The Trespasser (56 page)

‘And did she?’

Lucy shakes her head. ‘No. She said if he hadn’t told her back then, why would he tell her now? And it wasn’t like she could force him to – the Missing Persons detectives had told her you couldn’t use the Freedom of Information Act to find out about investigations. So Aislinn decided she’d have to go at him a different way: meet him “by accident”, not tell him who she was, and get him talking.’

I’ve got an eyebrow up. Lucy says, ‘I know, yeah. But Aislinn wasn’t just planning to bounce up to him the next morning and hope he spilled his guts. She was
thorough
. This was her last chance; she wasn’t going to blow it. She wrote down everything she could remember about Detective McCann – she had this notebook. She hadn’t paid a lot of attention to him, himself, because she didn’t think he mattered; but she used to sit at the bottom of the stairs in the dark, listening in while he and her mother were talking in the sitting room, hoping she’d get some clue to where her dad had gone. So she remembered bits about him. She remembered he was from Drogheda, and he took his tea with just a drop of milk, no sugar.’

McCann still does. For some reason that’s the thing that sends a cold spike down my spine. That’s the moment when it goes right through me: that guy is the same McCann who was waiting for me outside the Murder building yesterday morning, all stubble and restlessness. That missing-persons case followed him from the dim house with the silent kid listening, down every twisting road, all the way to our bright shouting squad room. That’s the moment when I understand that McCann is our man.

‘She remembered he was married, with two little boys – her mum asked him over and over, “And you wouldn’t leave them, would you? You’d never walk away from your own wife and your own children?” and he always said no, he never would. She remembered his coat, this grey tweed overcoat – he’d leave it hanging on the banister, and she’d pick bits of fluff off it while she listened and stick them in his pockets – she didn’t like him being there. But the big thing Ash remembered, the thing she wrote down with circles and stars all round it, was that he was into her mum.’

‘Into her like what?’ I ask. ‘Like they had a relationship? Like he came on to her?’

‘Jesus, no!’ The instant squeeze of disgust on Lucy’s face says it’s true. ‘This wasn’t some Greek tragedy; Ash wasn’t shagging her mum’s ex. Just, in hindsight, she was pretty much positive that he’d fancied her mum. She figured that was why he spent so much time on the case. Even though he was married with kids, even though he was supposed to be professional, even though Ash’s mum was going nuts trying to find her husband: he fancied her, and he went with it.’

‘And Aislinn thought that was important.’

‘Yeah. She knew she could use it. She said, “If he’s that kind of guy, the guy who does stupid stuff for pretty women, I can be that. I’d have to change my look anyway; I can’t have him recognising me and getting suspicious – not that he ever looked twice at me, he barely noticed I existed, but I’ll only get one chance at this and I’m going to do it right.” And she did.’

Lucy laughs, a humourless small breath. ‘God, she did. She basically stopped eating, and she started going to the gym every day. Once she got thin enough that she was satisfied – too thin, if you ask me, but whatever – she went to an
image
consultant and got shown what clothes to buy and how to put on makeup and what colour to dye her hair. She came out looking like she’d been cloned in some creepy factory off the M50. I was like, “Why don’t you just wear whatever you like best?” but Ash said no. She said, “I don’t know what type he goes for – except my mum’s type, and I can’t look anything like her or he’ll suss me. So I have to look generic. I have to be someone who any guy in the world would think was pretty, so even if he’s not actually attracted to me, being with me will be too much of an ego-boost to resist. I’ll have plenty of time afterwards to figure out what
I
like.” I mean . . .’ Lucy’s hands fly up in frustration. ‘What was I supposed to say to that?’

Part of me is actually growing some respect for Aislinn Murray. The core idea is idiotic shite, but the way she went about it: fair play to her. She wasn’t the limp blob I pictured on that first day in her house, or the pushed-around kid I felt sorry for a minute ago. She was training, taking her time and doing whatever it took, to do some pushing of her own.

‘That’s some pretty obsessive stuff right there,’ I say. ‘Didn’t you worry about her? That she was getting way too wrapped up in this?’

‘Of
course
I did. When I thought she needed to start going after what she wanted, this wasn’t what I had in mind. She spent like a year and a
half
trying to turn herself into what she thought some total stranger would fancy. It was
insane
.’

‘Did you say that to her?’

‘Ahh . . .’ Lucy grimaces, rubbing both hands down her face. ‘I did and I didn’t. The last thing I wanted to do was start pushing Ash around, you know? She’d had a tough enough time getting a hold of what she wanted to begin with, without me telling her she had it all wrong. But after the image-consultant thing, I had to say something. I didn’t exactly go, “This is fucking mental,” but I made it pretty clear that I thought she was taking this too far and it would be a lot healthier to either go talk to Detective McCann straight out or else forget the whole thing. Aislinn just laughed at me. She was like, “Don’t worry, silly! I know what I’m doing; I’ve got a plan, remember? All I have to do is get this sorted, and then the whole thing’s finally
over
and I can start my real life! Do you want to come to Peru with me?” I was like, “Can we not just go to Peru straightaway, and forget this guy?” ’

‘But she wouldn’t,’ I say.

‘No. She said she needed to do this. She kept saying – in her new accent; she used to sound Greystones, like me, but she was worried that Detective McCann might connect up the accent, so she’d started talking like that newsreader who does the weird pout thing – she kept going, “You worry too much! Look at me; don’t I look happy?” ’ Lucy has a small sore smile on her, remembering. ‘And she did; she really did. The happiest I’d ever seen her. Giddy, like a kid high on sweets, but still: happy. And she was making plans for afterwards – she’d never made plans before. Peru wasn’t just a joke – I mean, the bit about me going was, because I don’t have the dosh and I couldn’t leave my job for that long, but Ash was going travelling, all right. She was doing research on all the different countries she wanted to visit, and on the college courses she was thinking about doing when she came back . . . This plan had her
galvanised
. So . . .’ Lucy’s shoulder moves in something like a shrug. ‘Hard to argue with that.’

‘The plan,’ I say. ‘What was it?’

‘She was just going to flirt with this Detective McCann for a few weeks, go on a few dates. She wasn’t going to try and seduce him, or anything, and she wasn’t worried that he’d be looking for a shag – she said she was positive he’d never made a move on her mum, so he wasn’t the type of guy who has actual affairs. He was just the type who likes getting attention from attractive women, and who laps it up even when he shouldn’t. She said he’d probably run a mile if she even tried to kiss him.’ The shadow of a smile, flicking Lucy’s mouth. ‘She was just going to give him attention. Loads of attention.’

‘Smart,’ I say. ‘Aislinn was good at reading people.’

‘Yeah, she was. It was because she’d never had a life of her own; she’d spent all her time watching other people, thinking about how they work. That was the only reason why I thought she might actually pull off her plan. I mean, this guy was a
detective
, he wasn’t going to be the type to fall for any old shite; but if anyone could get him, it was Ash.’ The smile deepens, but it looks painful. ‘She was going to pretend she was one of those people who’re fascinated by the police, so she could ask Detective McCann questions about all his cases – she’d gone through old newspaper articles and court cases to figure out what types of cases he’d worked on, and she’d bought
books
on all the stuff, so she could ask the right questions. And then she was going to gradually steer the conversation round to her dad . . . And then, once she found out whatever Detective McCann knew, she was going to quit seeing him. And go to Peru.’ Lucy’s head goes up all of a sudden, and she blinks hard at the ceiling. ‘That was all. A few weeks of
attention
.’

Those true-crime books on Aislinn’s bookshelf, the gang murders in her internet searches. Not for the thrills, after all, or to cosy up with one of Cueball’s boys. I say, ‘What changed?’

Lucy says, ‘I knew Aislinn hadn’t thought it through properly. It was like the fairy tales: the story just goes up to the wedding, and then they all live happily ever after. That’s what Ash was doing. All she could think about was the big moment when she’d get this guy to tell her about her dad; everything after that was just this haze where life was perfect. I tried to tell her that it might not work out exactly like that; I tried. But . . .’ She spreads her hands.

‘She wouldn’t listen.’

Lucy runs her hands through her hair, leaving it sticking out at ragged-kid angles. She says, ‘We were sitting right here. Ash was where you are, all curled up in a blanket with a mug of tea – we’d been out clubbing, so it was late enough and we were drunk enough that I could say it to her. I went, “Ash, what if you don’t like what you find out? It could be bad. Like really bad.”

‘It was dark – we just had on that lamp over there. All I could see was her face, staring out of the blanket. She didn’t look pretty; she looked hollowed-out, starving, all bones and teeth, and way older than she was. And she said, “Luce, you don’t think I get that? Seriously? I’ve thought about every single possibility. I get that the most likely thing is my dad killed himself and the Guards didn’t have enough evidence to be sure, so they decided to say nothing in case they were wrong; or else he had a breakdown and ended up on the streets, and the Guards couldn’t track him down and didn’t want to admit it. I get that a Guard could have hit him with his car and they covered it up. I get that there’s a chance some psycho killed him and buried him up the mountains, and the police had some reason for not wanting to know – it was mixed up with a big investigation, maybe – and so they never followed up. I get all that. I just want to know. So it’ll be over. And then I can go do the next thing.” ’

‘So you left it,’ I say.

‘Yeah, I left it. Probably I should’ve pushed harder – well, Jesus,
obviously
I should’ve pushed harder. Right?’ Lucy spits out a furious little laugh. ‘But the way she looked; like this plan was all she had, and she could gnaw it down to the bones and still be ravenous . . . I couldn’t do it. I told myself maybe it would be fine: maybe this McCann guy wouldn’t give her the time of day. Or maybe he’d see through her – I mean, seeing through people was his job, right? – and he’d tell her her dad had died saving a little blond kid from an evil drug lord, and she’d have a cry and move on, just like she thought.’

If only McCann had had the cop-on to do exactly that. ‘But it didn’t work out that way,’ I say.

Lucy says, ‘She played him like a jukebox. The big tough cynical detective, yeah? It only took her a month to get it out of him.’

‘How’d she go about it?’

‘She went online and found out the places where Guards drink – I think she asked on some discussion board; she made it sound like she just wanted to bag herself a cop, tee-hee. She got a list of places, and we had to check them all out.’

‘“We,” ’ I say. ‘You went with her?’

That sends Lucy’s chin up. ‘Course I did. You think I’d let her go by herself?’

‘Nah. I’d have gone with my best mate, too. Just checking.’

She settles down. ‘Some of the places were obviously wrong, like Copper Face Jack’s – Guards go there, but they’re all young guys on the pull. But there was one pub, probably you know it – Horgan’s?’

‘Yeah,’ I say. Horgan’s is a cop pub, all right: an old-style pub, all threadbare red velvet seating and sconce lighting, hidden away in the tangle of laneways around Harcourt Street, where most of the squads and the General Unit work. I used to drink there, sometimes, back before I made Murder. I saw McCann and Breslin once or twice. Back then I watched them like they were rock stars.

‘Plenty of older guys drink there. So we kept going back. It was messy, because a couple of guys tried to chat us up – well, chat Ash up, basically – and we had to get rid of them, but not too hard, or else we’d get a reputation for being bitches and McCann wouldn’t bother with us if he did show up. We played it like . . .’ Lucy blows out air. ‘It was Aislinn’s idea. We played it like I was upset about something, a breakup maybe, and just wanted girl talk; that way she could blow off any guy who tried it on with her, and make it look like it was for my sake.’

She catches my eye and says, with a defensive edge on her voice, ‘I wasn’t happy about it. That’s not my kind of thing, at all. But . . . Aislinn was good at bringing you along with her. One little step at a time, and all of a sudden, without knowing how I got there, I was in the middle of some play she was putting on.’

That cold touch on the back of my neck again. McCann – same as every Murder D; same as me – he’s the one who writes the scripts. He wouldn’t have liked opening his eyes one day and finding himself in the middle of someone else’s play.