Broken Harbor

by Tana French

  Jenny shrugged. “I didn’t.”

  I waited. After a moment she said, “I just didn’t. I didn’t want to bother him.”

  I said gently, “I’m not second-guessing you, Mrs. Spain, but that seems like an odd decision. Wouldn’t you have felt safer if Pat had known? Wouldn’t he have been safer, in fact, if he had known?”

  A shrug that made her wince. “He had enough on his mind.”

  “For example?”

  “He’d been made redundant. He was doing his best to get another job, but it wasn’t happening. We were . . . we didn’t have a load of money. Pat was a bit stressed.”

  “Anything else?”

  Another shrug. “That’s not enough?”

  I waited again, but this time she wasn’t budging. I said, “We found a trap in your attic. An animal trap.”

  “Oh my God. That.” That laugh again, but I had caught the zap of something bright—terror, maybe, or fury—that brought her face alive for an instant. “Pat thought we might have a stoat or a fox or something coming in and out. He was dying to have a look at it. We’re city kids; even the rabbits down in the sand dunes had us all excited, when we first moved in. Catching a real live fox would’ve been, like, the coolest thing ever.”

  “And did he catch anything?”

  “Oh, God, no. He didn’t even know what kind of bait to use. Like I said, city kids.”

  Her voice was cocktail-party light, but her fingers were clawed into the blanket. I asked, “And the holes in the walls? A DIY project, you said. Was it anything to do with this stoat?”

  “No. I mean, a little bit, but not really.” Jenny reached for the glass of water on the bedside table, took a long drink. I could see her fighting to speed up her mind. “The holes just happened, you know? Those houses . . . there’s something wrong with the foundations. Holes just, like, appear. Pat was going to fix them, but he wanted to work on something first—the wiring, maybe? I don’t remember. I don’t understand that stuff.” She threw me a self-deprecating glance, all helpless little woman. I kept my face wooden. “And he wondered if maybe the stoat, or whatever, might come down into the walls and we could catch it that way. That’s all.”

  “And that didn’t bother you? The delay in mending the walls, the possibility of vermin in the house?”

  “Not really. To be honest, I didn’t believe for a second it was actually a stoat or anything big, or I wouldn’t have let it near the kids. I thought maybe a bird, or a squirrel—the kids would’ve loved to see a squirrel. I mean, obviously it would’ve been nice if Pat had decided to build a garden shed or something, instead of messing about in the walls”—that laugh again, such hard work that it hurt to hear—“but he needed something to keep him occupied, didn’t he? So I thought, OK, whatever, there are worse hobbies.”

  It could have been true, could have been just a refracted version of the same story Pat had poured out onto the internet; I couldn’t read her, through all the things getting in the way. Richie moved in his chair. He said, picking the words, “We’ve got information that says Pat was pretty upset about the squirrel, or the fox, or whatever it was. Could you tell us about that?”

  That zap of some vivid emotion shot across Jenny’s face again, too quick to catch. “What information? From who?”

  “We can’t go into details,” I said smoothly.

  “Well, sorry, but your information is wrong. If this is Fiona again, then this time she’s not just being a drama queen, she’s making the whole thing up. Pat wasn’t even sure there was anything getting in—or it could’ve been just mice. A grown man doesn’t get upset about mice. I mean, come on, would you?”

  “Nah,” Richie admitted, with a touch of a smile. “Just checking. Another thing I was meaning to ask: you said Pat needed something to keep him occupied. What did he do all day, after he was made redundant? Apart from the DIY?”

  Jenny shrugged. “Looked for a new job. Played with the kids. He went running a lot—not so much since the weather turned, but this summer; there’s some lovely scenery out at Ocean View. He’d been working like mad ever since we left college; it was nice for him to have a little time off.”

  It came out just a touch too smoothly, like she had recited it before. “You said earlier he was stressed about it,” Richie said. “How stressed?”

  “He didn’t like being out of work—obviously; I mean, I know there are people who do, but Pat’s not like that. He would’ve been happier if he’d known when he’d get a new job, but he made the best of it. We believe in positive mental attitude. PMA all the way.”

  “Yeah? There’s a lot of fellas these days that are out of work and having a tough time adjusting; no shame in that. Some of them get depressed, or get irritable; maybe they drink that bit too much, or lose their tempers that bit easier. It’s natural enough, sure. Doesn’t make them weak, or mental. Did Pat have any of that stuff, yeah?”

  He was struggling for the easy intimacy that had got him under Conor’s guard and the Gogans’, but it wasn’t working: his rhythm was off and his voice had a forced note, and instead of relaxing Jenny had managed to haul herself upright, her eyes blazing a furious blue. “Oh my God, no. He wasn’t, like, having a nervous breakdown or whatever. Whoever’s been saying—”

  Richie raised his hands. “It’d be fair enough if he was, is all I’m saying. It could happen to the best of us.”

  “Pat was fine. He needed a new job. He wasn’t crazy. OK, Detective? Is that OK with you?”

  “I’m not saying he was crazy. I’m only asking: were you ever worried about him? That he’d hurt himself, like? Maybe even hurt you? With the stress—”

  “No! Pat would never. Not in a million years. He—Pat was . . . What are you doing? Are you trying to . . .” Jenny had fallen back onto the pillows, breathing in shallow gasps. She said, “Could we just . . . leave this till some other time? Please?”

  Her face was gray and fallen-in, all of a sudden, and her hands had gone limp on the blanket: she wasn’t putting it on this time. I glanced at Richie, but he had his head down over his notebook and didn’t look up.

  “Absolutely,” I said. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Spain. Please accept our sympathies, again. I hope you’re not in too much pain.”

  She didn’t answer. Her eyes had dulled; she was nowhere near us any more. We eased out of the chairs and out of the room as quietly as we could. As I closed the door behind us, I heard Jenny starting to cry.

  * * *

  * * *

  Outside, the sky was patchy, just enough sunshine to trick you into thinking you were warm; the hills were dappled with moving splotches of light and shade. I said, “What happened there?”

  Richie was tucking his notebook back into his pocket. He said, “I made a bollix of it.”

  “Why?”

  “Her. The state of her. Put me off my game.”

  “You were fine with her on Wednesday.”

  He twitched a shoulder. “Yeah. Maybe. It was one thing when we thought this was some stranger, you know? But if we’re gonna have to tell her that her own husband did that to her, to their kids . . . I guess I was hoping she already knew.”

  “If he did it. Let’s worry about one step at a time.”

  “I know. I just . . . I fucked up. Sorry.”

  He was still messing with his notebook. He looked pale and shrunken, like he was expecting a bollocking. A day earlier he would probably have got one, but that morning I couldn’t remember why I should put in the energy. “No real harm done,” I said. “Anything she says now won’t hold up anyway; she’s on enough painkillers that any statement would get thrown out in a heartbeat. That was a good moment to leave.”

  I thought that would reassure him, but his face stayed tight. “When do we give her another go?”

  “When the doctors take down her dosage. From what
Fiona said, it shouldn’t be long. We’ll check in tomorrow.”

  “Could be a good while before she’s in decent enough shape to talk. You saw her: she was practically unconscious there.”

  I said, “She’s in better shape than she’s trying to make out. At the end, yeah, she faded fast, but up until then . . . She’s foggy and in pain, all right, but she’s come a long way since the other day.”

  Richie said, “She looked like shite to me.”

  He was heading for the car. “Hang on,” I said. He needed a few breaths of fresh air, and so did I; I was much too tired to have this conversation and drive safely at the same time. “Let’s take five.”

  I headed for the wall where we had sat the morning of the post-mortems—that felt like a decade ago. The illusion of summer didn’t hold up: the sunlight was thin and tremulous, and the air had an edge that cut through my overcoat. Richie sat beside me, running the zip of his jacket up and down.

  I said, “She’s hiding something.”

  “Maybe. Hard to be sure, through all the drugs.”

  “I’m sure. She’s trying much too hard to act like life was perfect up until Monday night. The break-ins were no big deal, Pat’s animal was no big deal, everything was just fine. She was chatting away like we’d all met up for a nice coffee.”

  “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 since 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?”