by Tana French
“Some people, that’s how they operate. Everything’s always fine. Doesn’t matter what’s wrong, you never admit it; just grit your teeth, keep saying it’s all grand, and hope it comes true.”
His eyes were on me. I couldn’t hold back a wry grin. “True enough. Habits die hard. And you’re right, that sounds like Jenny. But at a time like this, you’d think she’d be spilling everything she’s got. Unless she’s got a bloody good reason not to.”
Richie said, after a second, “The obvious one is that she remembers Monday night. If it’s that, then it says Pat. For her husband, she might keep her mouth shut. For someone she hadn’t even seen in years, no way.”
“Then why is she playing down the break-ins? If she genuinely wasn’t frightened, then why not? Any woman in the world, if she suspects someone’s got access to the house where she and her babies are living, she does something about it. Unless she knows perfectly well who’s coming in and out, and she doesn’t have a problem with it.”
Richie bit at a cuticle and thought that over, squinting into the weak sunlight. A little color was coming back to his cheeks, but his spine was still curled with tension. “Then why’d she say anything to Fiona?”
“Because she didn’t know at first. But you heard her: she was trying to catch the guy. What if she did? Or what if Conor got ballsy and decided to leave Jenny a note, somewhere along the way? There’s history there, remember. Fiona thinks there was never anything romantic between the two of them—or that’s what she says she thinks, anyway—but I doubt she’d know if there had been. At the very least, they were friends; close friends, for a long time. If Jenny found out Conor was hanging around, she might have decided to rekindle the friendship.”
“Without telling Pat?”
“Maybe she was afraid he’d fly off the handle and beat the shite out of Conor—he had a history of jealousy, remember. And maybe Jenny knew he had something to be jealous about.” Saying it out loud sent a shot of electricity through me, a charge that almost lifted me off the wall. Finally, and about bloody time, this case was starting to fit itself into one of the templates, the oldest and best-worn one of all.
Richie said, “Pat and Jenny were mad about each other. If there’s one thing everyone agrees on, it’s that.”
“You’re the one saying he tried to kill her.”
“Not the same thing. People kill people they’re mad about; happens all the time. They don’t cheat on someone they’re mad about.”
“Human nature is human nature. Jenny’s stuck in the middle of nowhere, no friends around, no job to go to, up to her ears in money worries, Pat’s obsessing over some animal in the attic; and all of a sudden, just when she needs him most, Conor shows up. Someone who knew her back when she was the golden girl with the perfect life; someone who’s adored her for half their lives. You’d have to be a saint not to be tempted.”
“Maybe,” Richie said. He was still ripping at that cuticle. “But say you’re right, yeah? That doesn’t take us any closer to a motive for Conor.”
“Jenny decided to break off the affair.”
“That’d be a motive to kill her, just. Or maybe just Pat, if Conor thought it’d make Jenny come back to him. Not the whole family.”
The sun was gone; the hills were fading into gray, and the wind punched fallen leaves in dizzy circles before slapping them back to the damp ground. I said, “Depends how much he wanted to punish her.”
“OK,” Richie said. He took his nail away from his mouth and shoved his hands into his pockets, pulled his jacket closer around him. “Maybe. But then how come Jenny’s saying nothing?”
“Because she doesn’t remember.”
“Doesn’t remember Monday night, maybe. But the last few months: she remembers those just grand. If she’d been having an affair with Conor, or even just hanging out with him, she’d remember that. If she’d been planning on dumping him, she’d know.”
“And you think she’d want that splashed across the headlines? MURDERED CHILDREN’S MOTHER HAD AFFAIR WITH ACCUSED, COURT TOLD. You think she’s going to volunteer to be the media’s Whore of the Week?”
“Yeah, I do. You’re saying he killed her kids, man. No way would she cover for that.”
I said, “She might if she felt guilty enough. An affair would make it her fault Conor was in their lives, which would make it her fault he did what he did. A lot of people would have a pretty tough time getting their own heads around that, never mind telling it to the police. Never underestimate the power of guilt.”
Richie shook his head. “Even if you’re right about an affair, man, it doesn’t say Conor. It says Pat. He was already losing the plot—you said that yourself. Then he finds out his wife’s having it off with his old best mate, and he snaps. He takes Jenny out as punishment, takes the kids along so they won’t have to live without their parents, finishes off with himself because he’s got nothing left to live for. You saw what he said on that board: Her and those kids are everything I’ve got.”
A couple of med students who should have known better had brought their eye bags and stubble outside for a cigarette. I felt a sudden rush of impatience, so violent that it smashed the fatigue away, with everything around me: the pointless reek of their smoke, the tactful little dance steps of our interview with Jenny, the image of Dina tugging insistently at the corner of my mind, Richie and his stubborn, tangled mess of objections and hypotheticals. “Well,” I said. I stood up and dusted off my coat. “Let’s start by finding out whether I’m right about the affair, shall we?”
“Conor?”
“No,” I said. I wanted Conor so badly I could almost smell him, the sharp resiny tang of him, but this is where control comes in useful. “We’re saving him for later. I’m not going near Conor Brennan till I can go in with a full clip of ammo. We’re going to talk to the Gogans again. And this time I’ll do the talking.”
* * *
Ocean View looked worse every time. On Tuesday it had looked like a battered castaway waiting for its savior, like all it needed was some property developer with plenty of cash and plenty of get-up-and-go to stride in and kick it into all the bright shapes it was meant to be. Now it looked like the end of the world. I half-expected feral dogs to slink up around the car when I stopped, last survivors to come staggering and moaning out of skeleton houses. I thought of Pat jogging circles around waste ground, trying to run those scrabbling noises out of his mind; of Jenny listening to the wind whistle around her windows, reading pink-covered books to keep up her PMA and wondering where her happy ending had gone.
Sinéad Gogan was home, of course. “What d’yous want?” she demanded, in the doorway. She was wearing the same gray leggings from Tuesday. I recognized a grease stain on one wobbly thigh.
“We’d like a few words with you and your husband.”
“He’s out.”
Which was a pisser. Gogan was what passed for the brains of this outfit; I had been relying on him to figure out that they needed to talk to us. “That’s all right,” I said. “We can come back and talk to him later, if we need to. For now, we’ll see how much you can help us.”
“Jayden’s already told you—”
“Yeah, he has,” I said, brushing past her and heading for the sitting room, with Richie in my wake. “It’s not Jayden we’re interested in, this time. It’s you.”
“Why?”
Jayden was sitting on the floor again, shooting zombies. He said promptly, “I’m off sick.”
“Switch that off,” I told him, making myself comfortable in one of the armchairs. Richie took the other one. Jayden made a disgusted face, but when I pointed at the controller and snapped my fingers, he did as he was told. “Your mother’s got something to tell us.”
Sinéad stayed in the doorway. “I don’t.”
“Sure you do. You’ve been keeping something back ever si
nce we first walked in here. Today is when you come clean. What was it, Mrs. Gogan? Something you saw? Heard? What?”
“I don’t know anything about that fella. I never even seen him.”
“That’s not what I asked you. I don’t care if it’s got nothing to do with that fella, or any fella; I want to hear it anyway. Sit down.”
I saw Sinéad consider going into a don’t-give-me-orders-in-my-own-house routine, but I gave her a stare that said this would be a very bad idea. In the end she rolled her eyes and plumped down on the sofa, which groaned. “I’ve to get Baby up in a minute. And I don’t know anything that’s got to do with anything. OK?”
“You don’t get to decide that. The way it works is, you tell us what you know; we figure out how it’s relevant. That’s why we’re the ones with the badges. So let’s go.”
She sighed noisily. “I. Don’t. Know. Anything. What am I supposed to say?”
I said, “Just how stupid are you?”
Sinéad’s face turned uglier and she opened her mouth to hit me with some stale drivel about respect, but I kept slamming the words at her till she shut it again. “You make me want to puke. What the hell do you think we’re investigating? Shoplifting? Littering? This is a murder case. Multiple murder. How has that not sunk into your thick head?”
“Don’t you call me—”
“Tell me something, Mrs. Gogan. I’m curious. What kind of scum lets a kid-killer walk away because she doesn’t like cops? Just how far below human do you have to be, to think that’s OK?”
Sinéad snapped, “Are you going to let him talk to me like that?”
She was talking to Richie. He spread his hands. “We’re under a load of pressure here, Mrs. Gogan. You’ve seen the papers, yeah? The whole country’s looking for us to get this sorted. We’ve got to do whatever it takes.”
“No shit,” I said. “Why did you think we kept coming back? Because we can’t stay away from your pretty face? We’re here because we’ve got a guy in custody, and we need the evidence to keep him there. Think hard, if you’re able. What do you figure is going to happen if he gets out?”
Sinéad had her arms folded across her flab and her lips pinched into a tight, outraged knot. I didn’t wait. “The first thing is that I’m going to be very bloody pissed off, and even you have to know that pissing off a cop is a bad idea. Does your husband ever do the odd job for cash, Mrs. Gogan? Do you know how long he could get for welfare fraud? Jayden doesn’t look sick to me; how often does he skip school? If I put in the effort—and believe me, I will—just how much trouble do you think I could make for you?”
“We’re a decent family—”
“Save it. Even if I believed you, I’m not your biggest problem. The second thing that’s going to happen, if you keep messing us around, is that this guy is going to get out. God knows I don’t expect you to give a damn about justice or the good of society, but I thought at least you had the brains to look after your own family. This man knows that Jayden could tell us about the key. Do you think he doesn’t know where Jayden lives? If I tell him that someone’s got the goods on him and they could talk any minute, who do you think is going to spring to his mind?”
“Ma,” Jayden said, in a small voice. He had bum-shuffled back against the sofa and was staring at me. I could feel Richie’s head turned towards me, too, but he had the sense to keep his mouth shut.
“Is all of this clear enough for you? Do you need me to explain it in smaller words? Because unless you’re literally too stupid to live, the next thing out of your mouth is going to be whatever you’ve been keeping back.”
Sinéad was pressed back into the sofa, mouth hanging open. Jayden was holding on to the hem of her leggings. The fear on their faces brought back last night’s giddy, tilting rush, sent it speeding through my blood like a drug with no name.
I don’t talk to witnesses this way. My bedside manner may not be the finest, I may have a rep for being cold or brusque or whatever people want to call it, but I had never in my career done anything like this. It wasn’t because I hadn’t wanted to. Don’t fool yourself: we all have a cruel streak. We keep it under lock and key either because we’re afraid of getting punished or because we believe this will somehow make a difference, make the world a better place. No one punishes a detective for giving a witness a little scare. I’ve heard plenty of the lads do worse, and nothing ever happened.
I said, “Talk.”
“Ma.”
Sinéad said, “It was that yoke there.” She nodded at the baby monitor, lying on its side on the coffee table.
“What was?”
“Sometimes they get their wires crossed, or whatever you call it.”
“Frequencies,” Jayden said. He looked a lot happier, now that his mother was talking. “Not wires.”
“You shut up. This is all your fault, you and your bleeding tenner.” Jayden shoved himself away from her, along the floor, and slumped into a sulk. “Whatever you call them, they get crossed. Sometimes—not all the time; maybe every couple of weeks, like—that yoke picked up their monitor, instead of ours. So we could hear what was going on in there. It wasn’t on purpose or nothing, I don’t be listening in on people”—Sinéad managed a self-righteous look that didn’t suit her—“but we couldn’t help hearing.”
“Right,” I said. “And what did you hear?”
“I told you, I don’t be earwigging on other people’s conversations. I paid no notice. Just switched the monitor off and then on again, to reset it. I only ever heard a few seconds, like.”
“You listened for ages,” said Jayden. “You made me turn down my game so you could hear better.”
Sinéad shot him a glare that said he was in deep shit as soon as we left. For this, she had been ready to let a murderer walk free: so she could look like a good respectable housewife, to herself if not to us, instead of a nosy, petty, furtive little bitch. I’d seen it a hundred times, but it made me want to slap the fourth-hand look of virtue right off her ugly face. I said, “I don’t give a damn if you spent your days under the Spains’ window with an ear trumpet. I just want to know what you heard.”
Richie said matter-of-factly, “Anyone would’ve listened, sure. Human nature. At first you’d no choice, anyway: you needed to figure out what was going on with your monitor.” His voice had that ease again: he was back on form.
Sinéad nodded vigorously. “Yeah. Exactly. The first time it happened, I nearly had a heart attack. Middle of the night, all of a sudden there’s a kid calling, ‘Mummy, Mummy, come here,’ right in my ear. First I thought it was Jayden, only it sounded way too young, and he doesn’t call me Mummy anyway; and Baby was only born. Scared the life out of me.”
“She screamed,” Jayden told us, smirking. He had apparently recovered. “She thought it was a ghost.”
“I did, yeah. So? My husband woke up then, and he figured it out, but anyone would’ve been freaking. So what?”
“She was going to get a psychic out. Or one of those ghost hunters.”
“You shut up.”
I said, “When was this?”
“Baby’s ten months now, so January, February.”
“And after that you heard it every couple of weeks, for a total of about twenty times. What did you hear?”
Sinéad was still furious enough to glass me, but a gossip about the uppity neighbors was impossible to resist. “Mostly just boring sh— stuff. The first few times, it was himself reading some story to put one of the kids to sleep, or it was the young fella jumping on his bed, or the young one talking to her dollies. Around the end of summer, but, they must’ve moved the monitors downstairs or something, ’cause we started hearing other stuff. Like them watching the telly, or her showing the young one how to make chocolate chip cookies—wouldn’t just buy them from the shop like the rest of us, she was too good for that. And onc
e—middle of the night again—I heard her say, ‘Just come to bed. Please,’ like she was begging, and him saying, ‘In a minute.’ Didn’t blame him; it’d be like shagging a bag of potatoes.” Sinéad tried to catch Richie’s eye for a shared smirk, but he stayed blank. “Like I said. Boring.”
I said, “And the ones that weren’t boring?”
“There was only the once.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“It was one afternoon. She was just after getting in, I guess from picking up the young one from school. We were in here, Baby was having his nap so I’d the monitor out, and all of a sudden there’s your woman, yapping away. I almost switched it off, ’cause I swear she’d make you sick, but . . .”
Sinéad gave a defiant little shrug. I said, “What was Jennifer Spain saying?”
“Talking her head off. She’s like, ‘Now let’s get ready! Your daddy’s going to be home from his walk any minute, and when he gets in, we’re going to be happy. Very very happy.’ She’s all perky”—Sinéad’s lip curled—“like some American cheerleader. Don’t know what she had to be perky about. She’s, like, arranging the kids, telling the little girl to sit right here and have a dolly picnic, and the young fella to sit over here and not be throwing his Lego, ask nicely if he wants a hand. She goes, ‘Everything’s going to be lovely. When your daddy gets in, he’s going to be sooo happy. That’s what you want, isn’t it? You don’t want Daddy to be unhappy, do you?’”
“‘Mummy and Daddy,’” said Jayden, under his breath, and snorted.
“She was going on like that for ages, till the monitor cut out. See what I mean about her? She was like your woman off Desperate Housewives, the one that has to have everything perfect or she loses the head. It was like, Jaysus, relax. My husband goes, ‘D’you know what that one needs? She needs a good—’”
Sinéad remembered who she was talking to and cut herself off, with a stare to show she wasn’t afraid of us. Jayden sniggered.
“To be honest with you,” she said, “she sounded bleeding mental.”
