“They’re not coming in,” Indie answered calmly, already getting to his feet, and I stood with him automatically.
As we crossed the hallway, I caught movement through the frosted glass panels beside the door. One of the bastards leaningslightly sideways, trying to look through the gap in the curtains. Clocking cuts. Numbers. Faces. Fucking vultures.
Indie opened the front door only enough to step through, forcing them backwards onto the tiny front path as I followed him out into the cold evening air.
“You boys are hard to pin down,” one of the officers remarked casually.
I recognised him immediately. CID. Detective Sergeant Collins. Mid-forties and always with a smug face. Thought he was smarter than everyone else in the room. Usually he wasn’t. But worse, he was Mercer’s old team, and I didn’t doubt it was a coincidence that he was here.
“Tried the clubhouse a few times,” the second one added. “No luck.”
Indie folded his arms slowly across his chest. “Almost like we’ve had a funeral to organise.”
Collins ignored that. “We need to ask a few more questions regarding Mr Dodd’s death.”
“You took statements in the hospital,” Indie replied evenly.
“Aye,” Collins nodded. “And it appears you’d all developed poor eyesight and shocking memory retention.”
Behind me, I heard the front room floorboards creak. Brothers moving closer to listen.
The detective continued watching Indie carefully. “Understandable under the circumstances of course. Trauma affects recall.” The sarcasm dripped off him. “But sometimes,”he continued, “once emotions settle, people suddenly remember useful details.”
“Funny that,” I muttered.
Collins’ eyes flicked to me briefly. “Anything coming back to you now, Reap?”
“Nope.”
I held his gaze. Those dark eyes. Mean. Cruel. I remember those as well as the grey eyes of his old boss. Silence stretched. Cold air curled between us. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked. Then Collins shifted tactics.
“There’s also been a rise in bodies turning up lately.” His voice stayed conversational, but his eyes sharpened. “Gunshot wounds. Execution style in some cases. Gangland stuff.”
Neither of us reacted. Years of practice.
“We were wondering if your club knew anything about it?”
Indie’s expression didn’t move an inch. The younger officer shifted awkwardly beside Collins. Indie stepped slightly forward then, calm as ever but somehow making the tiny front path suddenly feel too small for everyone else standing on it.
“We ride motorbikes, Detective. Drink too much beer. How the fuck would we know anything about gangland killings?”
Collins stared at him a second longer before giving the faintest smile. Not friendly.
“Thought I’d ask.”
“Aye,” Indie answered softly. “And we’ve answered.”
The detective nodded slowly, glancing once towards the house again where shadows moved behind curtains before stepping backwards off the path.
“Give us a ring if anyone’s memory improves.”
I watched the police car disappear down the street before exhaling slowly through my nose. Behind us, the front door opened, and a twin leaned his head out.
“Did they fuck off?”
“For now,” Indie muttered.
But all of us knew what he really meant. For now.
