Jamaica Plain (9780738736396) by Colin Campbell Page A

welcome as a fart in the bath. The bubbles settled. Rooney found his voice first. “That interview room is for witnesses and visitors only.”
    â€œI am a visitor.”
    â€œSullivan is a prisoner. Prisoners can’t go out to an insecure interview room.”
    â€œHe’s getting released as soon as I’ve finished.”
    â€œBut not before. Until then he’s a prisoner and cannot be interviewed in an insecure room.”
    Grant noticed that the Oirish had left Rooney’s delivery. He reckoned it had been laid on thick for the Englishman. For a veteran sergeant he was beginning to sound like a jobsworth to Grant. “Look. You want him gone. I want him interviewed. Win-win situation.”
    â€œNot if he absconds during the interview and I’m stuck with his bag of shit.”
    â€œGive him his shit back first.”
    â€œCan’t do that while he’s still a prisoner.”
    â€œRelease him first then.”
    â€œYou can’t interview him unless he is in custody.”
    â€œFuck me. No wonder the Irish left Ireland. Who could live with a philosophy like that?”
    â€œBe careful now, lad.”
    â€œGo fuck yourself with a sporran.”
    Kincaid stepped back, out of the firing line. Rooney beetled his brows. “How about tossing your caber—right out the feckin’ door.”
    â€œDo Irish toss the caber? Thought that was Scottish.”
    â€œSporrans or cabers. You’re gone or dead meat.”
    This pissing contest was getting out of hand. Kincaid poured oil on troubled water. He stepped back in and lightened the tone. “Come on, girls. We don’t want this to end up as handbags at dawn. Maybe some creative bookkeeping is called for here. What do you say?”
    What Rooney said was, “Okay.” Leading to him to nearly being right. In forty-five minutes Grant was almost dead meat.

eight
    Freddy Sullivan was a low-life piece of shit whom Grant had been chasing all his service without much success. He burgled houses big and small. He screwed shops and supermarkets. He dealt drugs and dabbled in prostitution. He had a sheet as long as your arm but absolutely zero criminal convictions. How on earth the little fuck had persuaded America to let him and his brother immigrate was a mystery.
    The last time Grant had spoken to Sullivan had been over the garden fence of a house on Ravenscliffe Avenue in Bradford. There had been insufficient grounds for an arrest but plenty of reason to exchange harsh words, most of them from Grant. That had been five years ago. Sullivan didn’t look happy to see his hometown cop now. “I’m stuck in this shit ’cause of you. Fuck me.”
    Kincaid had gone back upstairs, but Sergeant Rooney listened with undisguised disdain. The custody sergeant was processing another prisoner further down the counter, handing a bag of personal possessions to an Irishman with a black eye and a torn shirt. Grant’s tone was friendly even if his words weren’t.
    â€œYou’re in this shit because you’re a burgling bastard with no redeeming qualities whatsoever, but today’s your lucky day. And I’m your get-out-of-jail card. So don’t try my patience.”
    Sullivan looked skittish. The Bradford burglar’s eyes flicked around the custody area. He had developed a nervous twitch that Grant didn’t remember from his days on Ecclesfield’s most-wanted list. That list might not be as high profile as Whitey Bulger making number two on the FBI’s most wanted, but back in Bradford it was big enough.
    Grant didn’t like burglars. He didn’t like thieves. He didn’t like anyone who took what wasn’t theirs from people who barely had enough to make ends meet as it was. Robbing banks was one thing. Stealing from little old ladies something else. He didn’t like Sullivan but wanted to make this as simple as possible. The smoother this went, the sooner