Free Only the Dead by Ben Sanders Page A

harsh and echoic in the little alcove.
    ‘Leroy isn’t here.’
    ‘He’d better be. His parole conditions say if he’s somewhere else at this time, he’s in trouble.’
    ‘Well, whatever. I don’t know where he is.’
    ‘Well, either he’s here, and he needs to let me in, or he’s not here, and you need to let me in so I can find out where he is.’
    No reply.
    Devereaux said, ‘So which is it?’
    ‘Ah, Jesus. Yeah, I’m Leroy.’
    ‘Right. So open up, now.’
    ‘What’s your name?’
    ‘Sean Devereaux.’
    ‘You’re the cop Howard knows.’
    ‘I am.’
    The handle turned and the door eased back an inch off the catch. Devereaux leaned forward and straight-armed it the whole way open. A man he recognised from the file photograph as Leroy Turner tripped back a step. ‘Whoa, man.’
    ‘Whoa, man, what?’
    ‘You can’t just come barging in like this.’
    ‘You lied to a police officer. It waived your rights.’
    ‘That’s not in my parole rules.’
    ‘It’s in everyone’s parole rules. It’s called not breaking the law.’
    Turner didn’t reply. He was a short, slight man in his late twenties. A string of pink scar tissue arced from cheek to hairline. Devereaux knocked the door closed behind him with his heel. The serious assault record dictated eyes forward at all times.
    ‘Have you got, like, ID or something?’
    Devereaux took his badge and ID from his coat pocket. He flipped them open, eye level.
    Turner leaned in: a squint to check face and photo were in agreement. He took a step back and pocketed his hands. He wore a grey hooded jumper above jeans that slippered his feet. Toes protruding past frayed edges. An open door to the left framed a muted television, DVD cases on the floor scattered agape. ‘What do you want?’ he said.
    ‘Just a sit-down and a chat.’
    ‘About Howard?’
    ‘Mostly.’
    ‘I might have been in bed, man.’
    ‘You weren’t, though. You were up drinking, which is a parole violation.’
    ‘You can’t prove—’
    ‘Leroy. I’m not an idiot. I could smell your breath through the door. Do not try to sell me bullshit. Have you got any cigarettes in the house?’
    ‘Yeah, I’m allowed to.’
    ‘I know. All I’m after is a cigarette and a bit of a talk, and then I’ll get out of your hair. Okay?’
    He leaned against the wall. He had dark hair, glazed with athick waxen coating. Narrow frame, weak lumps of shoulder pressing his jumper as he folded his arms.
    ‘Howard reckons you’re an okay dude,’ he said. ‘For a cop.’
    ‘Yeah, I am an okay dude. Where can we sit down?’
    ‘I dunno. Kitchen.’
    ‘Good. Let’s go.’
    The kitchen was at the rear of the unit. Turner swiped a switch. A neon light tube hummed and found full wattage on the third flicker. A bench and fake wooden cupboards wrapped two walls. A frosted glass door accessed the back yard. A cat flap whistled softly through its teeth.
    Folded newspaper chocked the fridge level. The seal broke with a wet sigh as Devereaux pulled the door.
    ‘Dude. You can’t just raid the fridge.’
    ‘I’m not. Just wondering what you’ve got all this beer for, given you’re not allowed to drink it.’
    Turner didn’t answer. Devereaux closed the fridge. He took a seat at the small table.
    ‘I don’t normally just let pigs in for a chinwag. But Howard said you’ve been all right to him.’
    ‘I’m touched.’
    The cat flap clacked. A grey tabby slunk in, hugging the baseboard. Devereaux leaned down and waggled a finger at nose level.
    ‘You like cats?’ Turner said.
    ‘No. But it’s his house, I’d better be polite.’
    ‘It’s a girl. She’s called Millie.’
    Devereaux stroked the animal’s head. It closed its eyes, pushed up against his hand.
    Turner said, ‘So what are we talking about?’
    ‘October eight.’
    ‘What’s happening on October eight?’
    Devereaux took his hand back. ‘Don’t know. It’s October eight last year I’m interested in.’
    ‘The Savings and Loan