by Tana French
I said, ‘Did you put that up?’
Gemma shook her head. Still scanning the card, looking for sense.
‘No? Just for the laugh?’
‘I’m not stupid. My dad’s a solicitor. I know this isn’t a laugh.’
‘Any idea who might have?’
Head-shake.
‘If you had to guess.’
‘I don’t know. Honest to God. I’d be surprised if it was Joanne or Orla or Alison, but I’m not swearing it wasn’t, or anything. I’m just saying, if it was, they never told me.’
Two out of two, now, ready to throw their mates in the shite so they could leap away unspattered. Lovely.
Gemma said, ‘But there were other people in here, yesterday evening. After us.’
‘Holly Mackey and her friends.’
‘Yeah. Them.’
‘Them. What are they like?’
Gemma’s eye on me, wary. She held out the photo. ‘I don’t know. We don’t really talk to them.’
‘Why not?’
Shrug.
I gave her a grin with a glint. ‘Let me guess. I’d say your lot are pretty popular with the fellas. Holly and them, were they cramping your style?’
‘They’re just not our type.’ Arms folded. Gemma wasn’t biting.
Something was there. Orla might believe all that about Selena wearing the wrong get-up to the dance, might not, but Gemma knew better. Something else had got in between these two lots.
If Conway wanted any pushing done, she could do it herself. Not my job. Mr Lovely, me; the one you can talk to. If I threw that away, Conway had no reason to keep me around.
Conway said nothing.
‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘Let’s talk about Chris Harper. Got any ideas about what happened to him?’
Shrug. ‘Some psycho. Whatshisname, the groundskeeper, the one you guys arrested. Or some randomer. How would I know?’
Arms still folded. I leaned forward, gave her a grin out of a late-night bar. ‘Gemma. Talk to me. Try this: pick one thing to tell me about Chris Harper. One thing that mattered.’
Gemma thought. Stretched out her long crossed leg, ran a hand up and down her calf; we were back. I watched, so she could catch me. Itched to push my chair back a few feet. I could have kissed Conway just for existing. Gemma was dangerous as fuck, and she knew it.
She said, ‘Chris was the total last person you would’ve expected to get killed.’
‘Yeah? How come?’
‘Because everyone liked him. The whole school fancied him – some people said they didn’t, but that was just because they wanted to look special, or because they knew they didn’t have a chance of getting him anyway. And all of Colm’s wanted to hang out with him. That’s why I said it had to be a randomer who did it. No one would’ve gone after Chris on purpose.’
I said, ‘You fancied Chris?’
Shrug. ‘Like I said: everyone did. It wasn’t a big deal. I fancy a lot of guys.’ Small hooded smile, intimate.
I matched it. ‘Ever go out with him? Hook up with him?’
‘No.’ Instant, definite.
‘Why not? If you fancied him . . .’ Little lean on the you. Any guy you want, bet you get.
‘No reason. Me and Chris just never happened. End of.’
Gemma was shutting down again. Something there, too.
Conway didn’t push, I didn’t push. Here’s my card, if you think of anything, all the rest of it. Conway told Houlihan to bring us Alison Muldoon. I gave Gemma a grin that was one step from a wink, as she swayed out of the door and glanced back to make sure I was watching.
Let out my breath, wiped my mouth to scrape that grin off. ‘Not our girl,’ I said.
Conway said, ‘What’s all this with one thing about Chris?’
She had had a year to get to know him. I’d had a few hours. Anything I could get was good.
No reason why I should get to know Chris. Not my case, not my vic. I was just here to bat my eyelashes, come up with the right smiles, get girls talking.
I said, ‘What’s all this about boyfriends?’
Conway came off the table, into my face, fast. ‘You questioning me?’
‘I’m asking.’
‘I ask you. Not the other way round. You go to the jacks, I get to ask whether you washed your hands if I want. You got that?’
That almost-laugh was well gone. I said, ‘I need to know how they felt about Chris. No point me talking up how lovely he was and how a guy like that deserves justice, if I’m talking to someone who hated his guts.’
Conway stared me out of it for another minute. I kept steady, thought about six girls left and how far Conway would get without me. Hoped to God she was thinking the same thing.
She eased back onto the table.
‘Alison,’ she said. ‘Alison’s petrified of bleeding everything. Me included. I’m gonna be keeping my mouth well shut, unless you fuck up. Don’t fuck up.’
Alison was like looking at Gemma shrunk. Short little thing, scrawny, shoulders curled in. Fidgety fingers, twisting at her skirt. Hard-work straight blond hair, fake tan, skinny eyebrows. No glance at the Secret Place.
This one recognised Conway, anyway. Conway got out of the way fast as Alison came through the door, tried to disappear, but Alison did a body-swerve away from her all the same. ‘Alison,’ I said, quick and smooth, to distract her. ‘I’m Stephen Moran. Thanks for coming in.’ Smile. Reassuring, this time. ‘Have a seat.’
No smile back. Alison perched the edge of her backside on the edge of the chair and stared at me. Pinched little features, gerbil, white mouse. I wanted to hold out my fingers, do tongue-clicky noises.
Instead, I said gently, ‘Just a few routine questions; it’ll only take a few minutes. Can you tell me about yesterday evening? Starting with your first study period?’
‘We were in here. But we didn’t do anything. If anything got, like, stolen or broken or whatever, it wasn’t me. I swear.’
Pinched little voice to match, rising towards a whine. Conway was right, Alison was scared: scared that she was screwing up, that everything she said and did and thought was wrong. She wanted me to reassure her that she was doing things right. Seen it in school, seen it in a million witnesses, patted it on the head and said all the right words.
I said, soothing, ‘Ah, I know that. Nothing’s gone missing, nothing like that. No one’s done anything wrong.’ Smile. ‘We’re just checking something out. All I need you to do is run through your evening. That’s it. Could you do that for me, yeah?’
Nod. ‘OK.’
‘Beautiful. It’ll be like a test where you know all the answers and you can’t get anything wrong. How’s that?’
Tiny smile back. Tiny step towards relaxing.
I needed Alison relaxed, before I whipped out that photo. That was what had got me my answers from Orla and from Gemma: the ease I had made for them, and the fast shove out of it.
Alison gave me the same story again, but in chips and snippets that I had to coax out of her, like playing pick-up sticks. Telling it made her tense up even more. No way to know if there was a good reason, a bad reason or none.
She backed Orla on who had left the art room when – Gemma, Orla, her, Joanne – and she sounded a lot more sure than Orla had. ‘You’re very observant,’ I said. Approving. ‘That’s what we like to see. I came in here praying we’d get someone exactly like you, you know that?’
Another scrawny smile. Another step.
I said, ‘Can you make my day? Tell me you had a look at the Secret Place, somewhere along the way.’
‘Yeah. When I went out to the . . . On my way back, I had a look.’ Quick glance at Houlihan. ‘I mean, only for a second. Then I came straight back in to do the project.’
‘Ah, lovely. That’s what I was hoping to hear. Spot any new cards up there?’
‘Yeah. There was one with this dog that was, like, so adorbs. And someone put up one of . . .’ Nervous smirk, duck. ‘You know.’
I w
aited. Alison twisted.
‘Just a . . . a lady’s, like, her chest. In a top, I mean! Not . . .’ High painful giggle. ‘And it said, “I’m saving up so the day I turn eighteen I can buy ones like this!”’
Observant, again. It went with the fear. Prey animal, watching everything for a threat. ‘That’s it? Nothing else new?’
Alison shook her head. ‘Those were it.’
If she was telling the truth, that backed what we thought already: Orla and Gemma were out. ‘Well done,’ I said. ‘That’s perfect. Tell us: have you ever put up any cards?’
Eyes skittering. I said, ‘Nothing wrong with it if you did. Sure, that’s what the board’s for; it’d be a waste if no one used it.’
That twitch of a smile again. ‘Well . . . yeah. Just a couple. Just . . . when something was bothering me and I couldn’t talk about it, sometimes I . . . But I stopped ages ago. I had to be so careful, and then I was always scared someone would guess they were mine and get angry ’cause I put it up there instead of telling her? So I stopped. I took mine down.’
Someone. One of her own gang, Alison had been scared of.
She was as relaxed as she was ever going to get: not a lot. I said, easily, ‘Is this one of yours?’
The photo. Alison gasped. Clapped her free hand over her mouth. A high humming noise came out through it.
Fear, but no way to read it: fear that she had been caught, that there was a killer out there, that someone knew who it was, reflex response to any surprise, take your pick. Petrified of bleeding everything, Conway had said. It blurred her like streaming rain on a windscreen, turned her opaque.
I said, ‘Did you put that up?’
‘No! No no no . . . I didn’t. Honest to God—’
‘Alison,’ I said, soothing, rhythmic. Leaned forward to take the photo back off her, stayed leaning. ‘Alison, look at me. If you did, there’s nothing wrong with it. Yeah? Whoever put this up was doing the right thing, and we’re grateful to her. We just need to have a chat with her.’
‘It wasn’t me. It wasn’t. I didn’t. Please—’
That was all I was getting. Pushing would do nothing but lose my next chance as well as this one.
Conway off in a corner, still playing invisible, watching me. Gauging.
‘Alison,’ I said. ‘I believe you. I just have to ask. Just routine. That’s all. OK?’
Finally I got Alison’s eyes back. I said, ‘So it wasn’t you. Any ideas about who it might have been? Anyone ever mention having suspicions about what happened to Chris?’
Head-shake.
‘Any chance it was one of your mates?’
‘I don’t think so. I don’t know. No. Ask them.’
Alison was sliding back towards panic. ‘That’s all I needed to know,’ I told her. ‘You’re doing great. Tell us something: you know Holly Mackey and her friends, yeah?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Tell me about them.’
‘They’re just weird. Really weird.’
Alison’s arms tightening around her middle. Surprise: she was afraid of Holly’s lot.
I said, ‘That’s what we’ve heard, all right. But no one’s been able to tell us what kind of weird. I figure if anyone can put a finger on that, it’s you.’
Her eyes on mine, torn.
‘Alison,’ I said gently. I thought strong, thought protective, thought myself into all her wishes. Didn’t blink. ‘Anything you know, you need to tell me. They’ll never find out it came from you. No one will. I swear.’
Alison said – hunched forward, a whisper, shrunk so as not to reach Houlihan – ‘They’re witches.’
Now that was new.
I could hear What the fuck? inside Conway’s head.
I nodded. ‘Right,’ I said. ‘How did you find that out?’
Houlihan, in the corner of my eye, leaning half off her chair. Too far away to hear. She wouldn’t come closer. If she tried, Conway would stop her.
Alison was breathing faster, with the shock of having said it. ‘They used to be, like, normal. Then they just went weird. Everyone noticed.’
‘Yeah? When?’
‘Like the start of last year? A year and a half ago?’ Before Chris; before that Valentine’s dance when even Orla had spotted something. ‘People said all kinds of stuff about why—’
‘Like what?’
‘Just stuff. Like they were gay. Or they were abused when they were kids, I heard that. But we thought they were witches.’
Glance at me, fearful. I asked, ‘Why’s that?’
‘I don’t know. Just because. We just thought it.’ Alison hunched down farther, over whatever she was hiding. ‘Probably I shouldn’t have told you.’
Her voice was tamped down to a whisper. Conway had stopped writing, in case she drowned it out. Took me a second to cop: Alison figured she’d just put herself in line for a good cursing.
‘Alison. You’re doing the right thing, telling us. That’s going to protect you.’
Alison didn’t look convinced.
I felt Conway shift. Keeping her mouth shut, like she’d promised, but doing it loudly.
I said, ‘Just a couple more questions. Are you going out with anyone?’
A surge of blush that nearly drowned Alison. A muffled clump of words I couldn’t hear.
‘Say again?’
She shook her head. Huddled right down, eyes on her knees. Braced. Alison thought I was going to point and laugh at her for not having a fella.
I smiled. ‘Not met the right guy, no? You’re dead right to wait. Plenty of time for that.’
Something else muffled.
I said – fuck Conway, she had her answer, I was getting mine – ‘If you had to pick just one thing to tell me about Chris, what would it be?’
‘Huh? . . . I barely even knew him. Can’t you ask the others?’
‘I will, of course. But you’re my observer. I’d love to hear what you remember most.’
The smile was automatic this time, a reflex spasm with nothing behind it. Alison said, ‘People noticed him. Not just me; everyone noticed him.’
‘How come?’
‘He was . . . I mean, he was so good-looking. And he was good at everything – rugby, and basketball; and talking to people, making everyone laugh. And I heard him sing once, he was really good, everyone was telling him he should do the X Factor auditions . . . But it wasn’t just that. It was . . . He was just more than everyone else. More there. You could walk into a room with like fifty people in it, and the only one you’d see would be Chris.’
A wistful something in her voice, in the droop of her eyelids. Gemma was right: everyone had fancied Chris.
‘What do you think happened to him?’
That made Alison shrink. ‘I don’t know.’
‘I know you don’t. That’s OK. I’m only asking for guesses. You’re my observant one, remember?’
A thin ghost of the smile. ‘Everyone said it was the groundskeeper.’
No thoughts of her own, or else a dodge. ‘Is that what you think?’
Shrug. Not looking at me. ‘I guess.’
I let the silence grow. So did she. That was all I was getting.
Card, speech, smile. Alison dived out of the door like the room was on fire. Houlihan flapped after her.
Conway said, ‘That one’s still in the running.’
Watching the door, not me. I couldn’t read her. Couldn’t tell if that meant You fucked up.
I said, ‘Pushing any harder wouldn’t have done any good. I’ve set up the beginnings of rapport; if I talk to her again, I can move it on, maybe get an answer.’
Conway’s eye sliding sideways to me. She said, ‘If you talk to her again.’
That sardonic corner of a grin, like my obviousness brightened her day. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘If.’
Conway flipped to a clean page in her notebook. ‘Joanne Heffernan,’ she said. ‘Joanne’s a bitch. Enjoy.’
Joanne was like looking at all the other three averaged
out. I’d been expecting something impressive, all the hype. Medium height. Medium thin. Medium looks. Hard-work straight blond hair, fake tan, skinny eyebrows. No glance at the Secret Place.
Only the way she stood – hip cocked, chin tucked, eyebrows up – said Impress me. Said The Boss.
Joanne wanted me to think she was important. No: admit she was important.
‘Joanne,’ I said. Stood up for her. ‘I’m Stephen Moran. Thanks for coming in.’
My accent. Whirr, went Joanne’s filing system. Spat me out in the bottom drawer. Eyelid-flutter of disdain.
‘I didn’t exactly get a choice? And just by the way, I actually had things to do for the last hour. I didn’t need to spend it sitting outside the office getting bored to death and not even allowed to talk.’
‘I’m really sorry about that. We didn’t mean to keep you waiting. If I’d known the other interviews were going to take this long . . .’ I rearranged the chair for her. ‘Have a seat.’
Curl of her lip at Conway, on her way: You.
‘Now,’ I said, when we’d sat down. ‘We’ve just got a few routine questions. We’ll be asking a lot of people the same things, but I’d really appreciate hearing your thoughts. It could make a big difference.’
Respectful. Hands clasped together. Like she was the Princess of the Universe, doing us a favour.
Joanne examined me. Flat pale-blue eyes, just a little too wide. Not enough blinks.
Finally she nodded. Gracious, honouring me.
‘Thanks,’ I said. Big smile, humble servant. Conway moved in the corner of my eye, a sharp jerk; trying not to puke, probably. ‘If you don’t mind, could we start with yesterday evening? Could you just run through it for me, from the beginning of first study period?’
Joanne told the same story over again. Slow and clear, small words, for the plebs. To Conway, scribbling away: ‘Are you getting this? Or do I have to slow down?’
Conway gave her a great big grin. ‘If I need you to do anything, you’ll know. Believe me.’
I said, ‘Thanks, Joanne. That’s very considerate of you. Tell me: while you were up here, did you look at the Secret Place?’
‘I had a little lookie when I went to the loo. Just to see if there was anything good.’