Джон Коннолли - The Dirty South

‘Evening, Kel,’ said Cade, although it was now well into the night.

‘Evening, Jurel,’ said Knight. ‘Social visit?’

No love was lost between these two men, and each knew it, but Knight had been prepared to accommodate a level of grudging respect for the younger man until Patricia Hartley’s death. In the aftermath, he saw no cause for any but the most superficial of niceties.

‘I heard Evan was up to Boyd’s earlier,’ said Cade. ‘Made an arrest.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Anything I should know about?’

‘Northern boy. Had a little too much to drink, and proved disrespectful of the chief’s authority. We thought we’d accommodate him in a cell, and give him the opportunity to contemplate the error of his ways before we put him back on the road.’

Jurel Cade absorbed this information without any change in expression. Knight might as easily have been addressing himself to a statue. Cade’s hair was thick and black, with a natural curl that he tried to hide by keeping it cut short most of the time. In winter he let it grow a shade longer, with the result that the kink was currently at its most obvious. Some in the county liked to speculate – although again not in the immediate vicinity of Jurel, or any other member of the Cade clan – that he could have a little Jew in him from up the line, but Knight didn’t think that likely. The Jews might have helped open up parts of the state in the nineteenth century through their trading ventures, as was the wont of the Semitic race, but they had long been in general decline in Arkansas, a couple of pockets of Judaism excepted, and Cargill wasn’t Bentonville or Little Rock. Any Jews who ventured as far as Burdon hadn’t lingered, and Knight couldn’t recall ever meeting a Jew native to the county in all his born days, nor did he believe that his father or mother could have boasted the acquaintance of any. He had nothing against them as a people; they simply did not figure in his life or memory, and the same could likely have been said for that of the Cades.

There was another possibility for the kink, of course, one that even the most daring or foolhardy of commentators chose to leave unspoken. The Cades, like a fifth of all families in antebellum Arkansas, had owned slaves. In a period when the ownership of even a dozen slaves would have been regarded as significant, the Cades had a hundred in their possession, many of whom they hired out to plantation owners and farmers. Who was to say that, back in the day, a little darkness hadn’t crept into the Cade bloodline?

‘Way I heard it,’ said Cade, ‘your guest was drinking soda at Boyd’s. Hard to rate that as much of an intoxicant, not unless the bubbles went to his head.’

Knight wondered who at the bar had made the call to the sheriff’s office. It wouldn’t have been Joan Kirby, because she and the chief got along like gangbusters. Knight decided that he’d talk to Kevin Naylor the next day, and Joan also, with a view to establishing the identities of those in attendance when Parker was arrested. He might have to pay someone a visit, and remind them that Jurel Cade didn’t live in Cargill, while Kel Knight most assuredly did, and a certain level of loyalty toward the local police department was not only appreciated but also expected.

‘He was trying to sober up,’ said Knight.

He didn’t know why he was lying to Cade. Actually, he did know, and it wasn’t to protect the man in the cell. Even had he been upfront with Cade about Parker’s interest in Patricia Hartley, he didn’t think it likely that the county’s chief deputy would get more out of the prisoner than Griffin. But Knight and Cade had conflicting agendas when it came to the Hartley girl – just as, on a different level, Knight had issues with the chief’s handling of the matter – and he wasn’t about to feed Parker to the Burdon County Sheriff’s Office until more had been learned about him.

‘Uh-huh,’ said Cade. ‘You mind if I look in on him?’

‘I believe he’s sleeping.’

‘Won’t take long.’

Knight could hardly refuse. He stepped aside and directed Cade with his pipe.

‘Take as long as you want.’

7

Evan Griffin got home to discover that his wife hadn’t made meatloaf but chicken casserole, and had neither thrown it out nor fed it to Carter, the dog. It was late for him to be pulling up to the table, but he was so hungry that he knew he wouldn’t sleep unless he ate. He carefully divided the portion of casserole in two, fed a little to Carter by hand and heated the rest in the microwave. He took an O’Doul’s from the refrigerator and popped the cap. He’d long ago fallen into the habit of having a beer when he came home, regardless of the hour, and one sometimes became two, although rarely more. It started to rankle with him – Griffin was distrustful of dependencies – so he’d switched to O’Doul’s because it was more a matter of having a bottle in his hand, and something approximating the taste of beer in his mouth, than the alcohol itself. When the microwave pinged he set the plate on the table, his beer and a glass of water beside it, and the file from the motel room above the plate, being careful not to get any food on the pages. So engrossed did he become in the contents that he didn’t hear Ava come down the stairs, and wasn’t aware of her presence until her shadow fell across the table and she said:

‘Is that Patricia Hartley?’

Griffin saw no point in denying it, now that she’d seen the photograph. It was a picture from Patricia’s high school yearbook, the same one that had been placed on her coffin. Behind it were graphic images of her body, visible as fragments behind the main photo: a leg here, an arm there. Had he been forewarned, he would have closed the file before Ava arrived: not out of any great sensitivity to her feelings – they’d been married too long for that, and she’d seen and heard too much – but because Ava, like Kel Knight, had also made known her feelings about the death of Patricia Hartley, and he didn’t want to give her an excuse to rake over the ashes of that particular subject, because they never seemed to cool.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘You find out something new?’

‘No. There is nothing new for me to find out because it’s not my case.’

‘Don’t take that tone with me.’

She cuffed him gently across the back of the head as though he were a child, even though he had a dozen years on her. The blow barely ruffled his hair, and was more loving and possessive than an actual rebuke, but he had to make an effort to hold his temper nonetheless.

‘And this isn’t my file,’ he continued.

‘Then whose is it? Sheriff’s office?’

‘Nope.’

Which begged the question of how Parker had come by these images. They looked like Tucker McKenzie’s handiwork, being perfectly framed and in focus, even though they were copies of pictures that had been taken with an instant camera. McKenzie was the forensic analyst most frequently dispatched by the state crime lab to this part of Arkansas, but as far as Griffin was aware, Hartley’s death hadn’t been referred to the lab. McKenzie had been briefly present at the scene, but not in any official capacity. Griffin hadn’t seen these particular prints before, so how had they come to be in Parker’s possession? It was another subject to be explored with him in the morning.

‘You know I don’t like it when you try to be enigmatic,’ said Ava. ‘I didn’t marry you so I could spend my time guessing what you were thinking, or no more than should be obligatory with a man.’

‘I arrested someone this evening,’ said Griffin. ‘That’s how come I was late home. He had this file in his possession.’

‘All those papers just for Patricia Hartley? That’s more than the law has accumulated.’