Broken Harbor

by Tana French

  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, then 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 whil
e 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.”

  “But the little fucker’s our man. You’ve got enough that I can go to the media, tell them the people of Brianstown are safe in their beds again. Is that what you’re telling me?”

  Richie was looking at me too. I said, “It’s safe out there.”

  “That’s what I like to hear. I’ve been beating back the reporters with a stick; I swear half the little bastards are hoping the fucker’ll strike again, keep them in a job. This’ll put a stop to their gallop.” O’Kelly leaned back in his chair with a satisfied sigh and aimed a stubby forefinger in Richie’s direction. “Curran, I’m going to hold my hand up and say I didn’t want you on this one. Did Kennedy tell you that?”

  Richie shook his head. “No, sir.”

  “Well, I didn’t. Thought you were too green to wipe your own arse without someone holding the jacks roll for you.” In the corner of my eye I caught the twitch of Richie’s mouth, but he nodded gravely. “I was wrong. Maybe I should use rookies more often, give those lazy lumps out there something to think about. Fair play to you.”

  “Thanks, sir.”

  “And as for this fella”—a thumb-jerk at me—“there’s men out there that would’ve told me not to let him within a mile of this one, either. Make him work his way back up, they said. Make him prove he’s still got what it takes.”

  A day earlier I would have been starving to find the fuckers and stuff that down their throats. Now the six o’clock news would do it for me. O’Kelly was watching me, sharp-eyed. “And I hope I’ve done that, sir,” I said smoothly.

  “I knew you would, or I wouldn’t have risked it. I told them where they could stick it, and I was right. Welcome back.”

  “Good to be back, sir,” I said.

  “I bet it is. I was right about you, Kennedy, and you were right about this young fella here. There’s plenty of lads on this squad that would still be holding their dicks in their hands and waiting for a confession to land in their laps. When are you charging your little fucker?”

  I said, “I’d like the full three days. I want to be sure we don’t leave any cracks in this one.”

  “That,” O’Kelly told Richie, “that’s our man Kennedy all over. Once he’s got his teeth into someone, God help the poor bastard. Watch and learn. Go on, go on”—a magnanimous wave of his hand—“take all the time you need. You’ve earned it. I’ll get you the extensions. Anything else you want, while you’re at it? More men? More overtime? Just say the word.”

  “We’re all right for the moment, sir. If anything changes, I’ll let you know.”

  “Do that,” O’Kelly said. He nodded at us, squared off the pages of our report and tossed it onto a stack: conversation over. “Now get out there and show the rest of that shower how it’s done.”

  Out in the corridor, a safe distance from O’Kelly’s door, Richie caught my eye. He said, “So does this mean I’m allowed to wipe my own arse now, yeah?”

  Plenty of people take the piss out of the Super, but he’s my boss and he’s always looked out for me, and I take both of those seriously. “It’s a metaphor,” I said.

  “I got that. What’s the jacks roll meant to be?”

  “Quigley?” I said, and we went back into the incident room laughing.

  * * *

  * * *

  Conor’s place was a basement flat, in a tall brick house with the paint peeling off the window frames; his door was at the back, down a flight of narrow steps with rusted railings. Inside, the flat—bedroom, tiny living-room-cum-kitchen, tinier bathroom—looked like he had forgotten it existed a long time ago. It wasn’t filthy, or not quite, but there were cobwebs in the corners, food scraps in the kitchen sink and things ground into the linoleum. The fridge was ready-meals and Sprite. Conor’s clothes were good quality but a couple of years old, clean but half folded in crumpled heaps at the bottom of the wardrobe. His paperwork was in a cardboard box in a corner of the living room—bills, bank statements, receipts, all tossed in together; some of the envelopes hadn’t even been opened. With a little work, I could probably have put my finger on the exact month when he had let go of his life.

  No obviously bloody clothes, no clothes in the washing machine, no clothes hanging up to dry; no bloody runners—no runners at all—but the two pairs of shoes in the wardrobe were a size ten. I said, “I’ve never seen a guy his age who doesn’t own a single pair of runners.”

  “Ditched them,” Richie said. He had flipped Conor’s mattress up against the wall and was running a gloved hand over the underside. “I’d say that was the first thing he did, when he got home Monday night: got some clean clothes on and dumped the dirty ones as quick as he could.”

  “Which means nearby, if we’re lucky. We’ll get a few of the lads to start searching the neighborhood bins.” I was going through the heaps of clothes, checking pockets and feeling seams for damp. It was cold in there: the heating—a plug-in oil heater—was off, and a chill struck straight up through the floor. “Even if we never find the bloody stuff, though, it could still come in useful. If young Conor tries to go for some kind of insanity defense—and let’s face it, that’s basically the only option he’s got left—then we point out that he tried to cover up what he’d done, which means he knew it was wrong, which means he was as sane as you and me. Legally, anyway.”

  I put in a call for some lucky searchers to do bin duty—the flat was near enough to underground that I had to go outside to get a signal on my phone; Conor wouldn’t have been able to talk to his friends even if he had had any. Then we moved on to the sitting room.

  Even with the lights on, the room was dim. The window, at head-level, looked out on a flat gray wall; I had to crane my neck sideways to catch a narrow rectangle of sky, birds whirling against heavy cloud. The most promising stuff—a monster computer with cornflakes in the keyboard, a battered mobile—was on Conor’s desk, and it was stuff we couldn’t touch without Kieran. Beside the desk was an old wooden fruit crate, with a tattered label of a dark-haired girl holding up an orange and smiling. I flipped the lid off. Inside was Conor’s stash of souvenirs.

  A blue checked scarf, faded from washing, with a few long pale hairs still caught in the weave. A half-burnt green candle in a glass jar, filling the box with the sweet, nostalgic scent of ripe apples. A page from a palm-sized notepad, crumples carefully smoothed out: a phone doodle, fast strong strokes, a rugby player running with the ball in his elbow. The mug, a cracked tea-stained thing painted with poppies. The handful of elastic bands, arranged as neatly as treasure. A kid’s crayon drawing, four yellow heads, blue sky, birds overhead and black cat sprawled in a flowering tree. A green plastic magnet shaped like an X, faded and chewed. A dark-blue pen with gold curly writing: Golden Bay Resort—your door to Paradise!

  I reached out one finger and pushed the scarf away from the bottom corner of the drawing. EMMA, in those wobbly capitals, and beside it the date. The rust-brown that smeared the sky and th
e flowers wasn’t paint. She had drawn the picture on Monday, probably in school, with a handful of hours left in her life.

  There was a long silence. We knelt on the floor, smelling wood and apples.

  “So,” I said. “There’s our proof. He was in the house the night they died.”

  Richie said, “I know that.”

  Another silence, this one stretched tighter, while we each waited for the other to break it. Upstairs, high heels went clicking sharply across a bare floor. “OK,” I said, and fitted the lid gently onto the crate. “OK. Let’s bag it, tag it and move on.”

  The ancient orange sofa was just about visible under jumpers, DVDs, empty plastic bags. We worked our way through the layers, checking for blood and shaking things out and dumping them onto the floor. “For Christ’s sake,” I said, unearthing a TV guide for the beginning of June and a half-full packet of salt and vinegar crisps. “Look at this.”

  Richie gave a wry grin and held up a wad of paper towel that had been used to clean up something like coffee. “Seen worse.”

  “So have I, but there’s still no excuse. I don’t care if the guy was skint: self-respect is free. The Spains were just as broke as he was, and their gaff was spotless.” Even at my lowest, just after Laura and I split, I never left chunks of food to rot in my sink. “It’s hardly as if he was too busy to pick up a J cloth.”

  Richie had got down to the sofa cushions; he pulled one out and ran his hand around the edges of the frame, in among the crumbs. “Twenty-four hours a day in this place, no job to go to, no money to go out: that’d have your head melted. Not sure I’d be arsed cleaning, either.”

  “He wasn’t stuck here twenty-four-seven, remember. Conor still had places to go. He was a busy boy, out at Brianstown.”

  Richie unzipped the cushion cover and slid a hand inside. “True enough,” he said. “And you know something? That’s why this place is a tip. It wasn’t his home. That hide on the estate, that was his home. And that was as clean as you like.”