Secret Place (9780698170285)

by French, Tana

  Another shrug. “The only people you had waiting outside the office were us and Joanne’s little poodles—plus you’re asking about yesterday evening, so it has to be someone who was in the school then. It wasn’t us, so that leaves them. And the other three don’t scratch their arses unless Joanne says they can. ’Scuse my language.”

  I said, “How come you’re so sure none of your mates put this up?”

  “Because. I know them.”

  An echo of that note that had rung through Rebecca’s voice. That signal-flash again, so bright it almost hurt my eyes. Something different. Something rare.

  I shook my head. “You don’t know them inside out. Trust me. Doesn’t happen.”

  Julia looked back at me. One eyebrow raised: Is there a question here?

  I could feel Conway, hot. Holding back.

  I said, “Tell us. You have to have thought about who killed Chris. What’s your guess?”

  “Colm’s guys. His friends. They’re the type who’d think it was totally hilarious to climb in here to play some joke—steal something, paint SLUTS on a wall, whatever. And they’re the type who’d think it was a wonderful idea to start messing about in the dark with sticks and rocks and anything else dangerous they could find. Someone got a little overexcited, and . . .”

  Julia spread her hands. Same gesture as Rebecca. Same story as Rebecca, almost word for word. They’d talked it over.

  I said, “Yeah, we heard something about Colm’s boys spray-painting a picture on the grass, a few years back. Was that Chris and his mates?”

  “Who knows. They didn’t get caught, whoever they were. Personally, I’d say no. We were in first year when that happened, so Chris would’ve been in second year. I don’t think a bunch of second-years would’ve had the guts.”

  “What was the picture of?”

  Another squeak from Houlihan. Julia threw her a finger-wave. “Scientifically speaking, a great big penis and testicles. They’re such imaginative boys, over at Colm’s.”

  I said, “Any reason you think that’s what happened to Chris?”

  “Who, me? I’m just guessing. I leave the detecting to the professionals.” Batted her eyelashes at me, chin tucked down, watched for a reaction. Not sexy, not Gemma. Mocking. “Can I go?”

  I said, “You’re in some hurry to get back to class. Studious type, yeah?”

  “Don’t I look like a good little schoolgirl to you?”

  Little pout, mock-provocative. Still nudging for that reaction.

  I said, “Tell me one thing about Chris. One thing that mattered.”

  Julia dropped the pout. She thought, eyes down. She thought like an adult: taking her time, not worried about letting us wait.

  In the end she said, “Chris’s dad is a banker. He’s rich. Very, very rich.”

  “And?”

  “And that’s probably the most important thing I can tell you about Chris.”

  “He was flash with it? Always had the best stuff, used it to pull rank?”

  Slow headshake, click of her tongue. “Nothing like that. He was a lot less of a show-off than most of his friends. But he had it. Always. And first. No waiting for Christmas or his birthday. He wanted it, he had it.”

  Conway moved. Said, “Sounds like you knew Chris’s gang pretty well.”

  “I didn’t have much choice. Colm’s is like two minutes away, we do all kinds of activities together. We see each other.”

  “Ever go out with any of them?”

  “God, give me some credit. No.”

  “You got a boyfriend?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Julia’s eyebrow arching. “Since I’m such a total babe? All we meet is Colm’s guys, and I’m holding out for someone who can actually have conversations in words of more than one syllable. I’m so picky.”

  Conway said, “OK. You can go. You think of anything, you ring us.”

  I passed Julia my card. She took it. Didn’t stand up.

  She said, “Can I ask you for a piece of that info? Now that I’ve been such a good girl and given you all mine.”

  “Go for it,” I said. “Can’t swear I’ll answer, but go ahead and ask.”

  “How did you hear about that card?”

  “How do you think?”

  “Ah,” Julia said. “I guess you did warn me. It’s been fun, Detectives. See you around.”

  She stood up, automatically gave her waistband a quick roll so her skirt came above her knees. Walked out, without waiting for Houlihan.

  I said, once Houlihan had skittered after her, “The card was a shock.”

  “That or she’s good,” Conway said. She was still watching the door, tapping her pen off her notebook. “And she’s good.”

  Selena Wynne.

  All gold and bloom. Huge sleepy blue eyes, cream-and-rosy face, full soft mouth. Blond hair—the real thing—curling in short raggedy ringlets like a little boy’s. Nowhere near fat—Joanne had been talking out her hole—but she had curves, soft round ones, made her look older than sixteen. Lovely, Selena was; the kind of lovely that couldn’t last. You could see that somewhere this summer, maybe even this afternoon, this was the loveliest she’d ever be.

  You don’t want to notice this stuff on a kid, your mind wants to jump away. But it matters, same as it would on a grown woman. Changes every day of her life. So you notice. Scrape the greasy feeling off your mind whatever way you can.

  Posh girls’ school: lovely and safe, I’d’ve thought, if I’d thought. Beats a council estate where buses won’t go. But I was starting to see it, out of the corner of my eye: the shimmer in the air that says danger. Not aimed at me personally, no more than it would’ve been in that estate, but there.

  Selena stood in the doorway, swinging the door back and forth like a little kid. Gazing at us.

  Behind her Houlihan murmured, trying to nudge Selena forward. Selena didn’t notice. She said, to Conway, “I remember you.”

  “Same here,” said Conway. Her glance at me, as she headed back to her chair, said Selena hadn’t clocked the Secret Place. Zero out of seven. Our card girl had self-control. “Why don’t you have a seat.”

  Selena moved forward. Sat down, obedient and incurious. Examined me like I was a new painting on one of the easels.

  I said, “I’m Detective Stephen Moran. Selena Wynne, am I right?”

  She nodded. Still that gaze, lips parted. No questions, no what’s-this-about, no wariness.

  And no point in trying to bond with this one. I could burst my bollix trying, get the same answers as if I’d sent a list of questions by e-mail. Selena wanted nothing from me. She barely knew I was real.

  Slow, I thought. Slow or sick or hurt, or whatever this year’s approved words are. The first snip of why Joanne’s lot thought these were freaks.

  I said, “Can you tell me what you did yesterday evening?”

  Same story as the other three, or bits of it. She wasn’t sure who’d asked for permission, who’d left the art room; looked vague at me when I asked if she’d gone to the toilet. Agreed that she might’ve done, but agreed like she was saying it to make me happy, being kind because it didn’t matter to her either way.

  She hadn’t looked at the Secret Place, any time during the evening. I asked, “Have you put up any cards there?”

  Selena shook her head.

  “No? Never?”

  “I don’t really get the Secret Place. I don’t even like reading it.”

  “Why not? You don’t like secrets? Or you figure they should stay secret?”

  She wove her fingers together, watched them fascinated, the way babies do. Soft eyebrows pulling together, just a touch. “I just don’t like it. It bothers me.”

  I said, “So this isn’t yours.” Slapped the photo into her hands.

  Her
fingers were so loose, the photo fell right through them, spun to the ground. She just watched it fall. I had to pick it up for her.

  It got us nothing, this time. Selena held it and gazed at it for so long, not a budge in that sweet peaceful face, I started wondering had she copped what it meant.

  “Chris,” she said, in the end. I felt Conway twitch, No shit Sherlock.

  I said, “Someone put that up in the Secret Place. Was it you?”

  Selena shook her head.

  “Selena. If it was, you’re not in any trouble. We’re only delighted to have it. But we need to know.”

  Another headshake.

  She was mist-smooth, your hand went right through her without touching. No cracks to jimmy, no loose threads to pull. No way in.

  I asked, “Then who do you think it was?”

  “I don’t know.” Puzzled look, like I was a weirdo to ask.

  “If you had to guess.”

  Selena did her best to come up with something; trying to make me happy again. “Maybe it was a joke?”

  “Would any of your friends play a joke like that?”

  “Julia and Holly and Becca? No.”

  “What about Joanne Heffernan and her friends? Would they?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t understand most of what they do.” The mention of them slid a faint frown across Selena’s forehead, but a second later it had faded.

  I said, “Who do you think killed Chris Harper?”

  Selena thought about that for a long time. Sometimes her lips moved, like she was about to start a sentence but then it fell out of her mind. Conway at my shoulder, sizzling with impatience.

  In the end Selena said, “I don’t think anyone’s ever going to know.”

  Her voice had turned clear, strong. For the first time, she was looking at us like she saw us.

  Conway said, “Why not?”

  “There are things like that. Where no one ever knows what happened.”

  Conway said, “Don’t you underestimate us. We’re planning on finding out exactly what happened.”

  Selena gazed at her. “OK,” she said, mildly. Passed the photo back to me.

  I said, “If you had to pick one thing to tell me about Chris, what would it be?”

  Selena turned back to vague. Drifted off into the sunlight like the dust motes, lips parted. I waited.

  What felt like a long time later, she said, “Sometimes I see him.”

  She sounded sad. Not scared, not trying to scare us, impress us, nothing. Just so sad.

  Twitch from Houlihan. Sound of Conway clamping back a snort.

  I said, “Yeah? Where?”

  “Different places. On the second-floor landing, once, sitting on the windowsill texting someone. Running laps around the Colm’s playing field, during a match. Once on the grass outside our window, late at night, throwing a ball up in the air. He’s always doing something. It’s like he’s trying to get all the things done that he’ll never have a chance to do, get them done as fast as he can. Or like he’s still trying to be like the rest of us, like maybe he doesn’t realize . . .”

  A sudden catch of breath that lifted Selena’s chest. “Oh,” she said quietly, on the sigh out. “Poor Chris.”

  Not slow, not sick. I had practically forgotten even thinking that. Selena did things to the air, slowed it to her pace, tinted it her pearly colors. Brought you with her, strange places.

  I said, “Any idea why you see him? Were you close, yeah?”

  A flash across Selena’s face, as she raised her head. Just that one flash, there and gone in a blink, too fast to catch and hold. Something sharp, shining through the haze like silver.

  “No,” she said.

  That second, I would’ve sworn to two things. Somewhere, down some tangled thread we might never follow, Selena was at the heart of this case. And I was going to get my fight.

  I did puzzled. “I thought you were going out with him.”

  “No.”

  Nothing more.

  “Then why do you think you see him? If you weren’t close.”

  Selena said, “I haven’t worked that out yet.”

  Conway moved again. “When you figure it out, you go right ahead and let us know.”

  Selena’s eyes shifted to her. “OK,” she said, peaceably.

  Conway said, “Have you got a boyfriend?”

  Selena shook her head.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t want one.”

  “Why not?”

  Nothing. Conway said, “What happened to your hair?”

  Selena lifted a hand to her head, puzzled. “Oh,” she said. “That. I cut it.”

  “How come?”

  She considered that. “It felt like the right thing.”

  Conway said, again, “How come?”

  Silence. Selena’s mouth had gone loose again. She wasn’t ignoring us; simpler. She had let go of us.

  We were done. We gave her our cards, sent her drifting out the door with Houlihan, no backward glance.

  Conway said, “Another one we can’t rule out.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Chris Harper’s ghost,” Conway said, shaking her head, disgusted. “For fuck’s sake. And there’s McKenna upstairs, giving herself pats on the back because her and her shrine got rid of all that carry-on. I’d love to tell her, just to see her face.”

  And, last of all, Holly.

  Holly had changed her angle—for Conway or for Houlihan, no way to tell. She was all good little schoolgirl, straight back, hands folded in front of her. When she came in the door, she practically curtsied.

  It occurred to me, a bit late, that I had no clue what Holly wanted off me.

  “Holly,” I said. “You remember Detective Conway. We both really appreciate you bringing in that card.” Solemn nod from Holly. “We’ve just got a few more questions to ask you.”

  “Course. No problem.” She sat down, crossed her ankles. I swear her eyes had got bigger and bluer.

  “Can you tell us what you did yesterday evening?”

  Same story as the other three, only smoother. No nudging needed here, no going back to correct herself. Holly reeled it off like she’d been rehearsing. Probably she had.

  I said, “Have you ever put any secrets up on the board?”

  “No.”

  “Never?”

  Quick spark, the impatient Holly I knew, through all that demure. “Secrets are secret. That’s the point. And no way is it totally anonymous, not if someone really wants to track you down. Half the cards up there, everyone knows who they are.”

  Daddy’s daughter: watch your back, always. “So who do you think put up this card?”

  Holly said, “You’ve narrowed it down to us and Joanne’s lot.”

  “Say we have. Who would you guess?”

  She thought, or pretended to. “Well. It obviously wasn’t me or my friends, or I’d have told you already.”

  “You sure you’d know?”

  Spark. “Yes, I’m sure. OK?”

  “Fair enough. Which of the others would you bet on?”

  “It’s not Joanne, because she’d have made a total incredible drama out of the whole thing—probably she’d have fainted in assembly and you’d have had to go talk to her in her hospital bed, or whatever. And Orla’s way too stupid to think of this. So that leaves Gemma and Alison. If I have to guess . . .”

  She was loosening, the longer we talked. Conway was staying well out, head down. I said, “Go for it.”

  “Well. OK. Gemma thinks her and Joanne run the universe. If she knew something, she probably wouldn’t tell you at all, but if she did, it’d be straight out. With her dad sitting in—he’s a solicitor. So I’d guess Alison. She’s scared of basically everything; if she knew something, she’d never have t
he guts to go straight to you.”

  Holly snatched a glance at Conway, made sure she was writing this down. “Or,” she said. “Probably you’ve thought of this. But someone could have got one of Joanne’s gang to put that card up for her.”

  “Would they do it?”

  “Joanne wouldn’t. Or Gemma. Orla totally would, but she’d tell Joanne before she even did it. Alison might. If she did, though,” Holly added, “she won’t tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because. Joanne would be way pissed off if she found out Alison had put up that card and not told her. So she won’t let on.”

  This was giving me the head-staggers, keeping it straight who would do what to who if which. Fair play to teenage girls; I’d never have been able for it.

  Conway said, “If she put it up, we’ll find out.”

  Holly nodded gravely. All faith in the big brave detectives, coming along to make everything OK.

  I said, “What about Chris’s death? Who would you guess was responsible for that?”

  I was waiting for the prank-gone-bad story, rattled off nice and neat with Holly’s own fancy twirls on top. Instead she said, “I don’t know.”

  The clamp of frustration said it was true. “Not Colm’s guys messing about, and it went wrong?”

  “I know some people think that. But that would’ve probably been a whole bunch of them, and I’m sorry, at least three or four guys managing to keep their mouths shut and keep their stories straight and not slip up even once? I don’t think so.” Holly’s eyes went to Conway. She said, “Not if you questioned them the way you questioned us.”

  I lifted the photo. Said, “Someone managed to keep her mouth shut this long.”

  That spark of irritation again. “Everyone thinks girls blab everything, yap yap yap, like idiots. That’s total crap. Girls keep secrets. Guys are the ones who can’t keep their mouths shut.”

  “There’s a lot of girls blabbing on the Secret Place.”

  “Yeah, and if it wasn’t there, they wouldn’t blab. That’s what it’s for: to get us spilling our guts.” A glance at Houlihan. Sweetly: “I’m sure it’s very valuable in lots of ways.”

  I said, “Pick one thing to tell me about Chris. Something important.”

  I saw the breath lift Holly’s chest, like she was bracing herself. She said, clear and cool, “He was a prick.”