The Trespasser (13 page)

‘I’m going to tell him you’ll arrest him for not being in school. I swear to God, he’s about twelve, I’m getting old—’ and Sophie’s gone.

Fallon is giving his meditation thing a second try. Breslin is either building the incident room from the ground up or else punishing us for keeping him waiting. While I’ve got my phone out: ‘One sec,’ I say, swiping the screen and moving away from Steve.

The afternoon edition of the
Courier
is out. Creepy Crowley has gone to town.

The front page yells, ‘POLICE BAFFLED BY BRUTAL MURDER’. Underneath are two photos. Aislinn, the recent version, wearing a tight orange dress and sparkly eyeshadow and laughing – looks like a Christmas-party shot that Crowley pulled off someone’s Facebook. The other one is me, ducking out from under the crime-scene tape, looking my finest: eyebags, hair coming down, fists coming up, and my mouth opening in a snarl that would scare a Rottweiler.

My jaw is clamped so tight it hurts. I scroll down, but the text is just titillation, glurge and outrage – stunning young woman, prime of life, details of her injuries not yet released; quote from a local about how Aislinn went to the shops for him when the footpaths were icy, quote from a local who isn’t going to feel safe in her own home until we do our jobs and get this b****** off the streets; a snide little dig about ‘Detective Antoinette Conway, who led the investigation into the still-unsolved murder of Michael Murnane in Ballymun last September’, to make it clear that I’m incompetent and/or don’t give a shite about working-class victims. Down the sidebar:
Parents Panic over Playground Pervert
, plus a splatter of snottiness at the County Council, who should apparently do something about the shite weather, and some celebrity gushing about quinoa and what a normal life her kids lead.

‘What?’ Steve asks.

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 heads 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.’