Paul Finch - Hunted

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. Jowitt 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 tabletops; 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.

He’s very relaxed about this , Heck thought. Unnaturally so .

‘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?’ Grinton said.

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?’ Jowitt 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, duffel 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?’ Jowitt 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?’ Jowitt 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. 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?’ Jowitt 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 stained 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. Although a tad too plausible, of course.

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