One of the many ways that murder is the unique crime: it’s the only one that makes us ask why. Robbery, rape, fraud, drug dealing, all the filthy litany, they come with their filthy explanations built in; all you have to do is slot the perp into the perp-shaped hole. Murder needs an answer.
Some detectives don’t care. Officially, they’re right: if you can prove whodunit, nothing in the law says you need to prove why. I care. When I pulled what looked like a random drive-by, I spent weeks—after we had the shooter in custody, after we had enough evidence to sink him ten times over—having in-depth conversations with every monosyllabic cop-hating lowlife in his shit-hole neighborhood, until someone let slip that the victim’s uncle worked in a shop and had refused to sell the shooter’s twelve-year-old sister a packet of cigarettes. The day we stop asking why, the day we decide that it’s acceptable for the answer to a severed life to be Just because, is the day we step away from that line across the cave entrance and invite the wild to come howling in.
I said, “Trust me: I’m going to find out. We’ve got Brennan’s associates to talk to, we’ve got his flat to search, we’ve got the Spains’ computer—and Brennan’s, if he’s got one—to go through, we’ve got forensic evidence waiting to be analyzed… Somewhere in there, Detective, there’s a motive. Forgive me if I don’t have every piece of the puzzle in place within forty-eight hours of getting the bloody case, but I promise you, I will find them. Now let’s get this fucking statement and go home.”
I headed for the door, but Richie stayed put. He said, “Partners. That’s what you said this morning, remember? We’re partners.”
“Yes. We are. So?”
“So you don’t make the decisions for the both of us. We make them together. And I say we keep looking at Pat Spain.”
The stance—feet planted apart, shoulders squared—told me he wasn’t going to budge without a fight. We both knew that I could shove him back in his box and slam the lid on his head. One bad report from me and Richie was off the squad, back to Motor Vehicles or Vice for another few years, probably forever. All I had to do was touch on that, one delicate hint, and he would back off: finish Conor’s paperwork, leave Pat Spain to rest in peace. And that would be the end of that tentative thing that had begun in the hospital car park, less than twenty-four hours earlier.
I closed the door again. “All right,” I said. I let myself slump back against the wall and tried to squeeze tension out of my shoulder. “All right. Here’s what I suggest. We’ll need to spend the next week or so investigating Conor Brennan, to waterproof our case—that’s assuming he’s our man. I suggest that, during that time, you and I also conduct a parallel investigation into Pat Spain. Superintendent O’Kelly would like that idea even less than I do—he’d call it a waste of time and manpower—so we won’t make a song and dance about it. If and when it does come up, we’re just making sure Brennan’s defense isn’t going to find anything on Pat that they can use as a red herring in court. It’ll mean a lot of very long shifts, but I can handle that if you can.”
Richie already looked ready to fall asleep standing up, but he was young enough that a few hours would fix that. “I can handle it.”
“I thought so. If we turn up anything solid on Pat, then we’ll regroup and review. How does that strike you?”
He nodded. “Good,” he said. “Sounds good.”
I said, “The word for this week is discreet. Until and unless we come up with solid evidence, I’m not going to spit on Pat Spain’s body by calling him a murderer to the people who loved him, and I’m not going to watch you do it either. If you let any of them twig that he’s being treated as a suspect, we’re done. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yeah. Crystal.”
In the interview room, the pen was still down on the scribbled statement sheet and Conor was sagging over them, the heels of his hands pressed into his eyes. I said, “We all need sleep. We’ll hand him over for processing, get the report typed up, leave instructions for the floaters, and then we’ll go home and crash for a few hours. We’ll meet back here at noon. Now let’s go see what he’s got for us.”
I scooped my jumpers off the chair and bent to stuff them back into the holdall, but Richie stopped me. “Thanks,” he said.
He was holding out his hand and looking me straight in the face, steady green eyes. When we shook, the strength in his grip took me by surprise.
“No thanks needed,” I said. “It’s what partners do.”
The word hung in the air between us, bright and fluttering as a lit match. Richie nodded. “Sound,” he said.
I gave him a quick clap on the shoulder and went back to packing up. “Come on. I don’t know about you, but I’m dying for some kip.”
We threw our stuff into our holdalls, binned the litter of paper cups and coffee stirrers, switched off the lights and closed the observation-room door. Conor hadn’t moved. At the end of the corridor the window was still bleary with that tired city dawn, but this time the chill didn’t touch me. Maybe it was all that youthful energy beside me: the victory fizz was back in my veins and I felt wide awake again, straight-backed and strong and rock-solid, ready for whatever came next.
11
The phone dragged me up from the deep-sea bottom of sleep. I came up gasping and flailing—for a second I thought the shrieking noise was a fire alarm, telling me Dina was locked in my flat with flames swelling. “Kennedy,” I said, when my mind found its footing.
“This could have nothing to do with your case, but you did say to ring if we picked up any other forums. You know what a private message is, right?”
Whatshisname, the computer tech: Kieran. “More or less,” I said. My bedroom was dark; it could have been any hour of the day or night. I rolled over and fumbled for the bedside lamp. The sudden flare of light jabbed me in the eyes.
“OK, on some boards, you can set your preferences so that, if you get a private message, a copy of it comes to your e-mail. Pat Spain—well, it could be Jennifer, but I’m assuming it’s Pat, you’ll see what I mean—he had that setting activated, on one board at least. Our software recovered a PM that came through a forum called Wildwatcher—that’s the ‘WW’ in the password file, gotta be, not World of Warcraft.” Kieran apparently worked to the soothing rhythm of cranked-up house music. My head was already pounding. “It’s from some dude called Martin, sent the thirteenth of June, and it says, quote, ‘Not looking to get in any arguments but seriously if it’s a mink I would def lay down poison esp if you have kids those bastards are vicious’—spelled wrong—‘would attack a kid no problem.’ Unquote. Any mink in the case?”
My alarm clock said ten past ten. Assuming it was still Thursday morning, I had been asleep for less than three hours. “Have you checked out this Wildwatcher site?”
“No, I decided to get a pedicure instead. Yeah, I’ve checked it out. It’s a site where people can talk about wild animals they’ve spotted—I mean, not that wild, it’s a UK-based site so we’re mostly talking, like, urban foxes?—or ask what’s that darling little brown birdie nesting in their wisteria. So I ran a search for ‘mink,’ right, and it turned up a thread started by a user called Pat-the-lad on the morning of June twelfth. He was a new user; looks like he registered specifically to post this. Want me to read it to you?”
“I’m in the middle of something,” I said. My eyes felt like someone had rubbed sand into them; so did my mouth. “Can you e-mail me the link?”
“No problemo. What do you want me to do with Wildwatcher? Check it out fast, or in depth?”
“Fast. If no one gave Pat-the-lad any hassle, you can probably move on, for now anyway. That family didn’t get killed over a mink.”
“Sounds good to me. See you around, Kemosabe.” In the second before Kieran hung up, I heard him turn up his music to a volume that could pulverize bone.
I took a fast shower, turning the water colder and colder till my eyes were focusing again. My face in the mirror irritated me: I looked grim and intent, like
a man with his eyes on the prize, not a man whose prize was safe and sound in his display cabinet. I got my laptop, a pint glass of water and a few pieces of fruit—Dina had taken a bite out of a pear, changed her mind and put it back in the fridge—and sat on the sofa to check out Wildwatcher.
Pat-the-lad had registered at 9:23 A.M. on June 12, and started his thread at 9:35. It was the first time I had heard his voice. He came across as a good guy: down-to-earth, straight to the point, knew how to lay out the facts. Hi guys, got a question. Living on the east coast of Ireland, right by the sea if that makes a difference. Last few weeks been hearing weird noises in the attic. Running, lots of scratching, something hard rolling about, sound I can only describe as tapping/ticking. Went up there but no sign of any animal. There’s a slight smell, hard to describe, kind of smoky/musky, but could be just something to do w the house (?pipes overheating?). Found one hole under eaves leading outside but only about 5 inches by 3. Noises sound like something bigger than that. Checked the garden, no sign of a den, no sign of any holes where something could have dug under the wall (5 feet high). Any ideas what it could be/suggestions what to do about it? Got young kids so if it could be dangerous need to know. Thanks.
The Wildwatcher board wasn’t a hotbed of action, but Pat’s thread had got noticed: over a hundred replies. The first few told him he had rats or possibly squirrels and he should call an exterminator. He came back a couple of hours later to answer: Thanks guys think its just 1 animal, never hear noises in more than 1 place at a time. Don’t think its a rat or a squirrel—thought that at first but put down mousetrap w big lump of peanut butter, no go, plenty of action that nite but trap not touched in the morn. So something that doesn’t eat peanut butter!
Someone asked what time of day the animal was most active. That evening Pat posted: At first only heard it at night after we went to bed, but could be because I wasn’t listening for it during the day. Started paying attention about a week ago and its all times of day/night, no pattern. Last 3 days noticed a real uptick in noise when my wife is cooking, specially meat—thing goes mental. Sort of creepy to be honest w you. Tonight she was making dinner (beef casserole) + I was w the kids in my sons room which is over kitchen. Thing was scrabbling + banging like trying to get through ceiling. Right above my sons bed so am a bit worried. Any more ideas?
People were starting to get interested. They thought it was a stoat, a mink, a marten; they posted photos, slim sinuous animals, mouths wide to show delicate, wicked teeth. People suggested that Pat put down flour in the attic to get the animal’s paw prints, take pictures of those and its scat and post them on the board. Then someone wanted to know what the big deal was: Why r u even here??? Just get rat poison put it in the attic n bobs ur uncle. Or r u 1 of those bleedin hearts that dont beleive in killing vermin?? If u r then u deserve wat u get.
Everyone forgot all about Pat’s attic and started yelling at each other about animal rights. It got heated—everyone called everyone else a murderer—but when Pat came back the next day, he kept a level head and stayed well away from the flames. Rather not go for poison except as total last resort. There are gaps in attic floor leading down into space (?8 inches deep?) between beams + ceiling of rooms below. Have had a look in w torch + couldn’t see anything dodgy but don’t want it crawling in there and dying, or it’ll stink the place out + I’ll have to take up attic floor to get it. Same reason why I didn’t just board up hole under eaves, don’t want to trap it inside by mistake. Haven’t seen any scat but will keep a lookout + take advice on prints.
Nobody paid any attention to him—someone had, inevitably, compared someone to Hitler. Later that day, the admin locked the thread. Pat-the-lad never posted again.
This was obviously where the cameras and the holes in the walls came in, somehow, but they still didn’t quite add up. I couldn’t picture that level-headed guy chasing a stoat around his house with a lump hammer like something out of Caddyshack, but neither could I picture him sitting back and watching on a baby monitor while something gnawed chunks out of his walls, especially with his kids just a few feet away.
Either way, this should have meant we could leave the monitors and the holes behind. Like I had told Kieran, a mink hadn’t convinced Conor Brennan to commit mass murder; the problem belonged to Jenny or to her estate agent, not to us. But I had given Richie my word: we were going to investigate Pat Spain, and anything odd in his life needed explaining. I told myself there was plenty of silver lining—the more loose ends we tied up, the fewer chances for the defense to create confusion in court.
I made myself tea and cereal—the thought of Conor eating his jail breakfast gave me a hard-edged thump of grim pleasure—and took my time rereading the thread. I know Murder Ds who go searching for mementoes like that, for any thread-fine echo of the victim’s voice, any watery reflection of his living face. They want him to come alive for them. I don’t. Those torn scraps won’t help me solve the case, and I’ve got no time for the cheap pathos of it, the easy, excruciating poignancy of watching someone meander happily towards the cliff edge. I let the dead stay dead.
Pat was different. Conor Brennan had tried so hard to deface him, weld a killer’s mask onto his wrecked flesh for all eternity. Catching a glimpse of Pat’s own face felt like a blow on the side of the angels.
I left a message on Larry’s phone, asking him to get his outdoorsy man to check out the Wildwatcher thread, head down to Brianstown ASAP and see what he thought of the wildlife possibilities. Then I e-mailed Kieran back. Thanks for that. After that reception, looks like Pat Spain took his wildlife issues to some other site. We need to find out where. Keep me updated.
* * *
It was twenty to noon when I got into the incident room. All the floaters were either out working or out on coffee break, but Richie was at his desk, ankles wrapped around the legs of his chair like a teenager, nose to nose with his computer screen. “Howya,” he said, without looking up. “The lads picked up your man’s car. Dark blue Opel Corsa, 03D.”
“Style icon that he is.” I handed him a paper cup of coffee. “In case you didn’t get a chance. Where’d he have it parked?”
“Thanks. Up on that hill overlooking the south end of the bay. He had it stashed off the road, in among the trees, so the lads missed it till daylight.”
A good mile from the estate, maybe more. Conor had been taking no chances. “Beautiful. It’s gone to Larry?”
“Towing it now.”
I nodded at the computer. “Anything good?”
Richie shook his head. “Your man’s never been arrested, under Conor Brennan, anyway. Couple of speeding tickets, but the dates and locations don’t match anywhere I was posted.”
“Still trying to work out why he rings a bell?”
“Yeah. I’m thinking it could be from a long time back, ’cause in my head he’s younger, like maybe twenty. Might be nothing, but I just want to know.”
I tossed my coat over the back of my chair and took a swig of my coffee. “I’m wondering if someone else knows Conor from before, too. Pretty soon we need to pull in Fiona Rafferty, give her a look at him and see how she reacts. He got his hands on the Spains’ door key somehow—I don’t believe that crap he gave us about finding it on a dawn wander—and she’s the only one who had it. I’m having a hard time seeing that as coincidence.”
At that point Quigley oiled up behind me and tapped me on the arm with his morning tabloid. “I heard,” he breathed, like it was a dirty secret, “that you got someone for your big-deal case last night.”
Quigley always gives me the urge to straighten my tie and check my teeth for scraps. He smelled like he had eaten breakfast at a fast-food joint, which would explain a lot, and there was a sheen of grease on his upper lip. “You heard right,” I said, taking a step back from him.
He widened his pouchy little eyes at me. “That was quick, wasn’t it?”
“That’s what we’re paid for, chum: getting the bad guys. You should try it sometime.?
??
Quigley’s mouth pursed up. “God, you’re awful defensive, Kennedy. Are you having doubts, is it? Thinking maybe you’ve got the wrong fella?”
“Stay tuned. I doubt it, but go ahead and keep your champagne on ice, just in case.”
“Now hang on there. Don’t take out your insecurities on me. I’m only being pleased for you, so I am.”
He was pointing his paper at my chest, all puffed up with injured outrage—feeling hard done by is the fuel that keeps Quigley running. “Sweet of you,” I said, turning away to my desk to let him know we were finished. “One of these days, if I’m bored, I’ll take you out on a big case and show you how it’s done.”
“Oh, that’s right. Bring this one in and you’ll be getting all the big fancy cases again, won’t you? Ah, that’d be great for you, so it would. Some of us”—to Richie—“some of us just want to solve murders, the media attention doesn’t matter to us, but our Kennedy’s a little different. He likes the spotlight.” Quigley waggled the newspaper: ANGELS BUTCHERED IN THEIR BEDS, a blurry holiday shot of the Spains laughing on some beach. “Well, nothing wrong with that, I suppose. As long as the job gets done.”
“You want to solve murders?” Richie asked, puzzled.
Quigley ignored that. To me: “Wouldn’t it be great altogether if you got this one right? Then maybe everyone would put that other time behind them.” He actually had a hand lifted to pat my arm, but I gave him a stare and he thought better of it. “Good luck, eh? We’ll all be hoping you’ve got the right fella.” He shot me a smirk and a little wave of his crossed fingers, and waddled off to try and bring down someone else’s morning.