The Trespasser

by Tana French

  Enough mud in the water can take you a long way towards reasonable doubt. The air twitches, in the corners.

  And I can’t keep the grin off my face.

  If Steve’s right, then there’s some high-level danger headed our way, from a bunch of directions at once. Gangs don’t kill cops, it would draw too much hassle, but they don’t have a problem firebombing your car to tell you to back off. And that’s small-time, compared to what the lads will do if we dob Breslin in to Internal Affairs.

  I can’t wait for them all to bring it on. Danger doesn’t bother me; I’ll eat danger with a spoon. Breslin the puffed-up little tosspot, trying to twist me like a balloon animal, he made me feel like I was in a straitjacket and writhing to punch him. But Breslin the bent cop: he’s a dare, a bad poison dare that no one with sense should take, and I’ve always had a thing for dares.

  Steve’s eyeing me like I’ve lost it. ‘What? What’s funny?’

  ‘Nothing. I like a challenge.’

  ‘So you think I’m right. You think he’s . . .’ Steve doesn’t finish.

  That sobers me up a notch. ‘I don’t know yet. We’re way into the hypothetical here. I don’t like hypotheticals.’ I bite down on one thumb to get rid of the grin. ‘All we know for definite is, Breslin wants this guy charged and the case closed, ASAP. We need to stall till we’ve got a handle on why. What you came up with back there, about doing our own dirty work: that was good. That should buy us some time.’

  The twist to Steve’s mouth doesn’t look convinced. ‘You think he went for it?’

  ‘Not sure. I think so. I hope so.’ The memory of Breslin’s cold stare makes me bite down harder. ‘Either way, that’s the line we stick to: we’re the thicko rookies who don’t get how things work around here, and we want to do our case our way. Are you OK with that?’

  Part of me expects Steve to squirm away. There’s a decent chance that the bullshit here is all about me; as long as he plays it right, he can sidestep the blast and slot right into the squad once I’m a smoking crater, but he’ll blow his chance if he convinces Breslin he’s an idiot. But he grins. ‘I can manage thicko rookie.’

  ‘Right up your alley,’ I say. The relief hits me harder than I want to think about. ‘No acting required.’

  ‘Hey, you use what you’ve got.’ Steve tilts a thumb at the one-way glass. ‘What do we do with him?’

  Rory has finished his cry. He’s getting antsy, popping his head up to peer worriedly around like a specky meerkat, wondering where we’ve disappeared to. He should be the biggest thing in our day. I practically forgot he existed.

  I say, ‘We have one more go. Like we told Breslin we would.’

  ‘That means leaving Breslin to talk to his KAs. You think that’s safe?’

  If Breslin’s looking to fuck up either Rory or me, there are a dozen ways that Rory’s pals could be a pure gift to him. I say, ‘Probably not, but what the hell, let’s live dangerously. It was the only way I could think of to get rid of him. And I don’t want him in with Fallon any longer. Fallon can’t take being pushed around; if Breslin shoves him any more, he’s gonna walk. And whether he’s our guy or not, I don’t want him thinking we’re big scary bullies out to get him. Not yet, anyway.’

  ‘“Whether or not,” ’ Steve says. ‘You’re not sure any more?’

  I lift one shoulder. ‘I was when I came out of there. Not a hundred per cent, but almost. There’s something dodgy about him getting to Stoneybatter early – he didn’t like talking about it, did you spot that?’

  ‘Yeah. But the reaction when you told him Aislinn was dead: that looked real to me.’

  ‘To me, too. But even if it was, that doesn’t say he’s innocent.’ Rory’s got his sodden tissue between finger and thumb and he’s looking around for somewhere to put it. He gives up and tucks it in his pocket. I say, ‘He might not have known he’d killed her. He throws the punch, she goes down, but when he checks her pulse or her breathing she’s still alive; so he turns off the cooker to make sure the place won’t burn down around her, and he legs it. He thinks she’s just got a concussion or whatever; he spends the night praying it’s knocked the memory right out of her head. And when he finds out she’s dead, and all of a sudden he’s staring down the barrel of a murder charge, he nearly shits himself.’

  ‘That’d play,’ Steve says.

  ‘When I came out of there, I would’ve put money on it. But now . . .’ Rory half-stands up, then sits down again, like standing might not be allowed. I say, ‘You?’

  Steve runs a thumbnail along the ribbing of the plastic cup and watches Rory try to stay sitting. ‘The thing is, even if Rory is our guy, that doesn’t mean there’s no secret gangster boyfriend and Breslin’s clean.’ His voice goes down on that. We both glance automatically at the door: nothing. ‘Assume the boyfriend exists, right? Even if he did nothing to Aislinn, he isn’t going to want us sniffing around his business, checking his movements, telling his missus about his bit on the side . . . The second he finds out Aislinn’s dead – if he calls round to her for a quickie late last night, say – he’s going to put in a call to his guy on the inside and tell him to get it sorted, fast.’

  ‘And the slower we get it sorted,’ I say, ‘the longer we’ve got to find out if there’s something else going on.’ Just saying the words lifts my heart rate.

  ‘So we stall,’ Steve says.

  ‘Not stall. Breslin’s right, we don’t need a rep for getting nothing done. We’ll just take it nice and easy. Whatever’s going on here, I don’t want Rory back in till we know every single thing we can get about this case. If we go at him again, I want us going in with enough ammo to blow him away.’

  Steve nods. ‘And right now?’

  I check my watch: just under an hour till the case meeting. ‘Right now we take him through his story again, see if he’s got anything he wants to tell us, get his coat and gloves, try and convince him to let us go through his flat. Then we send him home and do this case meeting. After that—’

  ‘After that, we get some fucking sleep. I’m wrecked.’

  Saying it pulls a huge yawn out of him. I bite one back, but too late: it’s hit me that I’m shattered too. My vision is jumping; I can’t tell how far away the walls are. ‘But Breslin’s not,’ I say. ‘If we go home, we’re leaving him in charge to do whatever he wants.’

  ‘And if we don’t, we’re tipping him off.’

  Steve’s right. For a dead kid or a dead cop, you work twenty-four hours straight if you need to, then grab a shower and a quick kip and head in for another twenty-four. If you do that for every case, you’ll burn out inside three months. Your basic murder gets an eight-hour shift, maybe twelve or fourteen if something interesting happens. If me and Steve go twenty-four hours for this, we might as well run to Breslin and tell him we think there’s something dodgy going on.

  I say, ‘So what do we do about him?’

  ‘Load him up with busywork at the case meeting. Keep him out of trouble.’

  ‘Yeah, right. He’d love that. Big man like him—’

  Steve’s grinning. ‘This isn’t about his ego, remember? He told us so. It’s all about the squad. He won’t mind tracking down every passenger on the 39A, not when it’s for the squad.’

  I’m grinning too. ‘Search every bin between Stoneybatter and Ranelagh: Breslin, for the sake of the squad. Go to the post-mortem: Breslin, for the sake of the squad. Type up statements—’

  ‘Pizza run: Breslin, for the sake of the squad—’

  We’re both on the edge of a full-on fit of the giggles. If I relax that much, I’m gonna fall asleep right here on my feet.

  ‘We’ll keep him on checking out Fallon,’ I say. ‘If he gets through the KAs, he can talk to Fallon’s old girlfriends, see if he’s got any history of giving out the slaps—’

  ‘He won’t have.’ Steve runs his hand under the water-cooler tap and over his face, trying to wake himself up.

  ‘Probably not. But if Breslin wants Fallon
charged this bad, he won’t have a problem digging for dirt on him, right? That should keep him too busy to make trouble for us, at least for the evening. And we’ll send a floater with him. Might make him think twice before he disappears any statement he doesn’t like.’

  There must be something in my voice. Steve glances up sharply. ‘Has more stuff been going missing on you? Since that witness on the Petrescu case, like?’

  ‘Nah,’ I say – I’m not about to sob on his shoulder about the mean boys who stole my lovely statement sheet. ‘That doesn’t mean it won’t. We need to be careful here.’

  Steve is still watching me, palming drops of water off his jaw, and I feel like it’s half a blink too long before he answers. But he says, easily enough, ‘A floater won’t stop Breslin from feeding Crowley info, if he’s the one doing it.’

  ‘I know that. What’s your plan? You gonna follow him into the jacks, make sure he doesn’t text Crowley with one hand while he’s got his dick in the other?’

  ‘Nah, the floater’s a good idea. We can tell Breslin he needs mentoring.’

  That gets a snort out of me. ‘He’ll eat that up. It might not work – Breslin’ll probably wrap the guy round his finger – but it’s better than nothing.’

  Steve says, ‘We need to keep Breslin away from Aislinn’s electronics.’

  Her phone, her e-mails, her social media accounts; the places where, if there is a gangster boyfriend, there might be something to point us his way. ‘At the case meeting we’ll make sure everyone knows we’ve got those,’ I say. ‘Breslin’s probably already had a look through her phone, when he went to the scene, but there’s nothing good on there as far as I could tell.’

  ‘Tell you what else we need to do,’ Steve says. ‘We need to have chats with Breslin, whenever we get the chance. Or let him chat to us, more like.’

  ‘Ah, Jaysus. Shoot me now.’

  ‘We do. Get him talking. He’s not an idiot, but . . .’

  ‘But he loves the sound of his own voice,’ I say. ‘Yeah. Let him knock himself out enlightening us; you never know what might slip out. Chats with McCann, too, if the chance comes up.’ McCann and Breslin have been partnering for ten years. They’re tight. If Breslin wants Rory Fallon done, for whatever reason, or if he just wants this case to blow up in my face, McCann will know. ‘Not that he’s much of a talker, but you never know.’

  ‘It’s the best we can do. We definitely can’t talk to Organised Crime now, not upfront.’ Steve is biting a cuticle, staring at Rory without seeing him. ‘You said you’ve got a mate in there. Can you get on to him? See if he’s heard anything?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s not that simple.’ I wet my palm at the water cooler and run it around my neck. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘And we don’t type anything up.’

  ‘God, no. Or leave anything on our desks.’ I think about my statements, locked in my desk drawer; no one’s gonna bother screwing with those again, they like mixing it up to keep me on my toes, but all of a sudden the diddy little lock feels like a joke. ‘Or in the desk drawers. Notes stay on us.’

  Steve bites down on the corner of his lip. He says, ‘Jesus.’

  This is all a load of nothing, shadows that could be thrown by something huge or by something barely worth tracking down, but the adrenaline is banging through me and I can’t help loving it. I almost flick water at Steve. ‘The face on you. Cheer up, man. This could be the best bit of action we’ve ever seen.’

  ‘This isn’t my kind of action. Hiding stuff from our own squad—’

  ‘Chillax on the jacks,’ I say. ‘It’s probably all a load of shite. Like I said: just being careful.’

  Movement in the corridor. I’m at the door in two long steps, but it’s just Winters walking an unimpressed little prick in a tracksuit to one of the other interview rooms. All the same: ‘We better move,’ I say. ‘Before Breslin comes back to check up on us.’

  Steve nods and tosses his mangled cup into the bin. I take one more look at Rory, who by this point is jittering like his chair is electrified. Then we head in to take it nice and easy for a while.

  The interview room stinks of sweat and crying. ‘Detectives Conway and Moran entering the interview room,’ I tell the video recorder.

  ‘Hi,’ Steve says, taking a seat and giving Rory a sympathetic grin. ‘Detective Breslin had to head off. I’ll be joining you instead. Detective Moran.’

  Rory barely nods. I say, pulling up my chair, ‘How’re you doing?’

  ‘I’m all right.’ His nose is stuffed up. ‘Sorry for . . .’

  ‘Not a problem,’ I say. ‘Are you OK to talk now?’

  Rory gives me a red-eyed, accusing stare. He says, ‘You knew all along. That I’ve been seeing Aislinn. That I was going to her house last night. You knew.’

  Bless his middle-class little heart. He’s genuinely miffed that officers of the force would deceive him. I say, ‘Yeah. We did. I know that was a shitty thing to do to you, but we’re investigating a murder here, and sometimes the only way to get the info we need is by doing things that aren’t ideal. If we’d told you what was up, you might have gone cagey on us, and we couldn’t risk that. You might know something vital, even if you don’t realise it.’

  ‘I’ve told you everything I know.’

  He’s actually in a sulk with me. I sit back in my chair and glance at Steve, handing over.

  ‘You think you have,’ Steve says, ‘but that was before you knew what’s happened. What I’ve found is, a shock like that, it can shake people’s memories loose. Could you do me a favour and have another think back over last night? Just in case?’

  Rory looks him over suspiciously, but Nice Boy Next Door gives him an earnest hopeful gaze back and Rory decides my bad behaviour isn’t Steve’s fault. He’s all primed to like Steve anyway, just for not being Breslin. ‘I suppose. I’m pretty sure there wasn’t—’

  ‘Ah, brilliant,’ Steve says. ‘Even the smallest thing could help us out. Did you notice anyone you can describe, while you were in Stoneybatter? Hear anything odd? Anything at all stand out to you?’

  ‘Not really. I’m not very observant to begin with, and last night I was concentrating on . . . on Aislinn. I wasn’t really paying attention to anything else.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. I’ve been there. When you’re just starting a relationship, specially one that’s taking off like yours was, nothing else even exists.’

  Steve is smiling, and it pulls a twitch that’s almost a smile out of Rory. ‘That’s it exactly. You know what the weather was like, yesterday: it was a rotten evening, I was freezing, a tree dumped rain down the back of my collar . . . But I felt like I was in a wonderful story. The smell of turf-smoke, and the rain falling through the light of the streetlamps . . .’

  ‘See? That’s what I’m talking about: you remember more than you thought. And you were in Stoneybatter for a full hour, right? Half-seven to half-eight. You must’ve seen someone.’

  And there it is again: the sudden involuntary twist to Rory’s neck, the jab at his glasses. Steve brings up that extra time, and all of a sudden Rory doesn’t like this game. That blood-smell hits the back of my nose again. The lift of Steve’s head tells me he smells it too.

  Rory’s memory comes back: anything to distract us. ‘I did, actually. I passed three women on Prussia Street, when I was on my way to Tesco. They were dressed like they were going out, and two of them had hair like Aislinn’s, long and blond and straight – that’s why I noticed them. They were sharing an umbrella and laughing. And when I got off the bus there were a bunch of boys in hoodies kicking a football on Astrid Road, around the corner from Aislinn’s house – they didn’t stop when I got close, so I had to step onto the street and dodge around them. But I don’t see how any of them could be . . .’

  Steve nods away like this is crucial info. ‘You never know. They might’ve seen something. It’s all good stuff.’ I scribble in my notebook, crucial-info-style. There’s a decent chance all these people are
imaginary. ‘Anyone else? Anything else?’

  Rory shakes his head. Steve waits, but nothing else pops out. ‘OK,’ he says. ‘What about your conversations with Aislinn? Take a second and think back over those. Did she ever mention anyone who bothered her? Someone at work who was a bit creepy, maybe? An ex who wouldn’t take no for an answer?’

  Rory is shaking his head.

  ‘OK. Was there anything that seemed to make her uncomfortable? She ever get a bit cagey when any particular subject came up?’

  ‘Actually . . .’ Rory has relaxed again, now that we’ve moved away from the hot spot. ‘Yes. When it came to her parents, Aislinn was . . . Something was odd. She told me they were both dead – she said her dad died in a car accident when she was little, and her mum had MS for a long time and finally died of it a few years back . . . ?’

  He glances back and forth between us, hoping we’ll give him a yes or a no. We don’t.

  ‘But she seemed very uncomfortable talking about it, and she changed the subject straightaway. It could have been just because we didn’t know each other that well yet, but I wondered if maybe there was more to the story – like if one of them was still alive, but with some problem, like I said. I mean, obviously I wasn’t about to ask, but . . . I wondered.’

  This isn’t what Steve’s angling for. ‘Right,’ he says. ‘Interesting; we’ll definitely check it out. Anything else?’

  Rory shakes his head. ‘That’s the only thing I can think of.’

  ‘You’re positive? I’m not joking: any little thing could make a difference. Anything.’

  There’s a moment’s silence. Rory catches his breath to say something; then he lets it out again. He isn’t looking at Steve any more.

  Steve waits, watching him, easy and interested as a pal in a pub. Rory says, suddenly and unwillingly, ‘I just wish I knew what else you’re not telling me.’

  ‘Course you do,’ Steve says matter-of-factly. ‘All I can say is, we don’t keep things back just for the laugh. We’re doing it to catch the person who killed Aislinn.’

  Rory’s eyes come up, with an effort, to meet Steve’s. He asks, ‘Am I a suspect?’ And he braces himself for the answer.