Dead Man Walking (51 page)

There was no bell, so Grinton rapped on the door with his fist. Several seconds passed, before there was a fumbling on the other side. The door opened as far as its short safety chain would allow. The face beyond was aged in its mid-thirties, but pudgy and pock-marked, one eyebrow bisected by an old scar. Whoever the guy was, and he looked like Devlin – though the last police photographs taken of him were a decade and a half out of date – he was squat and pot-bellied, with a shaved head. He’d answered the door in a grubby t-shirt and purple Y-fronts, but even through the narrow gap they spotted neck-chains and cheap, tacky rings on nicotine-yellow fingers. He didn’t look hostile as much as puzzled, probably because the first thing he saw was Grinton’s eye-patch. He put on a pair of thick-lensed, steel-rimmed glasses, so that he could scrutinise it less myopically.

‘Alan Devlin?’ the chief superintendent asked.

‘Who the fuck are you?’

Grinton introduced himself, displaying his warrant card. ‘This is Detective Inspector Strickland and this is Detective Sergeant Heckenburg.’

‘Suppose I’m honoured,’ Devlin grunted, looking anything but.

‘Can we come in?’ Grinton said.

‘What’s it about?’

‘You don’t know?’ Strickland asked him.

Devlin threw him an ironic glance. ‘Yeah … I just wondered if
you
did.’

Heck observed the householder with interest. Though clearly irritated that his evening had been disturbed, his relaxed body language suggested that he wasn’t overly concerned. Either Devlin had nothing to hide or he was a competent performer. The latter was easily possible, as he’d had plenty of opportunity to hone such a talent while still a youth.

‘Jimmy Hood,’ Grinton explained. ‘That name ring a bell?’

Devlin continued to regard them indifferently, but for several seconds longer than was perhaps normal. Then he removed the safety chain and opened the door.

Heck glanced at the two uniforms. ‘Wait out here, eh? No sense crowding him in his own pad.’ They nodded and remained in the outer passage, while the three detectives entered a dimly-lit hall strewn with crumbs and cluttered with piles of musty, unwashed clothes. An internal door stood open on a lamp-lit room from which the sound of a television emanated. There was a strong, noxious odour of chips and ketchup.

Devlin faced them square-on, adjusting his bottle-lens specs. ‘Suppose you want to know where he is?’

‘Not only that,’ Grinton said, ‘we want to know where he’s been.’

There was a sudden thunder of feet from overhead – the sound of someone running. Heck tensed by instinct. He spun to face the foot of a dark stairwell – just as a figure exploded down it. But it wasn’t the brutish giant, Jimmy Hood; it was a kid – seventeen at the most with a mop of mouse brown hair and a thin moustache. He was only clad in shorts, which revealed a lean, muscular torso sporting several lurid tattoos – and was carrying a baseball bat.

‘What the fucking hell?’ He advanced fiercely, closing down the officers’ space.

‘Easy, lad,’ Devlin said, smiling. ‘Just a few questions, then they’ll be gone.’

‘What fucking questions?’

Strickland pointed a finger. ‘Put the bat down, sonny.’

‘You gonna make me?’ The youth’s expression was taut, his gaze intense.

‘You want to make this worse for your old fella than it already is?’ Grinton asked calmly.

There was a short, breathless silence. The youth glanced from one to the other, determinedly unimpressed by the phalanx of officialdom, though clearly unused to folk not running when he came at them tooled up. ‘There’s more of these twats outside, Dad. Sneaking around, thinking no one can see ’em.’

His father snorted. ‘All this coz Jimbo breached his parole?’

‘It’s a bit more serious than that, Mr Devlin,’ Strickland said. ‘So serious that I really don’t think you want to be obstructing us like this.’

‘I’m not obstructing you … I’ve just invited you in.’

Which was quite a smart move
, Heck realised.

‘We’ll see.’ Grinton walked towards the living room. ‘Let’s talk.’

Devlin gave a sneering grin and followed. Strickland went too. Heck turned to Wayne Devlin. ‘Your dad wants to make it look like he’s cooperating, son. Wafting that offensive weapon around isn’t going to help him.’

Scowling, though now looking a little helpless – as if having other men in here chucking their weight about was such a challenge to his masculinity that he knew no adequate way to respond – the lad finally slung the baseball bat against the stair-post, which it struck with a deafening
thwack!
, before shouldering past Heck into the living room. When Heck got in there, it was no less a bombsite than the hall: magazines were scattered – one lay open on a gynaecological centre-spread; empty beer cans and dirty crockery cluttered the table tops; overflowing ashtrays teetered on the mantel. The stench of ketchup was enriched by the lingering aroma of stale cigarettes.

‘Let’s cut to the chase,’ Grinton said. ‘Is Hood staying here now?’

‘No,’ Devlin replied, still cool.

Too cool
, Heck thought.
Way too cool
.

‘So if I come back here with a search-warrant, and go through this place with a fine-tooth comb, Mr Devlin, I definitely won’t find him?’

Devlin shrugged. ‘If you thought you had grounds you’d already have a warrant. But it doesn’t matter. You’ve got my permission to search anyway.’

‘In which case I’m guessing there’s no need, but we might as well look.’ Grinton nodded to Heck, who went back outside and brought the two uniforms in. Their heavy boots thudded on the stair treads as they lumbered to the upper floor.

‘How often has Jimmy Hood stayed here?’ Strickland asked. ‘I mean recently?’

Devlin shrugged. ‘On and off. Crashed on the couch.’

‘And you didn’t report it?’

‘He’s an old mate trying to get back on his feet. I’m not dobbing him in for that.’

‘When did he last stay?’ Heck asked.

‘Few days ago.’

‘What was he wearing?’

‘What he always wears … trackie bottoms, sweat-top, duffle-coat. Poor bastard’s living out of a placky bag.’

The detectives avoided exchanging glances. They’d agreed beforehand that there’d be no disclosure of their real purpose here until Grinton deemed it necessary; if Devlin had known what was happening and had still harboured his old pal, that made him an accessory to these murders – and it would help them build a case against him if he revealed knowledge without being prompted.

‘When do you expect him back?’ Heck asked.

Devlin looked amused by the inanity of such a question (
again false
, Heck sensed). ‘How do I know? I’m not his fucking keeper. He knows he can come here anytime, but he never wants to outstay his welcome.’

‘Has he got a phone, so you can contact him?’ Strickland wondered.

‘He hasn’t got anything.’

‘Does he ever come here late at night?’ Grinton said. ‘As in … unusually late.’

‘What sort of bullshit questions are these?’ Wayne Devlin demanded, increasingly agitated by the sounds of violent activity upstairs.

Grinton eyed him. ‘The sort that need straight answers, son … else you and your dad are going to find yourselves deeper in it than whale shit.’ He glanced back at Devlin. ‘So … any late-night calls?’

‘Sometimes,’ Devlin admitted.

‘When?’

‘I don’t keep a fucking diary.’

‘Did he ever look flustered?’ Strickland asked.

‘When didn’t he? He’s on the lam.’

‘How about bloodstained?’ Grinton said.

At first Devlin seemed puzzled, but now, slowly – very slowly – his face lengthened. ‘You’re not … you’re not talking about this Lady Killer business?’

‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding!’ Wayne Devlin blurted, looking stunned.

‘Interesting thought, Wayne?’ Heck said to him. ‘Is that
your
bat out there … or Jimmy Hood’s?’

The lad’s mouth dropped open. Suddenly he was less the teen tough-guy and more an alarmed kid. ‘It’s … it’s mine, but that doesn’t mean …’

‘So if we confiscate it for forensic examination and find blood, it’s
you
we need to come for, not Jimmy?’

‘That won’t work, copper,’ the older Devlin said, though for the first time there was colour in his cheek – it perhaps hadn’t occurred to him that his son might end up carrying the can for something. ‘You’re not scaring us.’

Despite that, the younger Devlin
did
look scared. ‘You won’t find any blood on it,’ he stammered. ‘It’s been under my bed for months. Jimbo never touched it. Dad, tell ’em what they want to fucking know.’

‘Like I said, Jimbo’s only been here a couple of times,’ Devlin drawled. (
Still playing it calm
, Heck thought.) ‘Never settles down for long.’

‘And it didn’t enter your head that he might be involved in these murders?’ Grinton said.

‘Or are you just in denial?’ Strickland asked.

‘He was a good mate …’

‘So you
are
in denial? Can’t see the judge being impressed by that.’

‘It may have occurred to me once or twice,’ Devlin retorted. ‘But you don’t want to believe it of a mate …’

‘Even though he’s done it before?’ Grinton said.

‘Nothing this bad.’

‘Bad enough …’

‘You should get over to his auntie’s!’ Wayne Devlin interjected.

That comment stopped them dead. They gazed at him curiously; he gazed back, flat-eyed, cheeks flaming.

‘What are you talking about?’ Heck asked.

‘He was always ranting about his Auntie Mavis …’

‘Wayne!’
the older Devlin snapped.

‘If Jimbo’s up to something dodgy, Dad, we don’t want any part in it …’

These two are good
, Heck thought.
These two are really good.

‘Something you want to tell us, Mr Devlin?’ Grinton asked.

Devlin averted his eyes to the floor, teeth bared. He yanked his glasses off and rubbed them vigorously on his grubby vest – as though torn with indecision, as though angry at having been put in this position, but not necessarily angry at the police.

‘Wayne may be right,’ he finally said. ‘Perhaps you should get over there. Her name’s Mavis Cutler. Before you ask, I don’t know much else. She’s not his real auntie. Some old bitch who fostered Jimbo when he was a kid. Seventy-odd now, at least. I don’t know what went on – he never said, but I think she gave him a dog’s life.’

So Hood was attacking his wicked auntie every time he attacked one of these other women, Heck reasoned, remembering his basic forensic psychology.
It’s a plausible explanation. A tad too plausible, of course.

‘And why do we need to get over there quick?’ Strickland wondered.

Devlin hung his head properly, his shoulders sagging as if he was suddenly glad to get a weight off them. ‘When … when Jimbo first showed up a few months ago, he said he was back in Nottingham to see her. And when he said “see her”, I didn’t get the feeling it was for a family reunion if you know what I mean.’

‘So why’s it taken him this long?’ Strickland asked.

‘He couldn’t find her at first. I think he may have gone up to Hucknall yesterday, looking. That’s where they lived when he was a kid.’

Cleverer and cleverer
, Heck thought.
Devlin’s using real events to make it believable.

‘Someone up there probably told him,’ Devlin added.

‘Told him what?’

‘That she lives in Matlock now. I don’t know where exactly.’

Matlock in Derbyshire. Twenty-five miles away. Quite a diversion.

‘How do you know all this?’ Grinton sounded suspicious.

Devlin shrugged. ‘He rang me today … from a payphone. Said he was leaving town tonight, and that I probably wouldn’t be seeing him again.’

‘And you still didn’t inform us?’ Strickland’s voice was thick with disgust.

‘I’m informing you now, aren’t I?’

‘It might be too late, you stupid moron!’ Strickland dashed out into the hall, calling the two uniforms from upstairs.

‘Look, he never specifically said he was going to do that old bird,’ Devlin protested to Grinton. ‘He might not even be going to Matlock. He might be fleeing the fucking country for all I know! This is just guesswork!’

And you can’t be prosecuted for guessing,
Heck thought.
You’re a cute one.

‘Don’t do anything stupid, Mr Devlin,’ Grinton said, indicating to Heck that it was time to leave. ‘Like warning Jimmy we’re coming. Any phone we find on Hood with calls traceable back to you are all we’ll need to nick you as an accomplice.’

Out in the entry passage, Strickland was already bawling into his radio. ‘I don’t care how indisposed they are … get them to check the voters’ rolls and phone directories. Find every woman in Matlock called Mavis bloody Cutler … over and out!’ He turned to Grinton and Heck. ‘We should lock that bastard Devlin up …’

Grinton shook his head, ignoring the door to 41c as it slammed closed behind them. ‘He might end up witnessing for us. Let’s not chuck away what little leverage we’ve currently got.’

‘What if he absconds?’

‘We’ll sit someone on him.’

‘Excuse me, sir,’ Heck said. ‘But I won’t be coming over to Matlock with you.’

‘Okay … something on your mind?’

‘Yeah. Alan Devlin. Good show he put on in there, but I don’t think Hood has any intention of going to Derbyshire. I reckon we’re being sent on a wild goose chase.’

Strickland looked puzzled. ‘Why would Devlin do that?’

‘It’s a hunch, sir, but it’s got legs. Despite the serious crimes Jimmy Hood was last convicted for, Alan Devlin let him sleep on his couch. Not once, but several times. This guy is not too picky to associate with sex offenders.’

‘Come on, Heck,’ Strickland said. ‘Devlin’s in enough hot water as it is … he’s not going to aid and abet a multiple killer as well.’

‘He’s in lukewarm water, sir. Apart from assisting an offender, what else has he admitted to? Even if it turns out he’s sending us the wrong way, he’s covered. It’s all “I’m not sure about this, I’m only guessing that” … there aren’t even grounds to charge him with obstructing an enquiry.’