Secret Place (9780698170285)

by French, Tana

  Holly was shooting sparks like an arc welder. “We did not. We’re fine.”

  “Someone wrecked me and my mates like that, I’d hate his guts. Anyone would, except a holy angel of God. You’re a good young one, but unless you’ve changed a load in the last few years, you’re no angel. Are you?”

  “I never said I was.”

  “So how much did you hate Chris?”

  Mackey said, “Aaand scene. Smoke break.”

  Mackey never minded being obvious, so long as you couldn’t stop him. “Filthy habit,” he said, sliding off the table and giving us a great big grin. “Need some more fresh air, young Stephen?”

  Conway said, “You just had a smoke.”

  Mackey’s eyebrow went up. He outranked the pair of us put together. “I want to talk to Detective Moran behind your back, Detective Conway. Was that not clear enough, no?”

  “I got that, yeah. You can do it in a minute.”

  Mackey rolled his clay into a ball, tossed it to Holly. “Here you go, chickadee. Play with that. Don’t be making anything that’ll shock the detective; she looks like the pure-minded type.”

  To me: “Coming?” And he strolled out. Holly smashed the ball of clay flat on the table, viciously, with the heel of her hand.

  I looked at Conway. She looked back. I went.

  Mackey didn’t wait for me. I watched him take the stairs a flight ahead of me, all the way down those long curves, watched him cross the hall. That dimness, that angle, he looked sinister, someone I didn’t know and shouldn’t be following, not that fast.

  When I got to the door, he was leaning back against the wall with his hands in his pockets. He hadn’t bothered to light a smoke.

  He said, “I’m bored of playing games. You and Conway didn’t get me out here because of professional courtesy. You got me out here because you need an appropriate adult. Because Holly’s a suspect in the murder of Christopher Harper.”

  I said, “If you’d rather go back to HQ, get all this on video, we can do that.”

  “If I wanted to be somewhere else, we would be. What I want is for you to quit bullshitting me.”

  I said, “We think it’s possible that Holly was involved in some capacity.”

  Mackey squinted past me, at the tree line ringing that sweep of grass. He said, “I’m a little surprised I need to point this out to you, sunshine, but what the hell, let’s play. You’re describing someone who’s too thick to get her shoes on the right feet. Holly may be a lot of things, but she’s not stupid.”

  “I know she’s not.”

  “Yeah? Then let’s just make sure I’ve got the theory straight. According to you, Holly’s committed murder and got clean away with it. The Murder lads have done their little dance, got nowhere and buggered off. And now—a year later, when everyone’s given up and moved on—Holly brings you that card. She deliberately drags the Murder boys back in. Deliberately puts herself in the spotlight. Deliberately points them towards a witness who can lock her up.” Mackey hadn’t moved from the wall, but he was looking at me now, all right. Those blue eyes, hot enough to brand you. “Talk to me, Detective. Tell me how that works, unless she’s the level of moron that would make the baby Jesus swear. Am I missing something here? Are you just fucking with my head to prove you’re a big boy now and I’m not the boss of you any more? Or are you honest to God standing there with a straight face and trying to tell me that makes one fucking iota of sense?”

  I said, “I don’t think for a second that Holly’s thick. I think she’s using us to do her dirty work.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “She found that card and she needs to know who made it. She’s narrowed it down, the same way we did, but that’s where she’s stuck. So she pulls us in to stir things up a bit, see who pops to the surface.”

  Mackey pretended to think that over. “I like it. Not a lot, but I like it. She’s got no problem with the idea of us actually finding the witness and getting the goods, no? Landing in jail would just be a minor annoyance?”

  “She doesn’t think she’ll land in jail. That means she knows the card girl won’t rat her out. Either she knows it’s one of her own, and Joanne Heffernan’s bunch got mixed in along the way—by accident, or because Holly figured she might as well find out if they had any info while she was at it, since they were getting out at night as well, or because she just liked the idea of giving them a scare. Or else she’s got some hold over Heffernan’s lot.”

  Mackey’s eyebrow was up. “I said she’s not thick, kid. I didn’t say she was Professor fucking Moriarty.”

  I said, “Tell me that doesn’t sound like something you would do.”

  “I might well. I’m a pro. I’m not a naïve teenage kid whose entire experience of criminal behavior is one unfortunate encounter seven years back. I’m flattered that you think I’ve raised some kind of evil genius, but you might want to save a little of that imagination for your online warcrafting time.”

  I said, “So is Holly a pro. So are all of them. If I’ve learned one thing today, it’s that teenage girls make Moriarty look like a babe in the woods.”

  Mackey gave me that with a tilt of his chin. Thought. “So,” he said. “In this pretty little story, Holly knows the card girl won’t dob her in, but she’s still willing to take major risks to find out who it is. Why?”

  “If that was you,” I said. “Starting to think about leaving school. Starting to realize that you and your friends are going to be heading out into the big wide world; this, what you’ve got now, it’s not going to last forever, you’re not always going to be bestest mates who’d die sooner than dob each other in. Would you want to leave a witness out there?”

  I expected a punch, maybe. Got a startled snort of laughter that even sounded real. “Jesus, kid! Now she’s a serial killer? You want to check her alibi on the OJ case, too?”

  I didn’t know how to say it, what I’d seen in Holly. Things turning solid, the world widening in front of her eyes. Dreams shifting to real, and the other way round, like a drawing sliding from charcoal to oil in front of your eyes. Words changing shape, meanings slipping.

  I said, “Not a serial killer. Just someone who didn’t realize what she was starting.”

  “She’s not the only one. You’ve already got a bit of a name for—how do they put it?—not being a team player. Personally, I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing, but not everyone agrees with me. You go another step down that road, and plenty of people won’t want to know you. And believe me, pal: arresting a cop’s kid does not count as being a team player. You do that, you can wave bye-bye to your shot at Murder or Undercover. For good.”

  He wasn’t bothering to be subtle about it. I said, “Only if I’m wrong.”

  “You think?”

  “Yeah. I do. We solve this, and I’m at the top of the queue for Murder. Everyone might hate my guts, but I’ll get my shot.”

  “At working there, maybe. For a little while. Not at being one of them.”

  Mackey watching me. He’s good, Mackey; he’s the finest. Finger straight on the bruise, pressing just hard enough.

  I said, “I’ll settle for working there. I’ve got enough buddies to last me.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well,” Mackey said. He shot his cuff, checked his watch. “Better not keep Detective Conway waiting any longer. She’s not too happy about you coming out for private chats with me.”

  “She’s grand.”

  “Come here,” Mackey said. Beckoned. Waited.

  In the end I moved in.

  He cupped a hand round the back of my neck. Gentle. Intent blue eyes, inches from mine. “If you’re right,” he said—no threat there, not scaring me, just telling me—“I’m going to kill you.”

  He gave the back of my head a double pat. Smiled. Moved off, into the hig
h-arched dark of the hall.

  That was when I realized: Mackey thought all of this was his fault. He thought he had put today in Holly’s blood. Mackey thought I was right.

  22

  Monday morning, early, the bus grinding through traffic in stops and starts. Chris Harper has three weeks and less than four days left to live.

  Julia is at the back of the half-empty top deck, with her ankles bent around her holdall at uncomfortable angles and her science homework on her lap. She spent the weekend banging her head against what to do about Chris and Selena. Her main instinct is to grab hold of Selena, probably literally, and ask her what the fuck she thinks she’s doing; but some other instinct, further back and twisting restlessly, tells her that the moment she says this out loud—to Selena, or to Holly or Becca—nothing will ever be the same again. She can smell the poison smoke as everything they’ve got roars into flame. So she ended up getting nowhere with that and nowhere with homework, and this week is starting off to be a total peach all round. Rain streaks down the bus windows, the driver has turned the heat up to a million and everything is covered in a clammy film of condensation.

  Julia is scribbling fast, something about photosynthesis, with one eye on her textbook and one on her barely reworded page, when she feels someone standing in the aisle looking down at her. It’s Gemma Harding.

  Gemma lives like four houses from the bus stop, but Daddy always drops her to school on Monday morning, in his black Porsche that takes half an hour to turn in the narrow school drive. Everything factors into the pecking order: Porsche beats most cars, any car beats bus. If Gemma’s on OMG public transport, there’s a reason.

  Julia rolls her eyes. “Selena hasn’t been anywhere near Chris. ’Kthanksbye.” She sticks her head back in her textbook.

  Gemma dumps her weekend bag on the next seat and slides in next to Julia. She’s wet, raindrops sparkling on her coat. “This bus stinks,” she says, wrinkling her nose.

  It does: sweat-marinated raincoats, steaming. “So get off and call Daddy to come save you. Please.”

  Gemma ignores that. She says, “Did you know Joanne used to be going out with Chris?”

  Julia gives her the eyebrow. “Yeah. As if.”

  “She was. For like two months. Back before Christmas.”

  “If she’d managed to get Chris Harper, she’d have had it tattooed across her face.”

  “He didn’t want them to tell anyone. Which should’ve tipped Joanne off—like, hello? But Chris kept giving her loads about how he was scared because he’d never felt this way about anyone before, and his feelings were so strong—”

  Julia snorts.

  “I know, right? I don’t know what kind of TV he watches, but, like, barf? I said it to Joanne: the only reason a guy doesn’t want to tell people is either because you’re a swamp-monster and he’s ashamed of you, which Joanne completely isn’t, or else because he’s keeping his options open.”

  Julia closes her book, but she keeps it on her lap. “So?” she says.

  “So Joanne was all, ‘OhmyGod, Gemma, you are so cynical, what is wrong with you, are you jealous or something?’ Chris had her completely convinced this was some huge romance.”

  Julia mimes puking. A couple of Colm’s guys, up towards the front of the bus, are turning around to look at them, grinning and talking louder and shouldering each other. Gemma doesn’t smile back, or do that annoying thing where she pretends to ignore them and sticks her boobs out; instead she rolls her eyes and lowers her voice.

  “Like, she was starting to wonder if he was the love of her life. She kept talking about how someday she could tell their kids how they used to sneak away for these little secret meetings.”

  “Adorable,” Julia says. “So how come she’s not showing off her engagement ring?”

  Gemma says flatly, “She wasn’t shagging him, so he dumped her. Not even face-to-face. One evening they were supposed to meet up in the park, and Chris just didn’t show up and didn’t answer his phone. She texted him like ten times, trying to figure out what happened—at first she thought he had to be in hospital or something. A couple of days later, we were down at the Court and he walked straight past us. Saw us and looked the other way.”

  Julia stashes away the image of Joanne’s face, to enjoy later. “That’s shitty.”

  “Yeah, you think?”

  “How come she wouldn’t shag him?” Julia’s never thought of Joanne as the save-it-for-marriage type.

  “Well, she was going to. She’s not frigid or anything. She was just holding off so he wouldn’t think she was a slut, and to make him more into her. She’d actually decided to go for it, she was just waiting for one of them to have a free gaff at the weekend—she wasn’t about to do it in the Field like some skanger. Only she hadn’t said that to Chris, because she wanted him on his toes. So he got sick of waiting and dumped her.”

  “So the point of this story is, basically,” Julia says, “Joanne’s still all into Chris, so that makes him her property and everyone else in the world should back off. Did I miss anything?”

  “Yeah, actually,” Gemma says, giving her a fish-eyed stare. “You did.”

  She waits till Julia says, with a noisy sigh, “OK. What?”

  “Joanne’s tough.”

  “Joanne’s a bitch.”

  Gemma shrugs. “Whatever. She’s not soft. But what Chris did, that totally wrecked her head. Afterwards, she had to pretend she was sick for a whole week, so she could stay in our room.”

  Julia remembers that. Back at the time she considered telling people Joanne had come out in huge pus-filled face boils, but she wasn’t interested enough to put in the effort. “What was she, crying?”

  “She couldn’t stop crying. She looked like a total mess, and she wasn’t going to have anyone see her like that—plus she was scared she’d burst into tears in the middle of, like, French, and people would guess. But mostly it was because she was like, if she saw Chris or any of his mates, she’d die right there of embarrassment. She was all, ‘I can’t ever go out again, ever, I’m going to have to get my parents to transfer me to a school in London or somewhere . . .’ It took me a week to get it through her head that she had to go out and see him, and act like she barely even remembered his name, or he’d know how upset she was, and then he’d think she was pathetic. That’s how guys work. If you care more about them than they do about you, they hate you for it.”

  Julia would give more than ever for a chance to punch Chris’s teeth in. Not because he hurt Joanne’s precious feelings, which from Julia’s viewpoint is the only bright spot in this whole vile mess; because all this is happening over such a little piece of shit. Selena ruining everything, the look on Finn’s face in the Field: all because of some fifth-rate wankstain who’s never had a thought in his head beyond WANT PUSSY.

  She says, “So how is this my problem?”

  Gemma says, “So Selena’s not tough.”

  “Tougher than you think.”

  “Yeah? Tough enough that when Chris pulls the same thing on her, she’ll be totally fine? Which he definitely will. I guarantee you he’s giving her all the same lovey-dovey crap he gave Joanne, and if Jo fell for it, Selena is too. In a couple of weeks she’ll be positive they’re going to get married. And even if she’s shagging him—”

  “She’s not.”

  Gemma throws Julia a skeptical one. Julia says, “She’s not shagging him. And not because she’s frigid.”

  “Well,” Gemma says. “Even if she is shagging him, and even more if she’s not, sooner or later he’ll get bored. So he’ll vanish off her phone and treat her like she doesn’t exist. How gutted is Selena going to be? Specially once she hears whatever Jo puts around about why she got dumped. Because you know that’s going to be good. You think she’ll get over it in a week? Or do you think she’ll have an actual nervous breakdown?”

  Ju
lia doesn’t answer. Gemma says, “Selena’s already . . . I mean, not being a bitch, but let’s face it, she doesn’t seem like it’d take much to push her over the edge.”

  “I went through Selena’s phone,” Julia says. “There’s nothing on there from Chris. Nothing that could be from him, even.”

  Gemma snorts. “Course not. When he was going out with Joanne? He gave her a special secret phone, just for texting him. You know Alison’s new phone? The pink one? That was it—Joanne made Alison buy it off her, after they broke up. I can’t even remember what his excuse was, but basically if you ask me he was scared her parents or the nuns or one of us would go through her actual phone and find out. He told her to keep it hidden.”

  When of course the first thing Joanne had done with that phone was show it to all her friends. Not just a fifth-rate wankstain; a thick-as-pig-shit fifth-rate wankstain.

  Gemma says, “So I bet Selena’s got a special super-secret phone stashed away somewhere.”

  “Jesus,” Julia says. “How much pocket money does he get?”

  “As much as he wants. I heard”—a smile slides across the corner of Gemma’s mouth; she isn’t telling where she heard it—“he’s got a separate phone too, just for girls he’s with. You know what the other guys call it? Chris’s pussyphone.”

  That kind of shit right there is why they made the vow in the first place. Julia wants to get a table-tennis racket and smack some sense into Selena’s head. “Classy.”

  Gemma says, “He’s good. You need to get this fixed before Selena has time to be seriously in love with him.”

  “If she was going out with him,” Julia says, after a moment, “then yeah. It sounds like I would.”

  They sit there in a silence that feels strangely companionable. The bus bumps over potholes.

  “I don’t know Chris,” Julia says. “I’ve never even really talked to him. If you wanted to get him to dump someone fast, how would you do it?”

  “Good luck with that. Chris . . .” Gemma mimes it, one hand coming down edge-first to point straight ahead: single-minded. “He knows what he wants, and he goes for it. Forget him. Work on Selena, get her to dump him. Not the other way around.”