Free Calibre by Ken Bruen Page A

added: ‘You know, like closing the barn door after the fucking horse has gone.’
    Then he slammed his door on McDonald and burned rubber out of there.

20
     
    BRANT AND PORTER crossed the street, saw the curtain move in the lower window of Crew’s house, and Brant said:
    ‘Someone’s home.’
    Porter nodded, asked:
    ‘What’s your gut telling you, this the guy?’
    ‘Yeah, this is him.’
    They rang the bell and almost immediately it was opened. A man in his forties stood there, dressed in a waistcoat, pants suit, white shirt, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. He was plain looking, not one feature to distinguish him, a face in the crowd. Full head of neat brown hair, regular features, average height. Slim build and a tension now in his body. To be expected, anyone opens the door to cops, you’re tense. He said:
    ‘Yes?’
    Polite quiet voice but with confidence in it. They showed their warrant cards, gave their names, said:
    ‘We’re looking to eliminate people from our enquires, and your name came up.’
    He studied them then asked:
    ‘What enquiries are those?’
    Porter looked back at the street, asked:
    ‘Sir, might we do this inside?’
    He nodded, stood aside, and they went in. The main characteristic of the place was how silent it was. He led them into a study lined with books, hundreds of them, shelves covering every wall. Brant said:
    ‘You like to read.’
    Crew put his hand through his hair, said:
    ‘Who’s got the time?’
    His voice was subdued, cultured, but with a trace of authority. He indicated two armchairs, said:
    ‘Please, sit down. Get you a drink? I’m about to have something myself.’
    They said no, without the thanks, and while he fixed himself a scotch and soda, Brant walked along the shelves and made small sounds like ‘Hah.’ It was impossible to tell if he approved or not. Porter asked:
    ‘You just finished work?’
    Crew dragged his eyes from Brant, said:
    Yes, I am, as they say, something in the city.’
    Porter found that annoyingly smug and let it show a little, asked:
    ‘And that would be what exactly?’
    Crew smiled, a smile of tolerance, asked:
    You don’t already know?’
    Porter was very testy now, said:
    ‘If I knew, would I be persisting?’
    Brant appeared oblivious to their wrangling, continued to book crawl, taking a volume down, putting it back.
    Crew said:
    ‘I’m an accountant, have a small office in the city. Here’s my card, with the address.’
    Porter took it, didn’t look at it, asked:
    ‘You know why we’re here?’
    Crew sat, took a slow sip of his scotch, seemed to enjoy it, then:
    ‘I feel sure you’ll get to it, lucky you guys don’t work on a rate.’
    Brant took a book down, said:
    ‘Here’s an interesting title, “The Killer Inside Me,” think I might borrow it?’
    Crew shook his head, said:
    ‘Breaks up my collection, so I don’t lend books.’
    Brant seemed amused, went:
    ‘Ah, go on.’
    Crew looked at Porter, said:
    ‘Your sergeant doesn’t seem to understand “no”.’
    Finally Porter got to ease a bit, said:
    ‘Oh, he understands it, it’s just he never accepts it.’
    Brant left the book on the table, and Crew said:
    ‘Could you put it back where it was?’
    Brant fingered the spine, said:
    ‘Seems well-worn, well-thumbed as you book lovers say’
    He put it back down. Crew waited and Porter said:
    ‘You keep a diary, Mr. Crew?’
    ‘Of course.’
    They were surprised, had expected all sorts of denials, evasions, and for a moment, they were lost for a reply. Then Porter asked:
    ‘Mind if I see it, sir?’
    Crew stood up, moved to the phone, said:
    ‘I wonder if I should perhaps call legal help?’
    Brant was all charm, his voice friendly, went:
    ‘That is of course your right but you show us the diary, we clear up a misunderstanding, and we’re outa here. You go back to your scotch and soda and chill, no harm done.’
    Crew frowned, asked:
    ‘What is the misunderstanding?’
    Porter took up the