Hunted - Paul Finch

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filling the narrow passages with cloying vapour.

      Arriving at 41 Lakeside View, they found a boxy, redbrick structure, accessible by a short cement ramp with a rusty wrought-iron railing, and a single corridor running through from one side to the other, to which various apartment doors – 41a, 41b, 41c and 41d – connected.

      Heck, Grinton and Jowitt regarded it from a short distance away. Only the arched entry was visible in the evening murk, illuminated at its apex by a single dull lamp; the rest of the building was a gaunt outline. A clutch of detectives and armour-clad uniforms were waiting a few yards behind them, while the troop carrier with its complement of reinforcements was about fifty yards further back, parked in the nearest cul-de-sac. Everyone observed a strict silence.

      Grinton finally turned round, keeping his voice low. ‘Okay … listen up. Roberts, Atherton … you’re staying with us. The rest of you … round the other side. Any ground-floor windows, any fire doors, block ’em off. Grab anyone who tries to come out.’

      There were nods of understanding as the group, minus two uniforms, shuffled away into the mist. Grinton checked his watch to give them five minutes to get in place, then glanced at Heck and Jowitt and nodded. They detached themselves from the alley mouth, ascended the ramp, and entered the brick passage, which was poorly lit by two faltering bulbs and defaced end to end with obscene, spray-painted slogans. The same graffiti covered three of its four doors. The only one that hadn’t been vandalised was 41c – the home of Alan Devlin.

      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 pockmarked, one eyebrow bisected by an old scar. It unmistakably belonged to one-time hardman Alan Devlin, though these days 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 so 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 Jowitt 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?’ Jowitt 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 behind them. ‘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 litter 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 he 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, and they’ll be gone.’

      ‘What fucking questions?’

      Jowitt 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 cos Jimbo breached his parole?’

      ‘It’s a bit more serious than that, Mr Devlin,’ Jowitt 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. 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

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