The Trespasser (42 page)

He wants to tell me the story, badly. Him and McCann have worked hard to make me think he’s just a big-hearted guy, but that kind of offer – here, let me take a chunk of your life and rewrite it my way – that never comes out of the goodness of anyone’s heart. I say, ‘When I need a hand, I’ll let you know.’

‘It’ll sting. I’m not going to lie to you.’ Breslin has his sympathetic face on, but I’ve seen it before, in interview rooms. ‘I can see why you might not want to deal with that.’

‘I don’t. I don’t want to deal with anything except my cases. And I want that word with Reilly.’

I go for the door, but Breslin stretches out an arm to block my way. ‘You had a run-in with Roche, your first week,’ he says. ‘Remember that?’

‘Barely. Old news.’

‘Except it’s not. You underestimated Roche. Not long after, he told us that back when you were in uniform, you fucked up big-time. You were supposed to be guarding some drug dealer while your partner did a sweep of his house; you took off the cuffs so the suspect could go behind a hedge and take a piss, and he did a legger. Then you told your partner – Roche didn’t name names; he’s too smart for that – that if he put anything in the report, you’d have him up for sexual assault, claim he’d been grabbing your tits in the patrol car.’

Breslin lowers his arm and takes one deliberate step to the side, out of my way. I don’t move, just like he knew I wouldn’t.

‘When your partner wrote you up anyway,’ he says, ‘you followed through: went to your gaffer. The shit hit the fan, the report got rewritten your way, your partner’s stuck in blue for the rest of his career, and you got three weeks’ paid leave to recover from the trauma of it all. Is any of this sounding familiar?’

The three weeks I spent being Fleas’s cousin. And before that, there was a suspect – some idiot off his face on speed; I don’t even remember his name, that’s how big an impression the whole thing made – who did a runner on me and my partner. My partner was a good guy, in the uninspired way that stamps BLUE FOR LIFE on your forehead from your first day. Roche did his research, made sure the story tasted of truth just enough that people would swallow it whole.

Breslin says, ‘About half the squad believes it. And they want you gone, asap, before you pull the same shite on one of them. They’re very, very serious about it.’

He’s watching me under his eyelids for a tear, a tremor, a sign that I want to kick Roche’s teeth out the back of his skull. ‘I was right,’ I say. ‘I could’ve survived just fine without knowing that. Thanks, though. I’ll keep it in mind.’

That snaps his eyes open. ‘You’re taking this very lightly, Conway.’

‘Roche is a shitball. That’s not exactly breaking news. What do you want me to do? Faint? Cry?’

‘It wasn’t an easy choice, telling you this. I’m a very loyal person. There are plenty of people who would see this as a betrayal of the squad – and this squad means a lot to me. I want you to at
least
show a little appreciation for what I’ve done here.’

Another minute and he’ll have himself worked into a full froth of outrage, and I’ll have that to clean up before I can go back to business. ‘I appreciate it,’ I say. ‘I do. I just don’t get why you’re telling me.’

‘Because someone needs to. Your partner should’ve done it months ago – come on, Conway, of course Moran knows; you think Roche let him get through his first week without cornering him to tell him what he’d hooked up with?’ He’s still scanning for a reaction, cold hungry cop-eyes above the touch of smirk. Breslin’s aiming to end this chat with me sobbing my little heart out or punching walls or both. All the energy he’s putting into it; what a waste. ‘Your partner’s supposed to have your back. We wouldn’t need to have this conversation if he’d done his bloody job.’

I say, ‘Maybe he didn’t see any reason why I needed to know.’

‘What the hell? Of
course
you fucking need to know. You need to know
now
– no, fuck that: you needed to know months ago. You’re on your last legs here. Are you
getting
this, Conway?’ Breslin’s leaning in, too close, the hulking loom he uses on suspects wobbling on the edge of a confession. ‘You’ve still got a shot, but it’s your last. If you pull your head out of your arse and quit treating me like the enemy, then we’ll have this case put to bed by the end of the week. I’ll be able to vouch for you in the squad room, and my word actually carries a fair bit of weight there. And then, if you can manage to act civil to the lads, then you’ll be sorted, and you’ll be an asset to the squad – and like I said, that means something to me. But if you keep blocking me because you’ve got some martyr complex going on, then this case is going to go to shit, and I’m not going to be on your side any more, because I don’t
like
being associated with cases that have gone to shit. And then, not to put too fine a point on it, you’re fucked.’

He leans back against the wall again, sticking his hands in his pockets. ‘It’s your call.’ The knight in shining armour, all ready to rescue me, if only I would let him.

I don’t get rescued. I’ll take help, no problem, just like I took it off Gary and off Fleas. Rescue – where you’re sinking for the third time, you’ve tried everything you’ve got and none of it’s enough – rescue is different.

If someone rescues you, they own you. Not because you owe them – you can sort that, with enough good favours or bottles of booze dressed up in ribbons. They own you because you’re not the lead in your story any more. You’re the poor struggling loser/helpless damsel/plucky sidekick who was saved from danger/dishonour/humiliation by the brilliant brave compassionate hero/heroine, and they get to decide which, because you’re not the one running this story, not any more.

I had Breslin wrong all the way. He’s not out to sink me, not necessarily. He’s out to own me.

This is what McCann was softening me up for, with his salvaged statement sheet and his heart-of-gold routine. Maybe Breslin has some squad split in the works, him against Roche, and he’s building up his team. Maybe he’s got a hint that the gaffer is putting in his papers – the golden boy would know – and he figures bringing the bad girl into line would boost his chances for the job. Maybe he’s got nothing specific lined up, just figures I’m an easy opportunity and I’ll come in useful somehow, down the line.

I could laugh, if I had the energy. I’m not gonna come in useful to anyone, not on this squad.

Breslin taps his phone pocket. ‘Conway,’ he says, more gently. ‘I didn’t have to share this with you, remember? I could have just pulled Rory in myself and gone at him solo. I’m sharing because I think it’s better for everyone if you and I work together. Better for the case, for the squad, for you – and yeah, better for me.’ He smiles, putting in just the right balance of fatherly warmth and professional respect. ‘Let’s face it, Conway: you and I, we make a good team. We did nice work together on Rory, Sunday afternoon. With this’ – the phone pocket again – ‘we can do a lot better.’

I’m gearing up to tell him where to stick his rescue effort, when I realise it doesn’t matter. I don’t have to worry about Breslin rescuing me, owning me, sinking me, any of that fancy crap; whatever he has in mind for me, I won’t be here for it. He’s right, we’re good together, and all of a sudden I’m free to use that, without going into a tailspin about consequences like Rory bloody Fallon himself. This quitting thing is fun; I wish I’d thought of it months ago.

‘OK,’ I say. ‘Let’s do it. But we don’t bring up that footage till I give the word. I want to save that.’

‘No problem. You call it.’ Breslin grins at me. ‘This is going to be a lot of fun, Conway. When we show Rory this, he’s going to wet his frilly knickers.’

‘It’s better than that,’ I say. Breslin raises a questioning eyebrow. ‘We’ve been looking for a motive, or at least something that could’ve triggered the attack. Right?’

Breslin blows air out of one corner of his mouth. ‘Well. You have. I still don’t actually care why he did it, as long as we can show that he did it.’

‘Rory gets over to Aislinn’s place,’ I say, ‘all amped up for the big night. He’s a bit early, but that’s no big deal; she lets him in, they’re delighted to see each other. And then, somehow, the stalking comes out. Maybe he lets something slip that tells Aislinn he knows Stoneybatter. Or maybe she mentions having seen him around the area, and he doesn’t cover it fast enough.’

It feels good, coming up with a story. I can see why everyone’s so hooked on it. I’ve got the whole scene playing out in front of me like another video clip, but one I can tweak and nudge till everything about it suits me right down to the ground. ‘Either way, Aislinn’s not happy. She’s already been having doubts about how full-on Rory is; she dismissed those, but this takes him over the line into whacko territory. She tells him to leave, and he loses the head.’

Breslin has his lips pursed and he’s nodding away. ‘I like this,’ he says. ‘I like it a lot. Conway, I think you’re onto something here. I knew there was a reason I had faith in you.’

I say, ‘Let’s see what Rory thinks of it.’

Breslin smiles at me, a great big warm smile like I’m the best thing he’s seen in months. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Let’s get out of here. This place stinks.’

I could drink the air in the corridor in one swallow, after that snot we’ve been breathing. Breslin shuts the incident-room door behind us with a neat contemptuous slam that says,
You won’t be needing this place any more.

Back in the incident room, I ring Rory and ask him, all friendly and casual, if he would mind giving us a hand by coming in for another quick chat. I’m all ready to knock down a bunch of excuses about how he can’t leave the shop and he’s got an appointment and he doesn’t feel well, but he falls over himself agreeing to come in straightaway. He’s just desperate to prove he’s on our side, but I’m so unused to things being easy that it feels unnatural, almost creepy, like the world has slid a notch sideways and won’t click back to reality. I want sleep, a lot of it.

Steve is still out. I catch some autopilot part of me actually hoping he’ll show up before Rory does – I’ll have to start off the interview with Breslin, what with him bringing me that footage, but I can swap Steve in before we get to the final push; we’ll get a confession off Rory, show that ditzy fool Steve that I was right all along, he’ll apologise and we’ll go for a pint and everything will go back to normal— This is when my brain catches up and remembers that things aren’t going back to normal, not ever again. The incident room lurches, light jumping and stuttering, the hum of the computers rising like sirens.

When I beckon Reilly over to my desk, he doesn’t even bother faking an apology, just puts on a blank pig-face and stares over my shoulder, waiting for me to be done. I was all geared up to take his head off, but looking at that face barely hiding a sneer, all I can think of is Steve: Steve, on that old case years back, getting that key piece of info and pinning it to his lapel instead of bringing it home to the lead D. Reilly makes me sick. I don’t want him ripped to pieces any more; all I want is him out of my sight. When I tell him to go back to the floater pool, his face – sneer slapped right off, raw burn of anger and humiliation rising – doesn’t even give me a drop of satisfaction. The other floaters pretend they’re concentrating on work while he gathers up his stuff and leaves, slamming the door on his way out. Breslin lounges at his desk and watches me, eyes hooded, pen between his teeth, all ready to tell me whether I’ve done the right thing or not. I don’t ask.

The footage shows exactly what Breslin said it did: Rory, wandering around Stoneybatter when he shouldn’t have been. I send Meehan to head over there, pull all the December CCTV footage he can get – there won’t be much left – and start watching. Then I pick out the best shots of Rory, with time stamps, and print them off.

The phone on my desk rings: Bernadette, to say Rory Fallon is downstairs. ‘He’s here,’ I say to Breslin.

‘Let’s do it,’ he says, shoving his chair back. ‘See you later, boys. We’ll bring you back a nice scalp.’

The floaters glance up and nod, too quickly, scared I’ll rip the throat out of anyone who makes eye contact. On my monitor, a blurry black-and-white Stoneybatter street moves in jumps – runner frozen in one corner of the screen, teleported to the opposite side in a blink; Alsatian caught in mid-piss, then vanished – till I hit Stop. The computers and the whiteboard and the floaters billow and shrink around the edges like thin fabric underwater, drifting farther away all the time.

Chapter 12

Rory is in even worse shape than he was on Sunday. His hair still has that plastered-down look, his eyes are bloodshot and his skin is a dry, clothy white. He smells of clothes left too long in the washing machine. A smile jerks up on his face when he sees us, but it’s a reflex, jittery and mechanical. We’re gonna have fun getting him chilled out enough to be useful.

We start by taking him to the nice interview room, the one for shaken-up witnesses and victims’ relatives. It’s cute: pastel-yellow paint, chairs that don’t hate you, a kettle and a hotel-style basket of tea bags and itty-bitty sachets of instant coffee. My First Interview Room, we call it. Even through his jitters, Rory feels the difference; he relaxes enough to take off his second-best coat and hang it tidily over the back of his chair. Underneath he has on jeans and a baggy beige jumper that’s twenty quid’s worth of knitted depression.

‘Let’s get through the paperwork first,’ Breslin says, sliding a rights sheet and a pen across the table. Since Chief Jock is the intimidating one, he’s armed with a big file bursting with everything that could come in useful, plus random paper for padding. Cool Girl is on Rory’s side, deep down, so I’ve got nothing but my notebook and my pen. ‘Sorry about this; I know you’ve already done it, but we need a new one of these every time. 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. Just like last time. Is that all OK?’