The first thing Julia feels is outrage: Our place, at night that’s our place, can’t we even have— Then she realises.
‘Still want your tenner?’ Finn says. He’s grinning away, like a Labrador bringing home something rotten, looking for pats and praise. ‘Or will we call it evens?’
Julia says, ‘How’d you get out of school?’
Finn doesn’t notice the change in her voice; he’s too pleased with his big surprise. ‘Trade secret.’
Julia pulls it together. ‘Wow,’ she says. Big admiring eyes, sway in towards Finn. ‘I didn’t know you guys could do that.’
And this time she’s not underestimating. He’s delighted with himself, with how smart he is, dying to impress her even more. ‘I hotwired the fire-door alarm. Got the instructions online. It took me like five minutes. I can’t open it from outside, obviously, but I stuck a piece of wood in to keep it open while I was out.’
‘OhmyGod,’ Julia says, hand over her mouth. It’s so easy. ‘If someone had gone past and seen it, you’d have been in so much shit. You could’ve been expelled.’
Finn shrugs, all fake-casual, leaning back with one foot up and his hands in his jeans pockets. ‘Totally worth it.’
‘When’d you do it? We could’ve run into each other.’ She giggles.
‘Ages back. A couple of weeks after the dance.’
Plenty of time for Chris to set up a meeting with Selena, a dozen meetings; if he knew. ‘On your own? Was that a selfie? Jesus, you really aren’t scared of the nun, are you?’
‘Live nuns, God, yeah: terrified. Dead ones, nah.’
Julia laughs along. ‘So you went out there by yourself? Seriously?’
‘Brought a couple of mates, for the laugh. I’d go on my own, though.’ Finn rearranges his feet and examines whatever he was drawing on his runner, like it’s fascinating. ‘So,’ he says. ‘Seeing as we can both get out, and we’re both not scared. Want to meet, some night? Just to hang out. See if we can spot the ghost nun.’
This time Julia misses her chance to laugh along. A discreet distance away, among the ragwort and dandelions that are growing even taller and thicker this year, Selena and Holly and Becca are all trying to listen to something on Becca’s iPod at the same time; Selena and Holly are elbowing each other for the earbud, laughing, hair in each other’s face, like everything’s that simple still. They make Julia want to shoot off the breeze blocks and explode. Any second now some mate of Finn’s is going to show up and come bouncing over, and by then she needs to know. If Gemma wasn’t lying, just if, Julia needs the weekend to figure out what to do.
‘You’re friends with Chris Harper,’ she says. ‘Right?’
Finn’s face closes over. ‘Yeah,’ he says. He holds out a hand for his phone, shoves it back in his pocket. ‘So?’
‘Does he know you’ve cut off the alarm?’
His mouth is getting a cynical curl to it. ‘Yeah. It was his idea. He’s the one that took the photo.’
Gemma wasn’t lying.
‘And if he’s who you wanted to hook up with all along, you could’ve just said that to start with.’
Finn thinks he’s been played for a fool. Julia says, ‘He’s not.’
‘I should’ve fucking known.’
‘If Chris disappeared off the earth in a puff of sleazebaggy smoke, I’d be celebrating. Believe me.’
‘Yeah. Whatever.’ Finn has changed colours, eyes gone dark, a raw burned red high on his cheeks. If she were a guy, he would punch her. Since she isn’t, he’s left stinging and helpless. ‘You’re some piece of work, you know that?’
Julia understands that if she doesn’t fix this right now, the chance will be gone and he will never forgive her. If they run into each other on the street when they’re forty, Finn’s face will get that burned look and he’ll keep walking.
She doesn’t have room to work out how to mend this. The other thing is spreading white and blinding across her mind, pushing Finn to the edges.
‘Believe what you want,’ she says. ‘I have to go,’ and she slides off the breeze blocks and heads back to the others, feeling the Daleks’ eyes scratching at her skin like needles, wishing she was a guy so that Finn could punch her and get it over with and then she could find Chris Harper and smash his face in.
Holly’s eyes meet Julia’s for a second, but whatever she sees warns her or satisfies her, or both. Becca glances up and starts to ask something, but Selena touches her arm and they go back to the iPod. Some game is sending little orange darts zipping across the screen; white balloons explode in slow motion, silent fragments fluttering down. Julia sits in the weeds and watches Finn walk away.
Chapter 21
We didn’t talk about Holly, me and Conway. We held her name between us like nitroglycerine and didn’t look at each other, while we did what needed doing: handed Alison over to Miss Arnold, told her to hang on to the kid overnight. Asked her for the key to the lost-and-found bin, and the story on how long things stayed in there before they got dumped. Low-value stuff went to charity at the end of each term, but pricey things – MP3 players, phones – they got left indefinitely.
The school building was dim-lit for nighttime. ‘What?’ Conway demanded, when the crack of a stair made me shy sideways.
‘Nothing.’ When that wasn’t enough: ‘A bit jumpy.’
‘Why?’
No way was I going to say Frank Mackey. ‘That light-bulb was a bit freaky. Is all.’
‘It wasn’t fucking freaky. The wiring in this place is a hundred years old; shit must blow up all the time. What’s freaky about that?’
‘Nothing. The timing, just.’
‘The timing was there’d been people in that common room all evening. The motion sensor’s been working overtime, something overheated and the bulb blew. End of fucking story.’
I wasn’t going to fight her on it, not when I agreed with her and she probably knew it. ‘Yeah. I’d say you’re right.’
‘Yeah. I am.’
Even arguing, we were keeping our voices down – the place made you feel like someone could be listening, getting ready to jump out at you. Every sound we made flitted away up the great curve of the stairwell, settled to rest in the shadows somewhere high above us. Above the front door the fanlight glowed blue, delicate as wing-bones.
The bin was black metal, old, off in a corner of the foyer. I fitted the key – quietly as I could, feeling like a kid slipping through forbidden places, springy with adrenaline – and swung open the panel at the bottom. Things came tumbling out at me: a cardigan smelling of stale perfume, a plush cat, a paperback, a sandal, a protractor.
The pearly pink flip-phone was at the bottom. We’d walked past it on our way into the school, that morning.
I put on my gloves, eased it out between two fingertips like we might get prints. We wouldn’t. Not off the outside, not off the inside of the cover, not off the battery or the SIM card. Everything would be shiny clean.
‘Great,’ Conway said, grim. ‘A cop’s kid. Beautiful.’
I said, finally, ‘This doesn’t mean for definite that Holly did it.’
My voice sounded reedy and stupid, too weak to convince even me. Flick of Conway’s eyebrow. ‘You don’t think?’
‘She could’ve been covering for Julia or Rebecca.’
‘Could’ve been, but we’ve got nothing that says she was. Everything else could point to any of them; this is the only thing we’ve got that’s specific, and it points straight at Holly. She couldn’t stand Chris. And from what I’ve seen of her, the kid’s determined, independent, got brains, got guts. She’d make a great killer.’
The cool of Holly, that morning in Cold Cases. Running the interview, glossy and sharp, throwing me a compliment to jump for at the end. Taking control.
‘Anything I’m missing,’ Conway said, ‘feel free to point it out.’
I said, ‘Why bring me the card?’
‘I didn’t miss that.’ Conway shook out another evidence envelope, sprea
d it on top of the bin and started labelling. ‘She’s got balls, too. She knew someone would come to us sooner or later, figured doing it herself would take her off the suspect list – and it worked, too. If there’s trouble waiting for you, better to go out and meet it head-on, not stick your head in the sand and hope it doesn’t find you. I’d do the same thing.’
The look on Holly, that afternoon in the corridor when Alison lost the plot. Scanning faces. For a murderer, I’d thought then. For an informer had never crossed my mind.
I said, ‘That’s a lot of balls for a sixteen-year-old.’
‘So? You don’t think she’s got them?’
No answer to that. It hit me like a mouthful of ice: Conway had had Holly in her sights all along. The second I had shown up in her squad room, all eager, with my little card and my little story, she had started wondering.
Conway said, ‘I’m not saying she definitely did the job all by herself. Like we said before, it could’ve been her and Julia and Rebecca together; could’ve been the whole four of them. But whatever went down, Holly was up to her tits in it.’
‘And I’m not saying she wasn’t. I’m just keeping an open mind.’
Conway had finished labelling the envelope and straightened up, watching me. She said, ‘You think the same thing. You just don’t like that your Holly had you fooled.’
‘She’s not my Holly.’
Conway didn’t answer that. She held out the envelope for me to drop in the phone. Let it swing between her fingers. ‘If this interview is gonna be a problem for you,’ she said, ‘I need to know now.’
I kept my voice even. ‘Why would it be a problem?’
‘We’re gonna have to get her da in.’
No way to pretend Holly wasn’t a suspect. The stupidest detective alive wouldn’t bite on that. Holly’s da isn’t stupid.
I said, ‘Yeah. And?’
‘Word on the street is that Mackey’s done you a few favours. I’m not giving you hassle for that; you do what you need to do. But if the two of you are all buddy-buddy, or if you owe him, then you’re not the guy to interrogate his kid for murder.’
I said, ‘I don’t owe Mackey anything. And he’s not my buddy.’
Conway watched me.
‘It’s been years since I even talked to the guy. I came in useful to him once, he’s made sure to be useful to me since – he wants everyone knowing that helping him out pays off. That’s it. End of.’
‘Huh,’ Conway said. Maybe she looked satisfied; maybe she just looked like she had decided it might soften Mackey up, having an ally in the room. She sealed off the envelope, shoved it in her satchel with the rest. ‘I don’t know Mackey. Is he gonna give us hassle?’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘He will. I wouldn’t say he’ll whip Holly straight off home, tell us to talk to his solicitor; he’s not like that. He’ll fuck with us, but he’ll do it sideways, and he won’t leave unless it looks like we’re getting somewhere. He’ll want to keep us talking till he works out our theory, what we’ve got.’
Conway nodded. Said, ‘Got his number?’
‘Yeah.’
Next second I wished I’d said no, but all Conway said was, ‘Ring him.’
Mackey picked up fast. ‘Stephen, my man! Long time no talk.’
I said, ‘I’m at St Kilda’s.’
The air sharpened, instantly, to a knifepoint. ‘What’s happened.’
‘Holly’s fine,’ I said, fast. ‘Totally fine. We just need to have a chat with her, and we figured you’d want to be there.’
Silence. Then Mackey said, ‘You don’t say Word One to her till I get there. Not Word One. Have you got that?’
‘Got it.’
‘Don’t forget it. I’m nearby. I’ll be there in twenty.’ He hung up.
I put my phone away. ‘He’ll be here in fifteen minutes,’ I said. ‘We need to be ready.’
Conway slammed the panel of the lost-and-found bin, hard. The deep clang shot off into the shadows, took its time dissolving.
She said, loud, to the high darkness, ‘We’ll be ready.’
McKenna launched herself out of the common room at Conway’s knock like she’d been waiting behind the door. The long day and the white light in the corridor weren’t good to her. Her hair was still set solid and the expensive suit hadn’t a crease, but the discreet makeup was wearing off, in clumps. Her wrinkles had got deeper since that morning; her pores looked the size of chicken-pox scars. She had her phone in her hand: still doing damage control, trying to patch leaking seams.
She was raging. ‘I have no idea whether your standard procedures involve sending witnesses into hysterics—’
‘We weren’t the ones who kept a dozen teenage girls cooped up all day,’ Conway said. Gave the common-room door a slap. ‘Lovely room and all, but after a few hours the most tasteful decor in the world won’t stop them going stir-crazy. If I were you, I’d make sure they get a chance to stretch their legs before bed, unless you want them going off again at midnight.’
McKenna’s eyes closed for a second on the thought. ‘Thank you for your advice, Detective, but I think you’ve done enough already. The students have been cooped up in case you needed to speak with them, and that will no longer be an issue. I would like you to leave now.’
‘Can’t be done,’ Conway said. ‘Sorry. We need a quick word with Holly Mackey. Just waiting for her da to get here.’
That sent McKenna up another notch. ‘I gave you permission to speak to our students specifically so you would not need to request parental authorisation. Involving the parents is completely unnecessary, it can only complicate the situation both for you and for the school—’
‘Holly’s da’s going to hear all about this anyway, soon as he shows up for work in the morning. Don’t worry: I wouldn’t say he’ll be straight on the phone to the mummy network to pass on the gossip.’
‘Is there any earthly reason why this needs to be done tonight? As you so cleverly pointed out, the students have already had more than enough of this pressure for one day. In the morning—’
Conway said, ‘We can talk to Holly in the main school building. Get us out of your hair, let the rest of the girls go back to the normal routine. How’s the art room?’
McKenna was all monobosom, no lips. ‘Lights-out is at a quarter to eleven. By that time I expect Holly – and all the other students – to be in their rooms and in bed. If you have further questions for any of them, I assume they can wait until tomorrow morning.’ And the common-room door shut in our faces.
‘You have to love the attitude,’ Conway said. ‘Doesn’t give a shite that we could arrest her for obstruction; this is her manor, she’s the boss.’
I said, ‘Why the art room?’
‘Keep her thinking about that postcard, remembering there’s someone out there who knows.’ Conway tugged the elastic out of what was left of her bun. Hair came down around her shoulders, straight and heavy. ‘You start us off. Good Cop, nice and gentle, don’t spook her and don’t spook Daddy. Just set up the facts: she was getting out at night, she knew about Chris and Selena, she didn’t like Chris. Try and fill in the details: why she didn’t like him, whether she discussed the relationship with the others. When you need Bad Cop, I’ll come in.’
A couple of fast twists of her wrists, a snap of hairband, and the bun was in place, smooth and glossy as marble. Her shoulders had straightened; even the scoured look had fallen away from her face. Conway was ready.
The common-room door opened. Holly in the doorway, with McKenna behind her. Ponytail, jeans, a turquoise hoodie with sleeves that hid her hands.
I’d been thinking of her all snap and sheen, but that was gone. She was white and ten years older, daze-eyed, like someone had shaken her world like a snow globe and nothing was coming down in the same places. Like she had been so confident she was doing everything right, and all of a sudden nothing looked that simple any more.
It turned me cold. I couldn’t look at Conway. Didn’t need to; I kne
w she’d seen it too.
Holly said, ‘What’s going on?’
I remembered her nine years old, so stiff with courage she would break your heart. I said, ‘Your dad’s on his way. I’d say he’d rather we don’t talk till he gets here.’
That burned off the daze. Holly’s head went back in exasperation. ‘You called my dad? Come on!’
I didn’t answer. Holly saw the look on me and closed her mouth. Disappeared behind the smoothness of her face, innocent and secretive all at once.
‘Thanks,’ Conway said to McKenna. To me and Holly: ‘Let’s go.’
The long corridor we’d walked down that morning, to find the Secret Place. Then it had been humming with sun and busyness; now – Conway passed the light switch without a glance – it was twilit and sizeless. Evening through the window behind us gave us faint shadows, me and Conway stretched even taller on either side of the straight slip of Holly, like guards with a hostage. Our steps echoed like marching boots.
The Secret Place. In that light it looked like it was rippling, just off the corner of your vision, but it had lost that boil and jabber. All you could almost hear off it was a long murmur made of a thousand muffled whispers, all begging you to hear. A new postcard had a photo of one of those gold living statues you get on Grafton Street; the caption said, they terrify me!
The art room. Not morning-fresh and rising with sunlight now. The overhead lights left murky corners; the green tables were smeared with shreds of clay, Conway’s balls of paper were still tumbled under chairs. McKenna must have cancelled the cleaners. Battening down the school as tight as she could, everything under control.
Outside the tall windows the moon was up, full and ripe against a dimming blue. On the table against them, that morning’s dropcloth had been pulled away, not put back. Where it had been was the whole school in miniature, in fairytale, in the finest curlicues of copper wire.
I said, ‘That. Is that the project you were working on last night?’
Holly said, ‘Yeah.’
Close up, it looked too delicate to stay standing. The walls were barely sketched, just the odd line of wire; you could look straight through them, to wire desks, ragged cloth blackboards scribbled with words too small to read, high-backed wire armchairs cosy around a fire of tissue-paper coals. It was winter; snow was piled on the gables, around the bases of the columns and the wine-jar curves of the balustrade. Behind the building, a lawn of snowdrift trailed off the edge of the baseboard into nothing.