Devil in the Detail by A.J. Cross (love letters to the dead .TXT) 📗

‘Why’d you bother with that depressing crap?’ he murmured.

‘I like the news and, in case you’ve forgot, this happens to be my place.’

She sat up, raised her face to the ceiling. Huey pulled his woollen hat over his ears, hunched his shoulders. ‘Presley! You get out o’ that bathroom now, and get to bed!’ She shook her head. ‘You need to talk to him. He spends too much time messin’ about.’ She pointed to the television screen. ‘Look. That murder is on the news again. The one where that couple got shot.’ Huey’s eyes were already on footage of church doors, people coming outside, a preacher-type shaking hands with them. Letisha pointed again. ‘That could be the mother and father of one of them …’

‘If you listened, you’d know.’

‘I don’t need no listenin’. See? It’s obvious. Father, mother and … some other relatives …’

Huey was picking up the news voiceover. ‘Earlier today, the Lawrence family attended a service for their murdered son at their local church: Mr Lawrence’s parents, his two sisters and—’

Huey came upright, eyes riveted on the screen, ears closed to his sister’s voice. The screen changed to another news item. He sat back unseeing. He’d already had one brush with DI Watts about that gun. Now he was anticipating a second. It would all come out. He would be in deep— He got a poke in the ribs.

‘I said, do you fancy a taco, or some o’ that chilli rice?’ He was on his feet, reaching for his coat. ‘Where you going?’

‘Out!’

TWENTY-EIGHT

Sunday 23 December. 9.30 a.m.

Restlessness had brought Watts into headquarters. He needed to decide on the best way of responding to what Molly Lawrence had told them which didn’t include going mob-handed into an already touchy area of the inner city. Going through message slips left for him, he stopped at one timed at 10.20 p.m. the previous evening, an unnamed caller wanting to speak to him. He rang the number. A cautious-sounding male voice responded.

‘Yeah?’

‘This is DI Watts. I’m looking at a message you left me last night.’

‘About bloody time.’

Watts frowned. The voice was familiar. ‘What’s up, Huey?’

‘I might have information for you.’

‘About?’

‘The shooting of that couple.’

Watts’ eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t say. Is this the same Huey Whyte who denied knowing anything? Make it snappy. I’ve got things to do.’

‘Before I give you what I’m ringing about, I want some guarantees.’

Watts laughed. ‘Get real.’

‘I’m serious. I’ve got life sorted, see. I don’t do nothing, trouble-wise, you hear what I’m saying? I’m living mostly at my sister’s. I help her with Presley. He’s sharp, Mr Watts. He’s got a future and I want—’

‘We all have “wants”, Huey. Mine right now is for you to tell me why you’ve phoned.’ He waited out the long pause.

‘I don’t watch the box but my sister had it on last night. The news. About that shooting. I saw somebody. If I tell you, you’ll know that that business with the gun you’re interested in is nothing to do with me.’

‘Is that a fact? Tell me what you’ve got.’ He reached for messages he hadn’t yet read, picked up one, read it, let it drop, reached for more.

‘I recognized him.’

‘Recognized who?’

‘That Lawrence bloke. Not the one that got shot. His brother.’

Message slips fell from Watts’ hand.

‘He’s a builder. He looks a bit older, a bit heavier than I remember, but it was him all right, you hear what I’m sayin’? I had a bit of business with him, nine, ten years back. His firm was doing a lot of refurbing in the area back then. He was looking for a plasterer.’

‘And being a graduate of HMP The Green in just that subject, you said, “I’ll do it, Gov”. So what?’

‘So, he needed something else. He must have asked around. He comes to me. Says he needs to make a purchase. A shooter.’

Watts’ head was racing. ‘Say that again, and slow.’

‘He asked me to get him a gun.’

‘And?’

‘You already know about that Russian piece. I told you I didn’t have it no more. That’s where it went. I sold it to him for five large.’

‘You’re telling me Brendan Lawrence paid you five hundred quid for that gun?’ Huey didn’t respond. ‘Did he say why he wanted it?’

‘Yeah. Security. Told me his house was secluded and his old lady nervous.’ There was a pause. ‘Look, I want to get off my phone and I don’t want to see you hanging around my family, asking no more questions—’

‘I want a statement from you.’

‘No! You’ve got it all. That’s it.’

Watts looked up as the door opened and Judd came in. ‘Get real, Huey. You made an illegal gun sale. That gun has been used in a homicide and I don’t care how long ago it was that you had your hands on it, I want everything you know about Brendan Lawrence and that gun.’ He waited out a long pause, feeling Judd’s eyes on him. ‘Look at it this way. Kids like your Presley need stability. You cooperate on this and there’s a possibility you’ll be around to make sure he has some. Get yourself here. Somebody will be waiting to take that statement.’

Ending the call, he went to one of the filing cabinets, searched the files, dragged one of them out, found what he was looking for. He phoned the incident room. Kumar’s voice sounded in his ear. ‘I’m expecting Huey Whyte here to make a statement. Give it an hour. If he’s a no-show, you and Jones get over to this address. It’s another of Huey Whyte’s occasional boltholes. He sold Brendan Lawrence the gun that was used on his brother and sister-in-law.’

‘You want us to bring Whyte in, Sarge?’

‘Not yet. Just don’t let him out of your sight if he leaves that location.’

He ended the call, then looked at Judd who was waiting. ‘There’s somewhere you and me need to be.’

23 December. 1.15 p.m.

They drove between the familiar wrought-iron gates, along the curving drive and stopped near to several parked cars.