The Trespasser (14 page)

Steve nods. Breslin shoots his cuffs. ‘Come to Papa,’ he says to the one-way glass.

I say, ‘This is only a preliminary interview. I’m not looking for a confession; we can push for that once we’ve got forensics, post-mortem results, all the good stuff to throw at him.’ And once me and Steve have done enough private digging to know what we’re dealing with here. ‘Right now I’m just looking to put the outlines in place. What Rory’s like, what the relationship was like, his take on Aislinn, his story on last night. I want to know if he’ll admit to talking to anyone between eight last night and five this morning; if our guy didn’t call this in himself, he told someone who did, and we need that someone. I want his coat and his gloves – the techs got black wool fibres off the body, and they say our guy probably wore non-shedding gloves, which matches what Rory’s got in there; so if we can convince him to hand them over for testing and save us fucking around with a warrant, I’ll be a very happy camper. In a perfect world he’d let us go through his gaff and take any other coats and gloves we find, but I don’t want to get him uptight today, so if that doesn’t come easy, we’ll leave it and go the warrant route. OK?’

Breslin considers that. ‘Mm,’ he says. ‘OK; that’s one way to work it. The other way would be to try and knock this sucker on the head as fast as we can. I’m not saying I have any problem with being assigned to this case – that’s fine, happy to help out. I’m just saying I’ve put my other cases on hold to be here, and there’s a limit to how much time I want to put into a bog-standard domestic. I’m sure you guys feel the same. Am I right?’

I mainly feel he should shut his trap and do what the lead D tells him, but I catch the pop-eyed panic on Steve’s face. It makes me want to laugh, which takes me off the boil. ‘That’s a point,’ I say, pleasantly. ‘Let’s do this: for now, we’ll take it slow, like I was saying. As soon as I think we can afford to ramp it up, I promise I’ll give the word. Fair enough?’

Breslin doesn’t look pleased, but after a moment he shrugs. ‘Suit yourselves. In that case, can we get started while there’s still some of the shift left?’ And, when I straighten up off the table: ‘You might want to do something about that first, Detective. Unless it’s part of your cunning plan.’

‘That’ is a dab at the corner of his mouth. I rub at my face: a flake of egg yolk, which I’ve obviously been wearing since that breakfast roll. ‘Thanks,’ I say, partly to Breslin and partly to my partner Captain Eagle-Eye. He makes an apology face back.

‘First impressions and all that jazz. If we’re ready now, let’s rock and roll.’

Breslin holds the door open for me to leave the observation room first, so I can’t get a last word with Steve behind his back – not that we need to swap meaningful whispers, but still. The corridor should fold around me like home, scuffed sludge-green paint and worn carpet and all; should feel like my marked track through my own territory, leading me straight and safe to the enemy neatly arranged in my interview-room crosshairs. Instead it feels like an unflagged trail through No Man’s Land, pocked with ankle-breaking mud holes and booby-trapped all the way.

Chapter 4

Everyone has an interview shtick. One guy on the squad does a beautiful line in Father Confessor, piling on the guilt and waving absolution like a doggy treat; another one does Narky Headmaster, staring over his glasses and snapping out questions. I do Warrior Woman, ready to rush out with her guns blazing and avenge all your wrongs, if you’ll just tell her what they are, and her flipside Stroppy Man-Hating Bitch when we want to piss off a rapist or a Neanderthal; I also do Cool Girl, who’s one of the lads and stands her round and has a laugh, who guys can talk to when they wouldn’t feel comfortable talking to another fella. Steve does Nice Boy Next Door and variations. With women, Breslin does Gallant Gentleman, taking their coats and bending his head to listen to every word; with guys he does Chief Jock, your best pal but you better stay on his good side or he’ll flush your head down the jacks. We size up the target and wheel out the one that we think has the best chance.

Rory doesn’t need Warrior Woman, at least as far as we know, and Stroppy Man-Hating Bitch would probably scare him under the table, but Cool Girl should relax him a notch or two. It sounds like he’d get on great with Nice Boy Next Door, but that’s out for now. I just hope Chief Jock doesn’t intimidate him enough, or piss me off enough, to send this whole thing off the rails.

Rory starts off our relationship by costing me a tenner: he doesn’t cry. He jumps a mile when Breslin throws the door open, but when I give him my Cool Girl nod and grin, he comes up with some kind of smile back. ‘Howya,’ I say, throwing myself into a chair opposite him and pulling out my notebook. ‘I’m Detective Conway, and that’s Detective Breslin. Thanks for coming in.’

‘No problem.’ Rory tries to work out whether we’re going to shake hands. We’re not. ‘I’m Rory Fallon. Is—’

‘Morning,’ Breslin says, heading over to the video recorder. ‘You OK to talk? Not too hungover? I know how it goes: young guy like you, Sunday morning . . .’

‘I’m fine.’ Rory’s voice cracks on the word. He clears his throat.

Breslin grins, hitting buttons. ‘Disgraceful. You’ll have to do better next weekend.’

I nod at his half-drunk cup of tea. ‘Can I get you a reheat on that? Or a coffee, maybe?’

‘No, thanks. I’m fine.’ Rory barely has the edge of his arse on the seat; he looks ready to leg it at the first loud noise, if there was anywhere to leg it to. ‘What’s this about?’

‘Ah-ah,’ Breslin says, turning from the video to point a finger at him. ‘Hang on there, man. We can’t get down to business yet. These days we have to get any conversation on tape and video. For everyone’s protection, you know what I mean?’

After a second Rory nods uncertainly. ‘Yeah. I guess.’

‘Course you do,’ Breslin says cheerfully. ‘Just give me a minute and we can chat away to our hearts’ content.’ He goes back to messing with the recorder, whistling softly between his teeth.

Rory’s shoulders are up around his ears. He says, ‘Do I need a lawyer? Or something?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say, lowering my notebook to give him my full attention. ‘Do you?’

‘I just mean – I mean, shouldn’t I have one?’

I raise my eyebrows. ‘Any reason why?’

‘No. I don’t have anything to— Am I not supposed to have one?’

‘You can have one if you want, man,’ Breslin tells him. ‘Absolutely. Pick a solicitor, give him a ring, we’ll all wait around till he can join us; not a problem. I can tell you exactly what he’ll do, though. He’ll sit next to you, every now and then he’ll say, “You don’t have to answer that question,” and he’ll charge you by the minute for it. I can tell you the same thing for free: you don’t have to answer
any
of our questions. We tell everyone, first thing: you are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but anything you do say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence. Clear enough? Or would you be happier paying for it?’

‘No. I mean— Yeah. I guess I’m OK without a solicitor.’

And that’s the caution out of the way. ‘You are, of course,’ Breslin says, giving the video recorder a pat. ‘Okely-dokely: that’s working. Detectives Conway and Breslin interviewing Mr Rory Fallon. Let’s talk.’

Rory says – just like Lucy did – ‘Is this about Aislinn?’

‘Hey, whoa there, Rory,’ Breslin says, lifting his hands and laughing. I grin along. ‘Slow down, will you? We’ll get there, I promise. But me and Detective Conway, we’re going to be doing hundreds of these interviews, so we need to stick to asking the same questions in the same order, or we’ll get mixed up and forget what we’ve already asked who. So do us a favour: let us do this our way. OK?’

‘OK. Sorry.’ But Rory’s shoulders have dropped – what with him being just one of hundreds, and what with us being just a couple of dumb goons on the verge of losing our place in our script. Breslin is good. I’ve watched him work before, but I’ve never shared an interview room with him, and in spite of myself I’m not hating it.

‘No problem,’ I say easily. Breslin drops into the chair next to mine and we get comfortable, flipping notebook pages, settling our arses into the quirks of our chairs, checking that our Biros work. ‘So,’ I say, ‘let’s start at the beginning. What’d you do yesterday? From, like, noon onwards?’

Rory takes a deep breath and pushes his glasses up his nose. ‘Right. At noon I was in the shop – I own the Wayward Bookshop, in Ranelagh? Right below my flat, where you – well, your colleagues – came and got me?’

‘Been past it a hundred times, kept meaning to go in,’ I say. ‘I’ll have to do it now, or you’ll be filing complaints about me.’ Me and Breslin have a little chuckle about that. Rory smiles automatically: a good boy, giving us what we expect from him. ‘So how was business yesterday?’

‘Pretty good. Saturdays I get a lot of regulars – mums and dads bringing the kids in to pick out a book, mostly. We’ve got a good children’s section, if you – I mean, I just mean
if
you were, I’m not—’

He’s blinking away anxiously. ‘I’ll bring the nephews in to you,’ I say. I don’t have nephews. ‘You can recommend them something with dinosaurs. How’s business overall?’

‘It’s all right. I mean . . .’ Rory does a twisty shrug. ‘Bookshops are all having a hard time these days. At least we’ve got regulars.’

Meaning Rory is under pressure. We’ll check what ‘all right’ means to him. ‘I’ll definitely have to bring the nephews in to support you, so,’ I say, smiling. ‘What time did you finish up?’

‘I close at six.’

‘And what’d you do then?’

‘I went back up to my flat and had a shower. I was, um, I had a . . .’ Rory is turning a cute shade of pink. ‘I was going over to a girl’s house for dinner. A woman’s house.’

‘Ohhh
yeah
,’ says Breslin, tilting his chair back and grinning. ‘My man Rory’s a playa. Tell your Uncle Don the whole story. Girlfriend? Friend with benefits? True love?’

‘She’s . . .’ The pink gets deeper. Rory swipes his palms across his cheeks like he can wipe it away. ‘Well. I don’t know if I’d call her my girlfriend, exactly. We’ve only been on a few dates. But yes, I’m hoping it’ll go somewhere.’

Present tense. Not that that means much; he’s not a fool. I smile at all the adorable young love; Rory manages a smile back.

‘So you made a bit of an effort,’ Breslin says. ‘Right? Tell me you made a bit of an effort, Rory. That shirt’s fine for selling
The Gruffalo
to soccer moms, but if you want to impress your way into a babe’s – well, into her good books, let’s put it that way – it’s not going to do the job. What’d you wear?’

‘Just a shirt and a pullover and trousers. I mean, they were decent ones, they weren’t—’

Sceptical look off Breslin. ‘What colour? What kind?’

‘A white linen shirt and a light blue pullover, and dark blue trousers? I’m normally a jeans guy, but Aislinn’s . . . I knew she’d be wearing something a bit fancier, so I thought I should too.’

‘Hmm. Sounds like it could’ve been a lot worse. You’ve got decent taste when you try, my son.’ Breslin nods at the overcoat on the back of Rory’s chair. ‘That coat?’

Rory glances uncertainly back and forth between it and Breslin. ‘Yes. I don’t really have another proper winter coat. I got it at Arnott’s, it’s not just some . . . I mean, it’s OK, right?’

‘Not bad,’ Breslin says, squinting critically at the coat. ‘It’ll do. You didn’t wear those gloves with it, though. Did you? You didn’t.’

Rory’s head whips around to the gloves. ‘Yeah, I did. Why? What’s wrong with them?’

‘Yeesh,’ Breslin says, grimacing. He reaches across the table and pokes the gloves with his pen, flips them over. They look clean. ‘Maybe I’m getting old; maybe nowadays all the cool kids go on dates looking like they borrowed their hands off a mountain biker. You really wore these?’

‘It was cold.’

‘So? You’ve got to suffer for style, Rory. You don’t have a black pair? At least those wouldn’t have stuck out like a couple of sore thumbs.’

‘I looked. I thought I had black leather ones, somewhere, but I don’t know where they’ve gone. These were the only ones I could find.’

We’ll look too. ‘Quit hassling the poor guy,’ I tell Breslin. ‘You take the gloves off as soon as you’re in the door anyway, amn’t I right, Rory? Who cares what they look like?’

Breslin rolls his eyes and sits back, shaking his head. Rory throws me a quick grateful glance. We’re turning the interview room into familiar ground – even Breslin’s slaggings are the type Rory has to have taken in school on a regular basis – and that’s settling him. He’s not a helpless little weenie, the way I thought from all that fidgeting and dithering at the start. It’s more complicated than that. Inside his comfort zone, Rory does fine. Take him outside it and he stops coping.

I’m normally a jeans guy 
. . . Aislinn wasn’t his comfort zone.

I say, ‘So where does Aislinn live?’

‘Stoneybatter.’

‘Convenient,’ I say, nodding. ‘Just a quick hop across the river, and you’re there. How’d you get there?’

‘Bus. I walked down to Morehampton Road – it wasn’t raining yet – and I caught the 39A up to Stoneybatter. It stops practically around the corner from her house.’

‘Whoa whoa whoa. Rewind.’ Breslin’s eyebrows are up. ‘Bus? You took the
bus
to her place? Way to impress a lady, Rory. Do you not own a car, no?’