Only the Dead by Ben Sanders Page A

led him through to a meeting room. It was a small cubicle, equipped with a table and three chairs. A window gave out onto the Cook/Vincent streets intersection. Duvall claimed a chair and sat. The constable promised DI McCarthy’s arrival was imminent. Duvall shifted his chair back and tried for casual: stretched legs and crossed ankles, reminiscent of The Don on High Street.
    It was a seventeen-minute wait. The door opened at a minute before nine and McCarthy walked in. He had another, slightly younger, guy in tow. Duvall stood and traded handshakes. The younger guy was a cop called Frank Briar. They had takeaway coffee but no paperwork, which meant they probably had nothing to give him, which meant no file access. Which meant the following tête-à-tête might not be all that useful.
    The Don drew his chair close and hunched in over the table. He was a very big guy: a one-hand coffee cup grip took his fingers full circle. He nudged the table a fraction, shunted it towards Duvall, forced him closer to the wall.
    ‘I honestly didn’t think I was going to be able to find any dirt on you,’ McCarthy said. ‘But I did.’
    Duvall didn’t answer.
    ‘You assaulted a suspect back in ’ninety-seven,’ McCarthy said. ‘You want to tell me about that?’
    No notepad, no recorder. He wasn’t that interested in the finer points. Or maybe he already had them.
    ‘I allegedly assaulted a suspect.’
    ‘You resigned shortly after. Makes me think it was a reasonably credible accusation.’
    Duvall kept his arms unfolded for fear of looking cagey. He was backed up in the corner of the room, table inches from his abdomen, forcing him upright. He said, ‘I was at a point in my career where I was ready to move on. I didn’t want to stain my record, so I walked away from it.’
    McCarthy said nothing. Briar thumbed his chin stubble. The silence grew. Tried and true cop tactics: wait for the interviewee to fill the silence. Duvall didn’t bow to it.
    McCarthy checked his watch, like timing the pause. He said, ‘You’d had enough of everything?’
    ‘Yeah, I was sick of it.’
    ‘The people or the work?’
    ‘The people are the work.’
    ‘So who was worse: the cops or the criminals?’
    ‘I’m not sure. Some of them were both.’
    McCarthy smiled, stiletto-thin. He said, ‘Ironic you say that, given the circumstances of your resignation.’
    ‘Not like you to be accused of misconduct, though, is it Don?’
    McCarthy laughed. He said, ‘I’m glad we’re on first-name terms.’ He had some coffee. Duvall drank in his body language: relaxed posture, no telltale arterial tick as he tipped the cup back. Morgue-drawer cool. Briar crossed one leg and rocked back in his chair, cup cradled in his lap.
    The Don said, ‘Here’s the thing, though, Mitchell. I’ve still got my job, but you don’t. I’m just trying to get a handle on why that might be.’
    Duvall smiled. He shunted the desk away a fraction and regained nominal comfort. ‘You told me yesterday if you managed to dig anything up on me, I wouldn’t make it past the front desk. And yet I have. I’m just trying to get a handle on why that might be.’
    McCarthy had some coffee, and his gaze came back to Duvall. Sharp enough to pierce lead. He smiled. ‘My tolerance for lip runs pretty low,’ he said. ‘You’re going to have to work to endear yourself to me now.’
    ‘I’m just worried that this meeting is a waste of time.’
    ‘How could it be a waste of time?’
    ‘Because you’ve brought me in here just to tell me you’re not prepared to offer up any of the information I’ve been asking for.’
    McCarthy shrugged. He prised one edge of his plastic coffee lid, then resealed it. ‘Divulging the contents of official files is a decision we take very seriously,’ he said. ‘Especially when the requester has been accused of assault.’
    ‘Okay. I understand. Maybe you could stop wasting time and tell me whether you’re going to grant access.’
    Nobody