guy.’
‘I don’t think you’ve got a chance.’
‘We’ll see. You get anywhere today?’
‘Not really.’
Devereaux checked his watch. Eleven-twenty. ‘Go home,’ he said.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Chat to Lloyd Bowen. You might want to avoid the fallout.’
Bowen’s office was in a nearby corridor. Devereaux opened the door and walked in unannounced. Bowen looked up, closed the binder in front of him. A lamp held his desktop in fierce clarity.
‘Don’t you know how to knock?’
Devereaux pulled up a chair. The office was tiny. Table and filing cabinets made breathing space tight. Lack of windows left a ceiling fan struggling to stir up airflow.
‘I was just down at custody,’ Devereaux said. ‘They’ve got an informant of mine.’
‘Howard Ford.’
‘They wouldn’t let me in to see him.’
Bowen knuckled fatigue out of one eye. ‘I don’t want anyone seeing him until Don McCarthy gets in tomorrow.’
‘He’s my contact.’
‘You can’t see him. We’re tightening things up.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means McCarthy’s the officer in charge, he’ll run the interview.’
‘Right. He was bleeding when he came in. You might want to look at tightening up arrest protocol, too.’
A long silence, tripwire-tight. Bowen rolled his chair back and linked his hands behind his head. He said, ‘Watch your mouth when you’re sitting in this office.’
‘I’m concerned that a detainee in this station has been assaulted, and I want to ensure that he doesn’t require medical attention.’
Bowen smiled: Blake-brand emotion, mouth only. ‘Remember you shot a guy today.’
‘So?’
‘So don’t try to pull the “concern for others” card on me.’
Devereaux didn’t answer.
Bowen centred his tie. ‘He doesn’t require medical attention,’ he said.
‘I’m still suspicious he’s been mistreated. He’s got an intellectual disability, he needs to be handled carefully.’
‘I wasn’t aware of that.’
‘That still doesn’t resolve the issue.’
‘If you want to make a complaint, this is the wrong way to do it.’
‘So outline the right way for me.’
Bowen didn’t answer.
‘He’s my contact,’ Devereaux said. ‘I’ve dealt with him before. He’ll talk to me. If he has any information, he’ll give it to me. I can guarantee he won’t give anything to Don McCarthy, and he won’t give anything to you.’
‘I disagree. And, unfortunately, I’m in charge.’
‘You’re making a mistake. And, unfortunately, I tend to be right.’
‘Sergeant, I’m new to this job. Bear in mind first impressions last a long time.’
‘I will if you will.’
‘Part of the reason my predecessor was asked to move on was because you, among others, were given too much slack.’
‘You’re planning on keeping me on a tight leash, are you?’
He shrugged, swivelled his chair back and forth. ‘Either that, or find a new job.’
Tempting.
Devereaux kept the retort private, scanned the desk: the binder, miscellaneous printed paperwork. He skimmed for the name Howard Ford. He said, ‘Has his lawyer called?’
‘Whose lawyer?’
‘Ford’s.’
‘No. I suggest you go home and forget about it.’ He made ashow of checking his watch. ‘You’ve got bigger things to worry about.’
Devereaux gave it up. He walked out and went back to his desk. His in-tray was loaded: everything robbery related. He shunted clear space and cupped his face in his hands and thought about what to do. A phone was ringing. On and on, like some panicked bleating for him alone. He tried to block it out. Tactics began to cohere. A plan took shape. He stayed seated a minute longer. Committing fully was difficult: everything proactive had high risk attached. The phone finally cut out.
Just do it .
Devereaux put a cigarette in his mouth but didn’t light it, got up and walked back through to the incident room. Grayson was about to head out the door, jacket slung behind him off a
‘I don’t think you’ve got a chance.’
‘We’ll see. You get anywhere today?’
‘Not really.’
Devereaux checked his watch. Eleven-twenty. ‘Go home,’ he said.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Chat to Lloyd Bowen. You might want to avoid the fallout.’
Bowen’s office was in a nearby corridor. Devereaux opened the door and walked in unannounced. Bowen looked up, closed the binder in front of him. A lamp held his desktop in fierce clarity.
‘Don’t you know how to knock?’
Devereaux pulled up a chair. The office was tiny. Table and filing cabinets made breathing space tight. Lack of windows left a ceiling fan struggling to stir up airflow.
‘I was just down at custody,’ Devereaux said. ‘They’ve got an informant of mine.’
‘Howard Ford.’
‘They wouldn’t let me in to see him.’
Bowen knuckled fatigue out of one eye. ‘I don’t want anyone seeing him until Don McCarthy gets in tomorrow.’
‘He’s my contact.’
‘You can’t see him. We’re tightening things up.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means McCarthy’s the officer in charge, he’ll run the interview.’
‘Right. He was bleeding when he came in. You might want to look at tightening up arrest protocol, too.’
A long silence, tripwire-tight. Bowen rolled his chair back and linked his hands behind his head. He said, ‘Watch your mouth when you’re sitting in this office.’
‘I’m concerned that a detainee in this station has been assaulted, and I want to ensure that he doesn’t require medical attention.’
Bowen smiled: Blake-brand emotion, mouth only. ‘Remember you shot a guy today.’
‘So?’
‘So don’t try to pull the “concern for others” card on me.’
Devereaux didn’t answer.
Bowen centred his tie. ‘He doesn’t require medical attention,’ he said.
‘I’m still suspicious he’s been mistreated. He’s got an intellectual disability, he needs to be handled carefully.’
‘I wasn’t aware of that.’
‘That still doesn’t resolve the issue.’
‘If you want to make a complaint, this is the wrong way to do it.’
‘So outline the right way for me.’
Bowen didn’t answer.
‘He’s my contact,’ Devereaux said. ‘I’ve dealt with him before. He’ll talk to me. If he has any information, he’ll give it to me. I can guarantee he won’t give anything to Don McCarthy, and he won’t give anything to you.’
‘I disagree. And, unfortunately, I’m in charge.’
‘You’re making a mistake. And, unfortunately, I tend to be right.’
‘Sergeant, I’m new to this job. Bear in mind first impressions last a long time.’
‘I will if you will.’
‘Part of the reason my predecessor was asked to move on was because you, among others, were given too much slack.’
‘You’re planning on keeping me on a tight leash, are you?’
He shrugged, swivelled his chair back and forth. ‘Either that, or find a new job.’
Tempting.
Devereaux kept the retort private, scanned the desk: the binder, miscellaneous printed paperwork. He skimmed for the name Howard Ford. He said, ‘Has his lawyer called?’
‘Whose lawyer?’
‘Ford’s.’
‘No. I suggest you go home and forget about it.’ He made ashow of checking his watch. ‘You’ve got bigger things to worry about.’
Devereaux gave it up. He walked out and went back to his desk. His in-tray was loaded: everything robbery related. He shunted clear space and cupped his face in his hands and thought about what to do. A phone was ringing. On and on, like some panicked bleating for him alone. He tried to block it out. Tactics began to cohere. A plan took shape. He stayed seated a minute longer. Committing fully was difficult: everything proactive had high risk attached. The phone finally cut out.
Just do it .
Devereaux put a cigarette in his mouth but didn’t light it, got up and walked back through to the incident room. Grayson was about to head out the door, jacket slung behind him off a
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