Steve says, ‘Unless Aislinn had him fooled well enough that it never occurred to him she might be seeing someone else.’
‘Sure. Which would mean he’s not the jealous type, which would mean he wouldn’t lose the plot when he found out. We’re back where we started: it doesn’t add up, psychologically. And the second problem.’ Breslin raises another finger. ‘Rory could’ve turned off that cooker because he didn’t like the smell, or because his mummy trained him never to leave appliances on. Mac couldn’t have. He’s not some civilian pussy-boy who’d go to pieces and do dumb shit for no good reason. Even under serious stress, he was thinking straight – straight enough to wipe the joint for prints, remember. He wasn’t going to touch anything in that house without a solid reason. If he’d killed Aislinn, if he knew that all the forensics would point to him and burning the gaff down could only help him get away with it, why the hell would he turn off the cooker?’
I say, ‘So the smoke alarm wouldn’t go off. McCann was thinking straight, all right. He needed time to wipe the house down – and more than that, he realised Aislinn’s fella could come in very useful. A boyfriend on the spot, all on his own with no one to vouch for his actions, right around the time of the attack: man, that’s a killer’s dream.’
Breslin’s shaking his head, doing a small smile of pure disgust. I don’t care. ‘The only problem was,’ I say, ‘seeing as McCann hadn’t actually been reading Aislinn’s texts, he didn’t know exactly when the boyfriend was due to arrive. Even if he checked her phone and found the appointment time – which he didn’t want to do, because the techs would be able to see that he’d done it, and when – that didn’t guarantee that the boyfriend wouldn’t be running late. If McCann left the cooker on, it might set off the smoke alarm – and Aislinn might be found – while this fella was still somewhere else, with an alibi. Even if McCann disabled the alarm, he risked having a neighbour or the boyfriend notice smoke and call it in while the boyfriend could still be excluded. The cooker had to be turned off.’
Breslin shrugs. ‘I suppose you might be able to argue that. Like I said, it’s a cute story. But that’s all it is. There’s nothing solid underneath. You can prove that Mac had an affair with Aislinn. Good for you. But when it comes to Saturday night, you can prove exactly bugger-all. You’ve got an ID from the prime suspect, who has every motive to drag someone else into this mess. You’ve got some bizarre convoluted story you heard from some woman who may or may not have been the vic’s best friend, may or may not have been in love with the vic herself, and may or may not be holding a jealous grudge against the lucky guy who got to shag the vic. And if you actually get a warrant to search Mac’s gaff, which I can’t believe you’d be stupid enough to do, you’ll probably have proof that he’s lost his brown gloves. And that’s it. That’s what you’ve got.’
Silence.
‘What are you planning to do with it?’
More silence.
‘Yeah. That’s what I thought.’ Breslin fills himself another cup of water, and we listen to the bubbles force their way up the cooler. He takes a long deliberate sip before he says, ‘I hope you two realise what you’ve done to this case.’
Neither of us bites.
‘You’ve fucked it right up the ass. Do you get that? You’ll never get McCann for this, because A, you’ve got no evidence that he did it, and B, he didn’t do it, Fallon did. If you actually try going after Mac, the prosecutor will laugh your file right out of his office. If you somehow manage to get him into court – which you won’t – the defence will pull in Rory Fallon and your mountain of actual evidence against him, and the jury will acquit before the jury-room door closes. Wouldn’t you? Be honest. If you were on the jury, and the sum total of the evidence was what you’ve just told me, would you vote to convict?’
Me and Steve don’t answer.
‘Of course you wouldn’t. Neither would anyone else in the country, except maybe the odd cop-hater who’d vote to convict him of being Jack the Ripper. But now that you’ve opened up this whole can of worms with Mac, you’re never going to get Fallon. The prosecutors get him into court, the defence pulls in McCann – wrecks his marriage and possibly his career in the process, but hey, that’s not your problem, am I right? – and bang, reasonable doubt. Bye-bye, Rory. Have a nice life. See you when your next girlfriend pisses you off.’
He raises his cup to an imaginary Rory.
‘You’re done, kids. All you’ve got left to do here is pack up your case file and send it down to the basement – and, of course, find a good explanation to give the gaffer and the media for why this case has crashed into a wall and poor Aislinn won’t be getting the justice she deserves. Are you proud of yourselves? Does this feel like a good week’s work to you?’
We stay silent. There’s nothing we could say that has any point to it.
Breslin sighs and strolls over to the video camera. ‘The only thing we can do with this mess,’ he says, ‘is keep it from ruining McCann’s life. Frankly, after what you’ve put him through for absolutely no good reason, that’s the least you can do.’
He reaches up to the video camera, hits the eject button and pulls out the tape. ‘Am I right that you had more sense than to log this interview anywhere?’
Steve nods.
‘When you got McCann to come with you. You managed not to make it obvious what you were doing?’
Nod.
‘You haven’t taken an official statement from Lucy Riordan?’
I shake my head.
‘Let’s all thank God for small mercies,’ Breslin says. He brings the videotape down on his palm with a flat rattle. ‘So. The last hour or so never happened. You’ll get rid of those photo arrays and take a nice appropriate statement from Lucy – I’m sure you can figure out a way to do that. I’ll explain to the gaffer that you’ve been doing a fine job, but we’re not getting enough for a charge that’ll hold up, so we’ve decided to back-burner Rory Fallon for now, keep working the forensics and electronics, and hope something pops up down the road.’ Or, more like, reassure the gaffer that he’s got me and Steve under control, like he promised to all along. I can hardly stand to look at his face. ‘The gaffer’ll hold off the media till they find something else to gnaw on. We’ll keep an eye on Rory, make sure his near miss keeps him scared straight. And we’ll all live happily ever after.’ Breslin brings the tape down on his palm again. ‘Does that sound like a plan?’
After a moment I say, ‘Yeah.’
‘Moran?’
Steve takes a breath. ‘Yeah.’
‘It’s not going to run into any glitches along the way. Am I right?’
I say, ‘No glitches.’
‘Good.’ Breslin tucks the tape inside his jacket and heads for the door. With his hand on the handle, he turns for an exit line.
‘It might be a while before you get this,’ he says, ‘but you two owe me big-time. I’m sure it doesn’t feel like it right now. But a few years down the road, when Rory Fallon gets locked and spills his guts to his new girlfriend, and you’re still here to make the collar, you’re going to realise I’m the best thing that ever happened to you. I’ll take my thank-yous then. If they come with a nice bottle of bourbon thrown in, it won’t go to waste.’
Before either of us can come up with a sensible response to that steaming heap, he gives us a nod and he’s gone, bang of the door and fast firm strides down the corridor, off to tell McCann that everything’s gonna be just fine.
After a few moments Steve bends to pick up the Murray family photo. He says, ‘I thought we had him there. McCann. When we brought this out. I really thought . . .’
‘Yeah, I did too. It was good, that. It should’ve worked.’ I let myself have five seconds to think about just how good that interview was; how good we were together, me and Steve. How it felt like we could read each other’s mind. I give myself those five seconds to understand what I’m losing.
‘“No comment,” ’ Steve says. He tucks the photo back into his jacket pocket, care
fully, like it might matter again sometime.
I say, ‘We should have seen it.’
Way back at the very beginning, when Lucy turned squirrelly about Aislinn’s secret boyfriend, we should have seen it. Us running around chasing imaginary gangsters, whipping up drama about bent cops and shushing each other about complicated suspicions, when the obvious was jumping up and down in front of us, waving its arms for attention.
‘I’m a fucking eejit for leaving that search on my computer,’ Steve says. ‘No sleep, the gaffer called us in, I got rattled—’
‘No worse than me, trying to pump Breslin and making a balls of it. Don’t worry about it.’
‘If I hadn’t started us down the whole gang road—’
I say, ‘Even if you hadn’t. I don’t think we would’ve seen it.’
Steve said it days ago: Breslin is used to being the good guy, any story that gets room in his head has to grow out of that beginning. It’s not just Breslin. All of us Ds know, certain sure, we’re the good guys. Without that to stand on, there isn’t a way through the parts of this job that are dark dripping hell. Breslin the bent cop, McCann the bent cop, those we could picture. There are cops who’ll go that way, always have been; hazard of the job. But a killer cop, one of our own transformed into the thing we spend our lives trying to bring down, that’s different. That wrenches the world inside out. Even me, and I’ve got years’ worth of reasons to know that the police aren’t always good guys: when it was there in front of my face, my eyes weren’t able to see it.
Breslin and McCann at the top of the stairs, muttering about how urgently they needed this case nailed shut: a kid could have seen why. It never came near my mind.
Maybe Breslin really did believe McCann, when he rang out of the night with a story that was just barely plausible, and not just because he needed to be the noble white knight. Maybe he believed it because when the other possibility came into his mind, the only thing his mind could do was spit it out and leap away.
‘Maybe not.’ Steve is staring blankly at the place where Breslin was. ‘Even if we had, it would’ve probably made no difference. It’s not like there’s extra evidence we could’ve got our hands on. We’d be banjaxed anyway.’
It would have made a difference, but. All the ways it would have made all the difference hang in my head, weaving together into one thick dark curtain. I haven’t got a way to put it into words: what might be gone for good behind its slow sway; what these few days might have changed, if only we’d seen.
I say, ‘I’m not done.’ I get my phone out and I start skimming through my contacts.
Steve’s eyes move to me, dark and doubtful. ‘We’re not going to get him. What Breslin said, it sucks but he’s right.’
‘I know.’
He starts to say something else, but I lift a finger: the phone’s ringing. ‘Louis Crowley,’ says Creepy Crowley suspiciously. The background noise sounds like he’s in a pub.
‘Howya,’ I say. ‘Antoinette Conway, Murder squad. I need to talk to you. Like, now. Where are you?’
I throw in a good pinch of suppressed desperation, to get him drooling, and it works. ‘Hmm,’ Crowley says. ‘I’m not sure I have the time.’
‘Come on. You won’t regret it.’
The little prick thinks he knows exactly what’s going on here, and he’s gonna wring every last drop out of it. ‘Well,’ he says, on a sigh, loving this. ‘I suppose . . . I’m in Grogan’s. I’ll be here for another half-hour. If you get here before I leave, I can give you a few minutes.’
‘Great,’ I say, letting the rush of gratitude slip through. ‘I— Great. I’ll be there.’ And I hang up.
‘Was that Crowley?’ Steve asks. His eyebrows are up.
‘I need to shut him down, remember? And I’ve got an idea.’ I shove the phone in my pocket, stand up and tug the creases out of my suit. ‘Come with me? I could do with backup.’
All of a sudden there’s a twitch tugging at the corner of Steve’s mouth. He says, ‘Would this idea count as a glitch in the Plan?’
‘I fucking well hope so. You coming or not?’
Steve shoves back his chair and stands up, grinning. ‘Wouldn’t miss it.’
No one is in the corridors; when we get our coats, no one’s in the locker room. The familiar run of sound comes through the squad-room door, keyboards, phone calls, bitching, the printer; in the middle of it all is that smooth power-voice of Breslin’s, raised in some punchline that gets a big laugh. Up in Incident Room C, the floaters are working away, busy little bees piling up paper that’ll go straight down to the basement. Even reception is empty; Bernadette’s on break or in the jacks. We walk out of the Murder building and no one even knows we’re gone.
Crowley’s on his own at a corner table in Grogan’s, sipping a pint of Smithwick’s and reading a bet-up paperback with SARTRE on the cover in massive letters, so everyone will get that he’s on a higher plane. He pretends he doesn’t notice us till we’re practically on top of his table. ‘Crowley,’ I say.
He does a bad fake startle and puts the book down. Steve is a surprise, but Crowley covers OK: ‘Ah,’ he says, holding out his hand and giving Steve a gracious smile, ignoring me, to put me in my place. ‘Detective Moran.’
‘Howya,’ Steve says, without taking Crowley up on the handshake. He thumps down on a stool, long legs sprawled everywhere, pulls out his phone and gives it his full attention.
I can see Crowley trying to figure this out. I sit down opposite him, prop my elbows on the table and my chin on my fingers, and smile at him. ‘Howya.’
‘Yes,’ he says, with a nice mix of distaste and wariness; he’s not getting the feed of desperation I promised him. ‘Hello.’
‘Nice articles you’ve been running. I’ve never been on the front page before. I feel like Kim Kardashian.’
‘Hardly,’ Crowley says, eyeballing me. ‘You liked the photo?’
‘Crowley,’ I say. ‘You’re after making a bad mistake.’
This isn’t going the way Crowley expected, but he holds up well – after all, he’s still got the upper hand, whether I behave myself or not. ‘Oh, I don’t think so. If you don’t want to look like a bully in the eyes of the nation—’ Steve has fired up some game that’s a mixture of beeping noises and cherry bombs; Crowley twitches, but he manages to hang on to his train of moral outrage. ‘—then don’t try to bully the agents of free speech. It really is that simple.’
‘Nah nah nah. I’m not here about the photo. My problem is a guy who saw the photo. He rang you up looking for my address, and you gave it to him.’
‘Haven’t a clue what you’re talking about,’ Crowley says. He folds his pudgy little hands on the table and smirks at me. ‘How is your father, by the way?’
While I’m still being puzzled, Steve’s head snaps up and he lets out a great big snort of laughter. ‘He did not. Did he?’
Crowley’s eyes zip back and forth between us. The smirk’s fading. This is why I wanted Steve along: if I was here to beg Crowley to keep my deepest family secret just between us, I wouldn’t have brought company. ‘Who didn’t do what?’ I demand. ‘And you, where do you know my da from?’
‘Your man who rang you,’ Steve says, to Crowley. ‘He didn’t actually tell you he was Conway’s da. Did he?’
‘Ah, for fuck’s sake,’ I say. ‘Seriously?’
Steve starts to laugh properly. Crowley shoots him a poison look. ‘That’s what he said. He said he’d lost touch a long time back and wanted to reconnect.’
‘And you fell for it?’ I demand. ‘Just like that?’
‘He seemed legit. I didn’t see any reason to doubt him.’
‘You’re supposed to be a journalist,’ Steve points out, still grinning. ‘Doubt’s supposed to be your thing.’
‘Jesus,’ I say. ‘I don’t even like you, and I’m scarlet for you.’
‘You got played, man,’ Steve says, shaking his head and going back to his game. ‘Played like a pound-shop kazoo.
’
‘Crowley,’ I say. ‘You’re a walking fucking lobotomy. The guy who rang you isn’t my da’ – Steve starts laughing again on that. ‘He’s a scumbag from up North who I helped put away for a few years, and when he saw that photo it occurred to him that this was his big chance to get his own back. And you gave him my fucking home address.’
A lot of the air goes out of Crowley.
‘He’s been casing my gaff ever since,’ I say, ‘and last night I found him in my sitting room. You figure he was just there for the chats?’
‘“Conwaaay,” ’ Steve says, in his deepest voice. ‘“I am your faaather.” ’
‘Luckily for everyone,’ I say, ‘I sorted the situation. He’s not gonna be back. The only problem I’ve got left is you. Me and my partner, we’ve been trying to decide what to charge you with.’
‘Conspiracy to commit burglary,’ Steve suggests, jabbing away at his phone. ‘And assault, depending on whether your man was only planning on leaving a chocolate log in Conway’s fridge or whether he was hoping to do very bad things to her personally. Or accessory before the fact. Or we could go for the lot, just for laughs, and see what sticks.’
Crowley’s gone even paler and sweatier than usual. He says, ‘I want to talk to my solicitor.’
‘You’re in deep shite here,’ I tell him. ‘Lucky for you, though, I’ve got a use for you.’
‘I’m serious. I want to talk to my solicitor right now.’
‘Hey, genius,’ Steve says, zapping something with a nuke noise and a flourish. ‘Tell us: does this look like an interview room?’
‘No. Because I’m not under arrest. I know my rights—’
‘Course you do,’ Steve says. ‘Since you’re not under arrest, you’ve got no right to a solicitor. You’ve got the right to leave any time you like, obviously.’ I shift my stool back helpfully, making room for Crowley to go. ‘I wouldn’t recommend it, but. If you do, we’ll take this to our boss, and then you will be under arrest. And then you can have any solicitor you like.’
Crowley starts to get up. When we watch him with interest and don’t try to stop him, he changes his mind.