The Trespasser (61 page)

‘Maybe Breslin knew we were on night shift,’ I say. ‘He knows the gaffer always throws us the domestics . . .’

I can hear in my own voice how weak it is. Steve says, ‘How’d he know the case wouldn’t come in ten minutes later and go to one of the day shift?’

The squad room, waiting in cold early light for the day to begin. O’Kelly tossing the call sheet on my desk:
I picked it up on my way in, said I’d bring it upstairs to save Bernadette the hassle . . .
I say, and my voice sounds calm and clean and very strange, ‘Breslin had talked to the gaffer.’

Steve says, ‘Can you think of any other way he could have known?’

‘Is there a call to the gaffer in the phone log?’

‘No. He must’ve used his regular phone for that. He knew we’d trace the Stoneybatter call; he wasn’t going to have the gaffer’s number showing up on that same phone. He couldn’t do anything about the calls to journos, but anyone can ring journos, and we can’t make them reveal their sources; he figured those wouldn’t come back on him.’

O’Kelly scanning the roster, hands in his pockets, rocked back on his heels.
You’ll need backup on this one. Breslin’s due in. Have him.

I say, ‘The gaffer knew all along. He put Breslin on the case to keep an eye on us.’

‘Yeah,’ Steve says. ‘Yeah. Fuck, Antoinette.’

We can’t afford to get angry or wired or anything else, not now. ‘Keep it together,’ I say sharply.

I hear Steve blow out a long breath. ‘I know.’

‘What time are you and Breslin gonna be back at the squad?’

‘We’re pretty near done here. Say forty-five minutes, an hour max.’

‘I’ll throw him a ball to chase. When he heads off, meet me in the garden outside HQ.’

‘OK. Gotta go.’ And Steve hangs up.

The people going past the car seem like they’re speeding up, driven along by that unstoppable savage thrumming inside their heads. I still have that off-kilter feeling like a fever starting. I can’t afford the flu today, any more than I can afford to lose the head.

I need to head out to Stoneybatter, but first I set my phone number to Private, ring the General Unit and ask them, in a timid little girly voice with a nice middle-class accent, if I could please talk to Detective Breslin about Aislinn Murray who got murdered. They put me through to the Murder Squad; when Bernadette answers and tells me Detective Breslin is out and she’ll get someone else for me, I get all nervy and say no, no thanks, but could I maybe leave him a message? And she pats me on the head, more or less, and puts me through to Breslin’s voicemail.

‘This is Detective Don Breslin.’ Smooth as a coffee ad. He probably did a dozen takes. ‘Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.’ Beep.

I keep my mouth a few inches from the phone, just in case. ‘Um, hi. My name’s . . . um, I don’t really want to . . . But I’m a friend of Simon Fallon – I heard you were asking him about his brother Rory? And – I mean, I used to hang out with Rory as well, and he did some things that probably you should . . . I never reported it, but . . . Simon said you were really nice. I’m in the Top House bar, in Howth? In beside the fireplace? If maybe you could come here? I can probably stay till like four. Otherwise, I guess I can try you some other time, or . . . Well. Thanks. Bye.’

I put my phone away and floor it for Stoneybatter. That should do it. Breslin’ll get in, check his messages, cream his Armani suit, turn right around and zoom off to find out what terrible things Rory did to this poor girl. He’ll leave Steve behind, in case she can’t bring herself to spill her story to two big bad Ds at once. Forty minutes to Howth, at this time of day and in this weather. Say half an hour of waiting for Mystery Chick, or till four o’clock if we’re really in luck. Then forty minutes back. For at least two hours, me and Steve will have McCann all to ourselves.

Ganly’s is empty apart from the baldy barman, who’s stacking glasses and humming along to Perry Como singing ‘Magic Moments’ on the radio. ‘Ah,’ he says, giving me a nod. ‘It’s yourself. Did I win?’

‘You got into the next round,’ I say. ‘The woman you identified for me the other day: remember the guy who was in with her?’

‘More or less. I told yous before, he wasn’t the main thing on my mind.’

‘Would you have a look at a few photos for me, see if you can spot him?’

‘Your pal was already in yesterday, asking me the same thing. I was no use to him.’

‘He said that, yeah. These are different photos.’

The barman shrugs. ‘I’ll have a go, sure. Anything to help the forces of law and order.’

I pull out a fresh copy of the McCann photo array. ‘If you see the man here, tell me. If he’s not there, tell me. If you’re not sure, tell me. OK?’

‘I can manage that.’ The barman takes the card and gives it a long thoughtful gaze. ‘Would you look at that,’ he says. ‘I’d say you’ve got him this time. This lad here.’ He taps McCann’s face.

‘Are you sure?’

‘I wouldn’t stake my life on it, but I’d put fifty quid on it down the bookies. Will that do you any good?’

‘I’ll take it,’ I say, finding a pen. ‘Initial the photo you recognise. At the bottom, write down where you’ve seen him before and how sure you are, and sign.’

The barman writes, head bent close to the page. ‘Can you think of anyone else who was in that evening?’ I ask. ‘Anyone who might have noticed the pair of them?’

‘Ah, now. You’re asking a bit much. I don’t call the register at the beginning of every night.’

‘I might have to come in and have chats with your regulars, some night. I’ll try and keep it low-key.’

‘I had a feeling that was on the cards, all right.’ The barman passes me the sheet and the Biro. His writing is tiny and beautiful; it deserves fountain pen and thick yellowing paper, not this. ‘If you’re talking to this fella, tell him he’s not welcome back in here. I’m not asking you if he did anything to that young one. I’m just saying people come here for a bit of peace.’ He gives me one more long glance, as he picks up the next two glasses. ‘I wouldn’t have your job for all the tea in China,’ he says.

The uniform in Stoneybatter station says the voice sample might be the fella who rang Sunday morning, except he thinks that fella sounded a bit different from this one, he can’t explain how but not the same, maybe the voice was a bit higher and maybe it had a Meath accent, or else Kildare, it won’t come back to him properly. No surprise there; even if we hadn’t already smeared that pointless voice array all over his memory, I’m not the only one who can put on funny voices. We’ve got everything we’re going to get.

It’s lunchtime. I stop at Rory’s favourite Tesco, grab two bottles of Coke and two sandwiches with plenty of meat in them – this could be a long afternoon – and head back to HQ. Sleety rain spatters my windscreen with big dirty spots, but by the time I get to the Castle gardens, it’s stopped. I pick a stretch of wall among the bushes, out of sight of the windows, and use paper napkins to get the worst of the rain off it before I sit down and open my sandwich. A couple of small birds are hopping forlornly on the wet grass. When I toss them a chunk of bread, they panic and scatter into the bushes in a wild rattle of wings.

I’m only getting stuck into the sandwich when Steve comes through the garden gate, walking fast with his head down, like that’s gonna magically hide the red hair from anyone at a window. ‘Hey,’ he says.

‘Hiya. Breslin gone?’

Steve brushes at the wall and sits down beside me. ‘Just legged it. He got a message from some girl in Howth?’

‘Yeah. She’s not gonna be much use to him. You have lunch yet?’

‘Nah.’

‘Here.’

I pass him the other sandwich. Steve takes it and holds it in his two hands, not opening it. ‘Did you get anything good?’

‘Tentative ID off the barman. No joy out of the uniform. Sophie’s guys got a male DNA profile off the mattress.’

He says, ‘What do we do?’

I say, ‘We need to talk to McCann.’

There isn’t a way around it any longer. In two hours, maybe three, Breslin will be back and suspicious and wanting to arrest Rory. Those couple of hours are all we’ve got.

Steve nods. He asks, ‘How?’

We have so many weapons. You pick them up from watching other Ds, you sift them out of squad-room stories, you come up with your own and pass them around; you stash them all away safe, for the days when you’ll need them. By the time you make Murder, you have an arsenal that could pulverise cities.

You come into an interview carrying a ten-pound stack of papers, so the suspect thinks you’ve got that much against him. You stick a videotape on top, so he’ll think you’ve got video evidence. You flip through the papers, put your finger down and start to say something, catch yourself –
Nah, we’ll save that for later
– and move on, leaving him to fret about what you’re saving
.
You pull out a voice recorder –
My handwriting’s only terrible, mind if I use this instead?
– so that later, when you turn it off and lean in confidentially, he’ll think you’re off the record; he’ll forget all about the interview-room recorders, whirring away. You read imaginary texts on your phone and swap cryptic comments (
Happy days, the searchers got lucky
) with your partner. You do the fake lie-detector test with an app these days: give the guy some bollix about electromagnetic fields and have him press his thumb on your phone screen after each question, and when you get to the one where he’s lying, you shift a finger and it flashes red graphs and
LIE LIE LIE
. You tell him the live victim is dead and can’t contradict him, or the dead one is alive and talking. You tell him you can’t let him leave till the two of you work this out, but if he’ll just tell you what happened, he can be home on his sofa with a nice cup of tea in time for
Downton Abbey
. You tell him it wasn’t his fault, you tell him the vic was asking for it, you tell him anyone would’ve done the same thing. You tell him witnesses heard him talk about how he loved kiddie porn, you tell him the pathologist says he rode the dead body till it started falling apart, you pummel him with the sickest shite you can come up with until he can’t stop himself from shouting at you that that’s all bollix, that wasn’t the way it went; and then you lift one eyebrow and say
Yeah, right, then how did it go?
and you listen while he tells you.

All our weapons are useless this time. McCann’s known the feel of them by heart, he’s had them shaped to his hands by wear, since long before we ever laid eyes on them. We’re going in bare.

I say, ‘We talk to him. That’s all we can do.’

‘He won’t talk back.’

‘He wants to tell us his story. They all do. Deep down, he wants us to know that him and Aislinn, that was true love, and whatever she was playing at with Rory was a load of shite that was begging for a punch. So let’s see how much of that we can get him to tell us.’

Steve says, ‘We focus on the relationship. Nothing else. We don’t go near Breslin being involved, or McCann’ll go loyal and shut his trap. Just talk about Aislinn.’

‘We’ve got one grenade,’ I say. ‘When Breslin found out that file box was full of the Desmond Murray case, he was relieved. Meaning he didn’t know McCann had worked that case. Meaning two days ago, at least, McCann hadn’t made the connection: he didn’t know Aislinn was Des Murray’s daughter. He didn’t know she was playing him all along.’

Steve says, ‘We save that.’

‘Yeah. That oughta go off with a bang.’

The birds have forgotten their fright and come back to peck about on the grass. Breslin is across the river by now, heading north.

Steve asks, ‘Where do we do it?’

This is what I was thinking about, all the way back here in the car, all the time I was waiting for Steve. ‘Interview room,’ I say.

His face turns towards me. ‘You think? We could clear out the incident room. Or come out here, even.’

‘No. We throw everyone out of the incident room, we might as well put up a sign saying there’s some big secret thing going down. Anyway, from now on we need to document everything, if we want a snowball’s chance in hell of making a case.’

‘He’ll know. The second we head for an interview room, he’ll know.’

‘He will anyway. No matter where we take him, there’s no way we can make this seem like a nice friendly chat, not past the first thirty seconds. The moment we bring up him having met Aislinn, he’s gonna know.’

The thought of that moment flicks across us like a small black splatter of sleet. It stops us talking.

We get the sandwiches down us, the Coke for caffeine. Then we go into the Murder building, in through the glossy black door with the combination my fingers could press in my sleep, nodding to Bernadette on our way past. We take off our coats and hang them neatly in our lockers, I take off my satchel and stash it away. Steve finds a copy of the family photo from the Desmond Murray case and tucks it in his suit pocket; I take photos of the arrays, on my phone, and then I shove them to the bottom of my locker and hope no one picks today to piss in it again. The twin metal slams of our locker doors echo, sharp and startled, against the tiles of the small dim room.