Ryan - 04 - Broken Harbour

by Tana French

  Everyone forgot all about Pat’s attic and started yelling at each other about animal rights. It got heated—everyone called everyone else a murderer—but when Pat came back the next day, he kept a level head and stayed well away from the flames. Rather not go for poison except as total last resort. There are gaps in attic floor leading down into space (?8 inches deep?) between beams + ceiling of rooms below. Have had a look in w torch + couldn’t see anything dodgy but don’t want it crawling in there and dying, or it’ll stink the place out + I’ll have to take up attic floor to get it. Same reason why I didn’t just board up hole under eaves, don’t want to trap it inside by mistake. Haven’t seen any scat but will keep a lookout + take advice on prints.

  Nobody paid any attention to him—someone had, inevitably, compared someone to Hitler. Later that day, the admin locked the thread. Pat-the-lad never posted again.

  This was obviously where the cameras and the holes in the walls came in, somehow, but they still didn’t quite add up. I couldn’t picture that level-headed guy chasing a stoat around his house with a lump hammer like something out of Caddyshack, but neither could I picture him sitting back and watching on a baby monitor while something gnawed chunks out of his walls, especially with his kids just a few feet away.

  Either way, this should have meant we could leave the monitors and the holes behind. Like I had told Kieran, a mink hadn’t convinced Conor Brennan to commit mass murder; the problem belonged to Jenny or to her estate agent, not to us. But I had given Richie my word: we were going to investigate Pat Spain, and anything odd in his life needed explaining. I told myself there was plenty of silver lining—the more loose ends we tied up, the fewer chances for the defense to create confusion in court.

  I made myself tea and cereal—the thought of Conor eating his jail breakfast gave me a hard-edged thump of grim pleasure—and took my time rereading the thread. I know Murder Ds who go searching for mementoes like that, for any thread-fine echo of the victim’s voice, any watery reflection of his living face. They want him to come alive for them. I don’t. Those torn scraps won’t help me solve the case, and I’ve got no time for the cheap pathos of it, the easy, excruciating poignancy of watching someone meander happily towards the cliff edge. I let the dead stay dead.

  Pat was different. Conor Brennan had tried so hard to deface him, weld a killer’s mask onto his wrecked flesh for all eternity. Catching a glimpse of Pat’s own face felt like a blow on the side of the angels.

  I left a message on Larry’s phone, asking him to get his outdoorsy man to check out the Wildwatcher thread, head down to Brianstown ASAP and see what he thought of the wildlife possibilities. Then I e-mailed Kieran back. Thanks for that. After that reception, looks like Pat Spain took his wildlife issues to some other site. We need to find out where. Keep me updated.

  * * *

  It was twenty to noon when I got into the incident room. All the floaters were either out working or out on coffee break, but Richie was at his desk, ankles wrapped around the legs of his chair like a teenager, nose to nose with his computer screen. “Howya,” he said, without looking up. “The lads picked up your man’s car. Dark blue Opel Corsa, 03D.”

  “Style icon that he is.” I handed him a paper cup of coffee. “In case you didn’t get a chance. Where’d he have it parked?”

  “Thanks. Up on that hill overlooking the south end of the bay. He had it stashed off the road, in among the trees, so the lads missed it till daylight.”

  A good mile from the estate, maybe more. Conor had been taking no chances. “Beautiful. It’s gone to Larry?”

  “Towing it now.”

  I nodded at the computer. “Anything good?”

  Richie shook his head. “Your man’s never been arrested, under Conor Brennan, anyway. Couple of speeding tickets, but the dates and locations don’t match anywhere I was posted.”

  “Still trying to work out why he rings a bell?”

  “Yeah. I’m thinking it could be from a long time back, ’cause in my head he’s younger, like maybe twenty. Might be nothing, but I just want to know.”

  I tossed my coat over the back of my chair and took a swig of my coffee. “I’m wondering if someone else knows Conor from before, too. Pretty soon we need to pull in Fiona Rafferty, give her a look at him and see how she reacts. He got his hands on the Spains’ door key somehow—I don’t believe that crap he gave us about finding it on a dawn wander—and she’s the only one who had it. I’m having a hard time seeing that as coincidence.”

  At that point Quigley oiled up behind me and tapped me on the arm with his morning tabloid. “I heard,” he breathed, like it was a dirty secret, “that you got someone for your big-deal case last night.”

  Quigley always gives me the urge to straighten my tie and check my teeth for scraps. He smelled like he had eaten breakfast at a fast-food joint, which would explain a lot, and there was a sheen of grease on his upper lip. “You heard right,” I said, taking a step back from him.

  He widened his pouchy little eyes at me. “That was quick, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s what we’re paid for, chum: getting the bad guys. You should try it sometime.”

  Quigley’s mouth pursed up. “God, you’re awful defensive, Kennedy. Are you having doubts, is it? Thinking maybe you’ve got the wrong fella?”

  “Stay tuned. I doubt it, but go ahead and keep your champagne on ice, just in case.”

  “Now hang on there. Don’t take out your insecurities on me. I’m only being pleased for you, so I am.”

  He was pointing his paper at my chest, all puffed up with injured outrage—feeling hard done by is the fuel that keeps Quigley running. “Sweet of you,” I said, turning away to my desk to let him know we were finished. “One of these days, if I’m bored, I’ll take you out on a big case and show you how it’s done.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Bring this one in and you’ll be getting all the big fancy cases again, won’t you? Ah, that’d be great for you, so it would. Some of us”—to Richie—“some of us just want to solve murders, the media attention doesn’t matter to us, but our Kennedy’s a little different. He likes the spotlight.” Quigley waggled the newspaper: ANGELS BUTCHERED IN THEIR BEDS, a blurry holiday shot of the Spains laughing on some beach. “Well, nothing wrong with that, I suppose. As long as the job gets done.”

  “You want to solve murders?” Richie asked, puzzled.

  Quigley ignored that. To me: “Wouldn’t it be great altogether if you got this one right? Then maybe everyone would put that other time behind them.” He actually had a hand lifted to pat my arm, but I gave him a stare and he thought better of it. “Good luck, eh? We’ll all be hoping you’ve got the right fella.” He shot me a smirk and a little wave of his crossed fingers, and waddled off to try and bring down someone else’s morning.

  Richie waved bye-bye with a manic cheesy grin, and watched him go out the door. He said, “What other time?”

  The stack of reports and witness statements on my desk was shaping up nicely. I flicked through them. “One of my cases went pear-shaped, a couple of years back. I put my money on the wrong guy, ended up missing the collar. Quigley was talking shite, though: at this stage, no one except him even remembers that. He’s hanging on to it for dear life because it made his year.”

  Richie nodded. He didn’t look one bit surprised. “The face on him, when you said that about showing him how it’s done: pure poison. Bit of history there, yeah?”

  One of the floaters had a nasty habit of typing in all caps, which was going to have to go. “No history. Quigley is shit at his job, and he figures that’s everyone’s fault but his. I get cases he’ll never get, which makes it my fault he gets stuck with the dregs, and I take them down, which makes him look worse, which makes it my fault that he couldn’t solve a game of Cluedo.”

  “Two more brain cells and he’d be a Brussels sprout,” Rich
ie said. He was leaning back in his chair, biting a thumbnail and still watching the door where Quigley had gone out. “Good thing, too. He’d only love a chance to put the boot into you. If he wasn’t thick as pig shite, you’d be in trouble.”

  I put the statement sheets down. “What’s Quigley been saying about me?”

  Richie’s feet started a soft-shoe shuffle under his chair. “Just that. What you heard there.”

  “And before that?” Richie tried to look blank, but his feet were still going. “Richie. This isn’t about my tender feelings. If he’s undermining our working relationship here, I need to know.”

  “He’s not. I don’t even remember what he said. Nothing you could put your finger on.”

  “There never is, with Quigley. What did he say?”

  A twitchy shrug. “Just some crap about the emperor not wearing as many clothes as he thinks, and pride goes before a fall. It didn’t even make any sense.”

  I wished I had smacked that little shit down harder when he gave me the chance. “And?”

  “And nothing. That’s when I got rid of him. He was giving it ‘Slow and steady does it’; I asked him why slow and steady wasn’t doing it for him. He didn’t like that.”

  It startled me, the small ridiculous dart of warmth at the thought of this kid fighting my corner. I said, “And that’s not why you were worried that I was jumping the gun with Conor Brennan.”

  “No! Man, that was nothing to do with Quigley. Nothing.”

  “It’d better not be. If you think Quigley’s on your side, you’re in for a big shock. You’re young and promising, which makes it your fault that he’s a middle-aged loser. Given the choice, I’m not sure which of us he’d throw under a bus first.”

  “I know that, too. That fat fuck told me the other day I might feel more at home back in Motor Vehicles, unless I have too many emotional connections with suspects there. I don’t listen to anything he says.”

  “Good. Don’t. He’s a black hole: get too close and he’ll drag you down with him. Always stay far away from negativity, old son.”

  “I stay far away from useless pricks. He’s not dragging me anywhere. How the hell is he on this squad?”

  I shrugged. “Three possibilities: he’s related to someone, he’s shagging someone, or he’s got something on someone. Take your pick. Personally, I figure if he was connected I’d know by this time, and he doesn’t look like much of a femme fatale to me. That leaves blackmail. Which gives you another good reason to leave Quigley alone.”

  Richie’s eyebrows went up. He said, “You think he’s dangerous? Seriously? That thick bastard?”

  “Don’t underestimate Quigley. He’s thick, all right, but not as thick as you’re thinking, or he wouldn’t be here. He’s not dangerous to me—or to you, for that matter, as long as you don’t do anything stupid—but that’s not because he’s a harmless idiot. Think of him as the gastric flu: he can make your life smell pretty bad and he takes forever to shake off, so you try to avoid him, but he can’t do you any serious damage, not unless you’re weak already. Here’s the thing, though: if you’re vulnerable, if he gets a chance to take hold, then yeah. He could be dangerous.”

  “You’re the boss,” Richie said cheerfully—the image had made him happy, even if he still didn’t sound particularly convinced. “I’ll stay away from Diarrhea Man.”

  I didn’t bother trying not to grin. “And that’s the other thing. Don’t go poking him with sticks. I know the rest of us do it, and we shouldn’t either, but we’re not new boys. No matter how much of an arse Quigley is, giving him cheek makes you look like an uppity little brat—not just to him, but to the rest of the squad. You’re playing straight into Quigley’s hands.”

  Richie grinned back. “Fair enough. He asks for it, but.”

  “He does. You don’t have to answer.”

  He put a hand over his heart. “I’ll be good. Honest. What’s the plan for today?”

  I went back to my stack of paper. “Today we’re going to find out why Conor Brennan did what he did. He’s entitled to his eight hours’ sleep, so we can’t touch him for another couple of hours, minimum. I’m in no hurry. I say we let him wait for us this time.” Once they’re under arrest, you have up to three days before you have to charge them or cut them loose, and I was planning on taking as much of that as we needed. It’s only on TV that the story ends when the confession’s on tape and the handcuffs click home. In a real investigation, that click is just the beginning. What it changes is this: your suspect goes tumbling from the top of your priority list straight to the bottom. You can go for days without seeing his face, once you have him where you want him. All you care about is building the walls to keep him there.

  I said, “We’ll go talk to O’Kelly now. Then we’ll have chats with the floaters, have them start working through Conor’s life and the Spains’. They need to find an overlap point where the Spains might have caught his eye—a party they all went to, a company that hired Pat to do their recruitment and Conor to do their web design. He said he’s been stalking them for about a year now, which means we want the floaters focusing on 2008. Meanwhile, you and I are going to search Conor’s gaff, see if we can fill in a few cracks—pick up anything that might give us a motive, anything that might point us towards how he got hold of either the Spains or the keys.”

  Richie was fingering a nick on his jaw—the shave had been unnecessary, but at least it showed the right attitude—and trying to find the right way to ask. I said, “Don’t worry: I’m not ignoring Pat Spain. I’ve got something to show you.”

  I switched on my computer and pulled up Wildwatcher. Richie scooted his chair across so he could read over my shoulder.

  “Huh,” he said, when he was finished. “I guess that could maybe explain the video monitors. You get people like that, yeah? People who get way into watching animals. Set up whole CCTV systems to keep an eye on the foxes in their back garden.”

  “Like watching Big Brother, only with smarter contestants. I don’t see that happening here, though. Pat’s obviously worried about the animal coming into contact with the kids; he wouldn’t encourage it just for kicks. He sounds like he just wants to get rid of the thing.”

  “He does, yeah. Long way from that to half a dozen cameras.” A silence, while Richie reread. “The holes in the walls,” he said, carefully. “It’d take a pretty big animal to make those.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. I’ve got people on that. Has someone brought in a building inspector to look at the gaff, check for subsidence and whatever?”

  “Report’s in the pile. Graham got it done.” Whoever that was. “Short version, the house is in bits: damp going up half the walls, subsidence—the cracks—and something’s wrong with the plumbing, I couldn’t work out what, but the gist is the whole place would’ve needed re-plumbing within a year or two. Sinéad Gogan wasn’t wrong about the builders: load of bloody chancers. Slap the houses up, sell them and get out before anyone could suss their game. But your man says none of the problems would account for the holes in the walls. The one in the eaves, that could’ve been the subsidence; the ones in the walls, nah.” Richie’s eyes came up to meet mine. “If Pat made those holes himself, chasing after a squirrel . . .”

  I said, “It wasn’t a squirrel. And we don’t know that he did. Who’s jumping the gun now?”

  “I’m only saying if. Knocking holes in your own walls . . .”

  “It’s drastic, all right. But you tell me: there’s a mysterious animal running around your gaff, you want it gone, you don’t have the dosh for an exterminator. What do you do?”

  “Board up the hole under the eaves. If you’ve trapped the yoke inside by mistake, you give it a couple of days to get hungry, take off the boards so it can do a legger, then try again. If it still won’t leave, you put down poison. If it dies in the walls and stinks the place out, t
hen you bring out the hammer. Not before.” Richie shoved himself off my desk so that his chair rolled back towards his own. “If Pat made those holes, man, then Conor’s not the only one whose mind wasn’t OK.”

  “Like I said. We’ll find out. Until then—”

  “I know. Keep my gob shut about it.”

  Richie swung his jacket on and started poking at the knot in his tie, trying to check it without ruining it. I said, “Looking good. Let’s go find the Super.”

  He had forgotten all about Quigley. I hadn’t. The part I hadn’t told Richie: Quigley doesn’t go near a fair fight. His personal talent is a hyena’s nose for anything weak or bleeding, and he doesn’t take people on unless he’s positive he can take them down. It was obvious why he was targeting Richie. The newbie, the working-class boy who needed to prove himself half a dozen different ways, the smart-arsed kid who couldn’t keep a leash on his tongue: it was easy and safe, to goad him along while he talked himself into trouble. What I couldn’t work out, what might have worried me if I hadn’t been floating on such a good mood, was why Quigley was targeting me.

  * * *

  O’Kelly was a happy camper. “The very men I’ve been waiting for,” he said, swiveling his chair to face us, when we knocked on his office door. He pointed at chairs—we had to clear away stacks of e-mail printouts and holiday applications before we could sit down; O’Kelly’s office always looks like the paperwork is on the verge of winning—and held up his copy of our report. “Go on. Tell me I’m not dreaming.”

  I gave him the rundown. “The little fucker,” O’Kelly said, when I was done, but without much heat. The Super’s worked Murder for a long time and seen a lot of things. “The confession checks out?”

  I said, “What we’ve got checks out, yeah, but he started looking for his sleep break before we could get into details. We’ll take another shot at him later, or tomorrow.”