Faithful Place

by Tana French

  “We’ve been told probably Tuesday. Detective Kennedy says . . . well. He figures we’ve got enough evidence to make a case. From now on, we’re just tidying up the paperwork.”

  I said, “It sounds to me like you’ve heard about the lovely Imelda Tierney.”

  “Well. Yeah.”

  “Detective Kennedy thinks her story is the final piece of the puzzle, perfect fit, now he can wrap everything up in a pretty parcel and tie it with ribbons and present it to the DPP. Am I right?”

  “More or less, yeah.”

  “And what do you think?”

  Stephen rubbed at his hair, leaving it standing up in tufts. “I think,” he said, “from what Detective Kennedy’s said—and tell me if this is wrong—I think Imelda Tierney’s well pissed off with you.”

  “I’m not her favorite person right now, no.”

  “You know her, even if it’s from ages ago. If she was pissed off enough, would she make up something like this?”

  “I’d say she’d do it in a heartbeat. Call me biased.”

  Stephen shook his head. “Maybe I would, only I’ve still got the same problem with the fingerprints as I had before. Unless Imelda Tierney can explain the note being wiped, it outweighs her story as far as I’m concerned. People lie; evidence doesn’t.”

  The kid was worth ten of Scorcher, and probably of me. I said, “I like the way you think, Detective. Unfortunately, I’m pretty sure Scorcher Kennedy’s not going to start thinking the same way anytime soon.”

  “Not unless we come up with an alternative theory that’s too solid for him to ignore.” He still put a shy little twist on the “we,” like a teenager talking about his first girlfriend. Working with me had been a big deal to him. “So that’s what I’ve been concentrating on. I’ve spent a lot of time going over this case in my head, looking for what we could’ve missed, and last night something hit me.”

  “Yeah? What would that be?”

  “OK.” Stephen took a deep breath: he had rehearsed this, ready to impress me. “So far, we’ve none of us paid any attention to the fact that Rose Daly’s body was concealed, yeah? We’ve thought about the implications of where it was concealed, but not the fact that it was concealed to start with. And I think that should’ve told us something. Everyone’s agreed that this looks like an unplanned crime, right? Our fella just snapped?”

  “That’s what it looks like.”

  “So his head must’ve been well wrecked once he saw what he’d done. Me, I’d have legged it out of that house as fast as I could go. Instead, our guy got up the willpower to stay put, find a hiding place, stash a heavy body under a heavy concrete slab . . . That took time and effort, loads of it. He needed that body hidden. Like, badly. Why? Why not just leave her for someone to find in the morning?”

  He’d make a profiler yet. I said, “You tell me.”

  Stephen was leaning forward across the table, eyes fixed on mine, all wrapped up in the story. “Because he knew someone out there could link him either to Rose or to the house. Has to be. If her body had been found the next day, someone out there would’ve said, ‘Hang on, I saw So-and-so going into Number Sixteen last night,’ or ‘I think So-and-so was planning on meeting Rose Daly.’ He couldn’t afford to let her be found.”

  “Sounds about right to me.”

  “So all we need to do is find that link. We’re discounting Imelda’s story, but someone out there has another story a lot like that one, only true. Probably they’ve forgotten all about it, since they never realized it was important, but if we can just jog their memory . . . I’d start by talking to the people who were closest to Rose—her sister, her best friends—and the people who used to live on the even-numbered side of Faithful Place. Your statement says you heard someone going through those gardens; he could have been seen out a back window.”

  A few more days working along these lines and he was going to get somewhere. He looked so hopeful, I hated to smack the poor little bastard down—it was like kicking a half-grown retriever who had brought me his best chew toy—but it needed doing. I said, “Good thinking, Detective. That all hangs together very nicely. Now leave it.”

  Blank stare. “What . . . ? What d’you mean, like?”

  “Stephen. Why do you think I texted you today? I knew you wouldn’t have the phone records for me, I already knew about Imelda Tierney, I was pretty sure you would’ve been in touch if something momentous had happened. Why did you think I wanted to meet up?”

  “I just figured . . . updates.”

  “You could call it that. Here’s the update: from now on, we’re leaving this case to its own devices. I’m back on my holidays, and you’re back on typist duty. Enjoy.”

  Stephen’s coffee cup went down with a flat bang. “What? Why?”

  “Did your mother ever tell you, ‘Because I said so’?”

  “You’re not my mother. What the hell—” Then he stopped in mid-sentence as the lightbulb went on. “You’ve found out something,” he said, “haven’t you? Last time, when you legged it out of here: something had hit you. You chased it for a couple of days, and now—”

  I shook my head. “Another cute theory, but no. I’d have loved this case to solve itself in a blinding flash of inspiration, but I hate to break it to you: they just don’t do that as often as you’d think.”

  “—and now that you’ve got it, you’re keeping it to yourself. Bye-bye, Stephen, thanks for playing, now get back in your box. I suppose I should be flattered that you’re worried about me catching up, should I?”

  I sighed, leaned back in my chair and kneaded at the back of my neck. “Kid. If you don’t mind hearing one little piece of advice from someone who’s been doing this job a lot longer than you have, let me share this secret with you: with almost no exceptions, the simplest explanation is the right one. There’s no cover-up, there’s no big conspiracy, and the government has not planted a chip behind your ear. The only thing I found out, over the last couple of days, is that it’s time for you and me to let this case go.”

  Stephen was staring at me like I had grown an extra head. “Hang on a minute here. What happened to us having a responsibility to the victims? What happened to ‘It’s just you and me, we’re all they’ve got’?”

  I said, “It got pointless, kid. That’s what happened. Scorcher Kennedy’s right: he’s got a beauty of a case. If I were the DPP, I’d give him the go-ahead in a heartbeat. There’s no way in hell he’s going to ditch his whole theory and start from scratch even if the Angel Gabriel comes down from heaven to tell him he’s got it wrong, never mind because something a little funny shows up on Kevin’s phone records or because you and I think Imelda’s story smells icky. It doesn’t matter what happens between now and Tuesday: this case is over.”

  “And you’re OK with that?”

  “No, sunshine, I’m not. I’m not one little bit OK with it. But I’m a grown-up. If I’m going to throw myself in front of a bullet, it’s going to be for something where that might possibly make a difference. I don’t do lost causes, no matter how romantic, because they’re a waste. Just like it would be a waste for you to get reverted to uniform and booted to a backwoods desk job for the rest of your career because you got caught leaking useless info to me.”

  The kid had a redhead’s temper: one fist was clenched on the table, and he looked like he was just about ready to plant it in my face. “That’s my decision. I’m a big boy; I’m well able to look after myself.”

  I laughed. “Don’t fool yourself: I’m not trying to protect you. I would happily get you to keep putting your career on the line through 2012, never mind through next Tuesday, if I thought for one second it would do any good. But it wouldn’t.”

  “You wanted me to get involved here, you practically shoved me into it, and now I’m involved and I’m staying that way. You don’t get to keep changing your mind every few days: Fetch the stick, Stephen, drop the stick, Stephen, fetch the stick, Stephen . . . I’m not your bitch, any more than I’m Detect
ive Kennedy’s.”

  “Actually,” I said, “you are. I’m going to be keeping an eye on you, Stevie my friend, and if I get just one hint that you’re still poking your nose where it doesn’t belong, I’m going to take that post-mortem report and that fingerprint report to Detective Kennedy and tell him where I got them. Then you’ll be in his bad books, you’ll be in my bad books, and more than likely you’ll be at that desk in the arsehole of nowhere. So I’m telling you one more time: back off. Do you get that?”

  Stephen was too stunned and too young to keep his face under control; he was staring at me with a naked, blazing mix of fury, amazement and disgust. This was exactly what I was aiming for—the snottier he got with me, the further he would be from the various forms of nasty that were coming up—but somehow it still stung. “Man,” he said, shaking his head, “I don’t get you. I really don’t.”

  I said, “Ain’t that the truth,” and started fishing for my wallet.

  “And I don’t need you buying me coffee. I can pay my own way.”

  If I kicked him in the ego too hard, he might keep chasing the case just to prove to himself that he still had a pair. “Your choice,” I said. “And, Stephen?” He kept his head down, rummaging in his pockets. “Detective. I’m going to need you to look at me.” I waited till he cracked and reluctantly met my eyes before I said, “You’ve done some excellent work here. I know this isn’t how either of us wanted it to end, but all I can tell you is that I’m not going to forget it. When there’s something I can do for you—and there will be—I’m going to be all over it.”

  “Like I said. I can pay my own way.”

  “I know you can, but I like paying my debts too, and I owe you. It’s been a pleasure working with you, Detective. I look forward to doing it again.”

  I didn’t try to shake hands. Stephen shot me a dark look that gave away nothing, slapped a tenner onto the table—which counted as a serious gesture, from someone on newbie wages—and shrugged on his coat. I stayed where I was and let him be the one who walked away.

  And there I was, back where I had been just a week before, parking in front of Liv’s place to pick Holly up for the weekend. It felt like it had been years.

  Olivia was wearing a discreet caramel-colored number instead of last week’s discreet little black dress, but the message was the same: Dermo the Pseudo-Pedo was on his way, and he was in with a chance. This time, though, instead of barricading the door, she opened it wide and drew me quickly into the kitchen. Back when we were married, I used to dread Liv’s “We need to talk” signals, but at this stage I actually welcomed them. They beat her “I’ve got nothing to say to you” routine, hands down.

  I said, “Holly not ready, no?”

  “She’s in the bath. It was bring-a-friend day at Sarah’s hip-hop class; she just got home, all sweaty. She’ll be a few minutes.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  Olivia sighed, ran a hand lightly over her immaculate hairdo. “I think she’s all right. As all right as we could expect, anyway. She had a nightmare last night, and she’s been quiet, but she doesn’t seem . . . I don’t know. She loved the hip-hop class.”

  I said, “Is she eating?” When I moved out, Holly went on hunger strike for a while.

  “Yes. But she’s not five any more; she’s not always as obvious about her feelings, these days. That doesn’t mean they’re not there. Would you try talking to her? Maybe you can get a better sense of how she’s coping.”

  “So she’s keeping stuff to herself,” I said, nowhere near as nastily as I could have. “I wonder where she got that idea.”

  The corners of Olivia’s lips tightened up. “I made a mistake. A bad one. I’ve admitted that, and apologized for it, and I’m doing my utmost to fix the damage. Believe me: there’s nothing you can say that would make me feel any worse about hurting her.”

  I pulled out one of the bar stools and parked my arse heavily—not to piss Olivia off, this time, just because I was wrecked enough that even a two-minute sit-down in a room that smelled of toast and strawberry jam felt like a big treat. “People hurt each other. That’s how it works. At least you were trying to do something good. Not everyone can say that much.”

  The tightness had spread down to Liv’s shoulders. She said, “People don’t necessarily hurt each other.”

  “Yes, Liv, they do. Parents, lovers, brothers and sisters, you name it. The closer you get, the more damage you do.”

  “Well, sometimes, yes. Of course. But talking like it’s some unavoidable law of nature—That’s a cop-out, Frank, and you know it.”

  “Let me pour you a nice cold refreshing glass of reality. Most people are only too delighted to wreck each other’s heads. And for the tiny minority who do their pathetic best not to, this world is going to go right ahead and make sure they do it anyway.”

  “Sometimes,” Olivia said coldly, “I really wish you could hear yourself. You sound like a teenager, do you realize that? A self-pitying teenager with too many Morrissey albums.”

  It was an exit line, her hand was on the door handle, and I didn’t want her walking out. I wanted her to stay in the warm kitchen and bicker with me. I said, “I’m only speaking from experience here. Maybe there are people out there who never do anything more destructive than make each other cups of hot cocoa with marshmallows, but I’ve never personally encountered them. If you have, by all means enlighten me. I’ve got an open mind. Name one relationship you’ve seen, just one, that didn’t do damage.”

  I may not be able to make Olivia do anything else I want, but I’ve always been wonderful at making her argue. She let go of the door handle, leaned back against the wall and folded her arms. “All right,” she said. “Fine. This girl Rose. Tell me: how did she ever hurt you? Not the person who killed her. She herself. Rose.”

  And the other half of me and Liv is that, in the end, I always bite off more than I can chew. I said, “I think I’ve had more than enough talk about Rose Daly for one week, if that’s OK with you.”

  Liv said, “She didn’t leave you, Frank. It never happened. Sooner or later, you’re going to have to come to terms with that.”

  “Let me guess. Jackie and her big mouth?”

  “I didn’t need Jackie to tell me that some woman had hurt you, or at least that you believed she had. I’ve known that practically ever since we met.”

  “I hate to burst your bubble here, Liv, but your telepathy skills aren’t at their finest today. Better luck next time.”

  “And I didn’t need telepathy, either. Ask any woman you’ve ever had a relationship with: I guarantee she knew she was second best. A placeholder, till the one you actually wanted came home.”

  She started to say something else, but then she bit it back. Her eyes were apprehensive, almost stunned, like she had just realized how deep the water was around here.

  I said, “Go ahead and get it off your chest. You’ve started, you might as well finish.”

  After a moment Liv made a tiny movement like a shrug. “All right. That was one of the reasons why I asked you to move out.”

  I laughed out loud. “Oh. Right. OK, then. So all those endless bloody fights about work and me not being around enough, those were what, a diversion? Just to keep me guessing?”

  “You know that’s not what I said. And you know perfectly well that I had every reason to be sick to death of never being sure whether ‘See you at eight’ meant tonight or next Tuesday, or of asking you what you did today and being told ‘Work,’ or—”

  “All I know is that I should’ve got it written into the settlement that I never needed to have this conversation again. And what Rose Daly has to do with anything—”

  Olivia was keeping her voice even, but the undercurrent was powerful enough that it could have thrown me off my bar stool. “She had plenty to do with it. I always knew all the rest of it was tied up with the fact that I wasn’t this other woman, whoever she was. If she had rung you at three in the morning to see why you weren’t home,
you would have picked up the bloody phone. Or, more likely, you would have been home to begin with.”

  “If Rosie had rung me at three in the morning, I’d have made millions from my hotline to the afterlife and moved to Barbados.”

  “You know exactly what I mean. You would never, ever have treated her the way you treated me. Sometimes, Frank, sometimes it felt like you were shutting me out specifically to punish me for whatever she had done, or just for not being her. Trying to make me leave you, so that when she came back, she wouldn’t find someone else in her place. That’s what it felt like.”

  I said, “I’m going to try this one more time: you dumped me because you wanted to. I’m not saying it came as a huge surprise, and I’m not even saying I didn’t deserve it. But I am saying that Rose Daly, especially given the fact that you didn’t know she had ever existed, had sweet fuck-all to do with it.”

  “Yes she did, Frank. Yes she did. You went into our marriage taking it for granted, beyond any doubt, that it wasn’t going to last. It took me a long time to realize that. But once I worked it out, there didn’t seem to be much point any more.”

  She looked so lovely, and so tired. Her skin was starting to turn worn and fragile, and the sickly kitchen light picked out crow’s-feet around her eyes. I thought of Rosie, round and firm and bloomed like ripe peaches, and how she never got the chance to be any other kind of lovely except perfect. I hoped Dermot realized just how beautiful Olivia’s wrinkles were.

  All I had wanted was a cozy little spat with her. Somewhere on the horizon, building momentum, was a fight that would make the worst Olivia and I had ever done to each other vanish into a little puff of harmless fluffy nothing. Every particle of anger I could generate was being sucked away into that huge vortex; I couldn’t take the thought of a full-on deep and meaningful fight with Liv. “Look,” I said. “Let me go up and get Holly. If we stay here, I’m just going to keep being a narky bastard until this turns into a massive row and I put you in a bad mood and ruin your date. I already did that last week; I don’t want to get predictable.”