by Tana French
I manage to unclamp my jaw. ‘Nothing.’
‘No. What?’
It’s not like I can keep him away from newspapers forever, and hiding it would look like I’m upset that I’m a hound in the photo, about which I don’t give one fun-size fuck. ‘Here,’ I say, and pass him the phone.
His eyebrows go up. ‘Ah, Jaysus.’ A second later: ‘Whoa. Jaysus.’
‘No shit,’ I say.
The media don’t ID murder victims till they get the all-clear from us – for the sake of the families, who don’t need to find out from a supermarket newsstand, and because sometimes we have reasons for wanting to keep the ID quiet for a day or two. A lot of the time they drop enough info that locals can tell who it is – ‘the thirty-year-old father of two, who worked in finance’, or whatever – but then the locals knew already. And the media don’t use shots of the detectives on the case without permission, either, just in case we might not want to be instantly identifiable from ten metres away. I don’t let photos of me get out there, for a very good reason, but when a photo of Ds does go out, it’s one where they look professional and approachable and all that good shit; one that would make witnesses actually want to come talk to us, not one that’s going to terrify them into hiding because we look like hungover wolverines. If a journalist steps over the line, he pays: no more sources close to the investigation for you, and we make sure your editor knows it. That fuck Crowley has stepped over the line half a dozen ways.
He’s wiggled a toe over it plenty of times before, but that was all wimpy little stuff meant to make him feel like Bob Woodward without getting him in real hassle; never like this. Crowley doesn’t like cops, because he’s a rebel spirit who doesn’t bow down to The Man, but he’s a rebel spirit with rent to pay, so he keeps himself in check. Either he’s suddenly, late in life, grown himself a pair of nads, or he’s trying to commit career suicide; or someone is running him. Someone – the same someone who told Crowley where to find me this morning – told him to print those photos. Someone reassured him he won’t end up on any blacklist. Someone promised to make it worth his while.
Steve is still scrolling through the article. ‘There’s no inside info in there.’
Meaning nothing we can trace back to a source. ‘I know that. But he’s talking to someone on the inside. No question. If I find out who—’
Steve glances up. ‘We could swap Crowley for a scoop. Offer him first bite at every break on this case, if he tells us who his contact is.’
‘Won’t work. Whoever’s been onto Crowley, they’ve promised him plenty already. He’s not going to jeopardise that.’ I take my phone back and shove it in my pocket. ‘You know who had the best opportunity to talk to Crowley about this case.’
Steve says quietly, ‘Breslin.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Breslin likes looking good. That’d be one way to do it: turn this into a story where we’re making a balls of the case, till he steps in to save the day.’
I say, and I’m keeping my voice down too, ‘Or he just felt like fucking me around, getting a laugh from the lads. Or he’s got a deal in place with Crowley and he was due to throw him a bone, and lucky us just happened to be today’s bone.’
‘Maybe. Could be.’ Steve is watching the door. So am I. ‘Listen: we need to get on with Breslin. Either way.’
‘I get on with everyone. It’s who I am.’
‘Seriously.’
‘I’ll get on with him.’ I want to pace. I lean my arse on the edge of the table to keep myself still. ‘We’ll have to use him in the interviews. And we’ll have to keep him up to speed on your man in there’ – I jerk my chin at the one-way glass. ‘Apart from that, he doesn’t need to know anything about what we’re thinking.’
Steve says, suddenly and grimly, ‘Back when I was bursting my bollix trying to get on the squad? This isn’t what I was picturing.’
‘Me neither,’ I say. ‘Believe me.’ Trying to remember when today started makes my head swim. I get a vicious cramp of craving for cold air, music loud enough to blow my eardrums and a run that doesn’t stop till my whole body burns.
Breslin picks that moment to bang the observation-room door open. Both of us jump. He stays in the doorway, hands in his trouser pockets, looking us up and down. The curl to his mouth is a nicely judged balance between amused and cold.
‘Detective Conway. Detective Moran,’ he says. ‘At last.’
I should like Breslin just fine, given that he’s one of the few lads on the squad who haven’t given me more than the standard ration of shite, but I don’t. The first time you meet Breslin, you’re well impressed. He’s somewhere in his mid-forties, but he’s still in shape, all shoulders and straight back and none of the beer belly that gets hold of most Irish guys. He’s on the tall side, with pale eyes and slicked-back fair hair, and he’s good-looking – if you squint he looks sort of like some actor, I can’t remember the guy’s name but he plays maverick suits, which is a laugh given that Breslin is the least maverick guy around. But throw in the voice and somehow it all adds up to winner’s dazzle, the gold glow that shouts to everyone within range that this dude is something special: smarter, faster, savvier, smoother.
Breslin is so deep into this version of his bad self that he brings it sweeping into the room with him, and it carries you right along. Steve’s first few weeks in Murder, he watched Breslin the way a twelve-year-old with a crush watches the captain of the rugby team, drooling for a smile and a pat on the shoulder. I nearly bit my tongue in half not slagging the pathetic little bollix, but I managed because I knew it would wear off. I could practically have marked the day on the calendar. When I started on the squad, I spent a while praying Breslin and McCann would have a row so I could end up partnered with Breslin, on the fast track to glory. It wore off.
Sure enough, three weeks into Steve’s boy-crush, a guy in Vice ate his gun, and Breslin – in the middle of the squad room, surrounded by people who’d known the dead guy, worked with him, gone drinking with him – pushed back his chair, balanced a pen between his fingers and enlightened us with a deep and meaningful lecture about how the guy would still have been with us if he’d quit the smokes, got more exercise and put in the time to build up real friendships at work. The smarter guys on the squad kept working; the dumb ones nodded along, mouths hanging open at the genius unfolding in front of them. Poor Stevie looked like he’d just found out about Santy.
Once you realise Breslin is an idiot, you start counting the clichés on their way out of his mouth and noticing that the slick hair is organised over a balding spot, and somewhere in there you realise that he’s actually only around five foot ten and his solve rate is nothing special and you start wondering if he wears a girdle. None of that matters – the dazzle does its job on witnesses and suspects, and Breslin’s moved on long before it can wear off – but it left me pissed off with myself for being suckered, which left me pissed off with Breslin and everything about him.
‘Howya,’ I say. ‘Shame we didn’t manage to talk along the way. Reception’s a bastard.’
Breslin hasn’t moved from the doorway. ‘Sounds like you need a new phone, Detective Conway. But let’s move past that. We’re all here now.’
‘We are, yeah,’ I say. ‘You got a look around the scene?’
‘Yeah. Ten-a-penny lovers’ tiff. Let’s see how fast we can clear it and get back to the good stuff, shall we?’
‘That’s the plan,’ Steve says easily, before I can open my mouth. ‘Thanks for joining us. We appreciate it.’
‘No problem.’ Breslin gives Steve a gracious nod. ‘We’re in Incident Room C.’
Incident Room C has a whiteboard bigger than my kitchen, enough computers and phone lines for a major incident investigation, a lovely view over the gardens of Dublin Castle, and PowerPoint facilities just in case you get the urge to show slides. Steve and I have only ever been inside it as someone else’s floaters. ‘Nice one,’ I say.
‘Only the best.’ Breslin h
eads over to the glass for a look at Rory. ‘After all this, I’m just hoping the best friend – what’s her name? – gave you something good.’
‘Lucy Riordan,’ Steve says. ‘Background info, basically. Aislinn’s childhood wasn’t great: the da walked out, the ma had some kind of breakdown, Aislinn took on the carer role. It left her pretty sheltered – not a lot of life experience, not a lot of confidence. The ma died a few years back and Aislinn started coming out of herself, but she was still catching up, still pretty naïve. Just the type who’d miss a few red flags.’
‘And were there red flags?’
‘Not that Lucy knows of. Aislinn and Rory met at a book launch six or seven weeks back; they were both smitten, but Aislinn was playing it cool. Rory seemed like a nice guy, seemed to be treating Aislinn well. Lucy never got the sense he was a threat.’
‘No shit,’ Breslin says, examining Rory, who’s started jiggling one knee under the table. ‘Little wimp, isn’t he? He doesn’t look like he could punch out his granny. No reason why Lucy Whatsername should know that those can be the most dangerous ones, if they feel like they’ve been disrespected. It’s not her job to know that; it’s ours. What else?’
Steve shakes his head. ‘That’s about it.’
Breslin’s eyebrows go up. ‘That’s all the best mate had? What about other boyfriends? Disgruntled exes? Jealous women? Work enemies?’
We’re both shaking our heads now. ‘Nope,’ I say.
‘Come on, guys. Girls talk – am I right, Conway? I don’t even want to imagine what my missus tells her gal pals over the Chardonnay. The vic must’ve given your Lucy something juicier than that.’
‘According to Lucy, they weren’t that kind of close. They were mates because they had been since they were kids, and because Aislinn had no other friends, but they didn’t have a lot in common and they didn’t spill their guts to each other.’
Breslin thinks about that, leaning back against the glass and pinching his bottom lip. ‘You don’t think she’s keeping anything back?’
Me and Steve look at each other blankly. Steve shakes his head. ‘Nah.’
‘Lucy’s no idiot,’ I say. ‘She knows she needs to give us whatever she’s got. The only thing I wondered . . .’ I let it trail off. ‘Probably nothing.’
‘Hey, share with the class, Conway. Don’t worry about sounding stupid; we’re blue-skying here.’
What a tosspot. ‘Fair enough,’ I say. ‘I wondered if Lucy might’ve had a thing for Rory herself. She was all about what a great guy he was. I mean, maybe he is, but if my mate had just been killed, I’d be feeling at least a little bit dodgy about the new boyfriend.’
‘Huh,’ Breslin says. ‘Has this Lucy got an alibi for last night?’
‘Yeah. She works at the Torch Theatre; she was there at half-six in the evening, in company constantly from then till four this morning. We’ll verify it, but like I said, she’s no idiot; she wouldn’t have given us something we could break that easily.’
‘Well then. We’ll check for contact between her and our boy there, in case she’s mixed up in the motive somehow; but unless some contact shows up, I’m not seeing any way her hypothetical crush could be relevant to us. Are you?’ Me and Steve shake our heads, nice and humble. ‘Good brainstorming, though. Anything else come up?’
‘That’s the lot,’ I say.
‘Well,’ Breslin says, on the edge of a sigh but managing to restrain himself. ‘I guess your little side trip was worth a shot. Background info’s never really a waste. Now, though, I suggest we get our arses in gear and get stuck into the serious stuff. That sound good to you two?’
‘Sounds great,’ I say. Which it does: another sixty seconds of this and I’m gonna knee the fucker in the guts. ‘I’ll lead the interview, with you backing me up, Detective Breslin. Detective Moran, you observe from here, and be ready to switch in if I decide we need to mix it up a little.’
Steve nods. Breslin shoots his cuffs. ‘Come to Papa,’ he says to the one-way glass.
I say, ‘This is only a preliminary interview. I’m not looking for a confession; we can push for that once we’ve got forensics, post-mortem results, all the good stuff to throw at him.’ And once me and Steve have done enough private digging to know what we’re dealing with here. ‘Right now I’m just looking to put the outlines in place. What Rory’s like, what the relationship was like, his take on Aislinn, his story on last night. I want to know if he’ll admit to talking to anyone between eight last night and five this morning; if our guy didn’t call this in himself, he told someone who did, and we need that someone. I want his coat and his gloves – the techs got black wool fibres off the body, and they say our guy probably wore non-shedding gloves, which matches what Rory’s got in there; so if we can convince him to hand them over for testing and save us fucking around with a warrant, I’ll be a very happy camper. In a perfect world he’d let us go through his gaff and take any other coats and gloves we find, but I don’t want to get him uptight today, so if that doesn’t come easy, we’ll leave it and go the warrant route. OK?’
Breslin considers that. ‘Mm,’ he says. ‘OK; that’s one way to work it. The other way would be to try and knock this sucker on the head as fast as we can. I’m not saying I have any problem with being assigned to this case – that’s fine, happy to help out. I’m just saying I’ve put my other cases on hold to be here, and there’s a limit to how much time I want to put into a bog-standard domestic. I’m sure you guys feel the same. Am I right?’
I mainly feel he should shut his trap and do what the lead D tells him, but I catch the pop-eyed panic on Steve’s face. It makes me want to laugh, which takes me off the boil. ‘That’s a point,’ I say, pleasantly. ‘Let’s do this: for now, we’ll take it slow, like I was saying. As soon as I think we can afford to ramp it up, I promise I’ll give the word. Fair enough?’
Breslin doesn’t look pleased, but after a moment he shrugs. ‘Suit yourselves. In that case, can we get started while there’s still some of the shift left?’ And, when I straighten up off the table: ‘You might want to do something about that first, Detective. Unless it’s part of your cunning plan.’
‘That’ is a dab at the corner of his mouth. I rub at my face: a flake of egg yolk, which I’ve obviously been wearing since that breakfast roll. ‘Thanks,’ I say, partly to Breslin and partly to my partner Captain Eagle-Eye. He makes an apology face back.
‘First impressions and all that jazz. If we’re ready now, let’s rock and roll.’
Breslin holds the door open for me to leave the observation room first, so I can’t get a last word with Steve behind his back – not that we need to swap meaningful whispers, but still. The corridor should fold around me like home, scuffed sludge-green paint and worn carpet and all; should feel like my marked track through my own territory, leading me straight and safe to the enemy neatly arranged in my interview-room crosshairs. Instead it feels like an unflagged trail through No Man’s Land, pocked with ankle-breaking mud holes and booby-trapped all the way.
Chapter 4
Everyone has an interview shtick. One guy on the squad does a beautiful line in Father Confessor, piling on the guilt and waving absolution like a doggy treat; another one does Narky Headmaster, staring over his glasses and snapping out questions. I do Warrior Woman, ready to rush out with her guns blazing and avenge all your wrongs, if you’ll just tell her what they are, and her flipside Stroppy Man-Hating Bitch when we want to piss off a rapist or a Neanderthal; I also do Cool Girl, who’s one of the lads and stands her round and has a laugh, who guys can talk to when they wouldn’t feel comfortable talking to another fella. Steve does Nice Boy Next Door and variations. With women, Breslin does Gallant Gentleman, taking their coats and bending his head to listen to every word; with guys he does Chief Jock, your best pal but you better stay on his good side or he’ll flush your head down the jacks. We size up the target and wheel out the one that we think has the best chance.
Rory doesn’t need War
rior Woman, at least as far as we know, and Stroppy Man-Hating Bitch would probably scare him under the table, but Cool Girl should relax him a notch or two. It sounds like he’d get on great with Nice Boy Next Door, but that’s out for now. I just hope Chief Jock doesn’t intimidate him enough, or piss me off enough, to send this whole thing off the rails.
Rory starts off our relationship by costing me a tenner: he doesn’t cry. He jumps a mile when Breslin throws the door open, but when I give him my Cool Girl nod and grin, he comes up with some kind of smile back. ‘Howya,’ I say, throwing myself into a chair opposite him and pulling out my notebook. ‘I’m Detective Conway, and that’s Detective Breslin. Thanks for coming in.’
‘No problem.’ Rory tries to work out whether we’re going to shake hands. We’re not. ‘I’m Rory Fallon. Is—’
‘Morning,’ Breslin says, heading over to the video recorder. ‘You OK to talk? Not too hungover? I know how it goes: young guy like you, Sunday morning . . .’
‘I’m fine.’ Rory’s voice cracks on the word. He clears his throat.
Breslin grins, hitting buttons. ‘Disgraceful. You’ll have to do better next weekend.’
I nod at his half-drunk cup of tea. ‘Can I get you a reheat on that? Or a coffee, maybe?’
‘No, thanks. I’m fine.’ Rory barely has the edge of his arse on the seat; he looks ready to leg it at the first loud noise, if there was anywhere to leg it to. ‘What’s this about?’
‘Ah-ah,’ Breslin says, turning from the video to point a finger at him. ‘Hang on there, man. We can’t get down to business yet. These days we have to get any conversation on tape and video. For everyone’s protection, you know what I mean?’
After a second Rory nods uncertainly. ‘Yeah. I guess.’
‘Course you do,’ Breslin says cheerfully. ‘Just give me a minute and we can chat away to our hearts’ content.’ He goes back to messing with the recorder, whistling softly between his teeth.
Rory’s shoulders are up around his ears. He says, ‘Do I need a lawyer? Or something?’