by Tana French
Which is what I thought when I found Aislinn’s little true-crime library. I’ve forgotten all about coffee. ‘Right,’ I say, keeping that out of my voice. ‘Can you remember what cases?’
‘Francie Hannon, and Whatsisname with his tongue cut out. I’d forgotten what a field day the papers had with that one. I think it gave some of the reporters an actual hard-on.’
Both those guys were from the same gang, a nasty bunch of northside boys run by a raving psycho called Cueball Lanigan. Both of them were Breslin and McCann’s cases.
‘Sounds like it did the business for our vic, too,’ I say. If Aislinn got mixed up with Cueball’s boys, she got off lightly. ‘Anything else on the laptop?’
More energetic bubble-wrap rustles from Sophie. ‘She read a lot of fan fiction. The sappy kind, not the sexy kind; my guy was sort of disappointed about that. He said he stopped reading after one where Juliet wakes up early, and she and Romeo live happily ever after.’
‘Cute,’ I say. ‘Any dating sites?’
‘Nah.’
‘Message boards?’
‘Nope. And my guy says no one’s been messing with the internet history.’
‘Can you take the search back a bit further? We need her history for at least the last six months. A year would be even better.’
Sophie blows out air. ‘You sure? If you piss off my computer guy, he’s gonna send you a list of every single URL she ever visited. You’ll spend the rest of your lives checking out every page of every designer-outlet website in the universe.’
‘That’s why God invented floaters,’ I say. ‘Was that it for the laptop, yeah?’
‘Don’t rush me,’ Sophie says, through tape. ‘I’m getting to the good part. My guy went through her documents – the only mildly interesting thing in there is that she updated her CV a couple of months ago: looks like she was considering switching jobs. And he had a look at her photos. Most of them are the same stuff that’s on her phone, selfies in clubs; but there’s one folder that’s password-protected. It was created last September and it’s called “MORTGAGE”, but who the hell takes photos of her mortgage? And puts a password on them?’
I don’t even need coffee any more; I’m well awake. September: long before Aislinn met Rory, and not long after, according to Lucy, she hooked up with her secret squeeze. ‘Camouflage folder name,’ I say. ‘To turn off anyone who went looking through her stuff. How are you doing on getting in there?’
‘No joy yet. My guy’s thrown the dictionary at that folder, tried various combinations of Aislinn’s name and DOB, and nada.’
‘Did you try the password from her Facebook account?’
‘We haven’t got it. Facebook and her Gmail were both already open on her phone; we reset her passwords by answering her security question – her mother’s maiden name, for Christ’s sake – so we can get in on other machines if we want, but we don’t have the original passwords. And the providers won’t have them, either; they’re encrypted.’
‘Is your guy still working on it?’
‘Yeah, and he’s going to crack it. This chick wasn’t Jason Bourne; no chance she was up to my guy’s standards. I’m just telling you: she was at least a little bit serious about keeping this folder locked down.’
‘I’ve got faith in you and your guy,’ I say. The adrenaline is rising inside me again; no matter how hard I try to stamp it down, part of me is picturing Sophie’s guy cracking the password and coming up with both hands full of pics of Aislinn riding Cueball Lanigan, with Breslin counting cash in the background. ‘Let me know when you get in there, OK?’
‘As soon as.’ Sophie rips one more strip of tape and slaps it down. ‘That’ll have to do. I swear, this thing’s ugly enough, I kind of hope they do smash it. The world would be a better place.’
I go looking for Breslin. Bernadette says he’s in the building, but there’s no sign of him in the squad room – the chat deflates to flat stares when I open the door, rises up again under a layer of sniggers when I close it behind me – and he’s not in the canteen. I head upstairs to check the incident room.
I’m on the landing when I hear that smooth voiceover drawl coming down the stairwell. Breslin, somewhere up above me, talking low.
I stop dead. Then I move carefully – the stairs are wide white marble, part of the old castle, every sound echoes – till I can see through the banisters. Breslin and McCann, at the top of the stairs, close together.
I’m meant to be grabbing any chance for chats with these two, but McCann doesn’t look like he’s in a chatty mood. He’s slumped into his suit, hands stuffed in his pockets. Breslin is lounging against the banister rail with his back to me. From the line of his shoulders I can tell the casual slouch is taking effort.
McCann is muttering something that includes the words ‘that bitch’. He sounds like he means it.
‘I’m on it,’ Breslin says. ‘You sit tight and leave it to me. OK?’
McCann moves like his suit is clammy. ‘She doesn’t like being pushed around. If you try to—’
‘I’m not going to push her around. It’s not about that. It’s about making her see that she’s really only got one option here.’
McCann swipes his fingers along his eyebags, head falling back.
Breslin says, ‘I’ll sort her out. Everything’s going to be back to normal in no time.’
As McCann brings his head up to say something, he catches my black suit against the white of the stairs, and goes still. ‘Bres,’ he says.
Breslin turns around, and a blank look slams down across his gob. ‘Detective Conway,’ he says. ‘Nice of you to call in.’
‘I had some leftovers from Saturday night to take care of,’ I say. ‘This isn’t the JFK assassination; I’m not gonna clear my whole schedule for it. I need a word with you.’
‘Let’s do that. Walk with me. Mac: later, yeah?’ McCann nods without looking up. Breslin gives him a clap on the shoulder and heads past me, down the stairs.
I follow him. When I look back, McCann is still on the landing, staring at nothing.
‘McCann and his missus have been going through a bit of a rough patch,’ Breslin says confidentially, under the clatter of our footsteps. ‘You’ve probably heard the phone calls, right?’
I make a noise that could mean anything. We’ve all heard the phone calls: McCann muttering through a clenched jaw about being home earlier tonight, while his head sinks lower and lower over his desk and the lads snicker just loud enough.
‘She doesn’t like the job. Doesn’t like the hours, doesn’t like him coming home with his head full of dead little kids, all the usual – hard to blame her, right? McCann thinks she’s winding up to an ultimatum: he transfers out, or she kicks him out.’
I nod along. It’s bollix. This squad gossips like a bingo hall, but no one ever bothers filling me in. The two of them were talking about me: either how to make me close this case, or how to get me off the squad. The only question is why. ‘Huh,’ I say. ‘What’s he gonna do?’
‘Well, he’s not crazy about either of those options, obviously. I said I’ll have a chat with his missus, settle her down. We’ve all been friends a long time; she knows I’ve got their best interests at heart.’ Breslin does the benevolent smile of a guy who’s got everyone’s best interests at heart. ‘I’m going to need your word on something, Conway. This doesn’t go any further. McCann doesn’t want his private life splashed all over the squad. You shouldn’t have heard any of that’ – the reproachful finger-wag is a nice touch – ‘but since you did, you need to treat it with respect.’
‘I don’t do gossip,’ I say. ‘I leave that to the lads.’ I’m itching to punch Breslin in both his faces, but I wanted a chat with him, and here it is. ‘You think you’re gonna get it sorted out?’
‘Oh, yeah. They’re mad about each other, underneath it all; they just need a little reminder of that. It’ll be fine in no time. McCann’s just worried.’
‘Yeah. The pair of yous looked
a bit stressed, all right.’
Breslin stops and gives me a stare. ‘Me? What’s that supposed to mean?’
I lift my hands. ‘I’m only saying.’
‘This is what stressed looks like to you?’ He’s pointing at his gob, which is halfway between disbelieving and disgusted. ‘Your radar might need some recalibrating, Conway. What would I be stressed about?’
I shrug. ‘How would I know?’
Breslin’s not moving. ‘No. You can’t throw out something like that and then backpedal when I call you on it. What would I be stressed about?’
Stressed and defensive as hell, too, which is interesting. I decide not to point out that part. ‘Whatever. The usual. Work. Money. Life.’
‘My life is great, thanks very much. I love my work, unlike some – and if you think a few days with you and Ginger Boy is enough to change that, you’re flattering yourself. Financially, I’m fine – better than fine; not a care in the world. I’m a happy man. OK?’
‘Man,’ I say. ‘I’m only making small talk.’
Breslin stares me out of it for a long moment. Then: ‘All right.’
He heads off down the stairs again, making me follow. ‘Just a tip, Conway: we’ve all got our fortes. Small talk may not be yours.’
‘Maybe not,’ I say. So much for my heart-to-heart with Breslin. ‘Anything you want to tell me about yesterday evening?’
‘Rory’s big brothers came in for the chats. The reports are on my desk, if you want to take a look, but there’s nothing good in there. They both say Rory is a New Man who respects women and would never God forbid hit one; he’s been dumped a few times – surprise, surprise – and he just got depressed about it, never angry. They know the bookshop’s not in great financial shape; they claim Rory would have come to them for a loan if he needed one, not to his new bird, but they’re both skint as well, so I don’t see why he’d bother. I got both of them on tape so we can play them to Whatsisname at Stoneybatter, but to be honest with you I’ll be surprised if he IDs them. I think they genuinely are as clueless as they’re making out.’
‘Great,’ I say. ‘Did you ring Sophie Miller looking for Aislinn’s electronics?’
Breslin’s face turns to me, eyebrows lifting in a warning. ‘Yeah. Is that a problem?’
‘I said me and Steve were on those.’
He stops on the landing so he can give me a proper stare. ‘Ah, Conway, come on. I get that you want to keep the good stuff for yourselves, but this isn’t playschool; you don’t get to call dibsies on your special toys. This is the real world. What matters is getting the job done.’
‘Yeah. And we’re well able to do that.’
‘Not last night, you weren’t. The two of you were home getting your beauty sleep – I know, I know, double shift, but the fact remains, you weren’t here, were you? And I was. I finished up with Rory’s brothers, I set up appointments with the rest of his KAs, I put in a call for his phone records, and then I had a little time on my hands. So I decided to use it. You should be thanking me, instead of getting your knickers in a twist.’
I say, ‘Did you find out anything useful?’
Breslin eyes me. He says, ‘Miller didn’t have anything ready.’
‘Right. That’s why I’m not thanking you. Also because I like knowing who’s doing what in my investigation, so I don’t make a tit of myself trying to get something done and being told someone else already did it.’
Breslin’s jaw moves. ‘Conway. You need to chill out. Just bear in mind that I’ve got a lot more experience than you do. If I do something, I think you can take it on trust that it’s in the best interests of the investigation.’
‘No,’ I say. I can hear Steve in my head going We need to get on with Breslin, but I want to see what happens. ‘I’m bearing nothing in mind. Unless I missed your promotion, we’re on the same squad, and this is my investigation. Which means you’re the cheeky little bollix who’s getting above himself, and you’re the one who needs to bear in mind who’s who here.’
For a second I think I’ve taken it too far, but Breslin forces his face into weary resignation, like a teacher who should never have expected better from that problem student. ‘OK, Conway. Next time I consider contributing a little extra to your investigation, I’ll be sure and run it by you first.’ Eye-roll. ‘Does that make you feel better?’
‘Yeah. It does.’
‘Good. So could you maybe pull that stick out of your arse?’
‘I . . . Jaysus.’ I dial it right back, turn all sheepish. ‘I didn’t mean to . . .’ I glance down the corridor, making sure no one’s heard me being a bad little D. ‘It’s not easy, you know? Having someone like you on board. It’s pretty intimidating. I don’t always manage to . . . yeah. Manage to deal with it right.’
‘Well,’ Breslin says. He takes his time thinking that over, to teach me a lesson, but he’s puffing out with self-satisfaction. ‘I suppose I can see that. That’s no excuse for getting defensive, though. We’re on the same team here.’
‘I know, yeah. I apologise.’ I won’t lick arse for the sake of getting wankers to like me, but for the sake of getting wankers, I can slurp with the best. ‘And I do appreciate the help, and the advice. Even if I’m not the best at showing it.’
Breslin nods. ‘All right,’ he says, all magnanimous. ‘We’ll say no more about it.’
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Where are you headed?’
‘I’ve got appointments with more of Rory’s KAs. If that’s still all right with you.’
He’s smiling, although there’s an edge underneath. ‘That’d be great,’ I say. ‘Thanks a million. See you later.’
And I give him a humble duck of my head and start back up towards the incident room. McCann is gone off the upstairs landing. I’m on the top floor and turning down the corridor before I hear Breslin’s footsteps start again, echoing around the stairwell in slow cold claps.
The incident room is getting on grand without me, which probably should feel like a good thing. The floaters are busy little bees and making sure it shows: Gaffney is scribbling, Meehan’s finishing up a phone call; Kellegher and Reilly are hunched towards their monitors, fast-forwarding through jerky CCTV footage. Stanton and Deasy are somewhere else, presumably at Aislinn’s work. Steve has our boss desk all to himself, he’s turned it into a nest of printouts and Kit Kat bars, and he’s whistling peacefully while he works his way through them. He looks happy.
‘Morning, all,’ I say, throwing my stuff onto my desk. The floaters whip out smiles like they love me. If anyone’s got to any of them – and someone almost definitely has: whatever Breslin’s agenda is, the first thing he would need is at least one floater in his pocket – they’re good at hiding it.
‘Howya,’ Steve says. ‘Sorted?’
‘Yeah.’ I didn’t give him details, just said I wanted some extra from the scumbag witness, and he didn’t ask. ‘Anything I should know?’
‘Sophie e-mailed us some stuff, just now.’ He lifts a page.
‘I was talking to her, yeah.’ I sling my coat over the back of my chair. ‘One of her guys is gonna wangle us Aislinn’s e-mail records. Have you got her phone logs?’
‘Yeah. My guy at Meteor sent them over.’ Steve examines his heaps of paper, pats the right one. ‘Breslin pulled Rory’s; he says there’s nothing that jumps out, no calls to anyone but Aislinn on Saturday night, no call to Stoneybatter station yesterday morning, and no link to Lucy Riordan. He’s working on getting the actual texts, see if there’s anything in there.’
‘Gaffney,’ I say. ‘Any word on the number that called it in?’
Gaffney jumps. ‘Yeah – yes; I’ve done that, yes. I got hold of the number. But it’s unregistered.’
Steve says, ‘I can’t see any reason why Rory would have a spare unregistered mobile. One that didn’t show up in the search of his flat.’
While most of the gang boys have more unregistered phones than they can keep track of. ‘You never know,’ I say. ‘B
ut yeah: it looks like Rory probably wasn’t the one who called it in. We’ll pull full records for the phone, see if those give us some clue who owns it. Moran, can you get onto that?’
Steve nods, writing. Gaffney looks wounded, but that’s tough: if that phone log is full of calls to drug dealers, me and Steve need to know before anyone else does.
‘Meehan,’ I say, ‘you were timing the route Fallon says he took around Stoneybatter. How’d that go?’
‘According to Fallon’s statement,’ Meehan says, spinning his chair round to face us, ‘he got off the bus just before half-seven, and he knocked on Aislinn’s door just before eight – that part’s confirmed by the witness who was walking his dog. So that’s half an hour for the whole walk – from the bus stop to the top of Viking Gardens, up to Tesco and buy flowers, back down to her house. When I went at a normal pace, it came out at twenty-seven minutes. When I went as fast as I could without actually running, I knocked six minutes off that.’
I say, ‘Meaning Rory could have had almost ten minutes to spare.’
‘More,’ Steve says. ‘Here’s the good part. Stanton pulled CCTV from the 39A route and had a look, first thing this morning. Rory got on the bus at ten to seven, not just before seven like he told us, and he got off it at quarter past, not just before half. He could’ve misremembered, or just been estimating the times, but . . .’
‘But he was obsessing about being late to Aislinn’s,’ I say, ‘in case she got her feelings hurt and dumped him and his life was ruined or whatever. Nah: he didn’t estimate, and he didn’t misremember. He’s got anything up to twenty-five minutes unaccounted for, and he was fudging because he doesn’t want us knowing that.’ That blood-smell flares at the back of my nose again. He’s so tempting, Rory, all fluffy and big-eyed and just begging for the killer bite; it would be so satisfying to hammer on his door, drag him back in and shove his face up against the CCTV screen. ‘Good. When we bring him back in, he’d better have a great explanation for what he was doing. Have we got footage from the area yet?’