said, ‘I wish I could trust you.’

‘You can’t afford not to. If I walk out that door disappointed, you’re going to reflect on this moment sometime soon and wish you’d played things a little differently.’

Devereaux leaned back and crossed his legs. The Don watched him closely, like he could see behind the curtain.

McCarthy said, ‘Five seconds, then I’m gone. Be smart about this.’

They fell quiet. Morrissey sang ‘Last Night I Dreamt that Somebody Loved Me’.

McCarthy turned on his heel and stepped to the door.

Devereaux said, ‘Wait.’

The Don paused.

Devereaux said, ‘Hale checked the name Douglas Haines and found it was fake.’

‘Why did he feel the need to check it out at all?’

‘He was hired to investigate the fight club robbery.’

McCarthy placed the cigarette on the saucer on the chair. He smiled as if something revelatory had just hit. He said, ‘So he found the name was a fake. Who gave him the real story?’

‘Nobody. He checked out the house and got walked in on.’

McCarthy thought about it. His eyes did a few laps of the bookshelf. ‘Bullshit. You’re lying.’

Devereaux made no reply. He sucked the cigarette down to the final straight.

McCarthy said, ‘Allen ambushed him with a shotgun. He knew someone was in the house; someone tipped him off. So I’m guessing Hale ran some interviews and got a bit of background info before he ran his break-in. Don’t tell me I’m wrong.’

Devereaux looked up at him. A stern and chilly focus gazed back. He was too tired to slip a lie past it. He said, ‘He spoke to Allen’s ex-wife.’

McCarthy smiled and looked away, like past guesses were proving close to the mark. ‘The Blair woman,’ he said.

He stepped to the door.

Devereaux stood up. ‘Hold on.’

McCarthy looked back, across his shoulder. He looked eager. He looked set to kill something.
At some point commitment tipped into obsession
. This was not normal police work.
What’s your angle, Don
?

Devereaux stabbed out his cigarette. ‘I’m coming with you,’ he said.

McCarthy winked. He swung his keys on a hooked finger. ‘Glad to hear it, sonny. There’s a nice moon out.’

T
HURSDAY
, 16 F
EBRUARY
, 2.00
A.M
.

T
hey took McCarthy’s car — the grey Camaro. Left-hand drive, black leather upholstery, a massive three-spoke steering wheel. Seat squabs gave a tight groan as Devereaux climbed in. He caught a hard whiff of cleaning fluid.

McCarthy reached for a laptop on the back seat and set it in his lap. ‘Got to be royalty to sit up front in this car,’ he said. ‘Consider yourself privileged.’

‘I’ll try not to touch anything.’

McCarthy put the key in the ignition and started the engine. The old V8 settled into a throaty rumble. He squinted and pecked at the keyboard, index fingers only.

‘We’ve got a Leanne Blair down Otara way,’ he said. ‘That’ll be her, won’t it?’

Devereaux made no reply.

McCarthy clapped the computer shut and laid it on the back bench. He tapped the pedal and belted up. ‘I guess this is what they call an uneasy alliance,’ he said.

‘Don’t hurt her.’

The Don put the car in gear. ‘Is that a request or an instruction?’

Devereaux looked across at him. ‘You had trouble making that distinction last time around. And I think you came off second best.’

They pulled into the street. ‘Don’t try to convince yourself you’ve come along to keep me in line. You just want to see it through to the final credits.’

‘I want to see it through to the final credits without you breaking the law.’

McCarthy laughed. ‘Your slate’s not exactly squeaky-clean, so don’t go giving me that bullshit.’ He lapsed into quiet. They made it down to Tamaki Drive. McCarthy turned west. The lamp-lit switchback of the road ahead, starkly yellow beneath that immense lid of darkness.

‘Here’s a case study for you,’ McCarthy said. ‘Twelve, fifteen years ago I went to question this guy about a rape. No hard evidence on him, but he had sexual violence priors going back maybe ten years. Anyway. This girl, she was seventeen, she’d been raped in a park nearby, and a woman had spotted this guy — my suspect — in the area round the time of the attack. So he looked pretty good for it. But you know how it goes, I went to question this guy, and he refused to come in for an interview, so I talked to him there in the house. And he denied, denied, denied, denied. We’ve all seen it before. But then towards the end, he suddenly got a funny look in his face and said to me, “I’ve seen pictures of the girl. Whoever did her must have had an absolutely amazing time.” Verbatim, I promise. And while in a legal sense it was nowhere near a confession, it was still the sort of thing that made me want to cut the guy’s throat, bone-deep. Bit extreme, so I broke his nose, and six teeth. He never reoffended. So then you ask, well, which is worse: me sidestepping judicial procedure and dealing to the guy, or lack of evidence meaning charges couldn’t be laid?’

‘Unilateral decision-making seems a little undemocratic.’

‘Yeah. But so is rape. People only see black and white. Judicial equality; one system of punishment applied to everybody, all
that carry-on. Whereas my experience has taught me that violence is necessary, and appropriate, and effective. And I don’t give a shit about whether the current academic consensus is that punching people in the face is not right. Because unless you’ve actually experienced things at arm’s length, I’m not interested in any moral absolutism bullshit that says beating up sex offenders is wrong.’

‘Knock around all the rapists you like. Just don’t hurt anyone tonight.’

McCarthy shook his head. ‘Here’s the thing, sonny. Even bleeding heart liberals can be persuaded to admit they don’t mind the thought of rapists having it handed to them. But in most people there’s an ethical cut-off line that says, “Below this point physical violence as punishment is unwarranted.” I’ve got one, you’ve got one. And unless you’re some crack-head moralist who believes that violence is unacceptable irrespective of context, then I find it pretty fucking arrogant when people, who have not the slightest inkling of the tragedy I’ve seen, claim that their own datum for right and wrong is somehow more “correct” than mine.’

Devereaux didn’t reply. McCarthy clicked his tongue. ‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘That’s just my view.’

Devereaux was quiet a long time. At length he said, ‘If you find that tonight your particular ethical cut-off line sanctions assault, I might have to help you recalibrate it.’

McCarthy smiled. He reached across and clapped Devereaux on the knee. ‘Good luck,’ he said.

Hale waited until two-fifteen, then dialled Alan Rowe’s home number. It rang through to voicemail. The machine invited him to leave a message. He redialled instead. A woman answered, and Hale asked for Mr Rowe.

‘He’s still out,’ she said.

‘Where is he?’

‘Sorry, who’s this?’

‘John Hale.’

‘Oh. Hi. Yes, it’s Yvette speaking. You watched us play tennis the other day.’

‘That’s right.’

‘God,’ she said. ‘It’s late. Or early actually.’

Hale didn’t answer.

Yvette said, ‘Well, anyway, he’s not back yet, and I’m not entirely sure where he is.’

‘Have you got a mobile number?’

‘For Alan?’

‘Yes. For Alan.’

‘Well, it’s only for emergencies really.’

‘This is an emergency.’

‘Well. Okay then.’

She found him the number. Hale thanked her and hung up. He sat in the quiet a moment, and then he dialled again. He had to call twice more before Rowe finally picked up.

‘Fuck’s sake. What is it?’

‘It’s John Hale.’

‘How’d you get this number?’

‘I guessed it. It’s taken me all night to finally get you.’

‘Right. Here I was thinking you’d gone and disappeared on me.’

‘I need to see you.’

‘What, now? It’s half past two in the morning.’

‘Where are you?’

‘In town.’

‘You’ll need to be more specific than that.’

‘You actually want to see me now?’

‘Yes. I actually want to see you now.’

‘So you’ve got a name then?’

‘Uh-huh.’

Rowe gave him an address. ‘It’s down by the Customs Street-Queen Street corner. You know the building?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘We’re in the penthouse apartment, up the top. But I’ll send one of the boys down to meet you at the street.’

‘Give me ten minutes.’

‘Oh, okay, shit. You’re quite close.’

‘Yes,’ Hale said. ‘I’m quite close.’

A penthouse appointment necessitated a good look. He had his fitted Yves Saint Laurent suit on standby for such an occasion. Navy virgin wool, two buttons. He wore a pale blue shirt beneath it, no tie. Polished black brogues completed the effect. He appraised his mirrored self in the window: professional, self-confident, a pervading sense of
je ne sais quoi
.

High Street to Customs was a three-minute walk. The address was an old heritage building, near the Queen Street intersection. Rowe’s minder Wayne Beck met him outside, at the Customs Street entrance.

He looked up from a text message, pocketed his phone. ‘Looking sharp.’

Hale didn’t answer.

Beck swipe-keyed them through a private access. Two abreast up a broad staircase, the handrail in wide, ornate timber, darkly polished. The penthouse was up on the eighth floor. Beck pulled the door and let him enter first. Hale smelled the liquor on him. Through a short hallway and he emerged into open-plan kitchen and living. To the north, windows framed by concrete pilasters faced towards Customs Street. The back
of the Mercure Hotel blocked a harbour view. An empty wine glass stood alone atop a long balcony, as if contemplating a dive.

The living room furniture was low and leather. Five guys in suits reclined in easy chairs. Collars splayed and ties loose, beer bottles perched on armrests. In the kitchen two men leaned against a countertop, loud and slurred conversation attended by a spread of empty wine bottles.

The guys in the kitchen ignored Hale’s arrival, but heads turned in the living room. Alan Rowe rose unsteadily from a cream leather armchair. He weaved slightly as he crossed the room, like his balance needed a bit of polish. A half-full tumbler in one hand chimed with lolling ice.

They shook hands. At the far end of the room, a telescope sighted on a Mercure window stood atop a tripod.

Rowe said, ‘It’s not the best time, but what the fuck.’

He turned to one of the guys still seated. ‘James. We use the office?’

James acceded with a limp wave. Rowe paused mid-step to take a small hit off the tumbler, then led the way. The office was behind the kitchen. A window opposite the door looked west towards Queen Street. Below it, two chairs faced each other across a timber desk. A keyboard and computer monitor had been slid aside, short cocaine lines neatly arrayed in their place. A man was hunched over the set-up, a rolled banknote touched to one nostril.

He glanced up as they entered. Rowe spread his arms. ‘Casey. Jesus. Place has a bathroom.’

The guy didn’t answer. He vacuumed left to right: four lines, five seconds, shivering hard with the influx.

Beck entered the room behind Hale, left the door ajar. ‘Stuff’s the good shit, eh, Case?’

‘God, yeah.’

Rowe rounded the desk and fell in the chair. ‘Take it easy with that. Shit gives me nose bleeds like you’ve got no idea.’

‘Just a bit of blow. I’ve been up since six. You need the office?’

‘Yeah. If that’s all right.’

‘Give me a shout when you’re done.’

He walked out and pulled the door to behind him.

Rowe arched his head back and downed his drink, set the tumbler on the desk. The ice had diminished to little rounded buds. He gestured across the desk. ‘Take a seat.’

Hale stepped forward and leaned on the chair’s backrest. He wasn’t going to sit down. ‘Nice digs,’ he said.

Rowe shrugged, palmed coke residue off the desk.

‘Not mine; we just come along for a bit of a piss-up.’ He smiled to himself, shook his head. ‘No matter how well you think you hold your liquor, there’s always a lawyer out there who can hold it a little better. Holy shit.’

Hale didn’t answer. He sensed Beck lean back against the door.

Rowe clapped his hands. ‘Now,’ he said.

Hale gazed back pleasantly. A framed and glassed print of Picasso’s
Femme en pleurs
adorned the right-hand wall.

Rowe laid folded arms on the desk, leaned forward. ‘I can feel the last eight hours of wine and food coming through, so we’ll try to keep this brief.’

Hale didn’t answer.

Rowe said, ‘You told me you had a name.’

‘To be honest, I only said that to get me in the door.’

A silence settled gently.

Rowe said, ‘What, you thought I was going to slap my knee and have a good old giggle? Don’t waste my time.’

Hale said, ‘I’ve hit a bit of a discrepancy.’

‘In relation to what?’

‘You told me your daughter was injured during the fight club robbery on January third. But hospital records show she was admitted for emergency treatment on November twenty-seventh last year.’

Rowe shrugged. He raised the tumbler and drank a trickle of melt water. ‘I don’t see what the issue is.’

‘The issue is that I was hired on the basis your daughter had been hurt in the course of a robbery, and you wanted to know who was responsible. And given that that isn’t true, I’ve got two questions: firstly, why you hired me to investigate a crime you have nothing to do with; and, secondly, what actually happened to your daughter?’

Rowe smiled. He was calm, no agitation. ‘I appreciate your help,’ he said. ‘Beck will show you out. Don’t forget to bill me.’

Hale smiled. ‘I don’t really want to drop this just yet.’

‘You’re obligated to; I don’t need you any more.’

‘As an upstanding citizen, I feel a pressing civic responsibility to pursue it a little longer.’

Beck put a hand on his shoulder. Hale shrugged it off, but didn’t turn around. He said, ‘Don’t touch me again.’

Rowe leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs. He held his glass with two fingers, rocked it up on its edge. A jiggling foot betrayed impromptu scheming. He said, ‘Let’s do this somewhere more private.’

Hale smiled and saw his parenthesised logic:
Let’s keep this quiet. Let’s do this somewhere clear of witnesses
.

Hale nodded and popped both suit jacket buttons. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’