The Secret Place (60 page)

‘Sounds lovely in there. Are you trying to turn me off Murder?’

He spread his hands. ‘I’m not saying I approve; I’m just telling you the facts of life. Not that you need telling. That little speech about blaming the harasser and not the victim, that was pretty, but tell me the truth: say you walk into Murder tomorrow, someone calls you a ginger skanger, tells you to fuck off back onto the dole where you belong. You gonna break his fingers? Or are you gonna play along: have a laugh, call him a sheep-shagging bog-monster, do what it takes to get what you want out of the situation? The truth, now.’

Mackey’s eyes on mine, opaque and knowing in the last of the light, till I looked away. ‘I’m gonna play along.’

‘Yeah, you are. But don’t say that like it’s a bad thing, sunshine. I’d do exactly the same. That kind of accommodation, that’s what keeps the world turning. A little bit of give. When someone like Conway decides she doesn’t have to play along, that’s when things go to shite.’

I heard Joanne.
They act like they can do whatever they want.
It doesn’t work like that.
Wondered what Mackey thought about his Holly and her friends giving the world the finger.

‘Their gaffer isn’t an idiot; when the atmosphere in his squad room turned to poison, he noticed. He pulls people in, asks them what’s the story; they all clam up, tell him everything’s just dandy and everyone’s the best of friends. Murder’s like that: bunch of schoolkids, no one wants to be the telltale. The gaffer doesn’t believe them, but he knows he’s never getting the real story. And he knows the day things went south is the day Conway walked in. So as far as he’s concerned, she’s the problem.’

‘So he’s going to drop her,’ I said. ‘First excuse he gets.’

‘Nah. They won’t boot her out of Murder, because she’s the type to sue for discrimination and they don’t want the publicity. But they can make damn sure she quits. She’ll never get a partner. She’ll never get a promotion. She’ll never get invited to join the lads for a pint after work. She’ll never get another good case; once she gives up on this, there’ll be nothing on her desk but D-list drug dealers till the day she hands in her papers.’ Smoke curling up between us from his hand, a warning taint on the sweet air. ‘That’ll wear you down, after a while. Conway’s got spine, she’ll last longer than most would, but she’ll crack in the end.’

I said, ‘Conway’s career is her problem. I’m here for mine. This is my shot at showing Murder what I can do.’

Mackey was shaking his head. ‘No it isn’t. It’s a six-bullet round of Russian roulette. If you don’t get on with Conway, you’re back to Cold Cases: bye-bye, see you ’round, everyone remembers that Moran couldn’t hack it in the big leagues even for one day. If you do get on with her, then you’re her bitch-boy. No one else on Murder, and that includes the gaffer, is ever going to touch you with a ten-foot pole. Shit rubs off, kid. If you honestly haven’t got a strategy, I suggest you get one. Fast.’

I said, ‘You’re trying to stir shite. You get me and Conway looking over our shoulders at each other, means we take our eyes off the ball. Next thing we know, our case’s got away from us.’

‘I might well be. It sounds like something I’d do. Ask yourself this, though: does that mean I’m wrong?’

The nettle edges to the air in the Murder squad room, fine and poisonous, when Conway walked in. Tiny barbs, sticky, working deep.

I said, ‘What’ve you been saying to Conway about me?’

Mackey grinned. ‘Same as I’ve been saying to you, sunshine: just the truth. And nothing but the truth. So help you God.’

And there it was. I could’ve kicked myself for asking. I knew what Mackey had told Conway. Didn’t need to hear it, from either of them.

Interesting strategy, letting young Stephen on board. Some might say downright insane, but I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt
.
.
.

‘Ahhh,’ said Mackey, stretching. Glanced at his smoke, burned down to long ash. Tossed it on the ground. ‘I needed that. Shall we?’

Conway was leaning against the outside of the door, hands in her trouser pockets, not moving. Waiting for us. I knew then.

You’re no idiot, Detective Conway; I’m betting you know the story on how Holly and I met Moran. Some of it, anyway. Want to hear the rest?

She straightened up as we got close. Opened the door, held it for Mackey. Caught my eye. As she closed the door behind Mackey, he flicked a winner’s grin over his shoulder at me.

Conway said, ‘I’ll take it from here.’

Moran was brand-new out of uniform, doing floater work on a murder case. The D in charge was called Kennedy. Kennedy was good to young Stephen. Very good. Pulled him out of the deep end of the floater pool, gave him a shot at the big time. Most Ds wouldn’t’ve done it; most Ds would’ve stuck to tried and true, no newbies need apply. Bet Kennedy wishes he had
.
.
.

I only did what Mackey wanted me to do, back then. It never hit me, and it should’ve, that he would keep it tucked away in his back pocket: something he could use against me someday, if he ever needed to.

I said – keeping it down: his ear was pressed to the back of that door – ‘Mackey’s trying to fuck with us.’

‘There’s no
us
. There’s me and my case, and then there’s some guy who’s been useful for the day and isn’t any more. Don’t worry: I’ll write your gaffer a nice note about what a good boy you were.’

Like a punch in the jaw. It shouldn’t’ve hit me; she was right, it had only been one day. Got me goodo.

It must’ve shown. The face on me pulled some fleck of guilt out of Conway. She said, ‘I’ll give you a lift back to HQ – give me your mobile number, I’ll text you when I’m done here. Till then, get a sandwich. Go for a nice walk, admire the grounds. See if you can get Chris’s ghost to pop up for you. Whatever.’

The second your boy Moran saw his chance, he shagged Kennedy up the arse with no
Vaseline. Fuck loyalty, fuck gratitude, fuck doing the right thing: all young Stephen cared about was his glorious career.

I said, and I’d stopped caring about keeping it down, ‘You’re doing exactly what Mackey wants you to do. He wants me gone because he’s scared Holly’ll talk to me. You can’t see that?’ Nothing on Conway’s face. ‘He tried it on me, too: bitched about you, hoped I’d walk. You think I took any notice?’

‘Course you didn’t. You want to shake your booty in front of O’Kelly; doesn’t matter whose case you piggyback on to get there. Me, I’ve got something to lose here. And I’m not having you lose it for me.’

Kennedy never saw it coming. At least you won’t get blindsided like he did. If you honestly haven’t got a strategy, you might want to get one fast
.
.
.

I gave Conway my phone number. She swung the door closed in my face.

Chapter 24

One of Julia’s more impressive talents has always been the ability to barf at will. It was cooler back in primary school, before anybody noticed that public puking might not be particularly dignified – it even earned her a decent chunk of dosh, one way and another – but it hasn’t totally lost its usefulness since then. She just saves it for special occasions, these days.

Tuesday morning, April 23rd, Chris Harper has just over three weeks left to live. Julia eats the biggest and most varied breakfast she can handle, because an artiste has her pride, then waits till the middle of Home Economics and barfs pyrotechnically all over the classroom floor. Orla Burgess is within range, but Julia resists temptation: her plan doesn’t include Orla being sent back to the boarders’ wing to change. As Miss Rooney shoos her towards the nurse’s office, Julia – clutching her stomach – catches a flash of Holly and Becca baffled, Selena gazing out of the window like she hasn’t even noticed anything happening; Joanne’s flat-eyed smirk while she plans how to spread the word that that slut Julia Harte is pregnant; and Gemma giving her a look like a wink, amused and approving.

She does wobbly legs and some mild gagging for the nurse, answers the usual questions about her period – you could break your leg and the nurse would still want to know when your last period was; Julia suspects that being a day overdue would get you ratted out to the nuns for interrogation – and a few minutes later she’s all tucked up in bed with a glass of flat ginger ale and a pathetic look. And the nurse leaves her alone.

Julia works fast. She has it planned out: first Selena’s part of the wardrobe, then her bed, if she doesn’t score there she’ll pop out the bottom of Selena’s bedside locker – they figured out how to do it last term, when Becca lost her key – and if she still comes up blank then she doesn’t know what the fuck she’s going to do.

It doesn’t get that far. When she slides her hand along the side of Selena’s mattress, between the bed and the wall, she finds a lump. Neat little slit in the mattress cover, and inside, surprise surprise, a phone. An adorable itsy-bitsy pink one, just like the one Alison bought off Joanne. Chris must have stocked up by the armful, one for each of the lucky babes he was planning on honouring with his glorious dick. Up until she saw that phone in her hand, Julia still thought there was a chance Gemma was lying.

Selena hasn’t put a lock code on it, which might give Julia a flicker of guilt if she had room for that. Instead she goes to Messages and starts reading.

Still thinking abt the dance wd love to see you again—
It punches a hiss of breath out of her. She’s been wondering when and how Chris ever hooked Selena, been going over every trip to the Court, looking for just ten minutes when Lenie was unshielded, but it’s actually almost creepy how close the four of them stick together; she couldn’t put her finger on once when anyone even went to the loo alone. And all the time: the fucking Valentine’s dance. While Julia was outside, getting reckless on rum and Finn’s grin and the sparking cold-air newness in every breath, Selena was exploring a little new territory of her own. And something watched and – without any anger, or any mercy – started considering what their punishment would have to be.

She keeps reading. Chris is excellent; Julia is almost impressed. He had Selena sussed dead on, right from the start. One sext, one hint of romance even, and she’d have been gone; so smart boy Chris never went near there. Instead he went for long texts about his emo sister’s problems, or how his parents didn’t understand him, or how it wounded him that he couldn’t show his true sensitive self to his shallow friends. Julia is glad she’s already puked herself empty.

Selena is a sucker for anyone who needs her. Maybe some people would call it arrogance, thinking she’s so super-special she can help where no one else could, but the thing is sometimes she can. Julia should know. You can say anything to Selena and she, unlike apparently everyone else in the world, will never come back with something that makes you want to hit her and yourself for having opened your big stupid mouth. So people who never talk to anyone talk to her. That’s what she’s used to. That’s what Chris Harper smelled off her. And that’s what he used to wiggle his way close enough to shove his hand down her top.

Because Selena was talking to him, too.
Yesterday there was this drawing i wantd to show my dad when he dropd me off at my mums and he wouldnt even come inside for 1 sec to see it, he waitd in the car while i got it. Sometimes i feel like they wish i didnt exist cause then they wouldnt have to see each other.

She has never said anything like that to Julia. Julia never had a clue that she felt that way.

They’ve been meeting for more than a month. It gets more obvious with every text that Selena is gaga about Chris, gooey, stupid in love. Julia has a hard time deciding who is the world’s biggest moron: the one who’s fallen in love with Chris the Sleaze Harper, or the three who pranced along next to her while she did it without noticing one single thing. She grits her teeth and mashes her elbow along the wall next to her till it’s scraped raw.

And then Julia gets to this morning. No wonder Selena looks spaced out. She just dumped Chris’s nasty arse.

The rush of relief almost throws Julia flat on her back on the bed, but a second later it drains away. This won’t last. Selena can’t even get through the dump text without babbling about how much she loves Chris, and he’s already come back with a wild text demanding to know WTF and begging her to meet him tonight. Selena hasn’t answered, but another few days of oh-please-I-need-you-so-much and she will.

Julia hears it clear as tapped bronze.
Your chance. Your choice.

It takes her a long humming minute to understand what that means. To hold in one hand what will happen if she does, and in the other what will happen if she doesn’t.

Julia can’t breathe. She thinks like a howl:
That’s not fair it’s not fair it’s not fair, whatever I do I’m going to get— I didn’t get off with Finn. I barely fucking
touched
him. I didn’t do anything I should have to pay for.
The silence that meets her teaches her: this is not McKenna’s office. You don’t get to play with nitpicks, dodge whining around the edges of But-Miss-I-never-exactly-actually, not here. Unfair means nothing. She has been weighed up and the decision has been made. She has these few days before Selena takes Chris back, one last gift, in which to choose.