Broken Harbor

by Tana French

  “Shit,” Richie said suddenly, eyes widening. “Are you homeless, man? Because we can give you a hand there. I’ll make a few calls—”

  “I’m not bloody homeless. I’m grand.”

  “No reason to be embarrassed. These days there’s loads of people—”

  “Not me.”

  Richie looked skeptical. “Yeah? D’you live in a house or a flat?”

  “Flat.”

  “Where?”

  “Killester.” Northside: just right for a regular commute up to Ocean View.

  “Sharing with who? Girlfriend? Flatmates?”

  “No one. Just me. All right?”

  Richie turned up his hands. “Only trying to help.”

  “I don’t need your help.”

  “I’ve got a question, Conor,” I said, twirling my pen between my fingers and watching it with interest. “Your flat got running water?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “I’m a cop. I’m nosy. Running water?”

  “Yeah. Hot and cold.”

  “Electricity?”

  Conor said, “For fuck’s sake,” to the ceiling.

  “Mind your language, son. Got electricity?”

  “Yeah. Electricity. Heating. A cooker. Even a microwave. What are you, my mum?”

  “Couldn’t be further from it, fella. Because my question is, if you’ve got a nice cozy bachelor pad with all mod cons and even a microwave, why the hell are you spending your nights pissing out the window of a freezing rattrap in Brianstown?”

  There was a silence. I said, “I’m going to need an answer, Conor.”

  His chin set hard. “Because. I like it.”

  Richie stood up, stretched and started moving around the edges of the room, in the loose-kneed, bobbing lope that says Trouble on any backstreet. I said, “That’s not going to do the job, fella. Because—and stop me if this isn’t news to you—two nights ago, when you don’t remember what you were doing, someone got into the Spains’ house and murdered the lot of them.”

  He didn’t bother to pretend that came as a shock. His mouth tightened like a vicious cramp had wrenched through him, but nothing else moved.

  I said, “So, naturally, we’re interested in anyone who has links to the Spains—especially anyone whose link is what you might call out of the ordinary, and I’d say your playhouse qualifies there. You could even say we’re very interested. Am I right, Detective Curran?”

  “Fascinated,” Richie said, from behind Conor’s shoulder. “Is that the word I’m after, yeah?” He was making Conor edgy. The bad-news walk wasn’t intimidating him, nothing like that, but it was breaking his concentration, keeping him from slamming his silence shut around himself. I realized that I was liking working with Richie, more and more.

  “‘Fascinated’ would work, all right. Even ‘obsessed’ wouldn’t be out of place. Two little kids are dead. Personally, and I don’t think I’m alone here, I’m willing to do whatever it takes to put away the cock-sucking bastard who killed them. I’d like to think any decent member of society would do the same.”

  “Dead right,” said Richie approvingly. The circles were getting tighter, faster. “Are you with us on that, Conor, yeah? You’re a decent member of society, aren’t you?”

  “Haven’t got a clue.”

  I said pleasantly, “Well, let’s find out, shall we? We’ll start with this: in the course of your year or so of breaking and entering—you didn’t keep track, of course, you just liked it out there—did you happen to notice anyone unsavory hanging around Ocean View?”

  Shrug.

  “Is that a no?”

  Nothing. Richie sighed noisily and started skimming the sides of his shoe soles off the linoleum on each step, with a horrible squealing noise. Conor winced. “Yeah. It’s a no. I saw no one.”

  “What about the night before last? Because we need to cut the crap, Conor: you were out there. See anyone interesting?”

  “I’ve got nothing to tell you.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “You know, Conor, I doubt that. Because I’m only seeing two options here. Either you saw what happened, or you are what happened. If it’s Door Number One, then you need to start talking right now. If it’s Door Number Two . . . well, that’s the only reason why you would want to keep your mouth shut. Isn’t it?”

  People tend to react, when you accuse them of murder. He sucked his teeth, stared at a thumbnail.

  “If you can see an option I’ve missed, old son, then by all means share it with us. All donations gratefully accepted.”

  Richie’s shoe squealed inches behind Conor, and he jumped. He said, and there was an edge to his voice, “Like I said: I’ve got nothing to tell you. Pick your own options; not my problem.”

  I swept my pen and notebook out of my way and leaned forward across the table, into his face, leaving him nowhere else to look. “Yeah, it is, old son. It bloody well is. Because me and Detective Curran and the entire police force of this country, every single one of us is out to bring down the fucker who slaughtered this family. And you’re right smack in our crosshairs. You’re the guy who’s on the spot for no good reason, who’s been spying on the Spains for a year, who’s filling us up with bullshit when any innocent man in the world would be helping us out . . . What do you think that says to us?”

  Shrug.

  “It says you’re a murdering scumbag, fella. I’d say that’s very much your problem.”

  Conor’s jaw tightened. “If that’s what you want to think, there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  “Jesus,” Richie said, rolling his eyes. “Self-pity much?”

  “Call it what you want.”

  “Come on. There’s loads you can do about it. You could give us a hand, just for starters: tell us everything you saw going down around the Spains’ gaff, hope something in there helps us out. Instead, you’re gonna sit here and sulk like some kid who’s got caught smoking hash? Grow up, man. Seriously.”

  That got Richie a filthy look, but Conor wasn’t biting. He kept his mouth shut.

  I eased back into my seat, adjusted the knot in my tie and changed the note to something gentler, almost curious. “Do we have it wrong, Conor? Maybe it wasn’t like it looks. We weren’t there, me and Detective Curran; there could have been a lot more to it than we realize. This might not be murder at all; it could have been manslaughter. I can even see how it could have started out as self-defense, and then things got out of hand. I’m willing to accept that. But we can’t do that unless you tell us your side of the story.”

  Conor said, to the air somewhere over my head, “There’s no fucking story.”

  “Oh, but there is. That’s not really up for debate, is it? The story might be ‘I wasn’t in Brianstown that night, and here’s my alibi.’ Or it might be ‘I was out there and I saw someone dodgy hanging about, and here’s a description.’ Or ‘The Spains caught me breaking in, they went for me and I had to defend myself.’ Or ‘I was up in my hide getting good and stoned when everything went black, and the next thing I remember I was sitting in my bathtub, covered in blood.’ Any one of those could fly with us, but we need to hear it. Otherwise, we’re going to assume the worst. Surely you can see that. Can’t you?”

  Silence, so packed with stubborn that you could feel it elbowing you. There are detectives, even nowadays, who would have fixed this problem with a few rabbit punches to the kidneys, either on a toilet trip or while the video camera was mysteriously on the blink. I had been tempted once or twice, when I was younger, had never given in—handing out slaps is for morons like Quigley, who have nothing else in their arsenal—and I had had that under control for a long time. But in that thick, overheated stillness I understood for the first time exactly how fine the line was, and how very easily crossed. Conor’s hands holding the edge of the tab
le were long-fingered and strong, big capable hands with the tendons standing out and the cuticles bitten bloody. I thought of what they had done, of Emma’s cat pillow and the gap in her front teeth and Jack’s soft pale curls, and I wanted to pound a lump hammer down on those hands until they were crunching pulp. The thought of doing it made the blood shake in my throat. It horrified me, how deep in my gut I wanted it, how simple and natural a desire it seemed.

  I tamped it down hard and waited until my heart rate subsided. Then I sighed and shook my head, more in sorrow than in anger. “Conor, Conor, Conor. What do you think this is going to accomplish? Tell me that, at least. Do you seriously believe we’re going to be so impressed by your little act that we’ll send you off home and forget the whole thing? ‘I like a man who sticks to his guns, old son, don’t you worry about those nasty murders’?”

  He stared at the air, narrow-eyed and intent. The silence stretched. I hummed to myself, adding a beat with my fingertips on the table, and Richie perched on the edge of the table jiggling his knee and cracking his knuckles with real dedication, but Conor had gone past that. He barely knew we were there.

  Finally Richie did an ostentatious stretch-groan-yawn routine and checked his watch. “Here, man, are we going to be doing this all night?” he wanted to know. “’Cause if we are, I need coffee to keep up with the pace. Thrill a minute, this.”

  I said, “He’s not going to answer you, Detective. We’re getting the silent treatment.”

  “Can we get it while we’re in the canteen, yeah? I swear, I’m gonna fall asleep right here if I don’t get some coffee into me.”

  “No reason why not. This little shit is making me sick to my stomach anyway.” I clicked my pen shut. “Conor, if you need to get your sulk out of the way before you can talk to us like an adult human being, be our guest, but we’re not going to sit around and watch you do it. Believe it or not, you’re not the center of the universe. We’ve got plenty of more urgent things to do than watch a grown man act like a spoiled kid.”

  Not a blink. I clipped my pen to my notebook, tucked them back in my pocket and gave it a pat. “We’ll be back when we get a moment. If you need to go to the jacks, you can give the door a bang and hope someone hears. See you around.”

  On the way out Richie whipped Conor’s cup off the table, catching the bottom delicately between thumb and fingertip. I pointed at it and told Conor, “Two of our favorite things: prints and DNA. Thanks, fella. You saved us a load of time and hassle, right there.” Then I gave him a wink and a thumbs-up, and slammed the door behind us.

  * * *

  * * *

  In the observation room, Richie asked, “Was that all right, me getting us out of there? I just thought . . . I mean, we’d hit a wall, like. And I figured it was easier for me to pull the plug without losing face, yeah?”

  He was rubbing one foot off the opposite ankle and looking apprehensive. I pulled an evidence bag out of the cabinet and tossed it to him. “You did fine. You’re right: time to regroup. Any thoughts?”

  He dropped the cup into the evidence bag and looked around for a pen; I passed him mine. “Yeah. Know something? He’s ringing a bell. The face.”

  “You’ve been looking at him for a long time, it’s late, you’re shattered. Sure your mind’s not playing tricks?”

  Richie squatted beside the table to label the bag. “Yeah, I’m sure. I’ve seen him before. I’m wondering was it back when I was in Vice, maybe.”

  The observation room is on the same thermostat as the interview room. I tugged my tie looser. “He’s not in the system.”

  “I know. I’d remember if I’d arrested him. But you know yourself: some guy catches your eye and you can tell he’s up to something, but there’s nothing you can pin on him, so you just hang on to that face and wait till it shows up again. I’m wondering . . .” He shook his head, dissatisfied.

  “Put it on the back burner. It’ll come to you. When it does, let me know; we need to ID this guy, and soon. Anything else?”

  Richie initialed the bag, ready to hand in to the evidence room, and gave my pen back. “Yeah. Winding him up won’t get us anywhere, not with this fella. We had him pissed off there, all right, but the angrier he gets, the quieter he gets. We need another angle.”

  I said, “We do. The distraction stuff was good—nicely done there—but it’s taken us as far as it can. And intimidation won’t work, either. I was wrong about one thing: he’s not afraid of us.”

  Richie shook his head. “Nah. He’s on guard, all right, big time, but scared . . . Nah. And the thing is, he should be. I’d still say he’s a virgin; he’s not acting like he knows the drill. This whole thing should have him crapping his kacks by now. Why doesn’t it?”

  In the interview room Conor was still and taut, hands spread flat on the table. There was no way he could have heard us, but I lowered my voice all the same. “Overconfidence. He thinks he covered his tracks, figures we’ve got nothing on him unless he talks.”

  “Maybe, yeah. But he has to know we’ve got a full team going over that house with a fine-tooth comb, looking for anything he left behind. That should be worrying him.”

  “They’re arrogant bastards, a lot of them. Think they’re smarter than we are. Don’t let that bother you; it’ll work for us, in the long run. Those are the ones that go to pieces when you whip out something they can’t ignore.”

  “What if . . .” Richie said diffidently, and stopped. He was twirling the bag back and forth, looking at it, not at me. “Never mind.”

  “What if what?”

  “I was only going to say. If he’s got a solid alibi, something like that, and he knows sooner or later we’ll run up against it . . .”

  I said, “You mean, what if he’s feeling safe because he’s innocent.”

  “Yeah. Basically.”

  “Not a chance, chum. If he had an alibi, why not just tell us and go home? You think he’s pulling our chains for kicks?”

  “Could be. He’s not mad about us.”

  “Even if he were innocent as a baby—and he’s not—he shouldn’t be this cool. The innocent ones get just as frightened as the guilty ones—more, a lot of the time, because they’re not arrogant pricks. They shouldn’t, obviously, but there’s no telling them that.”

  Richie glanced up and lifted a noncommittal eyebrow. I said, “If they’ve done nothing wrong, then the fact is, they’ve got nothing to be afraid of. But the facts aren’t always the point.”

  “I guess. Yeah.” He was rubbing at the side of his jaw, where stubble should have been by this stage. “Another thing, but. Why isn’t he pointing us at Pat? We’ve given him a dozen openings. It’d be easy as pie: ‘Yeah, Detective, now that you mention it, your man Pat went loopy after he lost his job, used to smack his wife around, beat the shite out of his kids, saw him threaten them with a knife just last week . . .’ He’s not thick; he must’ve seen his chance. Why didn’t he grab it?”

  I said, “Why do you think I’ve been giving him those openings?”

  Richie shrugged, a complicated, embarrassed squirm. “I dunno.”

  “You thought I was being sloppy, and I just got lucky that this guy didn’t take advantage. Wrong, old son. I told you before we went in there: our man Conor thinks he has some connection to the Spains. We needed to know what kind of connection. Did Pat Spain cut him off on the motorway and now he thinks all his troubles are Pat’s fault and his luck won’t turn till Pat’s dead and gone, or did he chat to Jenny at some party and decide the stars wanted them to be together?”

  Conor hadn’t moved. The white strip-lighting caught the sheen of sweat on his face; it turned him waxy and alien, something shipwrecked from another planet, light-years more lost than we could imagine.

  I said, “And we got our answer: in his own fucked way, Conor Whatever cares about the Spains. All four of them. He di
dn’t point us at Pat because, even to save himself, he wouldn’t drop Pat in the shit. He believes he loved them. And that’s how we’re going to take him down.”

  * * *

  * * *

  We left him there for an hour. Richie took the cup down to the evidence room and picked up faded coffee on his way back—the canteen coffee works mainly by the power of suggestion, but it’s better than nothing. I checked in with the patrol floaters: they were working their way out from the estate, they had spotted about a dozen parked cars, all of which came back with legit reasons for being in the area, and they were starting to sound tired. I told them to keep looking. Then Richie and I stayed in the observation room, with our sleeves pushed up and the door wide open, and we watched our man.

  It was almost five o’clock. Down the corridor the two lads on night duty were tossing a basketball back and forth and slagging each other’s aim, to keep themselves awake. Conor sat still in his chair, hands cupping his knees. For a while his lips moved, like he was reciting something under his breath, in a regular, steadying rhythm. “Praying?” Richie asked softly, beside me.

  “We’ll hope not. If God’s telling him to keep his mouth shut, we’re in for a rough ride.”

  In the squad room the ball knocked something off a desk with a crash, one of the lads said something creative and the other one started to laugh. Conor sighed, a deep wave of breath that lifted and dropped his whole body. He had stopped whispering; he looked like he was slipping into some kind of trance. I said, “Let’s go.”

  We went in loud and cheerful, fanning ourselves with statement sheets and bitching about the heat, handing him a cup of lukewarm coffee and warning him that it tasted like piss: bygones are bygones, all friends again now. We rewound to the safe ground before we’d lost him, spent a while poking around the edges of stuff we’d already covered—did you ever see Pat and Jenny arguing, ever see either of them shouting, ever see either of them smack the kids . . . The chance to talk about the Spains lured Conor out of his silent zone, but as far as he was concerned, they had made the Brady Bunch look like something off Jerry Springer. When we moved on to his schedule—what time do you usually get to Brianstown, what time do you fall asleep—his memory went glitchy again. He was starting to feel safe, starting to think he knew how this worked. It was time to move things forward.