by Tana French
Conway propped herself against a table, near my shoulder, not too near. Orla gave her a vacant look, on her way over. Conway’s the type that makes an impression, but this kid barely recognised her.
Orla sat down, squirmed her skirt down over her knees. ‘Is this about Chris Harper again? OhmyGod, did you find out who . . . ? You know. Who . . . ?’
Snuffly voice. Pitched high, all ready for a squeal or a simper. That accent you get these days, like a bad actor faking American.
I said, ‘Why? Is there something you want to tell us about Chris Harper?’
Orla practically jumped back out of the chair. ‘Huh? No! No way.’
‘Because if you’ve got anything new to add, now’s the time. You know that, right?’
‘Yeah. I totally do. If I knew anything, I’d tell you. But I don’t. Honest to God.’
Tic-smile, involuntary, wet with hope and fear.
You want in with a witness, you figure out what she wants. Then you give her that, big handfuls. I’m good at that.
Orla wanted people to like her. Pay attention to her. Like her some more.
Stupid, it sounds; is. But I felt let down. Thrown down, with an ugly splat like puke. This place had had me expecting something, under these high ceilings, in this turning air that smelled of sun and hyacinths. Expecting special, expecting rare. Expecting a shimmering dappled something I had never seen before.
This girl: the same as a hundred girls I grew up with and stayed miles from, exact shoddy same, just with a fake accent and more money spent on her teeth. She was nothing special; nothing.
I didn’t want to look at Conway. Couldn’t shake the feeling that she knew exactly what was going on in my head, and was laughing at it. Not in a good way.
Big warm crinkly grin, I gave Orla. Leaned in. ‘No worries. I was just hoping. On the off-chance, you know the way?’
I held the grin till Orla smiled back. ‘Yeah.’ Grateful, pathetically grateful. Someone, probably Joanne, used Orla for kicking when the world pissed her off.
‘We’ve just got a few questions for you – routine stuff, no big deal. Could you answer those for us, yeah? Help me out?’
‘OK. Sure.’
Orla was still smiling. Conway slid backwards onto the table. Got out her notebook.
‘You’re a star,’ I said. ‘So let’s talk about yesterday evening. First study period, you were here in the art room?’
Defensive glance at Houlihan. ‘We’d got permission.’
Her only worry about yesterday evening: hassle from teachers.
I said, ‘I know, yeah. Tell us, how do you go about getting permission?’
‘We ask Miss Arnold. She’s the matron.’
‘Who asked her? And when?’
Blank look. ‘It wasn’t me.’
‘Whose idea was it to spend the extra time up here?’
More blank. ‘That wasn’t me either.’ I believed her. I got the feeling most ideas weren’t Orla.
‘No problem,’ I said. More smile. ‘Talk me through it. One of you got the key to the connecting door off Miss Arnold . . .’
‘I did. Right before first study period. And then we came up here. Me and Joanne and Gemma and Alison.’
‘And then?’
‘We just worked on this project we have. It has to be art and another subject, like mixed – ours is art and Computer Studies. That’s it over there.’
She pointed. Propped in a corner, five foot high, a portrait of a woman – a pre-Raphaelite I’d seen before, somewhere, but I couldn’t place her. She was only half-made, out of small glossy squares of coloured paper; the other half was still an empty grid, tiny code in each square to tell them what colour to stick on. The change had twisted the woman’s dreamy gaze, turned her wall-eyed and twitchy-looking, dangerous.
Orla said, ‘It’s about, like, how people see themselves differently because of the media and the internet? Or something; it wasn’t my idea. We turned the picture into squares on the computer, and now we’re cutting up photos from magazines to stick in the squares – it takes forever, that’s why we needed to use the study period. And then at the end of first study we went back to the boarders’ wing and I gave the key back to Miss Arnold.’
‘Did any of you leave the room, while you were up here?’
Orla tried to remember, which took some mouth-breathing. ‘I went to the toilet,’ she said, after a bit. ‘And Joanne did. And Gemma went into the corridor because she rang someone and she wanted to talk in private.’ Snigger. A guy. ‘And Alison went out for a phone call too, only hers was her mum.’
Every one of them. ‘In that order?’
Blank. ‘What?’
Sweet Jesus. ‘Do you remember who went out first?’
Think, think, mouth-breathe. ‘Maybe Gemma? And then me, and then Alison, and then Joanne – maybe, I’m not sure.’
Conway moved. I snapped my mouth shut, but she didn’t open hers; just pulled a photo of the postcard out of her pocket, handed it to me. Sat back on the table again, foot up on a chair, went back to her notebook.
I flipped the photo back and forth against my finger. ‘On your way here, you passed the Secret Place. You passed it again on your way to the toilet and back. And again when you left at the end of the evening. Right?’
Orla nodded. ‘Yeah.’ Hardly a glance at the photo. Not making any connection.
‘Did you stop for a look, any of those times?’
‘Yeah. When I was coming back from the toilet. Just to see if there was anything new. I didn’t touch anything.’
‘And was there? Anything new?’
‘Uh-uh. Nothing.’
Labrador and boob job, according to the PE teacher. If Orla had missed them, she could have missed one more.
‘What about you? Have you ever put up cards on the board?’
Orla did a coy squirm. ‘Maybe.’
I grinned along with her. ‘I know they’re private. I’m not asking for the details. Just tell me: when was the last one?’
‘Like a month ago?’
‘So this isn’t yours.’
I had the photo in Orla’s hand, face up, before she realised it was coming.
Prayed it wasn’t hers.
I needed to show Conway what I could do. Five minutes and an easy answer would get me nothing, except maybe a lift back to Cold Cases. I needed a fight.
And, somewhere in a locked back corner, detectives think old ways. You take down a predator, whatever bleeds out of it flows into you. Spear a leopard, grow braver and faster. All that St Kilda’s gloss, that walk through old oak doors like you belong, effortless: I wanted that. I wanted to lick it off my banged-up fists along with my enemy’s blood.
This fool, smelling of body spray and cheap gossip: not what I’d had in mind. This would be like taking down some kid’s fat hamster.
Orla stared, while the photo sank in. Then squealed. High flat wail, like air squeezed out of a squeaky toy.
‘Orla,’ I said. Sharp, before she could work herself up. ‘Did you put that up on the Secret Place?’
‘No! OhmyGod, I swear to God, no! I don’t know anything about what happened to Chris. Swear to God.’
I believed her. The photo at arm’s length, like it could hurt her; the bug-eyed stare zipping from me to Conway to Houlihan, looking for help. Not our girl. Just the detective gods throwing me an easy one, to start me off.
I said, ‘Then one of your friends did. Who was it?’
‘I don’t know! I don’t know anything about this. I totally swear.’
‘Any of them ever mention any ideas about Chris?’
‘No way. I mean, we all think it was that groundskeeper guy – he used to smile at us all the time, he was totally creepy, and you guys arrested him for having drugs, right? But we don’t know anything. Or anyway I don’t. And if any of the others do, they never told me. Ask them.’
‘We will,’ I said. Nice and soothing. Smile. ‘Don’t worry. You’re not in trouble.’
Orla was calming down. Gawping at the photo, starting to like having it in her hand. I wanted to whip it off her. I let her hang on to it, have her fun.
Reminded myself: the ones you don’t like are a bonus. They can’t fool you as easy as the ones you do.
Twenty watts went on over Orla’s head. ‘Probably it wasn’t even any of us. Julia Harte and all them were in here right after us. Probably they did it.’
‘You figure they know what happened to Chris?’
‘Not even. I mean, maybe, but no? Like, they could’ve just made it up.’
‘Why would they?’
‘Because. They’re, ohmyGod, so weird.’
‘Yeah?’ Me leaning forward, hands clasped, all confidential and ready for a gossip. ‘Seriously?’
‘Well, they used to be OK, like ages ago. Now we’re just like, “Whatever,” you know?’ Orla’s hands flapping upwards.
‘What kind of weird are they?’
Too much to ask. Short-circuited stare, like I was looking for calculus. ‘Just like weird.’
I waited.
‘Like they think they’re so special.’ The first zip of something, bringing Orla’s face alive. Malice. ‘Like they think they can do whatever they want.’
I gave it intrigued. Waited more.
‘I mean, just for example, right? You should have seen them at the Valentine’s dance. They looked totes insane. Like Rebecca had on jeans, and Selena was wearing I don’t even know what it was, it looked like she was in a play!’ That high sharp giggle shot out again, jabbed me in the ear. ‘Everyone was like, hello, what are you like? I mean, there were guys there. The whole of Colm’s was there. They were all staring. And Julia and all of them acted like that didn’t even matter.’ Jaw-dropped face. ‘That was when we realised, um, hello, weirdos?’
I gave her the crinkly grin again. ‘And that was February?’
‘Last February. Last year.’ Before Chris. ‘And I swear to God they’ve got worse and worse. This year Rebecca didn’t even come to the Valentine’s dance. They don’t wear makeup – I mean, we’re not allowed to in school’ – virtuous glance at Houlihan – ‘but sometimes they don’t even wear it to hang out at the Court – the shopping centre. And this one time, like just a few weeks ago, there’s a load of us down there? And Julia says she’s going back to school? And one of the guys is there, “How come?” And Julia says, she says her stomach is killing her because . . .’
Orla shot me a look. Sucked in her bottom lip, did a cringe like she was trying to disappear into her shoulders.
Conway said, ‘She had period cramps.’
Orla collapsed in giggles, scarlet and snorting like goodo. We waited. She got it together.
‘But, I mean, she just said it. Straight out. All the guys were like, “OMG, ew! Way TMI!” And Julia just waved and left. See what I mean? They act like they can say anything they want. None of them have boyfriends – duh, surprise? – and they act like that’s not even a big deal.’ Orla was hitting her stride. Face lit up, lip curling. ‘And did you see Selena’s hair? OhmyGod. You know when she cut it off? Like, right after Chris got killed. How much of a show-off can you actually be?’
I was getting the head-spins again. ‘Hang on. Her haircut is showing off, yeah? About what?’
Orla’s chin vanished into where her neck should have been. New look on her, sly, careful. ‘About how she was going out with Chris. Like she’s in mourning or something. We’re all, “Hello, who cares?”’
‘What makes you think she was going out with Chris?’
Slyer. More careful. ‘We just do.’
‘Yeah? Did you see them kissing? Holding hands?’
‘Um, no? They wouldn’t exactly have been that obvious about it.’
‘Why not?’
Flash of something: fear. Orla had slipped up, or thought she had. ‘I don’t know. I just mean, if they’d been OK with everyone seeing they were going out, they wouldn’t have kept it a secret. I mean, that’s all I mean.’
‘But if they kept it so secret that they never actually acted like they were together, how come you think they were together to begin with?’
That blown-fuse gawp again. ‘What?’
Jesus. Head-desk territory. I rewound. Nice and slow: ‘Why do you think Chris and Selena were going out together?’
Empty stare. Shrug. Orla wasn’t taking any more risks.
‘Why would they keep it a secret if they were?’
Empty stare. Shrug.
‘What about you?’ Conway asked. ‘You got a boyfriend?’
Orla sucked in her bottom lip, let out a breathy titter through it.
‘Do you?’
Squirm. ‘Sort of. It’s, ohmyGod, complicated?’
‘Who?’
Titter.
‘I asked you a question.’
‘Just this guy from Colm’s. He’s called Graham, Graham Quinn. But we’re not exactly going out out – I mean, ohmyGod, don’t go to him and say he’s my boyfriend! Like, he sort of is, but—’
‘I get it,’ Conway said, final enough to get through even to Orla, who shut up. ‘Thanks.’
I said, ‘If you could pick just one thing to tell me about Chris Harper. What would it be?’
The stare. I was less and less in the humour for the stare. ‘Like what?’
‘Like anything. Whatever you think is most important.’
‘Um, he was gorgeous?’
Giggle.
I took the photo away from her. ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘That helps.’
I left a second. Orla said nothing. Conway said nothing. She was sitting back on the table, writing or doodling, I couldn’t tell which out of the corner of my eye. I wasn’t going to look at her, like I was looking for a hand.
Houlihan cleared her throat, a compromise between asking and keeping schtum. I’d forgotten her.
Conway shut her notebook.
I said, ‘Thanks, Orla. We might need to talk to you again. Meanwhile, if you think of anything that might help us, anything at all, here’s my card. Ring me any time. Yeah?’
Orla gave the card a look like I’d asked her to jump into my white van. Conway said, ‘Thanks. We’ll talk soon.’ To Houlihan, who jumped: ‘Gemma Harding next.’
I gave Orla more smiles. Got the two of them out of the door.
Conway said, ‘Like, totes OMG?’
I said, ‘Like, OMG, WTF?’
We almost looked at each other. Almost laughed.
Conway said, ‘Not our girl.’
‘Nah.’
I waited. Didn’t ask, wouldn’t give her the satisfaction, but I needed to know.
She said, ‘That went all right.’
I almost caught a huge breath, crushed it back in time. Stuck the photo away in my pocket, ready for the next go-round. ‘Anything you figure I should know about Gemma?’
Conway grinned. ‘Thinks she’s a sex bomb, kept leaning over to show Costello her cleavage. Poor bastard didn’t know where to look.’ The grin went. ‘But this one’s not thick. Not by a long way.’
Gemma was like looking at Orla stretched. Tall, slim – trying hard for thin, only she didn’t have the build for it. Pretty, top end of pretty, but that jaw was going to give her manface before she was thirty. Hard-work straight blond hair, fake tan, skinny eyebrows. No glance at the Secret Place, but then Conway had said she wasn’t stupid.
She took the walk to the chair like a catwalk. Sat down and crossed one long leg over the other, slow flourish. Arched her throat.
Even after what Conway had said, it took me a second to see it, through the school uniform and the sixteen. Gemma wanted me to fancy her. Not because she fancied me; that hadn’t even crossed her mind. Just because I was there.
I went to school with dozens like that, too. I didn’t play their game.
Conway’s eye like a hot pin burning through the back of my jacket, into my shoulder blade.
I told myself again. Nothing special means nothing you can’t handle.
/> I offered Gemma a slow grin, lazy. Appreciative. ‘Gemma, right? I’m Detective Stephen Moran. It’s very nice to meet you.’
She soaked it up. Tiny smile tucked in the corners of her mouth, almost hidden, not quite.
‘We’ve just got a few routine questions for you.’
‘No problem. Anything you want.’
A little too much weight on Anything. The smile swelled. That easy.
Gemma had the same story as Orla, in the same bad-actor American accent. Drawled off, bored, too cool for school. Foot swinging. Checking me out to make sure I kept checking her out. If talking about last night spiked her adrenaline, it didn’t show.
Conway said, ‘You made a phone call while you were up here.’
‘Yeah. I rang my boyfriend.’ Gemma licked the last word. Threw Houlihan a glance – phone calls during study period obviously weren’t allowed – to see if she was shocked.
Conway asked, ‘What’s his name?’
‘Phil McDowell. He’s at Colm’s.’
Course he was. Conway sat back.
I said, ‘And you went outside to talk to him.’
‘I went out in the corridor. We had stuff to talk about. Private stuff.’ Puckered-up smile, slantwise to me. Like I was in on the secret, or could be.
I smiled back. ‘Did you have a look at the Secret Place, while you were out there?’
‘No.’
‘No? You’re not into it?’
Gemma shrugged. ‘It’s mostly stupid. Basically all of it is “Oh, everyone’s mean to me and I’m so unique!” Which, hello, they totally never are? If anything juicy goes up, everyone’s talking about it anyway. I don’t need to look.’
‘Ever put up any cards of your own?’
Another shrug. ‘Back when they first put the board up. Just for the laugh. I don’t even remember all of them. We made some of them up.’ Small flurry of concern from Houlihan’s corner. Gemma gave herself a little slap on the wrist. ‘Bad girl.’ Amused.
I said, ‘How about this one?’ Passed Gemma the photo.
Gemma’s foot stopped swinging. Her eyebrows hit her hairline.
After a second, slowly: ‘Oh. My. God.’
Real. Caught in the quickening of her breath, in the darkened eyes, slashing through all that carefully built sexiness: something true. Not our girl. Two down.