Only the Dead by Ben Sanders Page A

the edge of the step. Loafer: black leather, laceless, a deep heel. ‘You first.’
    ‘Howard Ford told me the occupant of this address might know something about October eight.’
    ‘And does he?’
    ‘I don’t know. He isn’t in.’
    ‘His car’s here.’
    ‘But he definitely isn’t.’
    The Don’s gaze roved: Devereaux’s eyes, the window, backto the eyes. Lie detection with an ice-blue tint. He said, ‘The lights were on a moment ago.’
    ‘That was me.’
    ‘You entered the house uninvited?’
    ‘I knocked and nobody answered. The door was unlocked. I went in and found the house empty, turned the light off and locked the outside door.’
    The Don smiled thinly. ‘A good faith entry, then.’
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘You have no idea where he is?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘That’s a worry. If he’s got information about an active investigation, it would be good to get hold of him.’
    ‘Won’t be able to now. I locked the door.’
    McCarthy came up onto the step. Half a metre between them. ‘You know how to pick locks?’ he said.
    ‘I do.’
    ‘Now might be a good time to get some field practice in.’
    ‘I don’t think so.’
    McCarthy didn’t reply.
    Devereaux said, ‘I can’t justify re-entering the house. I checked it a moment ago and found nothing suspicious. There’s no reason to go in a second time.’
    McCarthy scanned the eaves. ‘How did you come to be talking to Howard Ford,’ he said. ‘Given you had strict instructions not to interview him?’
    ‘Custody sergeant let me in.’
    ‘Clearly.’
    ‘I was concerned Ford was being mistreated. I didn’t want to wait until morning to find out.’
    ‘And was he?’
    ‘He’d been punched in the face. So, yes, I’d say so.’
    ‘And in the process of assessing his health, you somehow elicited the name Leroy Turner.’
    ‘That’s right.’
    The Don nodded and mulled it over.
    Devereaux said, ‘What are you doing here?’
    McCarthy raised his hands and jiggled his jacket by the lapels. ‘One of the privileges of rank,’ he said, ‘is that you get to ask questions, but you’re not obliged to answer them. How’s that?’
    Devereaux didn’t reply. He felt his pulse ticking at high revs.
    McCarthy said, ‘Am I going to have problems working with you, sergeant?’
    ‘Let’s hope not.’
    McCarthy took a step back. ‘You shot a guy yesterday. That in mind, I think it would pay to be doing exactly what you’re told until everything is ironed out. And carrying out an investigation by yourself at quarter to two in the morning is not what you have been told to do.’ He half turned and scanned the street, keeping a tab on his blind spot. ‘Don’t do anything,’ he said, ‘unless so instructed by these very lips.’ He turned and walked away.
    Devereaux didn’t answer. He pictured Turner, eye to the split curtain. The Don clicked his tongue and jerked his head, a slight wink of incisor, beckoning him towards the road. Devereaux followed as he walked back towards the drive. McCarthy drew his keys and blipped his locks. He pulled his door and slid in. His lights stuttered as he started the motor. The driver’s window dropped.
    Parting scorn: ‘Remember, sergeant: from these very lips.’
    He propped an arm atop the sill, raised a cocked thumb and first finger and shot him once in the chest. Devereaux waited until the car had disappeared from sight, and then he climbed into his Commodore and drove home.
    Sean Devereaux is ten years old, and through the wall he can hear the officer fighting with the new wife .
    The officer’s name is Derren. He’s British, ex-air force, clipped and square. Sean’s been with him close to six months, only since his mother went into hospital, and each week he hopes it’s the last .
    The wife is a relatively new pickup. The relationship has freight-trained from just met to just married in the space of three months. Sean thinks the wife probably regrets it, because these late-evening face-offs are beginning