The Likeness

by Tana French

  “Of all the boys I’ve known and I’ve known some, until I first met you I was lonesome . . .”

  I had heard Abby sing before, but only to herself when she thought no one was listening, never like this. That voice: it was the kind you don’t hear these days, a magnificent, full-blown contralto straight out of old war films, a voice for smoky nightclubs and marcel-waved hair, red lipstick and a blue saxophone. Justin put the sander down, clicked his heels together neatly and bowed. “May I have the honor of this dance?” he asked, and held out his hand to me.

  For a second I wasn’t sure. What if Lexie had had two left feet, what if she hadn’t had two left feet and my new clumsiness gave me away, what if he held me too close and felt the battery pack hard under the bandage . . . But I always loved dancing and it seemed like forever since I had danced or wanted to, so long ago I couldn’t remember the last time. Abby winked at me without missing a note and Rafe threw in an extra little riff, and I caught Justin’s hand and let him pull me out of the doorway.

  He knew what he was doing: smooth steps and his hand steady in mine as he spun me in slow circles around the room, floorboards soft and warm and dusty under my feet. And I hadn’t lost the knack, after all, I wasn’t stepping on Justin’s feet or tripping over my own; my body swayed with his sure and agile as if I had never walked into a chair in my life, I couldn’t have put a foot wrong if I had tried. Ribs of sunlight flashing across my eyes, Daniel leaning against the wall and smiling with a crumple of sandpaper forgotten in his hand, my skirt whirling up like a bell as Justin swung me away from him and then in again. “And so I rack my brain trying to explain all the things that you do to me . . .” Smell of polish, and the sawdust spinning lazy curls through the long columns of light. Abby with one palm lifting and her head thrown back, throat exposed and the song tossed up through the empty rooms and battered ceilings to the whole blazing sunset sky.

  For a second it came back to me, when I had last danced like this: me and Rob, on the roof of the extension below my flat, the night before everything went horribly wrong. Somehow it didn’t even hurt. It was so far away; I was buttoned tight and untouchable in my blue dress and that was a sweet sad thing that had happened to some other girl, a long time ago. Rafe was picking up the rhythm and Abby was swaying faster, snapping her fingers: “I could say bella, bella, even say wunderbar, each language only helps me tell you how grand you are . . .” Justin caught me by the waist and spun me off the floor in a great flying circle, his face flushed and laughing close to mine. The wide bare room tossed Abby’s voice back and forth as if there were someone harmonizing in every corner and our footsteps rang and echoed till it sounded like the room was full of dancers, the house calling up all the people who had danced here across centuries of spring evenings, gallant girls seeing gallant boys off to war, old men and women straight-backed while outside their world disintegrated and the new one battered at their doors, all of them bruised and all of them laughing, welcoming us into their long lineage.

  9

  "Well well well,” Frank said, that night. "You know what today is, right?”

  I had no idea. Half my mind was still back at Whitethorn House. After dinner Rafe had dug out a tattered, yellowish songbook from inside the piano stool and kept going with the inter-war theme, Abby was singing along from the spare room—“Oh, Johnny, how you can love”—while she went back to rummaging and Daniel and Justin did the washing up, and the rhythm of it had bounced in my heels, sweet and saucy and tempting, all the way down the lawn and out the back gate. For a second I had actually considered just staying home, leaving Frank and Sam and the mystery pair of eyes to their own devices for one evening. It wasn’t like I was getting anything useful done out here. The night had turned cloudy, needle-fine drizzle was spattering onto the communal jacket, and I didn’t like having the torch on while I was on the phone; I couldn’t see six inches in front of my face. A whole coven of knife-happy stalkers could have been doing the Macarena around the cottage and I would never have known.

  “If it’s your birthday,” I said, “you might have to wait for your present.”

  “Very funny. It’s Sunday, babe. And unless I’m much mistaken, you’re still in Whitethorn House, snug as a bug in a rug. Which means we’ve won our first battle: you made it through the week without getting caught. Congratulations, Detective. You’re in.”

  “I guess I am,” I said. I had stopped counting the days, somewhere along the way. I decided this was a good sign.

  “So,” Frank said. I could hear him arranging himself more comfortably, turning down the outraged talk-radio caller in the background: he was at home, wherever home was since Olivia had kicked him out. “Let’s have a summary of Week One.”

  I pulled myself up onto a wall and took a second to get my head clear before I answered. Under all the easy messing around, Frank is pure business: he wants reports like any other boss, and he likes them clear, thorough and succinct.

  “Week One,” I said. “I’ve inserted myself into Alexandra Madison’s home and her place of study, apparently with success: no one’s shown any sign of suspicion. I’ve searched as much of Whitethorn House as is feasible, but I haven’t found anything to point us in a specific direction.” This was basically true; the diary presumably pointed somewhere, but so far I had no idea where. “I’ve made myself available as much as possible—to known associates, by attempting to be alone on regular occasions during the day and evening, and to unknown ones by ensuring that I’m visible on these walks. I haven’t been approached by anyone who wasn’t already on our radar, but at this stage that doesn’t rule out an unknown assailant; he could be biding his time. I’ve been approached at various times by all the housemates and a number of students and professors, but all of them seemed concerned primarily with how I was feeling, that kind of thing—Brenda Grealey was a little more interested in the details than you’d expect, but I think that’s just ghoulishness. None of the reactions to Lexie’s stabbing or to her return have raised any red flags. The housemates appear to have concealed the full extent of their distress from the investigating officers, but coming from them, I don’t consider that suspicious behavior. They’re very reserved with outsiders.”

  “You’re telling me,” Frank said. “What’s your gut say?”

  I shifted, trying to find a bit of wall where nothing stuck into my arse. This was a little more complicated than it should have been, since I wasn’t about to tell him, or Sam, about the diary or about my feeling that I was being followed. “I think there’s something we’re missing,” I said, in the end. “Something important. Maybe your mystery guy, maybe a motive, maybe . . . I don’t know. I just get this very strong sense that there’s something here that hasn’t surfaced yet. I keep feeling like I’m about to put my finger on it, but . . .”

  “Something to do with the housemates? College? The baby? The May-Ruth thing?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I honestly don’t know.”

  Sofa springs creaking as Frank reached for something—a drink; I heard him swallow. “I can tell you this much: it’s not the great-uncle. You were way off base there. He died of cirrhosis; spent thirty or forty years locked up in that house drinking, then six months in a hospice dying. None of the five of them visited him. As a matter of fact, he and Daniel hadn’t seen each other since Daniel was a kid, as far as I can find out.”

  I had seldom been so glad to be wrong, but this left me with that same grabbing-at-mirages feeling I’d had all week. “Why’d he leave Daniel the place, then?”

  “Not many options. That family dies young; the only two living relatives were Daniel and his cousin, Edward Hanrahan, old Simon’s daughter’s kid. Eddie’s a good little yuppie, works for an estate agent. Apparently Simon figured Danny Boy was the lesser of two evils. Maybe he liked academic types better than yuppies, or maybe he wanted the house to stay with the family name.”

  Good for Simon. “That must’ve got up Eddie’s nose.”

  “Oh, yeah. He wasn’t any closer to Granddad than Daniel was, but he tried to fight the will, claimed the drink had sent S
imon off his trolley. That’s why probate took so long. It was a stupid thing to do, but then, our Eddie’s not the brightest pixie in the forest. Simon’s doctor confirmed that he was an alcoholic and a horrible old man, but sane as you or me, and that was the end of that. Nothing dodgy there.”

  I slumped down on the wall. I shouldn’t have been frustrated, I had never actually thought that the gang had slipped nightshade into Uncle Simon’s denture adhesive; but I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something crucial going on around Whitethorn House, something I should be able to put my finger on. “Yeah, well,” I said. “It was just a thought. Sorry for wasting your time.”

  Frank sighed. “You didn’t. Anything’s worth checking.” If I heard that sentence one more time, I was going to kill someone myself. “If you think they’re dodgy, then they probably are. Just not that particular way.”

  “I never said I thought they were dodgy.”

  “A few days ago you thought they’d put a pillow over Uncle Simon’s head.”

  I pulled my hood farther over my face—the rain was picking up, fine little stinging needles of it, and I wanted to go home. It was a toss-up which one was more pointless, this stakeout or this conversation. “I didn’t think it. I just asked you to check it out, on the off chance. I can’t see them as a bunch of killers.”

  “Hmm,” Frank said. “And you’re positive that’s not just because they’re such lovely people.”

  I couldn’t tell from his voice whether he was winding me up or testing me—Frank being Frank, probably a little of both. “Come on, Frankie, you know me better than that. You asked me about my instinct; that’s what it says. I’ve spent basically every waking second with these four for a week now, and there’s been no sign of a motive, no indications of guilty consciences—and like we said before, if one of them did it, the other three have to know. By now someone would have cracked, even for a second. I think you’re dead right that they’re hiding something, but I can’t see it being that.”

  “Fair enough,” Frank said, noncommittally. “So you’ve got two jobs for Week Two. The first one is to pinpoint whatever it is that’s tingling your spidey sense. The second one is to start pushing the housemates a little, find out what it is they’re not sharing. They’ve been getting an easy ride so far—which is fine, that’s what we planned, but now it’s time to start tightening the screws. And while you’re doing that, here’s something to bear in mind. Remember your girlie chat with Abby, the other night?”

  “Yeah,” I said. A flicker of something very strange went through me, at the thought of Frank hearing that conversation; something almost like outrage. I wanted to snap at him, That was private.

  “Pajama parties rule. I told you she was a smart kid. What do you think: does she know who the daddy is?”

  I hadn’t been able to make up my mind on that. “She could probably make a good guess, but I don’t think she’s sure. And she’s not about to tell me what her guess is.”

  “Watch her,” Frank said, taking another swig of his drink. “She’s a little too observant for my taste. You think she’ll tell the guys?”

  “No,” I said. I didn’t have to think about this one. “I get the sense that Abby’s very good at minding her own business and letting other people sort out their dramas all by themselves. She brought up the baby so I wouldn’t have to deal with it alone if I didn’t want to, but once she’d made that clear, she was straight out of there—no hints, no probing. She won’t say anything. And, Frank—are you going to be interviewing the guys again?”

  “Not sure yet,” Frank said. There was a wary note in his voice; he doesn’t like being pinned down. “Why?”

  “If you do, don’t mention the baby. OK? I want to spring that one on them myself. Around you, they’re on their guard; you’ll only get half their reaction. I can get the whole thing.”

  “All right,” Frank said, after a moment. He was trying to sound like he was doing me a favor, but I heard the undercurrent of satisfaction: he liked the way I was thinking. It was nice to know someone did. “But make sure you time it right. Get ’em when they’re drunk or something.”

  “They don’t get drunk, exactly, just tipsy. I’ll know my moment when I see it.”

  “Fair enough. Here’s my point, though: that’s one thing Abby was keeping under wraps, and not just where we’re concerned—she was hiding it from Lexie, too, and she’s still hiding it from the boys. We’ve been talking about them like they’re one big entity with one big secret, but it’s not that simple. There are cracks there. They could all be keeping the same secret, or they could each have secrets of their own, or both. Look for the cracks. And keep me posted.”

  He was about to hang up. “Anything new on our girl?” I asked. May-Ruth. Somehow I couldn’t say it out loud; even bringing her up felt strange now, electric. But if he had found out anything more about her, I wanted it.

  Frank snorted. “Ever tried rushing the FBI? They’ve got a whole plateful of mother-stabbers and father-rapers of their own; someone else’s little murder case isn’t at the top of their list. Forget about them. They’ll get back to us when they get back to us. You just concentrate on getting me a few answers.”

  * * *

  Frank was right, at first I think I had seen the four of them as a single unit: The Housemates, shoulder to shoulder, graceful and inseparable as a group in a painting and all with the same fine bloom of light on them, like the luster on old beeswaxed wood. It was only over that first week that they had turned real to me, come into focus as separate individuals with their own little quirks and weaknesses. I knew the cracks had to be there. That kind of friendship doesn’t just materialize at the end of the rainbow one morning in a soft-focus Hollywood haze. For it to last this long, and at such close quarters, some serious work had gone into it. Ask any ice-skater or ballet dancer or show jumper, anyone who lives by beautiful moving things: nothing takes as much work as effortlessness.

  Small cracks, at first: slippery as mist, nothing you could put your finger on. We were in the kitchen Monday morning, eating breakfast. Rafe had done his Mongo-want-coffee routine and disappeared to finish waking up. Justin was slicing his fried eggs into neat strips, Daniel was eating sausages one-handed and making notes in the margins of what looked like an Old Norse photocopy, Abby was flipping through a week-old newspaper she had found in the Arts block and I was chattering to no one in particular about nothing very much. I had been ratcheting up the energy level, little by little. This was more complicated than it sounds. The more I talked, the more likely I was to shove my foot in my mouth; but the only way I was going to get anything useful out of these four was if they relaxed around me, and that would only happen once everything went back to normal, which, for Lexie, had not involved a lot of silence. I was telling the kitchen about these four awful girls in my Thursday tutorial, which I figured was safe enough.

  “As far as I can tell they’re actually all the same person. They’re all called Orla or Fiona or Aoife or something, and they all have that accent like they’ve had their sinuses surgically removed, and they’ve all got that fake-straight fake-blond hair, and none of them ever, ever do the reading. I don’t know why they’re bothering with college.”

  “To meet rich boys,” Abby said, without looking up.

  “At least one of them’s found one. Some rugby-looking guy. He was waiting for her after the tutorial last week and I swear, when the four of them came out the door he got this terrified look and then he held out his hand to the wrong girl for a second, before the right one dived on him. He can’t tell them apart either.”

  “Look who’s feeling better,” Daniel said, smiling across at me.

  “Chatterbox,” said Justin, putting another slice of toast on my plate. “Just out of curiosity, have you ever stayed quiet for more than five minutes at a stretch?”

  “I have so. I had laryngitis once, when I was nine, and I couldn’t say a single word for five days. It was awful. Everyone kept bringing me chicken soup and comic books and boring stuff, and I kept trying to explain that I felt totally fine and I wanted to get up, but they just told me to be
quiet and rest my throat. When you were little, did you ever—”

  “Dammit,” Abby said suddenly, looking up from her paper. “Those cherries. The best-by date was yesterday. Is anyone still hungry? We could put them in pancakes or something.”

  “I’ve never heard of cherry pancakes,” Justin said. “It sounds disgusting.”

  “I don’t see why. If you can have blueberry pancakes—”

  “And cherry scones,” I pointed out, through toast.

  “That’s a different principle entirely,” Daniel said. “Candied cherries. The acidity and moisture levels—”

  “We could try it. They cost about a million quid; I’m not just leaving them to rot.”

  “I’ll try anything,” I said helpfully. “I’d have some cherry pancakes.”

  “Oh God, let’s not,” said Justin, with a little shudder of distaste. “Let’s just take the cherries into college and have them with lunch.”

  “Rafe’s not getting any,” Abby said, folding the paper away and heading for the fridge. “You know that weird smell off his bag? Half a banana he stuck in the inside pocket and forgot about. From now on we don’t feed him anything we can’t actually watch him eat. Lex, give me a hand wrapping them up?”