by French, Tana
I let my spine go loose like a teenager’s, knees everywhere, and gave Rebecca another smile. Rueful, this one. “I need a hand again. I’m good at my job, I swear, but every now and then I need someone to help me out or I’ll get nowhere. I’ve got a feeling maybe you might be able to do that for me. Would you give it a shot, yeah?”
Rebecca said, “Is it about Chris?”
Not too shy to dig in her heels a bit. I made a face. “I’ve gotta tell you, I’m still trying to work out what it’s about. Why? Has something happened to do with Chris, yeah?”
She shook her head. “I just . . .” Gesture at Conway, with the bundle of hands and skirt. Conway was picking her nails with the cap of her pen, didn’t look up. “I mean, because she’s here. I thought . . .”
“We’ll try and figure it out together. OK?”
I shot her the warm crinkly smile. Got a blank look back.
I said, “So let’s start with yesterday evening. First study period: where were you?”
After a moment Rebecca said, “The fourth-year common room. We have to be.”
“And then?”
“We get our break. Me and my friends, we went outside and sat on the grass for a while.”
Her voice was still a scraped-down wisp, but it got stronger on that. Me and my friends.
I said, “Which friends? Holly and Julia and Selena, yeah?”
“Yeah. And some others. Most of us went out. It was warm.”
“And then you had second study period. You were here in the art room?”
“Yeah. With Holly and Julia and Selena.”
“How do you go about getting permission to spend a study period here? Like who asked who, and when? Sorry, I’m a bit . . .” I did shrug, head-duck, sheepish grin. “I’m new on this. Don’t know the ropes yet.”
More blank. Great with the young people, me, I’ll get them relaxed, I’ll get them talking . . . Lovely Big Bro was striking out.
Conway was squinting at a thumbnail against the light. Missing nothing.
Rebecca said, “We ask Miss Arnold—she’s the Matron. Julia went and asked her day before yesterday, at teatime. We wanted to go for first study, but someone was already going then, so Miss Arnold said to go for second study instead. They don’t like too many people being in the school after hours.”
“So at break yesterday evening, yous got the key to the connecting door off the other girls who’d been up here?”
“No. We’re not allowed to pass it around. Whoever signs the key out has to sign it back in, when they said they would. So the other girls gave it back to Miss Arnold, and then we went and got it off her.”
“Who did that?”
I saw the instant where a streak of fear flew bright across Rebecca’s face, and she thought about lying. No reason why she should, nothing there that could get her in trouble as far as I could see, but that was where she turned all the same. Conway was right about this one, anyway: a liar, at least when she was scared; at least when something pulled her separate from her friends, put her in the spotlight all alone.
Not stupid, though, scared or not. Took her half a second to realize there was no point. She said, “Me.”
I nodded like I’d noticed nothing. “And then yous came up to the art room. All four of you together, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“And what did you do?”
“We have this project.” She untangled one hand from her skirt, pointed at a table by the windows: bulky shape under a paint-spattered drop cloth. “Selena was doing calligraphy, and Holly was grinding up chalk for snow, and Julia and I were mostly making stuff out of copper wire. We’re doing the school a hundred years ago—it’s art and history together. It’s complicated.”
“Sounds it. So you put in the extra time,” I said. Approving. “Whose idea was that?”
The approval did nothing for Rebecca. “Everyone’s needed to use study time on the project. We did last week, too.”
Which could have been when someone’s light bulb switched on. “Yeah? Whose idea was it to come back last night?”
“I don’t even remember. We all knew we needed to.”
“And did all of yous stay here the whole time, till nine? Or did anyone go out of the room?”
Rebecca unwrapped her hands from her skirt and tucked them under her thighs. I was lobbing the questions fast and she was still wound tight and wary, and getting warier all the time, but the wariness was scatter-gun stuff, general cover; she didn’t know where to point it. Unless she was good or I was thick, she didn’t know about the card.
“Only for like a minute.”
“Who went where?”
Fine dark eyebrows pulled down. Brown eyes ticking back and forth between me and Conway.
Conway traced over table graffiti with her ballpoint. I waited.
“How come?” Rebecca asked. “How come you need to know?”
I left a silence. Rebecca matched it. All those thin elbows and knees looked like sharp corners, not so frail any more.
Conway had got her far wrong, or a year had taken her a long way. Rebecca wasn’t looking for a confidence boost, wasn’t looking for me or anyone to make her feel special. She wasn’t Alison, wasn’t Orla. I was going wrong.
Conway’s head had come up. She was watching me.
I binned the easy slouch, straightened my spine. Leaning forward, hands clasped between my knees. Adult to adult.
“Rebecca,” I said. Different voice, direct and serious. “There are going to be things I can’t tell you. And I’m going to sit here asking you to tell me everything you know just the same. I know that’s unfair. But if Holly’s ever said anything about me, I’m hoping she’s told you that I’m not going to treat you like an idiot or a baby. If I can answer your questions, I’ll do it. Give me the same respect. Fair enough?”
You can hear when you hit the right note, hear the ring of it. Rebecca’s chin lost the stubborn tilt; some of the wariness in her spine shifted to readiness. “Yeah,” she said, after a moment. “OK.”
Conway quit messing with her pen. Sat still, ready to write.
“Grand,” I said. “So. Who left the art room?”
“Julia went back to our room, to get one of our old photos that we’d forgotten. I went to the toilet; I think so did Selena. Holly went to get chalk—we ran out of white, so she went and got more. I think from the science lab.”
“Do you remember what times? What order?”
Rebecca said, “We were in the building the whole time. We didn’t even go off this floor, except Julia and she was only gone like a minute.”
I said gently, “No one’s saying you did anything wrong. I’m only trying to work out what you might have seen or heard.”
“We didn’t. See or hear anything. Any of us. We had the radio on, and we just did our project and then went back to the boarders’ wing. And we all left together. In case you were going to ask.”
Spark of defiance in there at the end, chin going up again.
“And you gave the key back to Miss Arnold.”
“Yeah. At nine. You can check.” We would. I didn’t say it.
I took out the photo.
Rebecca’s eyes hit it like magnets. I kept it facing me, did the flip back and forth against a fingertip. Rebecca tried to crane her neck without moving.
I said, “On your way here last night, 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?”
That pulled her eyes away from the photo, back to me. Wide eyes, on guard, riffling through wild guesses. “Yeah.”
“Did you stop for a look, any of those times?”
“No.”
I gave it the skepticals.
“We were in a hurry. At first we were working on the project, and t
hen I had to get the key back on time. We weren’t thinking about the Secret Place. Why?” One hand coming out from under her leg, uncurling towards the photo; long thin fingers, she was going to be tall. “Is that—”
“The secrets on there. Any of them yours?”
“No.”
No beat beforehand, no split-second decision. No lie.
“Why not? You don’t have secrets? Or you keep them to yourself?”
Rebecca said, “I’ve got friends. I tell them my secrets. I don’t need to go around telling the whole school. Even anonymously.”
Her head had gone up; her voice had filled out all of a sudden, rang through the sunlight to the corners of the room. She was proud.
I said, “Do you figure your friends tell you all their secrets, too?”
A beat there; quarter of a second when her lips opened and nothing came out. Then she said, “I know everything about them.”
Still that ring in her voice, like joy. A lift to her mouth that was almost a smile.
I felt it change my breathing. Right there, a flash like a signal: the something else I’d been looking for. Burning hotter, throwing off sparks in strange colors.
Not the same thing, Conway had said; not the same as Joanne’s lot. No shit.
I said, “And you all keep each other’s secrets. You’d never rat the others out.”
“No. None of us would. Ever.”
“So,” I said, “this isn’t yours?” Photo into Rebecca’s hand.
Breath and a high whimper came out of her. Her mouth was open.
“Someone put that on the Secret Place yesterday evening. Was it you?”
All of her was sucked into the photo. It took a moment for the question to sink in enough that she said, “No.”
Not lying: not enough of her attention was left for it. Another one down.
“Do you know who did?”
Rebecca hauled herself out of the photo. She said, “It wasn’t any of us. Me and my friends.”
“How do you know?”
“Because none of us know who killed Chris.”
And she put the photo back into my hand. End of story. She was pulled up straight-backed and head high, looking me in the eye, no blink.
I said, “Let’s say you had to guess. Had to, no way out. What would you say?”
“Guess what? Who did the card, or . . . Chris?”
“Both.”
Rebecca gave me the blank teenage shrug that sends parents apeshit.
I said, “The way you talk about your friends, it sounds like they mean a lot to you. Am I right?”
“Yeah. They do.”
“People are going to know the four of you could have had something to do with this card. Fact. No way round that. If I had friends I cared about, I’d do whatever it took to make sure there wasn’t a killer out there thinking they had info on him. Even if it meant answering questions I didn’t like.”
Rebecca thought about that. Carefully.
She moved her chin at the photo. “I think someone just made that up.”
“You say it wasn’t any of your mates. Which means it had to be Joanne Heffernan or one of her friends. They’re the only other people who were in the building at the right time.”
“You said it was them. I didn’t. I don’t have a clue.”
“Would they? Make it up?”
“Maybe.”
“Why?”
Shrug. “Maybe they were bored. They wanted something to happen. And now here you are.”
Flare to her nostril: They. Rebecca didn’t think much of Joanne’s lot. Meek little thing, to look at. Not so meek inside.
“And Chris,” I said. “Who do you think did that?”
Rebecca said—no pause—“Guys from Colm’s. I think a bunch of them sneaked in here—maybe they were planning some kind of joke, like stealing something or painting something; a few years ago some of them came in one night with spray cans and sprayed a picture all across our playing field.” Tinge of red running up her cheeks. She wasn’t going to tell us what the picture had been. “I think they came in for something like that, but then they had a fight. And . . .”
Her hands spreading. Setting the image loose, to float away on the air.
I said, “Was Chris the kind of guy who would do that? Sneak out of his school, come in here on a prank?”
Some picture unfolded inside Rebecca’s mind, taking her away from us. She watched it. Said, “Yeah. He was.”
Something lying across her voice, a long shadow. Rebecca had had feelings about Chris Harper. Good or bad, I couldn’t tell, but strong.
I said, “If you could tell me just one thing about him, what would it be?”
Rebecca said, unexpectedly: “He was kind.”
“Kind? How?”
“This one time, we were hanging around outside the shopping center and my phone was doing something weird; it looked like I’d lost all my photos. A couple of the other guys were being total morons—like, ‘Ooo, what did you have on there, were there photos of . . .’” The tinge of red again. “Just stupid stuff. But Chris went, ‘Here, give me a look,’ and he took the phone off me and started trying to fix it. The idiots thought that was hilarious, but Chris didn’t care. He just fixed the phone and gave it back to me.”
A small sigh. The picture in her mind folded away, slid into its drawer. She was looking at us again.
“When I think about Chris, that’s what I think about. That day.”
A girl like Rebecca, that day could have meant a lot. Could have rooted and grown, inside her mind.
Conway moved. Said, “You got a boyfriend?”
“No.”
Instant. Almost scornful, like it was a stupid question: You got a rocket ship?
“Why not?”
“Do I have to?”
“A lot of people do.”
Rebecca said flatly, “I don’t.”
She didn’t give a fuck what either of us thought of that. Not Alison, not Orla. The opposite.
Conway said, “We’ll see you around.”
Rebecca left stuffing my card in her pocket, forgetting it already. Conway said, “Not our girl.”
“Nah.”
She didn’t say it. I had to. “Took me a while to get off the ground.”
Conway nodded. “Yeah. Not your fault. I steered you wrong.”
She’d gone absent, eyes narrowed on something.
I said, “I think I got it right in the end. No harm done, that I could see.”
“Maybe not,” Conway said. “This fucking place. Trips you up every time you turn around. Whatever you do, turns out it was the wrong call.”
Julia Harte. Conway didn’t brief me on her, not after how Rebecca had gone, but I knew as soon as Julia walked in the door she was the boss of that outfit. Short, with dark curly hair fighting a ponytail. A bit more weight on her than the rest, a few more curves, a walk that showed them. Not pretty—roundy face, bump on her nose—but a good chin, small chin with plenty of stubborn, and good eyes: hazel, long-lashed, direct and smart as hell. No glance at the Secret Place, but there wouldn’t have been either way, not with this one.
“Detective Conway,” she said. Nice voice, deeper than most girls’, more controlled. Made her sound older. “Did you miss us that much?”
A smart-arse. That can work for us, work nicely. Smart-arses talk when they shouldn’t, say anything as long as it’ll come out good and snappy.
Conway pointed at the chair. Julia sat down, crossed her knees. Looked me up, looked me down.
I said, “I’m Stephen Moran. Julia Harte, right?”
“At your service. What can I do for you?”
Smart-arses want a chance to be smart. “You tell me. Anything you think I should know?”
“About what?”
“You pick.” And I grinned at her, like we were old sparring partners who’d missed each other.
Julia grinned back. “Don’t eat the yellow snow. Never play leapfrog with a unicorn.”
Ten seconds in, and it was a conversation, not an interview. The boy was back in town. I felt Conway ease back on the table; felt the whoosh of relief go through me.
“I’ll make a note of that,” I said. “Meanwhile, why don’t you tell me what you did yesterday evening? Start with first study period.”
Julia sighed. “Here I was hoping we could talk about something interesting. Any reason why we’re going for, like, the most boring thing in the world?”
I said, “You’ll get your info once I’ve got mine. Maybe. Till then, no fishing.”
Twitch of her mouth, appreciative. “Deal. Here you go: boring storytime.”
The same story as Rebecca’s: the art project, the key, the forgotten picture and the toilet breaks and the chalk, the too busy to look at the board. No mismatches. It was true, or they were good.
I brought out the photo. Did the fingertip flip. “Have you put up any cards in the Secret Place?”
Julia snorted. “Jesus, no. Not my thing.”
“No?”
Her eye on the photo. “Truly, madly, deeply no.”
“So you didn’t put up this one.”
“Um, since I didn’t put up any of them, I’m going to go with no?”
I held out the photo. Julia took it. Blank-faced, all set up to give away nothing.
She turned the photo towards her and went still. The whole room went still.
Then she shrugged. Handed the photo back to me, almost tossed it.
“You’ve met Joanne Heffernan, right? If you find anything she won’t do for attention, I’d love to hear it. It probably involves YouTube and a German shepherd.” Squeak from Houlihan. Julia’s eyes went to her and flicked away again, insta-bored.
“Julia,” I said. “Messing aside, just for a sec. If this was you, we need to know.”
“I actually do know serious when I see it. That was totally, one hundred percent not me.”
Julia wasn’t out. Almost out; not quite. “You figure Joanne’s behind it?”