Hunted. Paul Finch

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      ‘What the fucking hell?’ He advanced fiercely, closing down the officers’ space.

      ‘Easy, lad,’ Devlin said, smiling. ‘Just a few questions, and they’ll be gone.’

      ‘What fucking questions?’

      Jowitt pointed a finger. ‘Put the bat down, sonny.’

      ‘You gonna make me?’ The youth’s expression was taut, his gaze intense.

      ‘You want to make this worse for your old fella than it already is?’ Grinton asked calmly.

      There was a short, breathless silence. The youth glanced from one to the other, determinedly unimpressed by the phalanx of officialdom, though clearly unused to folk not running when he came at them tooled up. ‘There’s more of these twats outside, Dad. Sneaking around, thinking no one can see ’em.’

      His father snorted. ‘All this cos Jimbo breached his parole?’

      ‘It’s a bit more serious than that, Mr Devlin,’ Jowitt said. ‘So serious that I really don’t think you want to be obstructing us like this.’

      ‘I’m not obstructing you … I’ve just invited you in.’

      Which was quite a smart move, Heck realised.

      ‘We’ll see.’ Grinton walked towards the living room. ‘Let’s talk.’

      Devlin gave a sneering grin and followed. Jowitt went too. Heck turned to Wayne Devlin. ‘Your dad wants to make it look like he’s cooperating, son. Wafting that offensive weapon around isn’t going to help him.’

      Scowling, though now looking a little helpless – as if having other men in here chucking their weight about was such a challenge to his masculinity that he knew no adequate way to respond – the lad finally slung the baseball bat against the stair-post, which it struck with a deafening thwack!, before shouldering past Heck into the living room. When Heck got in there, it was no less a bombsite than the hall: magazines were scattered – one lay open on a gynaecological centre-spread; empty beer cans and dirty crockery cluttered the tabletops; overflowing ashtrays teetered on the mantel. The stench of ketchup was enriched by the lingering aroma of stale cigarettes.

      ‘Let’s cut to the chase,’ Grinton said. ‘Is Hood staying here now?’

      ‘No,’ Devlin replied, still cool.

      He’s very relaxed about this, Heck thought. Unnaturally so.

      ‘So if I come back here with a search warrant and go through this place with a fine-tooth comb, Mr Devlin, I definitely won’t find him?’ Grinton said.

      Devlin shrugged. ‘If you thought you had grounds you’d already have a warrant. But it doesn’t matter. You’ve got my permission to search anyway.’

      ‘In which case I’m guessing there’s no need, but we might as well look.’ Grinton nodded to Heck, who went back outside and brought the two uniforms in. Their heavy boots thudded on the stair treads as they lumbered to the upper floor.

      ‘How often has Jimmy Hood stayed here?’ Jowitt asked. ‘I mean recently?’

      Devlin shrugged. ‘On and off. Crashed on the couch.’

      ‘And you didn’t report it?’

      ‘He’s an old mate trying to get back on his feet. I’m not dobbing him in for that.’

      ‘When did he last stay?’ Heck asked.

      ‘Few days ago.’

      ‘What was he wearing?’

      ‘What he always wears … trackie bottoms, sweat-top, duffel coat. Poor bastard’s living out of a placky bag.’

      The detectives avoided exchanging glances. They’d agreed beforehand that there’d be no disclosure of their real purpose here until Grinton deemed it necessary; if Devlin had known what was happening and had still harboured his old pal, that made him an accessory to these murders – and it would help them build a case against him if he revealed knowledge without being prompted.

      ‘When do you expect him back?’ Heck asked.

      Devlin looked amused by the inanity of such a question (again false, Heck sensed). ‘How do I know? I’m not his fucking keeper. He knows he can come here anytime, but he never wants to outstay his welcome.’

      ‘Has he got a phone, so you can contact him?’ Jowitt wondered.

      ‘He hasn’t got anything.’

      ‘Does he ever come here late at night?’ Grinton said. ‘As in … unusually late.’

      ‘What sort of bullshit questions are these?’ Wayne Devlin demanded, increasingly agitated by the sounds of violent activity upstairs.

      Grinton eyed him. ‘The sort that need straight answers, son … else you and your dad are going to find yourselves deeper in it than whale shit.’ He glanced back at Devlin. ‘So … any late-night calls?’

      ‘Sometimes,’ Devlin admitted.

      ‘When?’

      ‘I don’t keep a fucking diary.’

      ‘Did he ever look flustered?’ Jowitt asked.

      ‘When didn’t he? He’s on the lam.’

      ‘How about bloodstained?’ Grinton said.

      At first Devlin seemed puzzled, but now, slowly – very slowly – his face lengthened. ‘You’re not … you’re not talking about this Lady Killer business?’

      ‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding!’ Wayne Devlin blurted, looking stunned.

      ‘Interesting thought, Wayne?’ Heck said to him. ‘Is that your bat out there – or Jimmy Hood’s?’

      The lad’s mouth dropped open. Suddenly he was less the teen tough-guy and more an alarmed kid. ‘It’s … it’s mine, but that doesn’t mean …’

      ‘So if we confiscate it for forensic examination and find blood, it’s you we need to come for, not Jimmy?’

      ‘That won’t work, copper,’ the older Devlin said, though for the first time there was colour in his cheek – it perhaps hadn’t occurred to him that his son might end up carrying the can for something. ‘You’re not scaring us.’

      Despite that, the younger Devlin did look scared. ‘You won’t find any blood on it. It’s been under my bed for months. Jimbo never touched it. Dad, tell ’em what they want to fucking know.’

      ‘Like I said, Jimbo’s only been here a couple of times,’ Devlin drawled. (Still playing it calm, Heck thought.) ‘Never settles down for long.’

      ‘And it didn’t enter СКАЧАТЬ