Only the Dead (12 page)

Afterwards they lay in bed and he told her about the morning: the post-shooting inquisition, his talk with The Don.

‘You’re scared of him,’ she said.

‘Who?’

‘McCarthy.’

He thought about it. Wind caught the drapes and threw fluid shadows on the roof. ‘Honestly, yeah, I think I am.’

‘Why?’

‘I interviewed two suspects last night, both had been assaulted.’

‘And it was McCarthy?’

‘No. But he keeps in the loop. He knows what’s going on.’

She didn’t reply. She had hold of his hand under the sheet.

‘We left the front door open,’ he said.

She didn’t reply, tented the sheet with a raised knee. ‘What did you think when you first met me?’ she said.

‘I can’t remember.’

She fell quiet, like she was waiting for him to add something.

She said, ‘I remember you struck me as a nice guy.’

‘So?’

She rolled over and looked at him in profile. ‘So someone else will have figured that out as well. They won’t get rid of you.’

‘I killed a man.’

‘You had to.’

He didn’t answer. The more he considered it, the more he doubted it. He took a shower in the bedroom en suite, dressed and sat on the end of the bed. He could see her body through the sheet, vague lines of a graceful design.

‘My parents are back tomorrow,’ she said. ‘They’re having evening drinks here.’

‘That’s nice for them.’

‘You’re coming, too.’ She nudged his thigh with her foot.

‘I don’t think they like me.’

‘All the more reason to try to create a better impression.’

He fell quiet. He’d wanted a reply that allayed suspicion.

‘They might not be too happy if they knew what we were up to in their bed,’ he said.

She laughed. ‘This isn’t their bed.’

He turned where he was seated and looked at the closed bathroom door. ‘I had a dream,’ he said.

Her forearm was across her face; she let it fall to the pillow above her head and looked at him. ‘About what?’

‘When I was a kid.’

She waited for more.

‘When I was about ten, I stayed with this ex-air force officer.’

‘The English guy?’

‘Yeah. He didn’t get on with his wife.’

‘You’ve told me this.’

‘Do you want the full version?’

She was silent a long moment. ‘Yeah, you can tell me.’

He leaned forward, elbows on knees. Hunched form headless from where she lay.

‘They had a fight one day; she ran into the bathroom and killed herself.’

‘You told me that bit.’

‘She used a mirror and a hot bath.’

Silence for a short spell. She said, ‘I guessed it was something like that.’

‘I saw it.’

‘You watched her actually do it?’

‘Well, I saw her afterwards. Dead, or heading that way.’ He adjusted his sleeves, pushed ragged blossoms of cuff to his elbow. ‘I saw her lying there, bleeding.’

She waited. The drape folds shuffled for position.

He ran his hands through his hair. ‘I think she’d just had enough. He’d abused her before. There were old ante-mortem injuries. Bruising and stuff. She’d called the police on him a couple of times.’

She drew her legs in and sat upright. ‘Did he ever abuse you?’

‘I got off pretty lightly. He beat me up, but not as bad as the wife. I hadn’t been with him very long when it happened. Few months. But they moved me to somewhere else.’ She sensed him smile. ‘And I never went back.’

‘I wouldn’t dwell on it.’ She nudged him again. ‘Although you look like you’ve done a fair bit already.’

He smiled. ‘I just think about all the time people have lost. All those years stacked up. It’s got to be attributable to someone.’

‘Not you.’

‘Maybe.’

‘What was the dream?’

‘That was the dream. I woke up one day thinking about that guy I used to live with, and all those people robbed of their lives. It was just there in my head when I came awake, and I figured it must have been on my mind in my sleep. But I didn’t remember it.’

‘You think about him often?’

‘Sometimes. I managed to block him out for a few years. They gave me therapy after it happened. I’d tried to call the police another time when they were fighting, but he’d stopped me. If I’d succeeded I could have saved her. She’d be a completely different person. She’d be alive. I’d have rewritten history, better or worse.’

She didn’t reply. They sat together on the bed for a long time. After a while he picked his jacket up off the floor and left without looking at her.

T
UESDAY
, 14 F
EBRUARY
, 3.12
P.M
.

P
rison visits. Paperwork for major crimes riding on his passenger seat. It was like being back on the beat.

Hale drove south. The female ticket attendant during the January third fight club robbery was named Leanne Blair. Rowe’s file gave a South Auckland address. He got down there a little before four in the afternoon. It was grim viewing, even under summer sunshine. Low socioeconomics made for drab real estate. Grey weatherboard abounded. Youths draped on sofas and loaded on premixed drinks watched him flatly from an open garage. He’d encroached on Crips gang territory: a trio of teens in blue bandannas posed raised middle fingers and masturbatory gestures for his rear view. Overlapping blue and red fence graffiti implied a Crips/Bloods turf war.

Blair worked a day shift at a liquor store on Everitt Road. He figured it was worth a check on the way through. He parked in the bay out front and went in. Shop-front sandwich boards boasted bargain whisky. Left of the door, boxed grog was pillared floor to ceiling. A guy in his forties manned the register, folded forearms a thick black-haired stack across his stomach. A hockey stick stood propped against cupboards behind him, two kids about six or seven kicking a ball in a metal shelving aisle.

Hale found her stocking twelve-pack boxes of Bud in the
walk-in cooler out the back. She was a medium-built woman in her late thirties. Her nose was kinked fractionally, ghost of a bruise hanging from one eye.

She shelved her last box and flicked her eyebrows at him. ‘Help you?’

‘Leanne Blair?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Wondering if you had a moment to speak with me about the incident back on third of January.’

‘Incident?’

He stood and waited for a firm reply. The chill had tensed him up, faint metallic odour to the air. She realised he wasn’t going to move until she answered.

‘You police or something?’ Rounded fricatives: something was ‘somefing’.

‘Private investigator.’

‘Got, like, a badge or something?’

He showed his ID.

‘What’s the time?’ she said.

‘Almost four.’

‘All right. Well, how’s this: give me a ride home, and along the way, you can ask me all the questions you like. How’s that?’

‘That sounds fine.’

‘Give us a couple of minutes, and I’ll see you out front. You got a car or something?’

‘Black Ford Escort.’

‘Shit. Don’t see many of them round nowadays.’

He left the store and waited for her in the car. A concrete-block wall had been freshly whited over: paled tags beneath like veins through pallid skin. She emerged a minute later, imitation white leather handbag over one shoulder. From a distance he could see she was pregnant: a slight bulge gapped a
sliver of clothing along her waistline. She pulled the passenger door and sat down heavily, twisted and dumped her feet in the footwell. She closed the door.

‘I’m not too far from here,’ she said. ‘So if you like, you can run me home and just come in and talk or whatever.’

‘Okay. We’ll do that.’

They made a right out of Everitt, passed one of the Crips kids a moment later. He stopped on the footpath and jutted his pelvis and shot the finger, one thumb hooked through the front of his belt.

They reached her house a moment later. It was a single-level weatherboard box in lime green. The fence boasted newly minted blue graffiti.

‘Just leave the car here. Safe as.’

He parked at the kerb. They got out, and he followed her to the open front door. He could hear children’s voices, backed by a video game console cranked to high volume.

‘The fuck …’ she said.

The entry gave straight into the living room. Six boys, aged maybe four to ten, were crowded around a television set.

‘Isaac,’ she screeched. ‘Fuck’s sake, turn it down.’ She paused in the middle of the room and looked around. ‘Actually, fuck off, all of you. Look at this mess. Shit.’

She kicked a grounded pillow and twirled to take in the mayhem. The kids scattered and disappeared. No doubt a well-rehearsed dispersal. The screen was paused on a still-frame: a digital cop’s head cross-haired by a sniper’s scope. She stepped to the television and killed the power, kicked a plastic controller aside. A sofa faced the television. She sank into it, head back and legs spread.

‘Long day. Shit.’ She looked up. ‘Right. You can just ask whatever.’

‘I appreciate you taking the time to do this. I realise it’s probably not that easy to talk about.’

‘Yeah, well.’ She clucked her tongue softly and checked the ceiling.

‘I understand you witnessed a robbery back on January third.’

‘Yeah, victim more than witness.’ She pointed with a hooked finger. Vague, like a deathbed directive. ‘Feel free to sit down or something, if you want.’

He claimed a plastic deck chair next to the television. Static crackle as his arm brushed the screen. ‘Can you describe what happened?’

‘When the robbery happened?’

‘Yes. When the robbery happened.’

She pulled her legs up on the sofa, squeak of squabs. ‘Yeah. We were selling tickets to the fight out of this caravan we had parked up there beside the front door. Have you had a look at the place?’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘Yeah, well, anyways it was a caravan. We pulled in two, maybe three grand, something like that.’

‘You were inside when the theft occurred?’

‘Uh-huh. Yeah, in the caravan.’

‘Cashing up?’

‘Yeah. Counting and bagging everything up, and I just glanced at the window, and saw this dude standing there pointing a shotgun at me.’

‘And you let him in?’

‘Didn’t have to be a brain scientist to work out what would happen if I didn’t. You know? So I let them in, and, I ain’t joking, soon as it’s unlocked, they hit the door with an axe or something to knock it back, and they came in.’

‘Did anyone else see this?’

‘Don’t think so. Just us in the caravan and the fellas outside.’

‘What did they do once they were in?’

‘Am I getting paid for this?’

‘No. Sorry.’

She nodded and thought about it. Carpet had pulled back off the skirting like a snarl. ‘How long do you think this’ll take then?’

‘Not very long.’

‘Not very long. Sweet as.’

‘What did they do once they were inside?’

Her mouth downturned as she thought about it: ‘They just came straight in the door, and one of the guys just punched Doug straight in the face.’

A flash to Rowe’s file: Douglas Haines, the second ticket attendant that night.

She said, ‘You think you break into somewhere with guns and shit, you don’t really need to do any hitting. Anyway. They did.’

‘What size guys were they?’

‘Dunno. Same size as you maybe.’

‘Big then.’

‘Yeah. Pretty big.’

‘Nationality?’

‘Dunno. They had masks on, and sunglasses over their eyes, and gloves on. Didn’t say too much, either.’

‘Did you notice an accent?’

‘No. But I’m not good with how people talk. I just hear words; all pretty much sounds the same.’ She looked at the dead TV. ‘They knew what they were doing, though, eh. Shit. They kept everything covered with those guns. My old lady used to say it’s better to be good at nothin’ at all than to be good at sin. I quite like that one.’

‘They give you that black eye?’

‘Oh, yeah. Shit.’

She touched a fingertip to her lid, glanced at it like she might have picked up a smudge.

‘Got beat up pretty bad.’ She patted her stomach. ‘Kept the baby, though.’

‘That’s good.’

‘Yeah. Fuckin’ good.’

‘How did you get the job?’

‘Guy I know offered it to me. He used to be a church minister. Now he runs fight clubs.’ She laughed. ‘Reckon they’ll let him into heaven?’

‘I’ll keep him company if they don’t.’

She nodded slowly. ‘You believe me, though?’

‘Yes. I believe you.’

‘Good. Just, normally when I tell the story, people look a bit more impressed.’

‘I guess I knew what to expect.’

‘You’re like the cop I spoke to. Gave him what I gave you and it didn’t rattle him too much one way or the other. Like he’d heard all kinds of stuff in his day and there ain’t none of it that surprised him all that much.’

He rolled in his seat and slipped his wallet from his pocket. He removed a copy of the Charlotte Rowe headshot and offered it in two fingers. She leaned in to take it, grinning with the stretch.

‘Who’s this?’

‘She was hurt during the robbery.’

‘Looks like she got hit with a hammer or something.’

‘She was.’

She drew her legs up on the cushions again.

‘Yeah. Some folks heard all the commotion or whatever,
came outside to see what was happening. They had to just sort of smash their way through to get away.’

‘Have you seen her before?’

‘Maybe.’ She held the photo nails-only at one corner, waved it like airing a Polaroid. ‘I dunno. Doesn’t really ring any bells.’

Hale waited, in case of clearer recollection.

‘You want this back?’ she said.

‘Please.’

She passed it back.

‘How do I find this guy Doug?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘So who’s this friend of yours that got you the job?’

‘I call him Pastor Drinnan.’

‘Where can I find him?’

‘At home. He’s pretty much retired.’ She gave him the street name. ‘It’s a yellow place with a house bus-thing parked next to it. You’ll know the one.’

T
UESDAY
, 14 F
EBRUARY
, 4.25
P.M
.

D
evereaux didn’t think going home was a good idea. He was a recidivist over-analyser. Solitude implied an afternoon of dwelling on things best forgotten.

His former boss was a woman named Claire Bennett. She owned an old villa in Grey Lynn, just south of the central city. Her block was a line-up of houses of the same ’twenties vintage, pressed close to low front fences, footpaths cracked by root upheaval. He saw her car in the driveway and pulled in behind. She must have heard his arrival: barely a pause between his knock and the door opening.

‘Still not above cold calls,’ she said.

‘You free?’

She stood aside. A stern, heavy woman, nearing sixty. Face lined with sharp precision, as if aged by intention. ‘Yeah … in you come.’

She had a combined kitchen and living area in an addition at the rear of the house. A floating counter split the space lengthways. French doors opened onto a low deck and square back yard corralled by brush fence. A rug took the afternoon gleam off the timber flooring.

‘You had some drama,’ she said.

‘News finds you fast.’

‘I heard a cop had shot someone; you topped my list of likely candidates.’

He didn’t reply. She saw something in his expression and waved the comment off. ‘No. I’ve still got my contacts.’

‘I’m sure you do,’ he said.

‘Are you all right?’

‘People keep asking me that.’

‘And what do you keep telling them?’

He ignored the question. He stood at the French doors and looked at the yard. ‘Got any coffee?’ he said.

‘No. I can do tea, or hot water.’

‘Tea will do.’

He stayed at the window. She bustled in his periphery, filling a jug, gathering mugs. The reasons behind her resignation varied. The official line was she wanted to be at home to care for her daughter: the girl was autistic and recently expelled from high school. But gossiped conjecture held that Bennett had been asked to move on. Devereaux attributed the exit to a measure of both. The former, helped along by the latter. He turned away from the window and saw her watching him.

‘It’s giving you grief,’ she said.

‘Sorry?’

The jug built to a roar. She took teabags from a ceramic jar in a cupboard and allocated one per mug.

‘It’s on your mind.’ She smiled. ‘Made me think you popped round so you can hear me say, “Don’t worry about it.”’

He laughed. ‘Alternative was I could just go home and listen to myself say it.’

She pulled a drawer and rummaged for a teaspoon. ‘But you wanted to share the load?’

‘Something like that.’

She looked at him a moment. ‘Jesus, cheer up.’

Devereaux said, ‘He’s dead.’

She was quiet a long time. In his periphery he saw her lean against the counter and fold her arms. ‘Oh, God, Sean. I’m sorry.’ Ellen’s words exactly.

He stood facing the window. He couldn’t look at her, sensed her desire for further details. The jug clicked. He said, ‘Milk, two sugars.’

He heard the scrape of mugs on bench top. Bennett said, ‘We’ll go on the deck. Got some good sun at the moment.’ Contrived levity in her tone.

He shouldered the door against a snug frame and stepped outside and took a seat on the step down to the lawn. Bennett joined him a moment later and passed him a mug. She sat down beside him. She’d read him instantly. He’d conned himself into thinking his visit held no strict purpose, but she’d burned that:
You popped round so you could hear me say, ‘Don’t worry about it
.’

He dropped the mental ruse. Let’s get her verdict.

Right on cue: she leaned forward and placed her mug on the step between her feet. ‘So tell me about it.’

Devereaux said, ‘I shot him, and now he’s dead.’

‘I know. Tell me about before that.’

‘I thought you’d heard the story.’

‘Not from you.’

He took a slow swallow. ‘I feel like I’m guilty of something.’

‘You mean you feel guilt, or you’re worried someone will decide you did something wrong?’

He thought about it a moment. ‘Both, I guess.’

She nodded slowly, like she’d guessed the answer. ‘It’s a big deal,’ she said. ‘Whether it was needed or not.’

‘It was needed.’

‘So we’d better hear all the details then.’

He gave her the rundown. She listened quietly and nodded once when he was done.

‘What did the Merry Prankster think?’ she said.

‘Who?’

‘John Hale.’

‘He said it sounds like the guy needed shooting.’

‘Never did fluff around when he had something to say, did he?’ She looked at him sideways, lids low. Her lips stayed almost static as she spoke. ‘Reality is, every so often you’re in a situation where you have to shoot someone. And that’s pretty much the long and the short of it.’ She had some tea. She held the mouthful, as if second-guessing the swallow, then eased it down gently. ‘And I’ve known you long enough to know I’m sure you wouldn’t cancel anyone’s flight unless they really needed to get off the plane.’

‘Thanks, Claire.’

She gave his knee a pat.

‘You ever have to do it?’ he said.

She shook her head. ‘No.’

Devereaux didn’t answer.

‘Got any of those cancer sticks?’ she said.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Those things you smoke. Cigarettes.’

‘Why? You want one?’

She propped her elbows on her knees and nodded to herself. ‘Yeah. Why not?’

He leaned back on one elbow and pinched two cigarettes free from a flattened pack in his jacket. Kinked, but still serviceable. He passed one to Bennett. She put it in her mouth and leaned in for him to light it.

He said, ‘I thought you quit.’

Smoke leaked through a smile. ‘It’s a work in progress.’

He lit up his own. ‘Where’s Hannah?’

‘My sister’s got her today.’

‘How is she?’

She shook her head and made a face. She cupped a hand across her neck and rubbed her throat. ‘Not brilliant.’

‘She going to go back to school?’

She leaned across herself and tapped ash off the edge of the deck. ‘I don’t know. Nobody’s lining up to take her. She needs a dedicated teacher aide, and nobody’s prepared to fund it. So it’s not looking good really.’

Devereaux didn’t answer.

‘Major behaviour problems suddenly; she’s into breaking things. Plates, walls.’ She bit her lower lip lightly and watched the steam off her tea. ‘So much for an easy retirement, eh?’

‘You’re more than welcome to send her for a visit with me, if you ever need it.’

‘Yeah, thanks. You’re a honey.’ She stretched crossed ankles out in front of her. ‘Anyway. Mustn’t gasbag on.’ She glanced at him. ‘Have you been missing me?’

‘I have actually.’

‘Aw, Seany. You’re too much.’ She removed the cigarette to make room for a sip of tea.

‘You could always come back.’

She tilted her head back and laughed. It struck him as out of character: he’d known her ten years, she’d always kept amusement pinned down. Maybe quitting had agreed with her. ‘Don’t think they’d eat that one too easy,’ she said. ‘Jesus.’ She took a swallow. ‘I think I’m happier out than in, if I’m being honest.’

‘Why’s that?’

She cupped her mug in two hands and looked left, away from him. Her cigarette bled a lazy curlicue. ‘I’m not a man. And it’s definitely a man’s world.’ She tilted her head slightly, narrowed
one eye as if testing a theory. ‘I don’t think I ever drank enough, or was offensive enough. Think people would have been a lot happier if I had a penis. You know?’

‘You could just come back anyway. Be an improvement on the current arrangement.’

She took a sip. ‘So I hear. Yeah, I think you’re right.’

They sat and puffed. ‘Seeing anyone at the moment?’ she said.

He nodded. ‘Forensic tech named Ellen Stipe. I met her on that bus shooting last year.’

‘She nice?’

‘She’s growing on me.’

She laughed. ‘Bet she’d be thrilled to hear that.’

‘No. She’s very nice. I like her.’

‘What does she think about this whole business?’

‘The shooting?’

She nodded.

‘I think she’d prefer it if I hadn’t killed anyone.’

She took a last pull: a fierce drag that corded her neck and dropped her eyelids. She stabbed out the cigarette in the bottom of her mug and stood up. ‘Come and have a look at my veges,’ she said.

There was a small garden by the rear fence. He followed her over. A thatch of bamboo stakes supported a dense bloom of leaves.

‘I specialise in peas,’ she said.

She bent and picked a half-dozen pods.

‘Here. Nutritious. You want some to give to John?’

‘I don’t think he’s much of a pea man.’

He cracked a husk lengthways, ate the peas one by one. Quiet and methodical as she watched.

‘Making progress with this bank robbery stuff?’

‘Probably shouldn’t tell you.’

‘I’m good with secrets.’

He shook his head. ‘No. There’s not a lot of progress. There’s no internal transparency. I’m sure there’s a tie-in with these shootings back in January, but it’s hush-hush.’

‘So make it un-hush-hush.’

‘I can’t. It’s locked down.’

She thumbed peas off a split pod and tossed the remains back into the planter box.

‘Shouldn’t stop a resourceful young lad like you.’

He turned away and headed for the house.

‘Even people you liked couldn’t make you do as you were told,’ she said. ‘Let alone people you didn’t.’

He paused on the step. ‘I’m sorry if I ever caused you any grief,’ he said.

‘Been and gone now. All you can do is pay it forward. Dish out some grief to someone who needs it.’

‘I’ll do my best.’

‘Make sure you talk to someone about everything. Won’t you?’

‘I talked to John Hale.’

‘Talk to someone who isn’t a psychopath.’

He didn’t answer.

Bennett said, ‘You want to stay for a bit of dinner?’

‘No thanks. I’m going to go and visit the Merry Prankster.’

‘Good for you. Can you find your way out?’

‘I’ll holler if I get into trouble.’

She laughed. ‘Take care, Sean.’

Hale found the house easily enough. The bus in the yard made it an easy find. Pastor Drinnan’s wife was waiting for him when he arrived. She opened the front door and spoke to him through
the fly screen. A short, heavy woman sketched in silhouette on grey mesh.

‘Leanne called to say you were coming round. He’s not in at present.’

‘You mind telling me where I could find him?’

‘He’s taken the dog to the park. So that’d be your best bet.’

The park was a small council reserve just along the road. A guy in his late sixties and a black Labrador sat side by side on a bench atop a low rise, overlooking a playground. They were a neat pair: same hunched posture, same slackness of jowl. The guy hitched one elbow up on the backrest, glanced over his shoulder as Hale approached.

‘Pastor Drinnan?’ Hale said.

He smiled. A worn grey fedora kept his eyes in shadow. ‘More like Mr Drinnan, these days.’

‘You mind if I have a word?’

‘Regarding?’

‘Regarding a fight club robbery on the third of January of this year.’

Drinnan placed his hands in his lap, looked out over the playground. ‘Well. You’d best take a seat then.’ He glanced at the dog. ‘Scoot over, Gerry.’

The dog licked its lips and shuffled over to free up bench space. Hale sat down beside it. A hatchback was parked out on the street, a cardboard placard behind the windscreen. A request in bold marker pen:
Please stop braking into my car. I am a single mum with no money
.

‘Gerry’s leaving home today,’ Drinnan said.

‘Leaving the nest at last.’

The guy sighed. It sounded like closure of deep musing. ‘Something like that. No, he and the wife don’t really get on.’

‘Irreconcilable differences.’

The dog gazed down at its front paws. Drinnan smiled. ‘Yes. Exactly.’

Hale said, ‘Better the dog than you.’

‘I think the exact phrasing was “Either the dog or you”. Anyway.’ He watched a young mother pushing a little girl on a swing, placed a hand on the back of the dog’s neck. ‘He loves the park. He used to love coming here. I wanted to give him a last visit.’

The animal leaned its head against Drinnan’s shoulder.

‘I’ll miss you, Gerry. I’ll miss you, mate.’

He looked over at Hale. ‘I don’t think I caught a name.’

‘John Hale.’

He touched the brim of his hat. ‘Pleasure. Arthur Drinnan.’

‘I’m sorry to intrude like this. Your wife only told me I could find you here.’

Drinnan nodded slowly. ‘That’s okay. Margaret wouldn’t have worried about interrupting Gerry’s last visit.’ He smiled slightly, whistled faintly through his teeth. ‘Don’t you go worrying about it though, Ger.’

He reached across himself and stroked the dog’s ear, a thumb and index finger massage, eyes still with the swings.

‘You got a dog, Mr Hale?’

‘I used to. It died, I never got another one.’

He nodded slowly. ‘Must be an interesting life, don’t you think? No conscious recollection, no conscious expectation of what’s around the corner.’ He smoothed a palm over the dog’s head, animal’s eyelids lifting as he did so. ‘Must give things a certain kind of purity, even on the brink of the Big Exit.’

‘Is he dying?’

‘Probably not. Although he’s a lot less sprightly than he was once upon a time.’

Hale didn’t answer.

‘Are you a police officer?’

‘Private investigator.’ He handed his ID along the bench. Drinnan took it and glanced at it, passed it back. The dog oversaw the transfer: a slow swing of head as Hale’s wallet was accepted and returned.

‘There you go, Gerry. Your first and last private investigator.’ His laugh caught in his throat. He nudged his hat back with his forearm. ‘What did you want to ask me?’

‘Did you organise the fight on the third of January this year?’

He shook his head. ‘No. Well. Sort of.’

‘How sort of?’

He shifted in his seat and crossed his legs. Grey cotton trousers, cleanly creased. Tan and wizened boat shoes. ‘It’s a community hall. I had an evening slot booked, I used it to run an AA meeting. People stopped turning up. Someone requested I run a boxing session during that time. It turned into more like bare-knuckle fighting. But anyway. Ten dollar entry … was going to give the money to the church.’