‘Ganja?’ Ross said, looking at the joint in the man’s free hand.
‘What’s it to you?’
‘It’s Sean we want.’
‘He’s an idiot, I’ll grant you that, but he doesn’t get into much trouble, not like me when I was his age.’
‘Mr Garvey,’ Ross said, ‘is that where Sean is heading, prison before his twenty-first birthday?’
‘I was framed. It wasn’t me.’
Ross looked over at the son of a man who was setting anything other than a good example to a youth well on the way to serious crime. Already, Sean Garvey had two convictions against his name, one for stealing a car, the other for illegal drug possession. He was a tall, skinny individual, able to run faster than those chasing him, although on his neck, the unmistakable scar from a knife blade.
‘I haven’t done nothing,’ Sean Garvey said.
Other than mangle the English language, Larry thought.
‘Nothing proven,’ Ross said. He seemed to want to niggle the son and his father. It was succeeding, Larry could see, and the father, neither tall nor skinny, had put down his bottle of beer, rested his smoke on the edge of the armchair.
‘Before we go further,’ Larry said, ‘you are, Sean Garvey, a member of Waylon Conroy’s gang?’
‘The gang’s gone.’
‘Warren Preston, a friend?’
‘He was one of the gang. Hardly a friend, not after what he did.’
‘And what was that?’ Ross asked.
The father went back to his beer and turned on the television. Parental guidance and care were of little concern to him.
‘Nothing.’
‘Are you saying that because he spent time at the police station, he had done a deal with us?’
‘He did, didn’t he?’
‘He never said a word, not against you and your gang, nor did he admit to the killing of Hector Robinson, the white man down by the Durham Arms. His death was pointless, but then again, none of you live for too long. Waylon Conroy?’
‘I don’t know what happened to him.’
‘But you do know about Warren Preston, or as you call him, Wazza. Were you there? Did you see him die?’
The television went off, and Garvey Senior was on his feet. ‘Are you accusing Sean of murder?’ He was ready to grab Ross by the throat until Larry got between the two men.
Garvey Senior was a big man, stronger than either of the two police officers, and it was his home, and Bill Ross didn’t have a warrant, only a hunch that Sean Garvey could help.
‘Not at all. Not at this time,’ Larry said. ‘What Inspector Ross wants is assistance. We’re not here to accuse anyone, certainly not your son.’
‘As long as we’re clear.’
The father was easy to anger, easy to calm down, and he went back to his previous position, turned on the television again, took a drag of his drug, a swig of beer.
‘Sean,’ Larry said, ‘we’re not here about Waylon and Wazza. We need to find the two men who approached your gang in the street. What do you remember about the man in the car, the one with the gun?’
‘Nothing, really. Waylon, he was keen to take the money, do the job, but none of us was.’
An element of truth, the two police officers realised. Bravado as a gang, a lot of talking big but not doing much about it. And as for murder, killing a rival gang member was not a crime, just the way they conducted themselves. Even if Conroy had been keen, it wouldn’t have been the whole gang who would have taken part. Preston might have, but Sean Garvey was an insignificant youth, a follower, never a leader. Individually a coward, and collectively in a group bent on death, standing back, jabbing a knife in the general direction, not using force, probably not breaking the skin.
‘We know your gang killed Hector Robinson and Warren Preston, not that we can prove either,’ Ross said. ‘And quite frankly, that doesn’t concern me either way.’
Larry thought Ross’s comments unusual.
Ross continued. ‘It would have been Conroy on both occasions who would be the guiltiest. Two of your gang are dead, and statistically the chance of you still being alive and free after your twenty-third or twenty-fourth birthday is slim. Time will solve the murders committed by your gang, but we don’t have that with the men in the car. Other people have died, more will without your help.
‘Now, tell me about the men, and don’t try to be smart, not like Wazza was, or it’ll be down the police station and me telling the other gangs that you’re an informer.’
‘You can’t do that,’ Sean Garvey protested.
‘I don’t want to. You may prove to be the exception, the one who gets off his arse, finds himself a decent job, settles down, not like your father.’
Over in the armchair, no reaction. The man was asleep, his head on one side, the sound of snoring. Larry took the man’s ganja rolled up in cigarette paper and doused it in the man’s beer.
‘The two men?’ Larry said. He was tired of the flat, and the smell of beer, body odour and ganja was unpleasant. He walked over to a window and opened it, a blast of cold air entering the room.
Ross took no notice, the father continued his slumber, and the young Garvey zipped up his jacket, thinking to put the hood up, deciding against it.
‘Inspector Hill asked you a question,’ Bill Ross reminded him.
‘The one with the money spoke well, better than us. The one with the gun didn’t speak, only made sure we could see the barrel of a gun.’
‘Did they speak to each other?’
‘The one with the money did.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He spoke to the man in the car, told him
