by Tana French
I shut the adults up with a cold blank stare; I beat the shit out of classmates who got too blatant, right up until the day when my sympathy points got used up and teachers started giving me detention for fighting. I needed to get home on time, to help Geri with Dina and the house—my father couldn’t do it, he could barely talk. I couldn’t afford detention. That was when I started learning control.
Deep down, I didn’t blame them for asking. It looked like plain salacious nosiness, but even then I understood that it was more. They needed to know. Like I told Richie, cause and effect isn’t a luxury. Take it away and we’re left paralyzed, clinging to some tiny raft lurching wild and random on endless black sea. If my mother could go into the water just because, then so could theirs, any night, any minute; so could they. When we can’t see a pattern, we fit pieces together until one takes shape, because we have to.
I fought them because the pattern they were seeing was the wrong one, and I couldn’t make myself tell them any other way. I knew they were right about this much: things don’t happen for no reason. I was the only one in the world who knew that the reason was me.
I had learned how to live with that. I had found a way, slowly and with immense amounts of work and pain. I had no way to live without it.
There isn’t any why. If Dina was right, then the world was unliveable. If she was wrong, if—and this needed to be true—if the world was sane and it was only the strange galaxy inside her head that was spinning reasonless off any axis, then all of this was because of me.
I dropped Fiona outside the hospital. As I pulled up the car, I said, “I’ll need you to come in and give an official statement about finding the bracelet.”
I saw her eyes shut for a second. “When?”
“Now, if you don’t mind. I can wait here while you drop off your sister’s things.”
“When are you going to… ?” Her chin tilted towards the building. “To tell her?”
To arrest her. “As soon as possible. Probably tomorrow.”
“Then I’ll come in after that. I’ll stay with Jenny till then.”
I said, “It might be easier on you to come in this evening. You might find it tough, being with Jenny right now.”
Fiona said tonelessly, “I might, yeah.” Then she climbed out of the car and walked away, holding the bin-liner in both arms, leaning backwards as if it weighed too much to carry.
* * *
I handed the Beemer in to the car pool and waited outside the castle wall, lurking in shadows like a corner boy, until the shift was over and the lads had gone home. Then I went to find the Super.
O’Kelly was still at his desk, head bent in a circle of lamplight, running his pen along the lines of a statement sheet. He had his reading glasses on the end of his nose. The cozy yellow light brought out the deep creases around his eyes and mouth, the white streaks growing in his hair; he looked like some kind old man in a storybook, the wise grandfather who knows how to fix it all.
Outside the window the sky was a rich winter black, and shadows were starting to pile up around the ragged stacks of files leaning in corners. The office felt like a place I had dreamed about once when I was a kid and spent years trying to find, a place whose every priceless detail I should have been hoarding in my memory; a place that was already dissolving through my fingers, already lost.
I moved in the doorway, and O’Kelly raised his head. For a split second he looked tired and sad. Then all that was wiped away and his face turned blank, utterly expressionless.
“Detective Kennedy,” he said, taking off his reading glasses. “Shut the door.”
I closed it behind me, stayed standing until O’Kelly pointed his pen at a chair. He said, “Quigley was in to me this morning.”
I said, “He should have left it to me.”
“That’s what I told him. He put on his nun-face and said he didn’t trust you to come clean.”
The little fuckwad. “Wanted to get his version in first, more like.”
“He couldn’t wait to drop you in the shite. Practically came in his kacks at the chance. Here’s the thing, though: Quigley’ll twist a story to suit himself, all right, but I’ve never known him make one up from scratch. Too careful of his own arse.”
I said, “He wasn’t making it up.” I found the evidence bag in my pocket—it felt like days since I had put it there—and laid it on O’Kelly’s desk.
He didn’t pick it up. He said, “Give me your version. I’ll need it in a written statement, but I want to hear it first.”
“Detective Curran found this in Conor Brennan’s flat, while I was outside making a phone call. The nail polish matches Jennifer Spain’s. The wool matches the pillow that was used to suffocate Emma Spain.”
O’Kelly whistled. “Sweet fuck. The mammy. Are you sure?”
“I spent the afternoon with her. She won’t confess under caution, but she gave me a full account off-the-record.”
“Which is bugger-all use to us, without this.” He nodded at the envelope. “How’d it get into Brennan’s flat, if he’s not our man?”
“He was at the scene. He’s the one who tried to finish off Jennifer Spain.”
“Thank Jaysus for that. At least you didn’t arrest a holy innocent. That’s one less lawsuit, anyway.” O’Kelly thought that over, grunted. “Go on. Curran finds this, clicks what it means. And then? Why the hell didn’t he hand it in?”
“He was in two minds. In his view, Jennifer Spain’s suffered enough, and no purpose would be served by her arrest: the best solution would be to release Conor Brennan and close the file, with the implication that Patrick Spain was the perpetrator.”
O’Kelly snorted. “Beautiful. That’s only beautiful. The fucking gobshite. So out he walks, cool as a cucumber, with this yoke in his pocket.”
“He was holding on to the evidence while he decided what to do with it. Last night, a woman who’s also known to me was at Detective Curran’s house. She spotted that envelope and thought it shouldn’t be there, so she took it away with her. She tried to hand it in to me this morning, but Quigley intercepted her.”
“This young one,” O’Kelly said. He was clicking the top of his pen with his thumb, watching it like it was fascinating stuff. “Quigley tried to tell me ye were all having some mad three-way—said he was concerned because the squad should be upholding morals, all that altar-boy shite. What’s the real story?”
O’Kelly has always been good to me. “She’s my sister,” I said.
That got his attention. “Holy God. I’d say Curran is missing a few teeth now, is he?”
“He didn’t know.”
“That’s no excuse. Dirty little whoremaster.”
I said, “Sir, I’d like to keep my sister out of this, if possible. She’s not well.”
“That’s what Quigley said, all right.” Only presumably not in those words. “No need to bring her into it. IA might want to talk to her, but I’ll tell them there’s nothing she can add. You make sure she doesn’t go chatting to some media bastard, and she’ll be grand.”
“Thank you, sir.”
O’Kelly nodded. “This,” he said, flicking the envelope with his pen. “Can you swear you never saw it till today?”
I said, “I swear, sir. I didn’t know it existed till Quigley waved it in my face.”
“When did Curran pick it up?”
“Thursday morning.”
“Thursday morning,” O’Kelly repeated. Something ominous was building in his voice. “So he kept it to himself for the bones of two days. The two of ye are spending every waking moment together, you’re talking about nothing only this case—or at least I hope you are—and Curran’s got the answer in the pocket of his shiny tracksuit the whole time. Tell me, Detective: how the sweet living fuck did you miss that?”
“I was focused on the case. I did notice—”
O’Kelly exploded. “Sweet Jesus! What does this yoke look like to you? Chopped liver? This is the fucking case. And it’s not some piece-of
-shite druggie case where nobody cares if you take your eye off the ball. There are murdered kids here. You didn’t think this might be a good time to act like a bloody detective and keep an eye on what’s going on around you?”
I said, “I knew something was on Curran’s mind, sir. I didn’t miss that. But I thought it was because we weren’t on the same page. I thought Brennan was our man, and looking anywhere else was a waste of time; Curran thought—said he thought—that Patrick Spain was a better suspect and we should spend more time on him. I thought that was all it was.”
O’Kelly took a breath to keep bollocking me, but his heart wasn’t in it. “Either Curran deserves an Oscar,” he said, but the heat had gone out of his voice, “or you deserve a good kicking.” He rubbed his eyes with thumb and finger. “Where is the little prick, anyway?”
“I sent him home. I wasn’t about to let him touch anything else.”
“Too bloody right. Get onto him, tell him to report to me first thing in the morning. If he survives that, I’ll find him a nice desk where he can file paperwork till IA’s done with him.”
“Yes, sir.” I would text him. I had no desire to talk to Richie, ever again.
O’Kelly said, “If your sister hadn’t nicked the evidence, would Curran have handed it over, in the end? Or would he have flushed it down the jacks, kept his mouth shut for good? You knew him better than I did. What do you figure?”
He’d have handed it in today, sir, I’d bet my month’s salary on it… All those partners I had envied would have done it without a second thought, but Richie wasn’t my partner any more, if he ever had been. “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t have a clue.”
O’Kelly grunted. “Not like it matters either way. Curran’s through. I’d boot him back to whatever council flat he came from, if I could do it without IA and the brass and the media crawling up my arse; since I can’t, he’ll be reverted to uniform, and I’ll find him some lovely shitehole full of addicts and handguns where he can wait for his pension. If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll keep his mouth shut and take it.”
He left a space in case I wanted to put up a fight. His eye told me it would be pointless, but I wouldn’t have done it anyway. I said, “I think that’s the right outcome.”
“Hold your horses there. IA and the brass aren’t going to be happy with you, either. Curran’s still on probation; you’re the man in charge. If this investigation’s gone down the jacks, that’s all yours.”
“I accept that, sir. But I don’t think it’s down the jacks just yet. While I was at the hospital with Jennifer Spain, I ran into Fiona Rafferty—that’s the sister. She picked this up in the Spains’ hallway, the morning we were called to the scene. She’d forgotten about it until today.”
I found the envelope with the bracelet in it and put it on the desk, next to the other one. A tiny detached part of me was able to be pleased at how steady my hand was. “She’s identified the bracelet as Jennifer Spain’s. Going by color and length, the hair caught in it could belong to either Jennifer or Emma, but the techs should have no trouble telling us which one: Jennifer’s hair is lightened. If this is Emma’s—and I’d bet it is—then we’ve still got our case.”
O’Kelly watched me for a long time, clicking the top of his pen, those sharp little eyes steady on mine. He said, “That’s very bloody convenient.”
It was a question. I said, “Just very lucky, sir.”
After another long moment, he nodded. “Better play the Lotto tonight. You’re the luckiest man in Ireland. Do you need me to tell you how much shit you’d have been in if this yoke hadn’t shown up?”
Scorcher Kennedy, the straightest straight arrow, twenty years’ service and never put a toe over the line: after that one wisp of suspicion, O’Kelly believed I was as pure as the driven snow. So would everyone else. Even the defense wouldn’t waste their time trying to impeach the evidence. Quigley would bitch and hint, but nobody listens to Quigley. “No, sir,” I said.
“Hand it in to the evidence room, quick, before you find a way to bollix it up. Then go home. Get some sleep. You’ll need your wits about you for IA on Monday.” He jammed his reading glasses onto his nose and bent his head over the statement sheet again. We were done.
I said, “Sir, there’s something else you should know.”
“Oh, Jesus. If there’s any more fucking shite to do with this mess, I don’t want to hear it.”
“Nothing like that, sir. When this case is wound up, I’ll be putting in my papers.”
That brought O’Kelly’s head up. “Why?” he asked, after a moment.
“I think it’s time for a change.”
Those sharp eyes poked at me. He said, “You don’t have your thirty. You’ll get no pension till you’re sixty years of age.”
“I know, sir.”
“What’ll you do instead?”
“I don’t know yet.”
He watched me, tapping his pen on the page in front of him. “I put you back on the pitch too early. I thought you were fighting fit again. Could’ve sworn you were only dying to get off the bench.”
There was something in his voice that could have been concern, or maybe even compassion. I said, “I was.”
“I should’ve spotted that you weren’t ready. Now this mess is after shaking your nerve. That’s all it is. A few good nights’ kip, a few pints with the lads, you’ll be grand.”
“It’s not that simple, sir.”
“Why not? You won’t be spending the next few years sharing a desk with Curran, if that’s what you’re worried about. This was my mistake. I’ll say that to the brass. I don’t want you booted onto desk duty, any more than you do; leave me stuck with that shower of eejits out there.” O’Kelly jerked his head towards the squad room. “I won’t see you shafted. You’ll take a bollocking, you’ll lose a few days’ holidays—sure, you’ve plenty saved up anyway, am I right?—and everything’ll be back to normal.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said. “I appreciate that. But I’ve got no problem taking whatever’s coming my way. You’re right: I should have caught this.”
“Is that it? You’re sulking because you missed a trick? For Christ’s sake, man, we’ve all done it. So you’ll get some slagging from the lads—Detective Perfect hitting a banana skin and going arse over tip, they’d want to be saints to turn down a chance like this. You’ll survive. Get a grip on yourself and don’t be giving me the big farewell speech.”
It wasn’t just that I had tainted everything I would ever touch—if this came out, then no solve with my name on it would be safe. It wasn’t just that I knew, somewhere deeper than logic, that I was going to lose the next case, and the next, and the one after that. It was that I was dangerous. Stepping over the line had come so easily, once there was no other way; so naturally. You can tell yourself as much as you want It was only this once, it’ll never happen again, this was different. There will always be another once-off, another special case that needs just one little step further. All it takes is that first tiny hole in the levee, so tiny it does no harm to anything. The water will find it. It will nose into the crack, pushing, eroding, mindless and ceaseless, until the levee you built collapses to dust and the whole sea comes roaring over you. The only chance to stop that is at the beginning.
I said, “It’s not a sulk, sir. When I ballsed up before, I took the slaggings; I didn’t enjoy it, but I survived. Maybe you’re right: maybe my nerve’s gone. All I can say is, this isn’t the right place for me any more.”
O’Kelly rolled his pen across his knuckles and watched me for what I wasn’t telling him. “You’d want to be bloody sure. If you have second thoughts once you’re gone, you’ve got no right to come back. Think about that. Think long and hard.”
“I will, sir. I won’t go until Jennifer Spain’s trial is over and done with.”
“Good. Meantime, I won’t say this to anyone else. Come back to me and tell me you’ve changed your mind, any time you like, and we’ll say no more about
it.”
We both knew I wasn’t going to change my mind. “Thanks, sir. I appreciate that.”
O’Kelly nodded. “You’re a good cop,” he said. “You picked the wrong case to fuck up, all right, but you’re a good cop. Don’t forget that.”
I took one last look at the office, before I closed the door behind me. The light was gentle on the massive green mug that O’Kelly has had since I joined the squad, on the golf trophies he keeps on his bookshelf, on the brass nameplate saying DET. SUPT. G. O’KELLY. I used to hope that that would be my office, someday. I had pictured it so many times: the framed photos of Laura and of Geri’s kids on my desk, my musty old criminology books on the shelves, maybe a bonsai tree or a little aquarium for tropical fish. Not that I was wishing O’Kelly gone, I wasn’t, but you need to keep your dreams vivid, or they’ll get lost along the way. That had been mine.
* * *
I got in my car and drove to Dina’s place. I tried her flat and all the other flats in her fleapit building, shoved my ID in the hairy losers’ faces: none of them had seen her in days. I tried four of her exes’ places, got everything from a slammed-down intercom to “When she shows, tell her to give me a call.” I went through every corner of Geri’s neighborhood, trying every pub where the lighted windows might have caught Dina’s eye, every green space that might have looked soothing. I tried my place, and all the nearby laneways where vile subhumans sell every vile thing they can get their hands on. I tried Dina’s phone, a couple of dozen times. I thought of trying Broken Harbor, but Dina can’t drive and it was too far for a taxi.
Instead I drove around the city center, leaning out of my car window to check the face of every girl I passed—it was a cold night, everyone wrapped tight in hats and scarves and hoods, a dozen times some slim graceful girl’s walk almost choked me with hope before I craned my neck far enough to catch a glimpse of her face. When a tiny dark girl with stilettos and a cigarette yelled at me to fuck off, I realized that it was after midnight, and what I looked like. I pulled in at the side of the road and sat there for a long time, listening to Dina’s voice mail and watching my breath turn to smoke in the cold of the car, before I could make myself give up and go home.