Free The Devil's Interval by J. J. Salkeld Page A

personal, or at least an academic interest, here.’
    Pepper sat back down again, and this time she relaxed. Carter seemed like a nice enough bloke, for a trick-cyclist. ‘Sure. Shoot.’
    ‘You know far better than me that people do genuinely evil things. But are some people really bad by nature? Nothing to do with upbringing, or environment? What’s your take on that?’
    ‘Absolutely. No question about it, doc.’
    ‘Really? How can you be so sure? I appreciate that you can’t talk about individual cases, but perhaps you could talk about why you feel as you do, in general terms at least.’
    ‘I can do better than that, doc. When I was about nine, maybe eight, me and some other kids were playing in the street, only about half a mile from here. One of them had a dad like mine, a right piss-head he was. Absolute waste of space, and even at that age we all knew it. Anyway, he was coming back from the pub, well away the dad was, and this lad got a bit of wood, off an old pallet or something, and he followed his dad along the street, staying a few feet behind. His old fella had no idea that he was there, like. And just before he reached his front door the lad stuck the wood straight between the old man’s legs, and he tripped over it. Went head first into one of those old fashioned metal dustbins. He just lay there, like he was dead, and the lad pushed the bin over, so that his dad was lying in all the scraps and peelings and that.’
    ‘Nasty, but hardly evil, is it? The lad had some cause too, by the sounds of it.’
    ‘Oh, aye, the old man was asking for it. No doubt about that. I wish I’d done the same to mine, many’s the time. No, it wasn’t that. It was what came after. One of the other kids started laughing, see, seeing the lad’s dad lying there, but he wasn’t laughing for long. He got that plank of wood straight in the face. Bust his nose open, knocked out quite a few teeth.’
    ‘I see, and has this lad, the one with the plank, gone on to be involved in criminal enterprises?’
    ‘Aye, he has.’
    ‘Serious?’
    ‘Oh, aye, absolutely. And getting more bloody serious every day.’
     
     
    Rex Copeland still wasn’t sure why he’d accepted Henry Armstrong’s invitation to dinner at his father’s house. He’d got to know a few of the lads from work, and had begun to explore what night-time Carlisle had to offer. Word had already got round the doormen that he was a cop, so he got no hassle when he was out. In fact, he had to insist on paying when he went into the clubs.
     
    The drive to Keswick was wet and windy, but Copeland hardly noticed the rain any more. Having the wipers on felt like the default position now. He followed his sat-nav’s instructions to a street above the town, and finally turned into a long drive. The house looked huge in the headlights, a mini-mansion. He parked, and crunched quickly over the gravel to the front door. Rex rang the bell, and expected an elderly butler, or at the very least a plump housekeeper, to open the door. But it was only Henry, wearing cords the colour of old red wine.
    ‘You didn’t tell me that you lived in a palace.’ he said, looking round the large hall. There were actually family portraits on the walls.
    ‘I live in a flat in Carlisle, mate.’
    ‘But one day all this will be yours, right?’
    ‘Not for a while, I hope’ said Henry’s dad, emerging from the kitchen and shaking hands. He looked even more like the family portraits than Henry did. ‘I’m another Henry Armstrong, I’m afraid. So I suggest you just point at one of us, if you want to attract our attention.’
    Copeland smiled, and followed the two Henrys into the kitchen.
    ‘I thought we’d have what I believe David Cameron calls a country supper,’ said Henry’s dad, pointing at the refectory table in the kitchen. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but the dining room is a bit chilly, to tell the truth.’
    ‘This is great, thanks.’
    ‘Tell you what, why doesn’t Henry