The Trespasser

by Tana French

  Chapter 9

  Breslin gets in not long after, banging open the incident-room door and telling the world, ‘Jesus Christ, the suspect’s mates. Bloody history teachers everywhere. Anyone want to know about the curve of murder rates since the foundation of the Free State?’

  It’s like being a teenager and seeing someone you fancy: that slam of electricity, straight through the breastbone and in. ‘Howya,’ I say.

  The floaters give Breslin the laugh he’s looking for, but he doesn’t bother acknowledging it; his eyes are on me and Steve. ‘Any updates?’

  ‘Cooper rang,’ I say.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And two possibilities. Either a great big bodybuilder gave her a hell of a punch, she went over backwards and smashed her head on the fireplace. Or else someone – wouldn’t need to be a bodybuilder – gave her a push, she fell on the fireplace with no serious damage done, and he went after her and punched her while she was down.’

  That stops Breslin moving, and for a second his face goes blank. Behind the blank, his mind is going ninety. Same as me and Steve, he has trouble picturing Rory getting that hardcore, and he’s not happy about it.

  He covers it fast, though. ‘Bodybuilder,’ he says, with a wry snort. ‘No harm to Cooper, but what a typical lab-jockey thing to say. If he’d spent any time in the trenches, he’d know that even a wimp like Rory can come up with one good punch, if he’s pissed off enough.’

  Which is what I thought, but coming out of him it sounds like something I shouldn’t fall for. ‘Maybe,’ I say.

  Breslin threads his way between the desks to us, giving Stanton a clap on the shoulder along the way. ‘We’ll have to ask Rory, won’t we? We’ll have fun with that, next time we get him in.’

  ‘He won’t know what’s hit him,’ Steve says helpfully. The blue folder has vanished into the paper on his desk.

  ‘Any more than she did,’ Breslin says, inevitably, but his heart isn’t in it. ‘I hear you’ve been getting deliveries. Anything nice to share with the group?’

  Me and Steve look at each other, all puzzled. Steve says, ‘The vic’s phone records, yeah?’

  ‘Not unless she made an awful lot of calls. McCann said you had a big box of something so special, the delivery boy wouldn’t let it out of his hot little hands.’ He nudges the corner of the box, sticking out from under our desk, with the toe of his shiny shoe. ‘Would this be it?’

  His eyes are hooded and watching me, just on the edge of too casual. There’s no point trying to dodge, not unless I’m prepared to rugby-tackle him off the box; and anyway, all of a sudden I’ve had enough of tiptoeing around Big Bad Breslin, hiding my own investigation behind my back like a kid with a smoke when a teacher walks past. ‘That? Aislinn’s da went missing when she was a kid,’ I say, and watch his face. ‘Moran thought there might be a link. Like maybe a gang thing, or a reunion gone wrong.’

  Breslin’s eyes pop. ‘A gang thing? Moran. Conway. Are you serious? You think gangs kidnapped Aislinn’s dad, and then came back for her twenty years later? I’m loving this. Tell me more.’

  He’s just about managing to keep the laugh in. Steve ducks his head and goes red. ‘Ah, no, it wasn’t that we really . . . I mean, I just wondered.’ He’s back in gormless-newbie mode, but the redner is real.

  Part of me is actually with Breslin on this, but I’ve got other stuff on my mind. His face, when I told him what was in the box: just for a tenth of a second, I saw his mouth go slack with relief. Whatever he’s trying to steer us away from, Aislinn’s da isn’t it.

  ‘So don’t keep me in suspense,’ Breslin says. He’s still grinning. ‘Whodunit? Drug lords? Arms smugglers? The Mafia?’

  ‘The da did,’ I say. ‘Turns out he did a runner to England to shack up with some young one. And no reunion gone wrong: there’s no unaccounted-for contact in Aislinn’s electronics.’

  I think I see that tiny explosion of relief on Breslin’s face again, but before I can be sure, it’s gone under a blast of jaw-dropped fake amazement. ‘No!’ He recoils, one hand going up to his chest. ‘You’re kidding me. Who would’ve guessed?’

  He’s overdoing it. Breslin is too old a hand for that. He wants, too badly, to embarrass us away from the gang idea.

  ‘I know,’ Steve says, doing a rueful nod-and-shrug thing. ‘I do, honest. I just didn’t want to miss anything, you know?’

  ‘Shaking trees,’ Breslin says dryly. The grin is gone. ‘Wasn’t that the phrase? I’m not convinced that’s how the taxpayers would want us using their money, but hey, I’m not the one running this show. You keep shaking. Let me know if anything ever falls out.’

  ‘Will do,’ Steve says. ‘I was hoping . . .’ He rumples up his hair and looks hangdog.

  Breslin shrugs off his coat and throws it over the back of his chair – he picked a desk good and close to ours, which makes me feel all special. ‘There’s a fine line between hope and desperation. You have to know when to let it go, as the song says.’

  ‘It’s gone,’ I say. ‘Does McCann want a go of the file, yeah? Before we send it back to Missing Persons?’

  That gets me a stare. ‘McCann was trying to help you out, Conway. It’s called being nice. You might want to learn to accept it without throwing a wobbler.’

  Steve moves in his chair, trying to beam peaceful thought-waves into my head. ‘I’ll send him a thank-you card,’ I say. ‘How’d Gaffney do, yesterday evening?’

  ‘Fine. He’s not the brightest little pixie in the forest, but he’ll get there in the end.’

  I say, ‘Then how come you ditched him today?’

  Breslin is giving his coat a brush-down and a few twitches to make sure it won’t get creased – and to make sure we notice the Armani label – but that brings his head up to stare at me. ‘Say what?’

  ‘He was supposed to be shadowing you. He says you told him you didn’t need him for the KA interviews.’

  ‘I didn’t. I can write and listen at the same time. Multitasking, Conway: it’s not just for the ladies any more.’

  ‘Good to hear. Gaffney needed you, though. That’s why I told him to stick with you in the first place: I don’t want some rookie screwing up because no one’s shown him the ropes. Why’d you leave him behind?’

  I’m expecting the same clamp-jawed fake matiness I got this morning. That’s half the reason I’m giving him hassle: I want Steve to have a look at this. Instead, Breslin leans in conspiratorially, with a grin lifting one corner of his mouth. ‘Conway. Come on. Cut a guy some slack. Every now and then a man’s got an appointment he needs to keep all by his lonesome. Know what I mean?’ And he shoots me an actual wink.

  Meaning he stopped off along the way to stick his dick somewhere it shouldn’t be. Which would explain not just him ditching Gaffney, but the person who shouldn’t have been ringing his mobile this morning.

  I don’t buy it. In a squad where cheating strategies count as coffee-break chat, Breslin and McCann get called The Monks. The grapevine says neither of them has ever even given the eye to a pretty uniform, or tried to chat up the Bureau babe who everyone tries to chat up. Breslin probably thinks me and Steve are too far out of the loop to know that. He’s forgotten that we haven’t always been Murder’s resident rejects, and forgotten how kids longing for Murder suck up every drop of gossip about the tall shining creatures they might someday become.

  ‘Say no more,’ Steve says quickly, lifting his hands. He has on a grin halfway between embarrassed and impressed, but I’m pretty sure he’s thinking the same thing as me. ‘A gentleman never tells.’

  ‘No he does not, Moran. Thank you very much.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ I say, matching Steve’s grin. ‘I guess it’s not like Gaffney could do a lot of damage playing with paper in here. How’d you get on with Rory’s KAs?’

  ‘Great chats all round.’ Breslin swings himself into his chair, switches on his computer and has a stretch while it boots up. ‘They’re a shower of dry shites, the type who correct y
our grammar and think three drinks is a wild night out, but I’d say they’re too terrified of us to do any major lying. They all say the same things about Rory: the guy’s a sweetheart, wouldn’t hurt a fly – one of his mates told me he won’t even watch boxing because it’s just too distressing. What a pussy.’

  Sounds about right: Rory doesn’t like reality getting all up in his face. ‘Even pussies lose the head,’ I say.

  Breslin throws me a finger-snap and a point. ‘Exactly, Conway. They do. I was about to point that out myself. And all the KAs agree that their pal Rory was head over heels about Aislinn: he hadn’t shut up about her since they first met. They say it like it’s a good thing: aww, look, he was so smitten he would never do anything bad to his sweetie! I don’t think it’s occurred to them that there’s a fine line between smitten and obsessed.’ He glances up from pulling his notebook out of his pocket. ‘Nice to hear one of you two admitting that the obsessed boyfriend on the scene might actually be a suspect. Detective Conway, do I get the sense you’re getting just a leetle bit tired of tree-shaking?’

  ‘Nah,’ I say. ‘It’s good exercise. But like you say, unless something big falls out, Rory’s what we’ve got. A bit more solid evidence, and we’ll be good to go. Did you run the voices past the guy at Stoneybatter who took the call?’

  ‘Yeah, about that. Just a word in your ear, Conway . . .’ Breslin glances at the floaters and lowers his voice. ‘You need to learn how to allocate resources appropriately. I know that sounds like boring manager-type crap, but you’re running investigations now; like it or not, you’re a manager. And it doesn’t take a Murder D with twenty years’ experience to hit Play half a dozen times.’

  Someone’s ego wouldn’t fit through the door of Stoneybatter station. Steve moves again. ‘Got it,’ I say sheepishly. ‘Will we send Gaffney? Just so he knows he’s not in your bad books?’

  ‘Now you’re thinking like a lead D. Let’s do that. You tell him, so he knows who’s boss around here; how’s that?’ Breslin gives me his wise-teacher smile, which is kind and crinkly and would make me feel warm all over if I was dumber than a bag of hair.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, all grateful. ‘That’d be great.’ I swivel my chair around – without looking at Steve, in case one of us gets the giggles – and call, ‘Gaffney. Over here. Job for you.’

  Gaffney nearly falls over his own chair, he’s in such a hurry to get over to us. ‘Here you go,’ Breslin says, tossing him a voice recorder. ‘Those are voice samples: Rory Fallon, his brothers and all his male pals.’ He lifts an eyebrow at me and tilts his chin towards Gaffney, to make sure it’s obvious that he’s cueing me.

  I say, ‘Take that down to Stoneybatter station and see if any of the voices ring a bell with your man. If he’s got any doubts, organise a voice lineup. Can you do that?’

  Gaffney’s holding the recorder to his chest like it’s precious. ‘I can, yeah. No bother. I will. I’ll do that.’ He’s so busy head-flipping back and forth between me and Breslin, trying to work out who’s the boss here, he can barely make sentences.

  ‘Thanks,’ Breslin says, whipping out the smile. ‘Do me a favour: pick me up a sandwich on your way back. Ham, cheese and salad on brown, no onion. I didn’t get a chance to eat lunch, and I’m starving.’ He throws me and Steve another wink, as he pulls out cash to give Gaffney. ‘Sorry, no change.’

  It’s a fifty. I’m close enough to see where he took it out of: a solid wad of them, in his shirt pocket, tucked inside a crumpled white envelope.

  I was right about my voice message giving Gary a kick up the arse: five minutes later my phone lights up with his name. No way am I gonna take this call with Breslin sitting five feet away, and no way am I gonna make a big deal of taking it outside. I mutter, ‘Fuck’s sake, Ma, I’m at work,’ to myself, swipe Reject Call and shove the phone back into my pocket too hard. I glance across, doing embarrassed, to see if Breslin heard; his eyes are on the statement he’s typing up, but he’s got a twitch of a grin on his face.

  I wait fifteen minutes – I’d love to leave it longer, but it’s five o’clock, and we’ve got the case meeting at half past – before I head out of the incident room, leaving my coat and my bag behind. With a bit of luck Breslin will assume I’m ringing my mammy back. I don’t look at Steve. I’m hoping I don’t need to.

  Outside it’s dark; the whitish floodlights and the thick cold, and the odd civil servant scurrying home with his collar turned up, give the huge courtyard a queasy, ominous feel, some looming futurescape I’ve stumbled into by mistake and can’t find the way out of. I find a shadow, wrap my suit jacket tight and watch the clock on my phone.

  Four minutes later the door opens and Steve nips out, trying to keep a massive armful of paper under control and close the door behind him without letting it bang. ‘About time,’ I say, catching a page that’s escaping.

  ‘Let’s get out of here. I’m supposed to be photocopying this shite. If Breslin goes looking for me—’

  ‘That’s the best you could come up with? Come on, quick—’ We dodge around the corner of the building, laughing at our bold selves like schoolkids mitching, which I suppose is better than thinking too hard about the fact that Incident Room C is supposedly all mine and yet here I am freezing my hole off.

  You can see the gardens from our windows, and in the courtyard we might meet Gaffney coming back from Stoneybatter. We head up to the square outside the main Castle buildings, where only tourists go – not that there are any tourists in this weather – and find a corner out of the wind. The buildings feel a hundred feet tall around us; the floodlights strip out colour and texture till they could be made of anything, beaten metal or slick plastic or thin air.

  Steve dumps his paper on the ground, with a foot on the pile to stop it blowing away. He’s in his shirtsleeves; he’s gonna freeze. I hold the phone between us, dial and hit speaker.

  ‘Hey,’ Gary says. ‘You got the stuff, yeah?’

  Gary is ten years older than me and perfect for his job. A big chunk of Missing Persons is getting people who stay far from cops to talk to you – street hookers to tell you about the new girl who matches that teenager on the news, homeless addicts to drop by and mention the guy who tried to sleep on their patch last night and looked a lot like that poster and do they get a reward? Everyone talks to Gary, and he’ll talk to anyone, which is one reason I pointed Aislinn his way. Another big chunk of the job is wrangling the friends and families, and Gary can calm down a room just by walking into it; I once saw him trace an idiot teenage runaway in ten minutes flat, by getting her hysterical idiot best friend to chill out enough to remember the internet boyfriend’s name. He’s a big guy, he looks like he could build a shed if you needed one, and he has the kind of voice – quiet, deep, a touch of countryside – that makes you want to close your eyes and fall asleep to the sound of it. Just hearing that voice winds me down a notch.

  ‘Hey,’ I say. Gary’s in the Missing Persons squad room: I can hear the weave of chat, someone giving out, someone else laughing, a mobile ringing. ‘Yeah, I got it. You’re a gem. Just a couple of quick questions, OK? And do me a favour: can you go somewhere private?’

  ‘No problem. Hang on a mo—’ The creak of his chair, some comment with a grin built in from one of the other lads, ‘Yeah yeah yeah,’ from Gary. ‘Smart-arsed little bollix wants to know if my prostate’s giving me hassle,’ he tells me. ‘Young people nowadays; no respect.’

  ‘Awww, Gar. It’s OK. I respect you.’

  ‘At least you don’t mock my prostate. Never mock a man’s prostate. That’s dirty.’

  ‘Below the belt, yeah?’

  ‘Holy Jaysus. Is that what passes for humour over there?’ A door shuts, and the voices vanish: he’s out in the corridor. ‘Right. What did you want to know?’

  Steve has his head up, keeping an eye on the entrances to the square, but he’s listening. ‘First thing,’ I say. ‘You guys went all out on the Desmond Murray case. Everything looked like he’d skip
ped voluntarily, it turned out he had skipped voluntarily, but yous worked it like a murder. How come?’

  Gary snorts. ‘There’s an easy one. Because of the wife, basically. Did you see the photo?’

  ‘Yeah. She was good-looking.’

  ‘The photo doesn’t do her justice. She was a stunner. Not the kind you want to get in kinky underwear and shag senseless; the kind you want to look after. Open doors for her. Hold her umbrella.’ Gary’s voice getting fainter, water running, clink of cups; he’s rinsing a mug in the kitchen, phone tucked under his jaw. ‘And she knew how to work it, too. Looking at us like we were superheroes, going on about how she knew we’d find her husband and she felt so lucky to have us, she didn’t know what she’d have done if her whole world had been in the hands of people she couldn’t trust the way she trusted us – loads of that. Crying at all the right moments, and making sure she looked good while she was doing it – her husband’s just gone missing, but she’s still bothered to do her hair and her makeup and put on a pretty dress? She knew what she was at, all right.’

  Sounds like Aislinn took after Mammy. ‘You think it was all an act? She didn’t give a damn about the hubby, just wanted attention?’

  Gary clicks his tongue. ‘Nah, not that. The opposite of that. I think she was genuinely desperate to get her husband back – she wasn’t the social type, didn’t have friends, didn’t have a job, didn’t have anything apart from him and the kid; without him, her life was bollixed. And she knew the best way to make fellas go out of their way for her was by being pretty and making them want to take care of her.’

  ‘Cute,’ I say. I can hear the coffee machine whirring – instead of bitching nonstop about the crap coffee, the way we do in Murder, Missing Persons threw in a few quid each and bought a decent machine. ‘And it worked.’