by French, Tana
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 favor.
Joanne examined me. Flat pale-blue eyes, just a little too wide. Not enough blinks.
Finally she nodded. Gracious, honoring 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.”
“Was there?”
Joanne shrugged. “Same old stuff. Boring.”
No Labradors, no boobs. I said, “Any of those cards yours?”
Glance flicked at Houlihan. “No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Um, yes?”
“Just asking because one of your friends mentioned that you’d made up a few, early on.”
Joanne’s eyes chilled over. “Who said that?”
Spread my hands, humble. “I can’t give out that information. Sorry.”
Joanne was biting at the inside of her mouth, squashed her face up sideways. The others were all going to pay. “If she said it was just me, she’s such a liar. It was all of us. And we took them down again. I mean, come on. You make it sound like some massive big deal. We were just having a laugh.”
Conway had been right: lies on that board, as well as secrets. McKenna had put it up for her purposes; the girls used it for theirs.
I said, “How about this one?” Photo into her hand.
Joanne’s jaw dropped. She recoiled in the chair. Squealed, “OhmyGod!” Clapped a hand over her mouth.
Fake as fuck.
It meant nothing. Some people are like that: everything comes out like a lie. Not that they’re brilliant liars, just that they’re useless at telling the truth. You get left with no way to tell what’s the real fake and what’s the fake one.
We waited for her to finish up. Caught her fast glance at us, between squealy noises, to check if we were impressed.
I said, “Did you put that up on the Secret Place?”
“Um, hello, no? I mean, can’t you see I’m literally in shock?”
The hand was pressed to her chest. She did a bit of gaspy breathing. Conway and I watched with interest.
Houlihan hovered, half out of her chair. Twittered.
Conway said, without looking, “You can sit down. She’s grand.”
Joanne shot Conway a poison look. Quit gasping.
I said, “Not for a laugh, no? There’s nothing wrong with that; it’s not like you’re under oath to stick to real secrets. We just need to know.”
“I told you. No. OK?”
Backing off meant good-bye to my shot at ruling out all but one, hearing that lock click open.
Joanne was giving me the shit-on-my-shoe stare. An inch from throwing me away in the same bin as Conway.
“Absolutely,” I said. Took the photo back, tucked it away, all gone. “Just making sure. So which of your friends do you think it was?”
Something catching and flaring in Joanne’s eye; something real. Outrage; fury. Then it died.
“Uh-uh.” One finger wagging. Little smile. “No way any of them put this up.”
A hundred percent positive. They wouldn’t dare.
“Then who did?”
“Um, how is that my problem?”
“It’s not. But you’ve obviously got your finger on the pulse of everything that happens in this school. If anyone’s guess is worth hearing, it’s yours.”
Satisfied smile, Joanne accepting her due. I had her back. “If it’s someone who was in the school yesterday evening, then it’s the people who were in here after us. Julia and Holly and Selena and Whatshername.”
“Yeah? You figure they know something about what happened to Chris?”
Shrug. “Maybe.”
“Interesting,” I said. Nodded away, grave. “Anything special making you think that?”
“I don’t have evidence. That’s your job. I’m just saying.”
I said, “I’m going to ask for your opinion on one more thing. Any ideas you’ve got could help us. Who do you think killed Chris?”
Joanne said, “Wasn’t it totally Groundskeeper Willy? I mean, I don’t know his name, that’s just what everyone called him because there was this rumor that he offered this girl some E if she would . . .” Glance at Houlihan, who was starting to look like today was an education and not in a good way. “I mean, I don’t know if he was a pervert or just a drug dealer, but either way, ew. I thought you guys knew it was him but you didn’t have enough evidence.”
Same as Alison: could be what she actually thought, could be a smart screen. “And you think Holly and her friends might have that evidence? How?”
Joanne pulled a strand of hair out of her ponytail, examined it for split ends. “I guess you think they’re all such angels, they’d never do drugs. I mean, God, Rebecca, she’s just so innocent, right?”
“I haven’t met her yet. Would they do drugs, yeah?”
Another quick look at Houlihan. Shrug. “I’m not saying they did. I’m not saying they’d have, like, done anything with Groundskeeper Willy.” Smirk curling the corners of Joanne’s mouth. “I’m just saying they’re freaks and I don’t know what they’d do. That’s all.”
She would’ve been delighted to play this game all day, drop hints like farts and mince away from the stink. I sa
id, “Pick one thing to tell me about Chris. Whatever you think was most important.”
Joanne thought. Something unpleasant pulling at her top lip.
Said, right on cue, “I wouldn’t feel comfortable saying anything bad about him.”
Under-the-lashes look at me.
I leaned forward. Grave, intent, eyebrows down while I focused on the noble young girl who held the secret that could save the world. Deepest voice: “Joanne. I know you’re not the kind of person who speaks ill of the dead. But there are times when the truth matters more than kindness. This is one of those times.”
I could almost hear my own soundtrack rising. I felt Conway, at my shoulder, wanting to laugh.
Joanne took a deep breath. Gearing herself up to be brave, sacrifice her personal conscience on the altar of justice. The fake spread out, the whole thing felt fake, Chris Harper felt like someone I’d made up.
“Chris,” she said. Sigh. A little sad, a little pitying. “Poor Chris. For such a lovely guy, he had seriously crap taste.”
I said, “Do you mean Selena Wynne?”
“Well. I wasn’t going to name names, but since you already know . . .”
I said, “Thing is, no one says they saw Chris and Selena doing anything couple-y. No kissing, no holding hands, not even going off on their own together. So what makes you think they were going out?”
Lashes fluttering. “I’d rather not say.”
“Joanne, I understand that you’re trying to do the right thing, and I appreciate it. But I need you to tell me what you saw, or heard. All of it.”
Joanne liked watching me work hard. Liked knowing that what she had was worth all that. She pretended to think, running her tongue around her teeth, which did nothing for her looks. “OK,” she said. “Chris liked girls to like him. You know what I mean? Like, he was always trying to get every girl in the room to be all over him. And all of a sudden, like overnight, he’s totally ignoring everyone except Selena Wynne. Who, I mean, I don’t want to be a B or anything but I’m just being honest because that’s who I am: she isn’t exactly anything special? She acts like she is, but I’m sorry, most people really aren’t into . . . you know.” Joanne gave me a meaningful little smirk and mimed large with both hands. “I mean, hello? I thought maybe it was one of those stupid movie things where it’s all a bet to embarrass someone, because if it wasn’t, I could’ve literally cringed to death for Chris.”
“That doesn’t say they were going out, though. Maybe he was into her, but she wasn’t having any of it.”
“Um, I don’t think so? She’d have been, like, insanely lucky to get him. And anyway, Chris wasn’t the type to waste his time if he wasn’t getting anywhere. If you know what I mean.”
“Why would they keep it a secret?”
“Probably he didn’t want people knowing he was with that. I wouldn’t blame him.”
I said, “Is that why you don’t get on with Selena’s lot? Because she and Chris got together?”
Wrong move. That flare in Joanne’s eyes again, cold enough and violent enough that I nearly leaned back. “Um, excuse me? I didn’t exactly care if Chris Harper was into hippos. I thought it was hilarious, but apart from that, so not my problem.”
I did a string of fast humble nods: got it, been put in my place, won’t be a bold boy again. “Right. That makes sense. Then why do you not get on with them?”
“Because there isn’t a law that we have to get on with everybody. Because I’m actually choosy about who I hang out with, and hippos and weirdos? Yeah, um, no thanks?”
Just some little bitch, exact same as the little bitches in my school, in every school. Ten a penny, cheap at half the price, cheap anywhere in this world. No reason why this should be the one that made me sick. “Got it,” I said, grinning away like a lunatic.
Conway said, “You got a boyfriend?”
Joanne took her time. A beat—Did I hear something?—then a slow sweep of her head to Conway.
Conway smiled. Not nicely.
“Excuse me, that’s my private life?”
Conway said, “I thought you were all about helping the investigation.”
“I am. I just don’t see how my private life is the investigation’s business. Do you want to explain that?”
“Nah,” said Conway. “I can’t be arsed. Specially when I can just go over to Colm’s and find out.”
I spread on a double helping of concerned. Said, “I can’t imagine Joanne would make us do that, Detective. Especially since she knows that any information she’s got could be very valuable to us.”
Joanne thought that over. Got her virtuous face back on. Graciously, to me: “I’m going out with Andrew Moore. His dad’s Bill Moore—probably you’ve heard of him.” Property developer, one of the ones on the news for being bankrupt and a billionaire all at once. I looked properly impressed.
Joanne checked her watch. “Do you want to know anything else about my love life? Or are we done?”
“Bye-bye,” Conway said. To Houlihan: “Rebecca O’Mara.”
I walked Joanne to the door. Held it for her. Watched Houlihan scuttle after her down the corridor, Joanne not bothering to look.
Conway said, “And another one still in the running.”
Nothing in her voice. No way, again, to tell if that was You better up your game.
I shut the door. Said, “There’s stuff she’s thinking about telling us, but she’s holding back. That fits our card girl.”
“Yeah. Or else she’s just trying to make us think she’s holding something back. Make us think she knows for sure that Chris and Selena were together, or whatever, when actually she’s got nothing.”
“We can call her back. Push harder.”
“Nah. Not now.” Conway watched me come back to my chair, sit down. Said, roughly, “You were good with her. Better than me.”
“All that arse-licking practice. Came in useful in the end.”
Wry glance from Conway, but a brief one. She was filing Joanne away for later, moving on. “Rebecca’s the weak link in this bunch. Shy as fuck; went scarlet and practically tied herself in knots just being asked her name, never managed anything louder than a whisper. Get your kid gloves on.”
Bell again, rush of feet and voices. It was past lunchtime. I could’ve murdered a dirty great burger, or whatever this canteen was into, probably organic fillet steak and rocket salad. I wasn’t going to say it till Conway did. She wasn’t going to say it.
Conway said, “And go careful with this lot, till you get the feel. They’re not the same thing.”
8
An evening in early November, the air just starting to flare with little savory bursts of cold and turf-smoke. The four of them are in their cypress glade, snug in the lovely pocket of free time between classes and dinner. Chris Harper (over the wall and far away, not even a whisper of a thought in any of their minds) has six months, a week and four days left to live.
They are scattered on the grass, lying on their backs, feet dangling from crossed knees. They have hoodies and scarves and Uggs, but they’re holding out a last few days against winter coats. It’s day and night at once: one side of the sky is glowing with pink and orange, the other side is a frail full moon hanging in darkening blue. Wind moves through the cypress branches, a slow soothing hush. Last period was PE, volleyball; their muscles are slack and comfortably tired. They’re talking about homework.
Selena asks, “Did you guys do your love sonnets yet?”
Julia groans. She’s drawn a dotted line across her wrist in ballpoint and is writing under it IN CASE OF EMERGENCY CUT HERE.
“‘And if you don’t feel that you have, em, adequate experience of, em, romantic love,’” Holly says, in Mr. Smythe’s reedy simper, “‘then perhaps a child’s love for her mother, or, em, love for God would be, em, would be—’”
Julia mim
es sticking two fingers down her throat. “I’m going to dedicate mine to vodka.”
“You’ll get sent to Sister Ignatius to get counseled,” says Becca, not entirely sure whether Julia is serious.
“Whee.”
“I’m stuck on mine,” Selena says.
“Lists,” says Holly. She pulls one foot to her face to examine a scuff mark on her boot. “‘The wind, the sea, the stars, the moon, the rain; The day, the night, the bread, the milk, the train.’ Instant iambic pentameter.”
“Instant iambic craptameter,” Julia says. “Thanks for the most boring sonnet in history, here’s your F.”
Holly and Selena glance at each other sideways. Julia has been a bitch for weeks now; to everybody equally, so it can’t be something one of them did.
“I don’t want to tell Smythe about anyone I love,” Selena says, sliding past that. “Ew.”
“Do it about a place or something,” Holly says. She licks her finger and rubs it on the scuff mark, which fades. “I did my gran’s flat. And I didn’t even say it was my gran’s, just a flat.”
“I just made mine up,” says Becca. “I did it about a girl who has this horse that comes under her window at night and she climbs out and rides him.” She has her eyes unfocused so that the moon has turned into two, translucent and overlapping.
“What’s that got to do with love?” Holly says.
“She loves the horse.”
“Kinky,” says Julia. Her phone beeps. She pulls it out of her pocket and holds it above her face, squinting against the sunset.
If it had been an hour earlier, when they were throwing off their uniforms in their room and singing Amy Winehouse, deciding whether to go across the road and watch the guys’ rugby match. If it were an hour later, when they would be in the canteen, sprawled forward over the table, catching last crumbs of dry cake with licked fingertips. None of them would ever have imagined what they had brushed up against; what other selves, other lives, other deaths were careening ferocious and unstoppable along their tracks, only a sliver of time away. The grounds are pocketed with clusters of girls, all blazing and amazed with inchoate love for one another and for their own growing closeness; none of the others will feel the might of that swerve as the tracks switch and their own power takes them barreling into another landscape. When Holly thinks about it a long time afterwards, when things are starting to stay fixed and come into focus at last, she will think that probably there are ways you could say Marcus Wiley killed Chris Harper.