Broken Harbor

by Tana French

  I realized, with a kind of detached surprise, that my hands were shaking. I shoved them into my pockets. “He was clever, all right,” I said. “He was good.”

  Richie took his nail out of his mouth. “I’ll tell you what’s bothering me,” he said. “What happened to the simplest solution?”

  “What are you on about?”

  “Stick with the answer that needs the fewest extras. That’s what you said. MP3 player, speakers, remote control; extra break-ins to move them around; a load of luck so Jenny never hears the noises . . . Man, that’s a lot of extras.”

  I said, “It’s easier to assume that Pat was a fruitcake.”

  “Not easier. Simpler. It’s simpler to assume that he was imagining the whole thing.”

  “Is it? And the guy who was stalking them, wandering around their house eating their ham slices, at exactly the same time as Pat was turning from a sensible guy into a looper: that’s just a coincidence? A coincidence that size, my friend, that’s one hell of an extra.”

  Richie was shaking his head. “The recession got to both of them; no big coincidence there. This thing with the MP3, though: that’d be a one-in-a-million shot, making sure Pat hears the noises and Jenny never does. You’re talking about day and night, for months; and that house, it’s not some massive mansion where people can be miles apart. No matter how careful you were, sooner or later she’d hear something.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “You’re probably right.” I realized that I had stopped moving, what felt like a long time ago. “So maybe she did.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “Maybe the two of them were in it together: Conor and Jenny. That makes everything a whole lot simpler, doesn’t it? No need for Conor to worry about keeping the noises away from Jenny: if Pat asks her, ‘Do you hear that?’ all she has to do is look blank and say, ‘Hear what?’ No need to worry if the kids hear, either: Jenny can convince them they’re just imagining things, and they shouldn’t talk about it in front of Daddy. And no need for Conor to break in and move equipment around: Jenny can look after all that.”

  Under the white fluorescents, Richie’s face looked like it had in the stripped morning light outside the morgue: bleached white, eroded down to the bone. He didn’t like this.

  I said, “That explains why she’s playing down Pat’s state of mind. It explains why she didn’t tell him, or the local uniforms, about the break-ins. It explains why Conor wiped the animal off the computer. It explains why he confessed: protecting his girlfriend. It explains why she’s not grassing him up: guilt. In fact, old son, I’d say it explains just about everything.” I could hear the pieces falling into place all around me, a small neat patter like soft raindrops. I wanted to lift my face to it, wash myself clean in it, drink it down.

  Richie didn’t move and for a moment I knew he felt it too, but then he caught a quick breath and shook his head. “I don’t see it.”

  “It’s clear as day. It’s beautiful. You don’t see it because you don’t want to see it.”

  “It’s not that. How do you get from there to the murders? If Conor was aiming to send Pat mental, it was working great: the poor bastard’s head was melted. Why would Conor dump all his plans and kill him? And if Jenny and the kids are what he’s after, what’s he doing killing them too?”

  I said, “Come on.” I was already striding down the corridor, as fast as I could go without breaking into a run. Richie had to trot to keep up. “Remember that JoJo’s badge?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The little fuck,” I said. I took the stairs down to the evidence room two at a time.

  * * *

  * * *

  Conor was still in his chair, but there were red marks around one thumb where he had been chewing on it. He knew he had fucked up, even if he wasn’t sure how. Finally, and about time, he was nervous as hell.

  Neither of us bothered to sit down. Richie told the camera, “Detective Kennedy and Detective Curran resuming interview with Conor Brennan”; then he leaned back in a corner at the edge of Conor’s vision, folded his arms and bumped one heel off the wall in a slow, nagging rhythm. I didn’t even try to stay still: I circled the room, fast, shoving chairs out of my way. Conor tried to watch both of us at once.

  “Conor,” I said. “We need to talk.”

  Conor said, “I want to go back to the cell.”

  “And I want a date with Anna Kournikova. Life’s a bitch. Do you know what else I want, Conor?”

  He shook his head.

  “I want to know why this happened. I want to know why Jenny Spain is in the hospital and her family’s in the morgue. Do you want to do this the easy way, and just tell me now?”

  Conor said, “You’ve got everything you need. I told you I did it. Who cares why?”

  “I care. So does Detective Curran. So do plenty of other people, but we’re the ones you need to worry about right now.”

  He shrugged. As I passed behind him, I pulled the evidence bag out of my pocket and threw it down on the table in front of him, hard enough that it bounced. “Explain this.”

  Conor didn’t flinch: he had been ready for this. “It’s a badge.”

  “No, Einstein. It’s not a badge. It’s this badge.” I leaned in over his shoulder, slapped down the summer ice-cream photo and stayed there, practically cheek to cheek with him. He smelled of harsh jail soap. “This badge right here, that you’re wearing in this photo right here. We found it in Jenny’s stuff. Where did she get it?”

  He pointed at the photo with his chin. “There. She’s wearing it. We all had them.”

  “You’re the only one who had this one. Photo analysis shows that the image on yours is off-center, to exactly the same degree as the image on this one here. None of the others match. So let’s try again: how did your badge get into Jenny Spain’s stuff?”

  I love CSI: our techs don’t need to work miracles these days, because all the civilians think they can. After a moment Conor shifted away from me. He said, “I left it in their house.”

  “Where?”

  “Kitchen counter.”

  I moved in again. “I thought you said you weren’t trying to scare the Spains. I thought you said no one would ever have known you were in the house. So what the hell is this? You figured they’d think it had materialized out of thin air? What?”

  Conor’s hand came out to cover the badge, like it was private. “I figured Jenny would find it. She’s always the first one down in the mornings.”

  “Get your hands off the evidence. Find it and what? Think the fairies had left it?”

  “No.” His hand hadn’t moved. “I knew she’d guess it was me. I wanted her to.”

  “Why?”

  “Because. Just so she’d know she wasn’t on her own, out there. So she’d know I was still around. Still cared about her.”

  “Oh, God. And then she’d dump Pat, run into your arms and live happily ever after. Are you on drugs, chum?”

  A quick, vicious flash of disgust, before Conor’s eyes slid away from mine again. “Nothing like that. I just thought it’d make Jenny happy. OK?”

  “This is how you make her happy?” I slapped his hand away and sent the evidence bag skidding across the table, out of reach. “Not with a card in the post, not with an e-mail that says, Hey, thinking of you: by breaking into her house and leaving her some rusty piece of shit that she’s probably completely forgotten. No wonder you’re single, sonny.”

  Conor said, with absolute certainty, “She hadn’t forgotten. That summer, in that photo: we were happy. All of us. I think it was the happiest I’ve ever been. You don’t forget that. This was to remind Jenny of being happy.”

  Richie said, from his corner, “Why, man?”

  “What d’you mean, why?”

  “Why did she need reminding? Why did she need tellin
g that someone cared about her? She had Pat. Didn’t she?”

  “He was a bit down. I told you.”

  “You told us he’d been a bit down for months, but you weren’t into getting in touch in case it made things worse. What changed?”

  Conor had tightened up. He was where we wanted him: dancing, second-guessing each step for booby traps. “Nothing. I just changed my mind.”

  I leaned across him, whipped the evidence bag off the table and started circling the room again, tossing the bag from hand to hand. “You didn’t happen to notice an awful lot of baby monitors set up around the place, did you? While you were having your tea and sandwiches.”

  “That’s what those were?” Conor’s face was a careful blank again: he had prepared for this one, too. “I thought they were walkie-talkies or something. Some game Pat and Jack were having, maybe.”

  “They weren’t. Can you tell me why you think Pat and Jenny might have had half a dozen baby monitors spread around the house?”

  Shrug. “Wouldn’t know.”

  “Right. What about the holes in the walls? Did you notice those?”

  “Yeah. Saw those. I knew all along that gaff was made of shite. They should’ve sued the scumbag that built it, only he’s probably declared bankruptcy and retired to the Costa del Sol to spend more time with his offshore accounts.”

  “You can’t blame this one on the builders, sonny. Pat smashed those holes in his own walls, because he was going off the deep end trying to catch this mink or whatever it was. He covered the place with video monitors because he was obsessed with getting a look at this thing that was tap-dancing over his head. You’re trying to tell us, in all your hours of spying, you somehow failed to notice that?”

  “I knew about the animal. I told you that.”

  “Too bloody right, you knew. But you skipped the part where Pat was losing his fucking mind.” I dropped the bag, scooped it up with a toe and kicked it up to my hand again. “Oops.”

  Richie pulled out a chair and sat down, across the table from Conor. “Man, we’ve recovered all the info off the computer. We know what state he was in. ‘Depressed’ doesn’t begin to cover it.”

  Conor was breathing faster, nostrils flaring. “Computer?”

  I said, “Let’s skip the part where you play dumb. It’s boring, it’s pointless and it puts me in a very fucking bad mood.” I gave the evidence bag a vicious bounce off the wall. “That OK with you?”

  He kept his mouth shut. Richie said, “So let’s go again, yeah? Something changed, to make you leave that yoke for Jenny.” I waved the bag at Conor, between throws. “It was Pat, wasn’t it? He was getting worse.”

  “If you already know, what are you asking me for?”

  Richie said easily, “Standard procedure, man. We’re just checking that your story matches up with what we’ve got from other sources. If it all fits, then happy days, we believe you. If you’re telling us one thing and the evidence is telling us another . . .” He shrugged. “Then we’ve got a problem, and we’ve got to keep digging till we sort it. You get me?”

  After a moment Conor said, “OK. Pat was getting worse. He wasn’t mental, not yelling at this animal to come out and fight, nothing like that. He was just having a tough time. OK?”

  “But something must’ve happened. Something made you get in touch with Jenny, all of a sudden.”

  Conor said simply, “She just looked so lonely. Pat hadn’t said a word to her in, like, two days—not that I saw. He was spending all his time sitting at the kitchen table with those monitors lined up in front of him, just staring. She’d tried to talk to him a couple of times, but he didn’t even look up. Wasn’t like they’d been catching up at night, either: the night before, he’d slept in the kitchen, on that beanbag.”

  Conor had been up in that hide practically 24/7, by the end. I stopped playing with the evidence bag and stood still, behind him.

  “Jenny . . . I saw her in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil. Leaning her hands on the countertop, like she was too wrecked to stand up. Staring at nothing. Jack was pulling at her leg, trying to show her something; she didn’t even notice. She looked forty; more. Lost. I almost jumped straight down out of that house, straight over the wall, to put my arms around her.”

  I said, keeping it expressionless, “So you decided what she really needed, at this difficult time in her life, was to find out she had a stalker.”

  “I was just trying to help. I thought about calling in, or ringing up, or e-mailing her, but Jenny . . .” He shook his head heavily. “When things aren’t great, she doesn’t want to talk about it. She wouldn’t’ve wanted a chat, not with Pat all . . . So I just thought: something to let her know I was there. I went home and got the badge. Maybe I called it wrong. Sue me. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  I asked, “At what time, exactly?”

  “What?”

  “When did you leave this in the Spains’ house?”

  Conor had taken a breath to answer, but something caught him: I saw the sudden stiffening of his shoulders. He said, “I don’t remember.”

  “Don’t even try that, chum. It’s not funny any more. When did you leave the badge?”

  After a moment Conor said, “Sunday night.”

  My eyes met Richie’s, across his head. I said, “This Sunday night just gone.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What time?”

  “Five in the morning, maybe.”

  “With all the Spains at home and asleep, a few yards away. I’ll say this for you, chum: you’ve certainly got a pair.”

  “I just went in the back door, put it on the counter and left. I waited till Pat had gone to bed—he didn’t stay downstairs that night. No big deal.”

  “What about the alarm?”

  “I know the code. Watched Pat typing it in.”

  Surprise, surprise. “Still,” I said. “It was risky. You must have been pretty desperate to get this done, am I right?”

  “I wanted her to have it.”

  “Of course you did. And twenty-four hours later, Jenny’s dying and her family’s dead. Don’t even try to tell me that’s a coincidence, Conor.”

  “I’m not trying to tell you anything.”

  “So what happened? She wasn’t happy with your little present? Wasn’t grateful enough? She shoved it in a drawer instead of wearing it?”

  “She put it in her pocket. Don’t know what she did with it after that, and I don’t care. I just wanted her to have it.”

  I got both hands on the back of Conor’s chair and said, low and hard and straight into his ear, “You’re so full of shit you make me want to flush your head down the jacks. You know damn well what Jenny thought of the badge. You knew it wasn’t going to scare her, because you put it into her hand yourself. Is that how you were working it, the two of you? She’d sneak downstairs late at night, leave Pat sleeping, and the two of you would fuck on the kids’ beanbag?”

  He whipped round to face me, eyes like shards of ice. He wasn’t leaning back away from me, not this time; our faces were almost touching. “You make me sick. If you think that, if you honest to God think that, there’s something wrong with you.”

  He wasn’t afraid. It came as a shock: you get used to people being afraid of you, guilty or innocent. Maybe, whether we admit it or not, all of us like it. Conor had no reason left to be afraid of me.

  I said, “Fine: so it wasn’t on the beanbag. In your hideout? What are we going to find, when we swab that sleeping bag?”

  “You swab away. Knock yourself out. She was never there.”

  “Then where, Conor? On the beach? In Pat’s bed? Where did you and Jenny bump your uglies?”

  He had his fists clenched on the folds of his jeans to stop himself from punching me. That couldn’t last, and I couldn’t
wait. “I’d never have touched her. She’d never have touched me. Never. Are you too thick to get that?”

  I laughed in his face. “Of course you would have. Oh, poor little lonely Jenny, stuck out there in that nasty estate: she just needed to know someone cared about her. Isn’t that what you said? You were gagging to be that guy. All that shite about her being sooo lonely, that was just a handy excuse so you could bang her without feeling guilty about Pat. When did it start?”

  “Never. You’d do it, then that’s your problem. You’ve never had a real friend, never been in love, then that’s your problem.”

  “Some real friend you were. That animal that was sending Pat over the edge: that was you, all along.”

  That icy, incredulous stare again. “What are you—”

  “How’d you do it? I’m not bothered about the noises—we’re going to trace the place where you bought the sound system, sooner or later—but I’d love to know just how you got the flesh off those squirrels. Knife? Boiling water? Your teeth?”

  “I haven’t got a clue what you’re on about.”

  “Fine. I’ll let our lab fill me in on the squirrels. Here’s the thing I really want to know: was it just you, this animal? Or was Jenny in on it too?”

  Conor shoved back his chair, hard enough that it went tumbling, and stalked off across the room. I went after him so fast I didn’t even feel myself move. My rush backed him against the wall. “You don’t fucking walk away from me. I’m talking to you, sonny boy. When I talk, you fucking listen.”

  His face was rigid, a mask carved from hard wood. He was staring past me, eyes narrowed and focused on nothing.

  “She was helping you, wasn’t she? Did the two of you have a laugh about it, up in your little hideout? That eejit Pat, that sucker, falling for every piece of crap you fed him—”