Chapter 5
Whatever People Say I AmA bleary old alarm clock called at the setting sun, like a kestrel heralding the dawning moon.
Reaching a groggy hand out, Dusk turned the clock off and hauled himself off of pristine white sheets. Out of the window, the sky was a warm pink, the first waves of mystic purple seeping in. The clouds would come in soon, then the rain. The clouds were optional, so was the purple. The rain however, always came.
Outside of the square, glass window on his wall, Dusk could hear the bustle of a city enjoying the thin slice of dry, cool evening. The appropriately named “purple hours,” where the people of Ancerbridge wound down from work and sat out beneath the stars. So often, Dusk had heard people curse the rain, but he had always believed that it was the scarcity of those sacred hours which made them so precious.
His room was neat and organised, though it bore a soulless feel. The bed was nearly undisturbed, despite Dusk’s slumber. After getting home from the combat trial he had lay straight atop the bed without changing or even getting under the covers. The floor was a neat, wooden board, and there was little decoration save for a few bookcases, and shelves that carried faded trophies from tennis competitions and writing events that he had entered during his youthful summers. Moving to Ancerbridge meant leaving all of it behind, but Dusk had kept the trophies. They anchored him, gave his past some structure and his present some direction.
Dusk stepped into the living room, sweeping a notebook off of the old table in the corner and carrying it with him to the kitchenette. Like his bedroom, Dusk kept this space scarce. There was a television stood on the outside of the bedroom wall and a collection of old, Cannaran movies sat gathering dust. In front of it, there was a coffee table and a single armchair, an ash tray and an abandoned cup of coffee. In a bookshelf that stood between his table and the wall, looming in the shadows at the corner of the room, was a vinyl player and a library of records. Stood at attention alongside it, a tall, hooded lamp.
Towards the back of the room, where Dusk leaned against the wall, was the kitchenette. A small isle with a fridge and an oven installed beneath it, a gas cooker and some shelves for pots and pans. Dusk could still hear the rapacious cheering that drifted up from the sun washed streets beneath him, but this little space was his kingdom. The off-white lights above him flickered to life with the pull of a cord, and a small fan started turning from the ceiling above him. His space was washed with a fading light, and he finally afforded himself a soft smile.
Crouching down and pulling open the fridge, Dusk extracted some salmon, some vegetables, yesterday’s leftover rice and a small glass bottle of cheap sauce. Resting each ingredient on the counter, he navigated to the cupboard and found his chopping board and knife-rack, which he similarly situated on the island. There were only two missing pieces of the puzzle.
Quietly walking back into the living room, Dusk turned on the lamp and sifted through his records. Peeling back the plastic wallet that housed his favourite album, he gently placed it atop the turn table and dropped the pin. As the record spun to life, the little flat was filled with the soft sound of a lonely piano. Time for wine. Slowly walking back to the kitchenette, Dusk closed his eyes to enjoy the ambience of the turning fan and the crackle of the record pin that sung beneath his music. Grabbing a glass out of the cupboard above him, he fished some wine out from a little cabinet and poured himself a glass. The first sip carried hints of cherries.
Dusk’s mother had taught him most of what he knew about cooking, and the main thing she had instilled in him was that the act of preparing food nourished the spirit as much as eating it did the body. Dusk poured every fibre of his attention into his cooking, even though he wasn’t going to eat it. Sharpening the knife before he cut the vegetables, he did not rush to hack them to pieces, he diligently carved each the stem of each broccoli, each mushroom, before he scooped them off of the cutting board and dropped them into a small bowl.
Rolling his sleeves up, he moved over to his cooker. Pressing down the dial, he counted the sparks. It always took four tries before the little blue flame sprung to life. Setting his pan on the hob, he left it to warm up while he flicked open his notebook and thumbed to its most recent page.
A small pile of polaroid pictures, tucked into the margin of the book, fell into his hand. Each of them portrayed a young man or woman, jaundiced from their time in The Slouch. Some of them were smiling, some were stood with their families, each of them had died within the last year. All of their bodies had gone missing.
Dusk had been contacted about the case after the fifth report came in. Silverwatch members didn’t normally involve themselves with crimes that were not obviously related to criminal tuners, but Dusk made frequent efforts to work with other detectives. More powerful than any resonance was information, and Dusk prided himself on being one of the most powerful men in Ancerbridge’s underground.
Each of these bodies had been buried in the Manloch cemetery, and each had gone missing within the last three months. Grave robbing wasn’t a profitable crime in Ancerbridge, there wasn’t any known market for body parts. If it was a large group doing it, they would have made some waves, which led Dusk to the conclusion that there was a single person or small group of people taking the bodies. But why?
Tossing a few droplets of water into the pan, Dusk watched them ball up and begin to roll around instead of evaporating immediately. Putting the notebook to one side, he gently laid the salmon into the pan, searing it before dropping the temperature and leaving it to cook on a low temperature. On another hob, Dusk put the vegetables on a boil, then left the kitchenette for a moment to sip his wine and look out of the window. Below him, the people of Ancerbridge were drinking and laughing, sharing smoke and food under the fading sky. Did any of them know about the missing bodies? The cemetery was only a half-hour from here. Some of them might have known victims. Maybe he was looking at one of the culprits now…
A small tap came at the window as the scent of Dusk’s salmon crawled into the air. Looking over, Dusk saw a thin, ginger cat perched on the guard railings outside of his flat. How it had climbed the heights, he did not know. As he opened the window, the cat strolled in politely, rubbing its back against the underside of his hand.
“I don’t suppose you have any tips, Curmudgeon?” Dusk didn’t know if that cat went by any other name. It wore no collar. The cat widened its emerald eyes at Dusk as it sat on its hindlegs. “Yes, yes, your tithe. Come on.” As Dusk walked to the kitchenette, the cat followed him, leaping up onto the counter and taking an inquisitive pass over his cutting board and the rice. Dusk separated a few thin cuts of salmon from the pan, putting them on a few sheets of kitchen paper and depositing it on the floor by his feet. He checked the vegetables, then walked back into the living room to give his guest some privacy. As soon as he was by the couch, he stated to hear the soft sounds of the little cat’s private feast.
When had bodies gone missing before? There were no prolific cases of grave robbing in Ancerbridge that sprung to mind. Organ theft, sure, but not from those that had already been put to bed. The timespan didn’t make sense, the latest of them would be well into the liquification stage of decomposition. They might want bones, but any obvious and practical need for them could be satisfied by a well-paid butcher. Why risk getting caught robbing graves?
Dusk walked back into the Kitchenette, earing a mewl of disapproval from his uninvited guest. Dusk removed the salmon from the pan, putting both cuts on a dining plate, then poured the rice and vegetables in behind it and turned up the heat. Standing there for a time, he gently tossed the food and parted his legs to let the cat wrap itself around him.
After a few minutes of attention, Dusk plated the fried rice and vegetables, salmon decorating the centre of the plate, and squeezed a fresh lemon over the top. “What do you think, good enough?” He smiled down at his companion. Grabbing the plate in one hand, he walked to the door, snatching a rain coat as he went.
“Have a lovely evening, my friend.” Dusk put a foot in the cat’s path as it followed the scent of food. “Best not to follow me, you’ll get stuck in the corridor.” Closing the door behind him, he walked down the bleak and empty corridor towards an old elevator. Riding the lift down to the ground floor, readjusting his grip on the plate as it rocked and rumbled, his shoulders started to slope and his brow fell back into its usual, depressed glare.
The acrid scent of recreational drugs flared in his nostrils as he strode down the corridor. Some doors had been kicked in, broken off of their hinges, while others were simply unlocked, giving Dusk a clear view of near catatonic people sitting slumped against the wall, smoking. Every now and then, he met their eyes, though he never held their gaze for long.
Eventually, after a few twists and turns through the ground floor of the complex, Dusk came across a miraculously unharmed door. A small, red charm was wrapped around its metal handle, made of red string. The charm was woven around a wooden ring to look like a spider’s web. Knocking thrice on the door, Dusk paused for a moment.
“Ms Callas, I’m coming in.” Slowly turning the handle, careful not to knock loose the charm, he stepped into a dimly lit living room. The flat shared the same lay out as his own. An open space attached to a kitchenette, with a bedroom and bathroom on the other side of the door on the west wall. What separated it from Dusk’s flat was the manner in which it was decorated. Dozens of bronze plates, each stacked with red candles of various heights, sat across the floor, the windows and the tables. Each of them burned with a warm, orange flame and filled the room with scents that Dusk had never found anywhere else in Ancerbridge.
Sitting on a cushioned rocking chair, slowly spinning another charm around a wooden frame, was Ms Callas. She was a short, old woman, swaddled in red blankets. Her hair was thin and wiry, but it cascaded down her shoulders and back like the vines of a willow tree, collecting in different strands that spiralled around one another. Dusk had first met her when some young men were bashing on her door, mistaking her for someone who owed them money. After Dusk deescalated the situation, he had struck up a friendship with the woman.
“Up early?” She asked him. He voice had a thick, Yponislan accent, the words quashed together and stress on her ‘e’s.’ Dusk hummed in acknowledgement as he carefully stepped through the room, making sure not to knock over any of her candles. Fishing for a tray and some cutlery amongst the piles of nick-nacks and trinkets in her kitchen, he spoke softly. “Salmon and vegetables, tonight. Is that to your liking?”
The old woman nodded her head, putting her woven charm to one side as Dusk walked over and carefully passed her a tray and a glass of water. Pulling the blanket off of her leg, she lifted and crossed it over her other thigh. Ms Callas had lost a foot decades ago, though she had never told Dusk how. The first time he asked, it had been a train accident, the second, a wild bear. Once upon a time, Dusk had challenged her on the inconsistencies and laughed as she invented increasingly ridiculous stories to account for them. When intrigue beat patience, he had asked around and found that she had lost it to a disease while staying in The Slouch, but he never told her that he knew.
Passing her the tray, he removed a stack of string and reeds from a stool and sat down across from her, resting his elbows on his knees. Her face was saggy, her eyes like beads of coal buried deep in her skull, but a little smile grew upon her face as she took the first few bites. “Working?” She didn’t turn her attention away from the food as she asked him.
“Soon. I’ll come by in the morning for the plate. How’s your chest?”
Ms. Callas shook her head slowly, but didn’t stop eating for long enough to answer him in any detail. Dusk nodded slowly and picked himself up, resting a hand on her shoulder for a moment before turning to the door.
“Orange.” She muttered. Dusk stopped for a moment, looking back to her. “Pardon?”
“You’re thin. Take an orange.” She nodded to a bowl of tangerines that sat on a little table in the corner of the room. Dusk walked over to it and inspected them, before taking a small one and slipping it in his pocket. He didn’t take his hand off of it, softly squeezing it as he walked to the door. “Thank you, Ms. Callas. Have a good evening.”
Stepping out of the apartment, Dusk closed the door behind him and checked up and down the corridor. No sign of any immediate trouble. He carried on out of the building, turning into an underground carpark. Dusk drove an unimpressive, black car, he had chosen it to be passed over and ignored. Its doors had been keyed, and the tires stolen once or twice, but each scar earned it the kind of authenticity that it needed to pass without notice in the Slouch. As he approached the car, he craned his head to scout its back seats, then ran a hand under all of the easily accessible but out-of-sight places: just above the wheels, just under its bonnet and trunk. Nothing was out of place, so he turned his key in the lock and slipped inside.
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
As soon as Dusk was within the car, he fished a hand under its passenger seat and caught his trilby. He took his gun out of the glove-box and checked it over. Satisfied with the quality of his equipment, he tuned the key in the ignition and drove off.
Outside on the street, the Purple Hours were coming to a close. Thick clouds were starting to roll in over the distant tops of buildings. Dusk could see the rain that swept out from under them. Those who would risk the wind and water to enjoy their last scraps of sunlight had begun to set off at the first sign of the rain. The last buses would run soon, as would the tube. The city was going to sleep.
As Dusk drove to The Slouch, he calibrated the radio he had affixed to the front of his car. Looking up, he saw that he was driving straight into the rain. The further east one travelled into Ancerbridge, the more decrepit and corroded the city became. The buildings grew more and more brutal, the proportion of collapsed or abandoned lots grew greater, the streets emptier and emptier. After crossing the Warehouse Station, where import companies like Vellichi Rails stopped their trains each night, Dusk entered the Slouch. The city came alive once again.
Underneath the rain, night bars and clubs whirred their neon lights to life. There was always music somewhere in The Slouch, often too much to discern any single song. Sheet metal stripped from abandoned warehouses hung affixed to the fronts and sides of popular buildings, letting people congregate outside for a breezy smoke without the harassment of the rain. As Dusk passed one such building, he noted a few pairs of eyes follow his car along the road. He never left anything valuable in his car if he was parking it in The Slouch, he may as well be leaving it on the side of the street. Still, if he could go home with all of his windows intact, he wouldn’t complain.
Driving further in, Dusk turned his car into a cramped alleyway and slowly crawled it to the end. Turning off the engine, he sat in the dark and listened to the rain, moving only when he felt the weight of sleep start to drag his eyelids down and only to shake his head and stave off slumber. Dusk sat for a half hour, waiting to ensure that nobody was following him down into the alleyway, before he pulled his hat over his head and stepped out of the car, closing and locking the door behind him.
Rain ruined paper, bags of trash and the odd condom lined the alley walls as Dusk took his first steps into the night. He didn’t spare them a second glance. He had work to do.
Dusk marched purposefully down the street, ignoring the odd heckle from the drunkards and druggies that passed him by. In the distance, he saw a mob of people slowly filtering into a club. The neon sign affixed to its face bore the picture of a blossoming lotus, different segments flashing in red and green to indicate its perpetual flowering.
The appropriately named “Lotus” had formerly been an office building for a paper company that went bust some years prior. It had been bought on the cheap by a ‘philanthropist’ called Candyman, who Dusk had collaborated with the police to pin numerous charges of theft and insider trading upon. He was currently rotting in prison, and one of his closer assistants had taken over management of the Lotus. Since then, the club had taken something of a monopoly over the nightlife in the Slouch. Everyone who lived there was looking to escape something, and the Lotus could hide them away from it all, at least until the sun came back up.
Pulling into an alleyway along the side of the club, Dusk dodged the massive crowd of people looking to get in. Along the side of the building, in a little alcove, was a side entrance guarded by two tall, well-dressed men. They eyed Dusk inquisitively as he walked towards them. Getting close enough to see under their hats, Dusk could tell that they didn’t live here. Their skin was free from boils and discoloration, their eyes weren’t sunken, they had kept all their teeth…
“One of you got a radio?” He asked the men.
“Who the fuck are you?” The guard on the left questioned Dusk. A small curl of blond hair poked out from under his hat. His over-bitten mouth pulled into a sneer.
“Detective Mac Lorne. I need to get in and speak to the manager.” Dusk fished his badge out of the inside pocket of his coat, passing it to the man for inspection. Narrowing his eyes, he tilted it for his partner to study, then passed it back to Dusk.
“Doesn’t buy you much favour here, mate. Why don’t you go queue out the front.” He gestured down the alleyway. Dusk turned his head and listened to the screaming and jeering that echoed from the crowd.
“I’m working a case, not a hangover and a barfight.”
“Well, have you got a warrant?” The second man spoke up, leaning over Dusk a little as he spoke.
“You’ve seen the badge, you know who I work for and how we do things, are you going to let me in and tell your boss that I forced you to, or are you going to make me force you?” Dusk took a step back from the men, sliding his hands into his pockets and quickly studying them. He spotted a bulge under the blond fellow’s jacket, just above his hip. Likely a holstered gun. His partner didn’t seem armed, but he had a good few inches over Dusk. He held his breath and hoped that they wouldn’t call his bluff.
As his partner took a step towards Dusk, the blond man caught his shoulder and pulled him in to talk into his ear. Dusk couldn’t hear what he said, but he saw the man’s eyes widen as he listened. Tutting in frustration, he stepped to the side and gestured to the door. “Go. We’ll radio up.”
Dusk quietly released the tension in his body as he stepped by them. “Cheers, gents.” He pushed the heavy doors open, leaning his shoulder into them and walked inside. The corridor stretching ahead of him was dark, luminescent plastic signs that hung from the ceiling provided some degree of light, but only enough for Dusk to figure out where the walls started and ended. The deeper he walked, the more disorienting his surroundings became. Every breath brought the scent of burning from smoke machines upstairs above him, and every second took him closer to the source of some screeching, tinny speakers. The bass thrum of dancing, singing and shouting perforated the floors as the party raged on upstairs.
Gently tracing his fingers along the wall as he walked, Dusk caught the rim of an elevator doorframe. Sliding his hand along it for a second, the button flickered to life as he pressed it, and the echoing scape of metal cut over the ambient noise as the lift descended to greet him. Inside, a soft, gold light beamed from the ceiling. Dusk stepped in as soon as the door opened and looked at the stickers that had been laid on the wall by the buttons. The Lotus only used four of the six stories that made up the building. The ground floor, and the two above it, were dedicated ‘club spaces.’ Pressing the 4th floor button, titled ‘offices and staff area,’ Dusk positioned himself in the middle of the elevator and watched the door close. The lift lurched to life and hauled itself up the elevator shaft, grinding to a halt a few inches lower than it was meant to. After a little wait, the doors slowly opened, and Dusk stepped out into the next labyrinth of shadowed corridors.
The walk to the office from the elevator was comparatively short. A pile of broken desks and chairs closed off access into deeper regions of the floor on one side of the elevator. Turning the other way, Dusk saw yellow light pouring out of an open door. He could hear the soft tap of a type-writer from inside. Walking into the room, Dusk saw a greasy little man sat at a desk writing. His face looked as though someone had stuffed softened butter under the skin, ridges and lumps under his cheekbones. The wiry reading glasses and buttoned shirt that he wore stood at odd ends with the inch-wide hole in his cheek. It looked like a knife wound?
“Please hold still. My associate would like to search you for any weapons.” The man’s voice was tinny and nasally, though it carried a certain bite to it. Looking slightly to the side, Dusk saw a large man pushing himself off of a chair and walking over. Dusk pinched his lapels and held his coat wide, giving the man access to his pockets and an easier time performing his pat down. He started at Dusk’s legs, though the man behind the desk did not wait to start talking again.
“How can we help you this evening, Detective Mac Lorne? My employees tell me that you threatened them with violence at the side entrance over a case that you are investigating, but the Lotus and its employees have committed no crimes.” As he was talking, the guard pulled Dusk’s gun out of his pocket. Holding it by the barrel, he narrowed his eyes in concern.
Dusk stepped back, away from the weapon. “Everyone in the Slouch has a gun, you can stop narrowing your eyes at me.”
Looking back to his employer, and receiving an approving nod, the man put the gun to one side and went back to checking Dusk’s pockets. Flicking his eyes down, Dusk spotted a tattoo of a roosting crane on his nape. The man was an affiliate of the Cranes, the dominant gang in the Slouch. Like most of the Silverwatch, Dusk had spent the majority of his career arresting tuners who had risen to prominence within the Cranes and started using their resonances for stealing and fighting.
The man fished Dusk’s tangerine out of his pocket, rolling it in his hands and smirking before stepping away. Dusk caught his wrist, stopping him from retreating. “That’s my lunch.” He nodded to the tangerine. It was the only thing in the room with any colour and life. The guard’s wrist flexed slightly against Dusk’s grip, testing to see if he could pull his hand away. Dusk did not relent.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Harry, give him the orange.” At his boss’ instruction, the guard relinquished the tangerine. Dusk stuffed it back in his pocket and turned away from the guard.
“Edgar.” As soon as he said his name, the man behind the table gave Dusk a confused look. Dusk continued regardless. “I’m here because I have questions, I want to rule out the Slouch from my suspicions regarding a case that I’m working on. Help me get out of your hair.”
Looking down at the paper in his type-writer, Edgar nodded and slipped off of his chair, walking to a liquor cabinet, taking out a pair of tumblers and a bottle of whiskey. “Well, Dusk –” he emphasised the name “— I don’t know how much I’ll be able to help, but I do like to help my friends. Sit.”
Dusk stayed standing, raising a hand to stop Edgar before he poured out whiskey into the second glass. “I don’t drink at work.”
“You don’t have to act sober with me, friend, the Lotus is a spiritual place. Drinking, smoking, fucking, fighting, eating, whatever cures your misery.” Edgar shrugged as he corked the whiskey and put it to one side. “Now, tell me about this case.”
Dusk reached into the pocket of his coat, fishing out his notebook. Flipping through it for a second, he tossed the polaroid pictures of the graverobbing victims onto the desk. “Someone’s been taking bodies out of graves. What has the Slouch said about it?”
“How should I know?” Edgar gave an incredulous smile as he leaned back in his chair. “Do you think I have every crane and junkie leaving little letters in my pigeon hole? I’ve heard nothing about stolen corpses.” He laughed for a few seconds, taking a sip from his drink. “I’ll tell you, friend, this is not what I was expecting from you… Graverobbing? Really?” He laughed some more.
Dusk sighed and took a deep breath, sliding an empty chair out of the way of the desk before stepping forward and placing both palms on the table. Behind him, he heard the guard shifting a little, reaching a hand into his pocket.
“Edgar. You want to talk to me privately. Please ask Harry to give us some space.” Dusk’s brow fell low as he spoke, his fingers flexed against the wood.
Edgar shrugged and acquiesced. “Harry, outside for five minutes. I’ll call you if I need you.” The man nodded and excused himself, closing the door behind him, leaving Dusk and Edgar alone in the room.
“What?” Edgar levelled an annoyed stare at Dusk, who stood motionless, his expression unchanging for a few moments. “What!?” Edgar asked again, craning his head in confusion. “I don’t know anything!”
Dusk slowly curled his hand into a fist, resting the knuckles against the table. “Edgar. Three years ago, I found out that you had a resonance which you were using to spy on your rivals. I could have turned you in. Still can, mind you. But I didn’t, and we’ve been very good friends since then, haven’t we?”
“The threat’s getting a little old now, friend. What would the police say if they knew that you were working with a Crane plant?” Edgar riposted, reclining in his chair and creating a bit of distance between him and Dusk. “You’d lose your job, I’d lose mine, it wouldn’t be good for anyone. You’re not the scary one in your little clique; you’re the sensible one. Be sensible. Sit.”
Dusk grinded his teeth together for a moment. “I’m not threatening to turn you in, Edgar. The police would never find out. I –“
“What? You’re going to kill me? Come on—”
“Of course not, no. But God, Edgar, there are so many Cranes these days, aren’t there? Not really enough positions for everyone to feel important though… I wonder how your bosses would feel about our little deals? Maybe they’d want a change in management, the Lotus is a big earner, after all.” Dusk forced a polite, conversational smile to strain across his face, shadowed under the brim of his hat. “That would be terrible, seeing my old friend lose his job over something as ridiculous as graverobbing.”
Edgar’s brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed as he studied Dusk. An awkward silence grew between the two of them, until Edgar relented. “We haven’t heard much at all about it, no names, no groups, okay?” He paused, Dusk’s face didn’t change. “We first heard about it a few weeks ago, at the beginning of the month. One of our powdermen was picking up produce from the Hole, and there was a man there trading strange cargo for corpses. He asked me if I wanted to get involved and I said no, we’re doing fine without whatever he was offering. That’s all I know, we didn’t ask anymore and we haven’t been told anymore!”
Dusk nodded slowly, finally leaning back and allowing the light to shine on Edgar as he flipped through his notebook. In the depths of the Slouch were the Crane Slums, where Luka had grown up. In the depths of the Slums, was the Hole. For a long time, it had been something of a myth to the police of Ancerbridge, who could not enter the Crane Slums without causing a week of riots. The Hole, supposedly, was a former factory-turned-greenhouse where most of the Crane’s drugs were grown. Why was someone trading drugs there?
“Where’s your man? I want to talk to him.” Dusk didn’t look up from his notebook.
“Now you know that I can’t provide that, Dusk.” Edgar protested, waving his hand indignantly through the air. “How would that look? Pulling a crane off of his usual rotation to come and talk to you?”
“Fine. Don’t call him here. Where can I find him?” Dusk still did not meet Edgar’s eyes.
“Davenport Road.” Edgar scrunched his face up at Dusk as he answered. “You aren’t going to mark straight over there from here, are you? I’m not the only one with eyes.”
Dusk jotted down the road name in his notes. Finally, he looked over to his associate. “Goodnight, Edgar.” He strode out of the room, then turned to Harry who was stood by the door. “Gun.” Dusk held his hand out expectantly, nodding thankfully when Harry relinquished the firearm without a fight.
In the elevator ride down to the ground floor, he flicked through his notes. Nothing on a masked man, nothing about strange new drugs entering the market, and certainly nothing to answer the question of where the hell these missing bodies had gone. Opening the door and stepping between the guards outside, ignoring their annoyed grimaces at his return, Dusk left the alleyway outside the Lotus and walked back to his car, muttering to himself along the way.
“Davenport it is.”
