by Tana French
‘Huh? . . . Not a lot.’
‘No. Because this isn’t Saturday evening in front of the telly with a nice cup of tea and a digestive biscuit, and so I don’t care about motive. I don’t. And neither should you. You ought to know that by now.’
Steve scratches at his nose. ‘You’re probably right, man. I’d say you are. It’s just I’m not seeing it. I like being able to see things in my head, know what I mean? Picture them, like.’ He frames his hands in front of his eyes, to make sure Breslin gets the concept of picturing something.
Breslin takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly, so we can see how much he’s putting into keeping his temper with us. ‘OK,’ he says. ‘OK. Let’s go ahead and spend some time picturing it.’
‘Thanks,’ Steve says, giving him a humble smile. ‘I appreciate that.’
‘Rory shows up with his shitty Tesco bouquet. Aislinn, who clearly wasn’t the shitty Tesco type, isn’t happy. She gets snotty. Rory’s not having that – he’s been blowing his budget and rearranging his schedule and racing around Stoneybatter in the rain to make her happy, but that’s not good enough for Princess Special? He pulls out a Jane Austen quote about high-maintenance bitches, or prick-teases, or whatever literary types call girls like that. Aislinn slaps him down hard: she tells him exactly why he’s not good enough for her, including why she hasn’t let him into her knickers and why after this she never will. She goes one put-down too far, and bam.’ Breslin mimes a little punch, not bothering to put much into it. ‘And here we all are. Can you picture that OK? Yeah?’
‘That’d work, all right.’ Steve nods, picturing away. ‘Only you’d think the bouquet would get a bit messed up, like, in all the action. He’d drop it, or something. We didn’t find any petals on the floor.’
‘So no petals happened to come off. Or Rory’s got the brains to pick them up. We’re not talking about a massive struggle; we’re talking a bit of that’ – Breslin makes a yappy-mouth sign – ‘one punch and a few seconds of oh-shit. A couple of petals would have been great, but in this job you can’t get too demanding. You need to work with what you’ve got, instead of fussing about what you haven’t.’ Breslin’s giving Steve the beginnings of a smile, all ready to kiss and make up. ‘Am I right or am I right?’
Steve says cheerfully, ‘You’re dead right, man. I’d just like to shake a few more trees and see if anything falls out, is all.’ When Breslin rears away, rolling his jaw: ‘I’m new, you know? I’ve got loads to learn. Might as well get in the practice while I can.’
‘You’re not that fucking new. You’ve both been on the job long enough that you should be able to handle your own cases without a babysitter. This kind of shit right here is why the gaffer decided you need one.’
‘And we appreciate you taking on the job, man. Seriously. But I’ve gotta get there in my own time, know what I mean? Otherwise I’ll never learn. Sure, what harm?’
‘Moran. Come on. The harm is that you two are about to embarrass yourselves – and let’s be honest here, it’s not like you can afford to do that. If you actually let this guy walk out of here while you go shaking trees or whatever it was, you look weak as fuck. You look unsure. And not just to the rest of us. The longer you leave it, the more the defence is going to make of it: Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, even the cops weren’t positive my client was guilty, how can you not share their reasonable doubt? Doesn’t that bother you at all?’
In the interview room, Rory lifts his head and wipes his face with the heels of his hands. He’s red and blotchy; the tears are there, for whatever that’s worth.
Steve raises his cup to Breslin. ‘Don’t worry, man. We’ll make sure the gaffer knows you did your best to light a fire under us.’
‘Whoa there. Hang on a second. You think this is about me?’ Breslin switches to a nice mix of stunned and wounded. ‘You seriously think that’s what I’m worried about? My rep?’
‘Ah, God, no,’ Steve says, giving him a big sweet smile. ‘Your rep’s amazing – stellar, is that the word I’m looking for? It’d take more than the likes of us to mess it up. I’m just saying, don’t worry: we’ll make sure credit goes where credit’s due.’
‘This isn’t about me. I don’t work like that. This isn’t even about you – if it was just your reps on the line, then sure, I’d try to stop you making a hames of this for your own sakes, but in the end I’d have to let you make your own choices. This is about the squad. If you take a month to get up the balls to charge Mr Obvious in there, the media won’t be yelling about how Conway and Moran need to get their act together; they’ll be yelling about how the Murder squad needs to start taking its job seriously and actually protecting the public from scumbags. I’m hoping you two have at least enough loyalty to give a damn about that.’
Breslin’s worked himself up into enough of a righteous lather that I can’t tell whether he actually thinks he means that shite. I say, ‘How’s the squad gonna look if we charge the wrong guy?’
‘Having to drop the charges,’ Steve says, doing a cringe-face. ‘Public apology, more than likely. Media yelling about how the Murder squad’s a shower of incompetent wankers who don’t care who they lock up as long as they get the solve. Witnesses afraid to come to us, in case they end up in cuffs because we’re in such a hurry to charge anyone we can get our hands on . . .’ He shakes his head. ‘Not good, man. For the squad, like.’
Breslin sighs again. ‘Conway. Moran,’ he says, changing tack to go gentle. ‘The guy is guilty as sin. Take it from someone who was putting scumbags away when you two were kids filling out your application forms for Templemore: he’s our man. The question here isn’t whether he did it. The question is whether you two are able to do what needs doing.’
I say, ‘We’ll all just have to keep our fingers crossed. Won’t we?’
‘OK. Listen.’ Breslin leans back against the wall, gives us both the smile that melts witnesses. ‘I know you guys haven’t been getting an easy ride around here. Probably you thought I’d missed that, or didn’t care, but you’d be surprised how many of us are pulling for you. I’ve always said you’ll make a great pair of Murder Ds, once you find your feet.’
‘Thanks, man,’ Steve says. Steve gets basically no hassle, except what rubs off from me; Breslin just wants the pair of us paranoid. ‘That means a lot.’
‘Not a problem. You’ve just got to get past the routine bullshit. Newbies get hazed; it’s part of the job. It’s not personal.’
The slimy bastard is too thick to realise he used the same words to Rory Fallon, five minutes back, or else he thinks we are. And he thinks we’re thick enough to believe our shitpile is just routine, or desperate enough to pretend we do.
‘The lads just need to see whether you can take the heat. And this?’ Breslin points at the one-way glass. ‘This is your chance to show them. I know all the silly shite has to have knocked your confidence, but if schoolkid crap can take you to the point where you don’t trust your own judgement enough to charge a slam-dunk like this one, maybe you’d be better off back in blue. Yeah, that sounds harsh’ – lifting a hand like one of us tried to break in, which we didn’t – ‘but it’s what you need to hear.’
I know better than to look at Steve. In the corner of my eye he’s still peacefully swinging his legs and drinking his water, but I can feel him knowing better than to look at me.
Breslin wants us to charge Rory Fallon. He wants it badly. It could be because he’s sick of babysitting the kindergarten case, wants to wind it up and go back to his pal McCann and their PhD-level fancy conspiracies and gang-boss shootings. Could be because he wants to shake himself in front of O’Kelly – It took those two a month to crack their last domestic, with me on board it takes them a day, now give my ego a hand job and put me up for promotion. Could be just that he’s so in the habit of arm-twisting, he can’t get through his day without that buzz. But.
I’ve been taking it for granted that whoever threw me to Crowley did it on the spur of the moment,
for kicks, like whoever dropped my phone in my coffee back when I still left it on my desk. It didn’t occur to me, till this moment, that a lot more thought could have gone into it.
Creepy Crowley is whipping this case up into a big one, and someone is egging him on. If I fuck up spectacularly, like for example if I charge Fallon when there’s some great big chunk of exonerating evidence that somehow managed to vanish on its way to my desk, and if the papers somehow happen to get hold of the story, the whole country will explode with it. And there’ll be the excuse the squad’s gagging for: I’ll be gone.
In an interview, this is where I’d be on my feet, stopping the tape – Interview paused at 2.52 p.m., Detectives Conway and Moran leaving the interview room – and getting me and Steve the hell out of there. We need a chat, right now. I watch Breslin blandly and wait to see what comes next.
‘Here’s what we’ll do,’ Breslin says. ‘Moran, you go have a look through the CCTV, see if you can pick up Rory Fallon leaving the vic’s place last night and track him through town – maybe we can figure out where he ditched the gloves. Meanwhile, Conway and I will have another go at Rory, try for a confession – shouldn’t be a problem to us, am I right?’ He gives me a big pally grin and, I swear to God, an actual clap on the shoulder. I nearly punch the presumptuous fucker. ‘Even if we don’t get it, no big deal: we’ve got plenty on him already. We arrest him, charge him, I get to tell the lads that when the chips are down you two can do the business, and I can pretty much guarantee you won’t be getting any more hassle in the squad room. Everyone’s a happy camper.’
He’s a hair away from spelling it out for us: You go along with me on this, and I’ll sort out the lads for you. This isn’t just because he wants to get back to McCann, or because he wants to look pretty for the gaffer. He’s itching to get Fallon charged.
And he’s positive we’re gonna jump on the deal. He’s already tightening his tie and heading for the door.
I say, ‘Here’s what we’ll do. Deasy and Stanton are making a list of Rory Fallon’s KAs. If Rory’s our boy, then the guy who called it in will be on that list. I’d like you to have chats with them all, see if you can identify the caller. Start with best mates and brothers if he’s got them. If there’s no joy there, you can work your way down.’
Breslin has turned round. He’s staring at me, but he’s managing to stay nice and neutral, ready to keep the matey stuff coming if we let him. When he’s sure I’m done, he says, ‘Why?’
I say, ‘Because me and Detective Moran will take Fallon from here.’
Breslin looks back and forth between us – he’s aiming for big dog who’s been patient with the bold puppies long enough, but him having to look up at us takes some of the oomph out of it. He says, ‘I’m going to need an explanation here.’
I’m opening my mouth on Because this is our fucking case and the next time you try to give me an order you’re getting a knee in the balls, but Steve gets in there first. He says, ‘You’re dead right, man: we need to earn the lads’ respect. And that’s not going to happen if you get our confession for us. We appreciate the offer, but we’re going to have to handle this one ourselves.’
Which I have to admit is better than my version. The second of taken-aback on Breslin’s face gives me my control back. I tell Steve, ‘Detective Breslin knows that, you thicko. Does he look like a rookie to you? He was testing us. He was trying to see if we’d wimp out and offload the tough stuff on someone else when we got the chance, or if we’ve got the nads to actually do our job.’
Steve’s mouth opens. Then he bursts out laughing. ‘Jesus! And me standing here like an eejit, giving you the big speech about earning the lads’ respect. Fair play to you, man; you had me going, all right.’
Breslin’s got a bit of a smile on his mouth, but those pale eyes still moving back and forth between us are cold and expressionless. He doesn’t know whether he believes us or not.
I let myself crack a half-grin. ‘He had me, too, at first. There’s a reason he’s got that stellar rep. Thanks, Breslin: we get the message, loud and clear. We’ll do our job. And once we’ve done it, we’ll see you in the incident room. Case meeting at four.’
I give him a pleasant nod and turn away, to the one-way glass. Overlaid on Rory, Breslin’s reflection stays still, staring at me. My back prickles.
Then he shrugs. ‘I’d love to think you know what you’re doing,’ he says. ‘See you at four.’
The reflection turns and vanishes. The observation-room door clicks shut.
Me and Steve wait, listening, watching Rory fumble in his pocket and find a crumpled tissue and try to mop up the mess that’s his face. Then I go to the door and open it fast. The corridor is empty.
Steve says, ‘I don’t like this.’ His accent’s gone back to normal.
I say, ‘Me neither.’
‘What’s he playing at?’
‘I don’t know.’ I leave the door open. I’m trying to pace, but the observation room is too small; every two steps I’m slamming off a wall. The stink has thickened till it’s like another person in there, shoving us aside. ‘Did you hear him? “I can guarantee you won’t get any more hassle in the squad room . . .” He was trying to bribe us.’
‘Why would he want Fallon charged? This badly?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t think he was one of the ones trying to fuck me up.’ Steve has to see what goes down, what with not being in a coma, but I don’t do heart-to-hearts; this is the first time I’ve talked about this shit straight out, and it doesn’t feel good. ‘But if we charge Fallon too soon, and then it all goes tits-up, and Crowley splatters it all over the country . . .’ Even the thought – the burst of applause in the squad room, the smirk on Roche, the naked relief in O’Kelly’s voice as he explains that this isn’t working out – sends red zigzags across my brain. I say, ‘That’d be one way to put me out of commission.’
Steve has split his plastic water cup and is folding it into shapes. He says, ‘It could be just that: him trying to fuck us up.’ The ‘us’ is cute – no one’s on any campaign to fuck Steve up – but it gives me a quick ridiculous beat of warmth anyway. ‘I’ve never got that vibe off him either, but. I always got the sense he doesn’t give a monkey’s about us, either way.’
‘Me too. But if he was serious about getting rid of us, that’s exactly the sense we would get. Breslin’s no genius, but he’s been at this a long time. He’s well able to hide what he’s at.’
‘Or,’ Steve says. ‘If the gangster thing pans out . . .’
He leaves it there. The sharp crack of folding plastic jabs me in the ear.
Bent cops exist. Fewer in real life than on the telly, but they’re out there. Everything from the guy squaring a speeding fine in exchange for match tickets, to the guy who’s owned by a gang boss, body and soul.
If a gangster boyfriend killed Aislinn, the first thing he or his pals would do is ring their best bitch-boy and tell him to sort it out. The perfect way to sort it out, no loose ends, no worries, would be charging Rory Fallon and closing the case.
‘Breslin,’ I say. I’ve stopped pacing; stopped breathing, almost. ‘Breslin. You think? Seriously?’
Steve lifts one shoulder.
‘Nah. I don’t see it. He’s all about being the big hero. He wouldn’t be able to handle seeing himself as the bad guys’ pet cop. It’d blow his brain cells.’
Steve says, ‘Breslin would find a way to see himself as the hero, no matter what he did. That’s where he starts: with the idea that he’s the good guy, so whatever he’s doing must be right. Then he works backwards from there to figure out how.’
Which is true, but I never thought about it that way before – I’ve never spent this much time thinking anything about Breslin before. I don’t like the feel it gives me, clamped onto the back of my neck. What Steve’s talking about, it’s not just Breslin who thinks that way; we all do. When you badger a statement out of some traumatised witness, or manipulate a mother into giving evide
nce that’ll put her own kid in jail, you get to enjoy the buzz of winning without tying yourself in knots over the deeper moral subtleties, because you’re the good guy in this story. Steve is shredding that into something different, something tangled and thorny; dangerous.
He says, ‘And he’s the type they go for. Wife, kids, mortgage . . .’
The gang boys don’t bother with the likes of me and Steve, working-class singles on the way up; unless there’s a gambling problem or a coke habit, we don’t come with enough leverage. But Breslin has a high-maintenance blonde wife and three bucktoothed blond boys, like something out of an ad, and a house in a snazzy part of Templeogue. That’s a lot of needs tugging at his sleeves, and a lot to lose if he were to change his mind down the line. Once he was in, even one toe, he wouldn’t be getting out.
Breslin and McCann pull a lot of the big gang murders; they spend a lot of their time talking to seriously hard-core guys. It would be a miracle if, somewhere along the way, someone hadn’t made Breslin an offer.
That same flex to the air that I felt in the squad room, straight lines buckling at the edges of my eyes. My heart is going hard.
I say, ‘Yeah. He is.’
‘Exactly the type. And a Murder D would be worth top dollar to a gang boss.’
Breslin wears good suits, but we all do. He drives a 2014 BMW and he bangs on about how his kids go to private school because he’s not having them surrounded by skangers and immigrants who can barely speak English – and that’s just the skangers, ha ha ha, no offence, Conway, Moran – but I always figured Daddy and Mummy were bankrolling him. He takes his family to the Maldives for holidays, but if I’d cared enough to think about it, I would’ve assumed he’d squared a few penalty points for his bank manager in exchange for a sky-high credit-card limit and no pressure to pay it off.
Me and Steve have been wanting an interesting case. This could be a lot more interesting than we bargained for.
Steve says, ‘And if he’s the one who fed Crowley his info, that would explain why.’