Free Only the Dead by Ben Sanders

opened the passenger door. He palmed his tie flat and leaned in and removed a blue plastic folder from the footwell. He passed it across the bonnet to Rowe, who handed it to Hale. It was thick, bulked by documents in plastic page-protectors. Hale thumb-fannedit front to back. He checked the first page, angled it to catch headlight gleam. A digital photograph of a woman’s face lay inside a plastic sleeve, the right side of her face abraded and swollen. Eye a narrow slit amid a purpled socket.
    Rowe said, ‘She lost teeth on that side, too. Nearer the back, so they reckon her smile will still be okay.’
    ‘What’s her name?’
    ‘Charlotte Rowe. I’ve got the police shit in there too for you. Their reports and some witness info.’
    Hale skimmed pages, file propped atop a cocked thigh. Photocopied pages of codified cop-speak, semi-legible.
    ‘I’ll take a look at it.’
    ‘Does that mean “job accepted”?’
    Hale closed the file. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’
    Rowe tipped his head at the car. Beck slid in the driver’s seat.
    ‘I guess it’s progress,’ Rowe said. ‘If you’re as hard-nosed as you make out, I reckon we might strike pay dirt.’
    Hale moved back to the steps and picked up the shotgun. Rowe opened his door. He paused there, half in and half out of the car, one elbow propped on the window. ‘There was a guy they interviewed,’ he said. ‘Name was Leland Earle. He’s in prison so they’re probably not looking to pin it on him, but I think maybe they reckoned he might know something about it.’
    ‘Did they get anything out of him?’
    ‘I don’t know. But I guess if there’d been an arrest we would have heard. You know?’
    Hale nodded.
    Rowe said, ‘This isn’t my area of know-how, but maybe you could have a chat to this guy Earle. If you can get to him …’ He slid into the car and pulled his door, buzzed his window down. ‘Worst-case scenario, you’ll just retrace their steps.’
    ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’
    Rowe nodded at the shotgun. ‘Don’t forget to unload.’
    Hale didn’t reply. The car rolled back off its brake and crunched down the hill towards the road. He watched the ghost of headlights dwindle between the trees, and then he went back inside.

TEN
    T UESDAY , 14 F EBRUARY , 12.48 A.M .
    B owen had left. Devereaux passed his darkened office and used Grayson’s computer in the incident room to access Howard Ford’s details. Leroy James Turner, DOB 19 July 1985, was listed as a known associate. Offence code flags formed a résumé: 1510/6120 denoted serious assault and burglary. He was currently paroled to an Avondale address, pursuant to the assault charge.
    Devereaux took the stairs down and crossed Vincent Street to his car. He cruised up town to K’ Road and stopped at the lights. The grimed and weary frontages, the stencilled signage in paled pastel. A prostitute made a slow strut across the intersection, gloss-slicked lips pouted to entice, heading west. Devereaux stayed straight ahead and worked his way down to New North Road, southbound.
    He got across onto Georges Road fifteen minutes later. Beer-toting teens lined the kerb beneath the Hollywood Cinema’s brick façade. Gazes tracking in perfect sync as he passed. A homeless man draped a bench in the reserve opposite, arms crossed as if arranged for burial.
    Leroy Turner’s address was a minute’s drive further south, a single-storey weatherboard unit backing the railway line. A grey Fiat Punto sat beneath an open-end carport. A mail-chokedletterbox bookended a limp wire fence across the yard. Devereaux parked behind the Punto and climbed out. His door slam set a curtain rippling. The front entry was recessed in a little alcove above a concrete step, spotlit by a single bulb. He walked over and knocked twice.
    A voice called through the door: ‘Who is it?’
    ‘Police, Leroy.’
    ‘What do you want?’
    ‘A chat about Howard Ford.’
    ‘I’m not Leroy.’
    ‘Then get him.’ The request