The Trespasser

by Tana French

  She let him wait till the next day before she got back to him. Yes 8 on Saturday! No need to bring anything, just yourself :-)

  ‘If he showed up without a dozen red roses,’ I say, ‘he’d’ve been in deep shite.’

  ‘Maybe he didn’t know that,’ Steve says. ‘No flowers anywhere.’

  We’ve both seen murders that boiled up out of dumber reasons. ‘That could explain how it happened so fast. He arrives, she sees he’s brought nothing . . .’

  Steve is shaking his head. ‘And what? Going by the stuff on here, she’s not the type who’d tell him to fuck off and come back with a bouquet. She’d play it passive-aggressive: freeze up, let him go mental trying to figure out what he’d done wrong.’

  The problem with Steve taking contradiction so nicely is that I feel like I have to live up to him. ‘True enough. No wonder she got herself killed.’ Sometimes I worry that if I work with Steve for too long, I’m gonna turn into a sweetheart.

  With her pal Lucy, though, Aislinn dropped the hard-to-get act. Yesterday evening, 6.49:

  Omigod I’m so excited it’s ridiculous!!! Getting ready singing into corkscrew like teenager w hairbrush. Am I pathetic or wha??

  Lucy came back to her straightaway. Depends what you’re singing

  Beyoncé :-D

  Could be worse . . . tell me it’s not Put a ring on it

  Nooo!!! Run the world!

  Ah well then you’re golden. Just don’t feed him on celery and ryvita, you don’t want him fainting from hunger before you can have your wicked way with him :-D

  Ha ha so funny. Making beef wellington

  Ooo get you!! Gordon ramsay

  Hello it’s just from Marks & Sparks!

  Ah gotcha. Have loads of fun. And be careful ok?

  Stop worrying!! Tell you everything tomorrow xxx

  That one went out at 7.13. Just time for Aislinn to put on the last layer of makeup, the last layer of hairspray, stick her M&S dinner into the cooker, swap Beyoncé for mood music and light the scented candle, before the doorbell rang.

  ‘“Be careful,” ’ Steve says.

  When we talk to Lucy, she’ll explain why she was worried: how Rory got aggressive that time in the pub when he thought Aislinn was looking at another guy, or how he made her keep her coat on in the restaurant because her dress showed her cleavage, or how he used to go out with a friend of a friend and the word was he had slapped her around but Aislinn figured it was exaggerated and he was a lovely guy and all he needed was someone who treated him properly. ‘Same old story,’ I say. ‘Next time my ma asks me why I’m still single, I’m gonna tell her about this case. Or the last one. Or the one before that.’

  Slam-dunk lovers’ tiff, just like the uniforms figured. Our boy Rory practically lay down on a platter and stuck an apple in his mouth for us. I’ve known this was coming since back in the squad room, but some thicko part of me still feels it like a kick in the teeth.

  Domestics are mostly slam-dunks; the question isn’t whether you can arrest your guy, or girl, it’s whether you can build a case that’ll hold up in court. A lot of people love that – it pretties up your solve rate, looks good to the brass – but not me: it means domestics get you fuck-all respect from the squad, where I could do with it, because everyone knows the solve came easy. Which is also the other reason they piss me off: they’ve got a whole special level of idiotic all to themselves. You take out your wife or your husband or your Shag of the Day, what the fuck do you think is gonna happen? We’re gonna be standing there with our mouths open, scratching our heads at the mind-blowing mystery of it all, Duh, I dunno, musta been the Mafia? Surprise: we’re gonna go straight for you, the evidence is gonna pile up way over your head, and you’re gonna wind up with a life sentence. If you want to kill someone, have enough respect for my time to make it someone, anyone, other than the most gobsmackingly obvious person in the world.

  One thing on that phone, though, doesn’t fit on that rock-bottom level of stupid. After the happy-clappy texts with Lucy, nothing in or out for almost an hour. Then, at 8.09 p.m., a text from Rory: Hi Aislinn, just checking that I’ve got the right address? I’m outside 26 Viking Gardens but no one’s answering the door. Am I in the right place?

  The text’s flagged as unread.

  Steve taps the time stamp. ‘He wasn’t running late, anyway. No reason for her to turn off the cooker.’

  ‘Mm.’

  8.15 p.m., Rory rang Aislinn. She didn’t pick up.

  He rang her again at 8.25. At 8.32 he texted her: Hi Aislinn, wondering if I’ve got the weeks mixed up? I thought I was due over for dinner tonight but it seems like you’re not around. Let me know the story whenever you get the chance? Unread again.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ I say. ‘He knows damn well he hasn’t got the weeks mixed up. If he needed to double-check, the appointment’s right there in his messages.’

  Steve says, ‘He’s trying to make it sound like, whatever’s gone wrong, it has to be his fault. He doesn’t want to piss Aislinn off.’

  ‘Or else he knows we’ll be reading these, and he wants to get it through to us loud and clear that he’s a meek little nice guy who could never do anything like punch his date in the face even if he was in the house which obviously he never was, swear to God, Officer, just look at his phone, see all these messages?’

  A lot of domestics try to get smart like that: take one look at what they’ve done, and start setting up a story. Sometimes it even works – not on us, but on a jury. Rory Fallon pitched it nicely: enough messages to show he was really trying to get hold of Aislinn, honest, but nothing after the 8.32 text, so he doesn’t come across like a stalker. Again, not rock-bottom stupid.

  ‘Narrows down time of death, either way,’ Steve says. ‘She was texting Lucy at thirteen minutes past seven. By ten past eight, she was down.’

  ‘Either way?’ That makes me look up from the phone. ‘What, you think these could be legit?’

  Steve does something noncommittal with his chin. ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Come on. Someone just happened to walk in looking to kill her, at the exact moment when Rory was due to arrive for his beef Wellington? Seriously?’

  ‘I said probably not. Just . . . we’ve got a couple of weird things, now. I’m keeping an open mind.’

  Oh, Jesus. Little Stevie, bless his heart, is trying to convince us both that we’ve landed ourselves something special, so that our day will brighten up and I’ll turn that frown upside down and quit talking about my mate’s security firm and we’ll all live happily ever after. I can’t wait for this case to be over.

  ‘Let’s go pick up Rory Fallon and find out,’ I say. If we’re in luck and the pathetic-wimp version of Rory is the right one, he might even spill his guts in time for me to get in a run and some food before I crash out.

  That gets Steve’s attention. ‘You want to go straight for him?’

  ‘Yeah. Why not?’

  ‘I was thinking the vic’s best friend – Lucy. If she knows anything, it’d be good to have it before we start on Rory. Go in there with all the ammo we can get.’

  Which would be the perfect way to work this if it was a proper murder case, with one of those cunning psychopaths lurking in the shadows daring us to take our best shot, instead of some gobshite who got his knickers in a twist and threw a tantrum at his girlfriend and who deserves every short cut we can find. But Steve is giving me the hopeful puppy-dog eyes, and I figure what the hell: he’ll have his own burnout soon enough, no point dragging him down into mine. ‘Why not,’ I say. I lock Aislinn’s phone and drop it back into its evidence bag. ‘Let’s go talk to Lucy Riordan.’

  Steve slams the oven door. The waft of air shoots through the kitchen, charred and rich with meat about to rot.

  Sophie is squatting beside the fireplace, swabbing the bloodstain. ‘We’re getting out of your hair,’ I tell her. ‘You find anything we should know about, give us a bell.’

  ‘Will do. No surprises so far. Your vic did
a pretty serious clean-up for her little dinner date – practically every surface in here’s been wiped – which is nice: if your guy left prints, we can show they hadn’t been there long. So far we’re getting bugger-all, though; looks like you could be right about him having his gloves on. Keep your fingers crossed.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Just so you know: Don Breslin’s gonna show up any minute.’

  ‘Oh, great. Be still, my beating heart.’ Sophie drops a swab into a test tube. ‘What do you want him for?’

  ‘The gaffer thinks we could use someone who’s good with witnesses.’ That brings Sophie’s head up to look at me. I shrug. ‘Or some shit like that, I don’t know. So Breslin’s coming in with us on this one.’

  ‘Well, isn’t that special,’ Sophie says. She caps the test tube and starts labelling it.

  I say, ‘He’s just backup. Anything you find comes straight to me or Moran. If you can’t get hold of us, keep trying till you do. Yeah?’

  One of the reasons it took me and Steve so long to close the Romanian domestic, the reason we’re not about to tell O’Kelly, is that when a witness finally got up the guts to ring in, we never heard about the call. It was another two weeks before the witness tried again – fair play to him; a lot of people would have figured forget it – and got me. He said his first call had been put through to a guy, Irish accent – which narrows it down to anyone on the squad except me – who had promised to pass on the message. I don’t think it was Breslin, but I’m nowhere near sure enough to bet my case on it.

  ‘Not a problem.’ Sophie glances back and forth between her techs. ‘Conway, Moran or no one. Everyone clear on that?’

  The techs nod. Techs don’t give a damn about Ds and our relationship problems – most of them think we’re a bunch of prima donnas who should try doing some real solid work for a change – but they’re loyal as hell to Sophie. Breslin will get nothing out of them.

  ‘The same for her phone and her laptop,’ I say. ‘When they get into her e-mail, Facebook, whatever, I want it coming straight to us.’

  ‘Sure. There’s this one computer guy who actually listens when people talk; I’ll make sure it goes to him.’ She drops the test tube into an evidence bag. ‘We’ll keep you updated.’

  I take one last look at Aislinn, on my way out. Sophie’s hooked back her hair to take swabs, hoping for DNA from that punch. Death is starting to take over her face, starting to pull her lips back from her teeth, sink hollows under her eyes. Even through that, she hits me with that pulse of memory. Please I just need please— And me, barely bothering to hide the satisfaction: Sorry. Can’t help you there.

  ‘She pissed me off,’ I say. ‘When I met her before.’

  ‘Something she did?’ Steve asks. ‘Something she said?’

  ‘Don’t remember. Something.’

  ‘Or nothing. Doesn’t take a lot to piss you off, when you’re in the humour.’

  ‘Fuck off, you.’

  ‘I like him,’ Sophie tells me. ‘You can keep him.’

  Half my head is on where I’ve seen the vic before. My guard is down.

  I duck under the tape, a voice recorder practically takes my eye out and a noise like an attack dog goes off in my face. I leap before I can stop myself, fists coming up, and hear the burst of fake shutter-clicks from a phone camera.

  ‘Detective Conway do you have a suspect was this a serial killer was the victim sexually assaulted—’

  Mostly journalists are a good thing. We all have our special relationships – you throw your guy early tipoffs, he leaks whatever you want leaked and passes you anything you should know – but even with the rest, we usually get on grand: we all know the boundaries, no one oversteps, everyone’s happy. Louis Crowley is the exception. Crowley is a little snot-drip who works for a red-top rag called the Courier, which specialises in printing just a few too many details about rape cases, for readers who want more buzz of outrage or whatever else than they can get off the normal papers. His look is Poet Meets Pervert – floppy shirts and a dandruffy mac, wavy dark ponytail groomed over a big oily bald spot – and his face is permanently set on Righteous Offence. I’d rather brush my teeth with a chainsaw than tip off Crowley.

  ‘Did the killer stalk his victim should women in the area be taking precautions our readers deserve to know—’

  Voice recorder in my face, phone clicking away in his other hand, waft of foul patchouli pomade off his hair – Crowley just about comes up to my nose. I manage not to shoulder the little bollix in the gob on my way past him; can’t be arsed with the paperwork. Behind me I hear Steve say cheerily, ‘No comment. No comment on the no comment. No comment on the no comment on the no comment.’

  The cluster of kids scattering again, open-mouthed. The lace curtains vibrating. The hard chill of the air, after that overheated house. Crowley jerks his voice recorder back just in time, before I slam the car door on it. I reverse out into the road without looking behind me.

  ‘That little git,’ Steve says, shaking his jacket sleeves like Crowley dandruffed him. ‘That was quick. In time for the afternoon edition, and all.’

  ‘“Detectives Refuse to Deny Stalker Rumours. Detectives Baffled by Possible Serial Killer. Detectives: No Comment on Local Women’s Terror.” ’ I don’t even know where we’re going, we don’t have Lucy Riordan’s address, but I’m driving like we’re in a chase. ‘“Detectives Punch Shitty Excuse for Journalist in the Fucking Teeth.” ’

  Over the last few months Crowley has been turning up at too many of my scenes, too fast. We have history – last year, he was trying to browbeat a quote out of a teenager who’d seen her drug-dealer da take two in the back of the head, I told him if he didn’t fuck off I’d arrest him for hindering my investigation, he flounced off making offended noises about police brutality and freedom of the press and Nelson Mandela – but it’s not like that puts me in a minority: half the force has told Crowley to fuck off, one way or another. There’s no reason he should pick me out for revenge, specially not all this time later. And even if his tiny mind has decided to fixate on me, that doesn’t explain how he’s finding out about my cases as soon as I do.

  Journalists have ways they don’t tell us about, obviously. Crowley probably has a scanner that he tunes to police frequencies when he’s on duty, and uses to look for couples having phone sex the rest of the time. But still: I have to wonder.

  You don’t make the Murder squad without having a world-class gift for finding creative ways to get under someone’s skin and wriggle around in there till they’d rip themselves open to get rid of you; without being ready and happy to do it, even if the witness you’re working on is a devastated kid sobbing her heart out for her da. I’m not the exception – and neither is Steve, much as he’d love to think he is. It’s not like I was shocked, the first time I realised that not all the lads save that talent for interviews. It gets to feel right on you, like the gun at your hip that leaves you lopsided when it’s not there. Some of the lads can’t put it down. They use it to get anything they happen to want, or to get past anyone who happens to be in their way. Or to break anyone they want broken.

  Steve is keeping his trap shut, which is a good call. Without noticing, I’ve got us deep into Phoenix Park, probably because it’s the only place around where I can drive without getting snarled up in traffic and idiots. The roads are straight, between wide gentle meadows and rows of huge old trees, and I’m going like the clappers. The Kadett is about ready to have a fit of the vapours.

  I slow down. Pull over, nice and neat, signalling well in advance and keeping one eye on my rear-view mirror.

  ‘We need Lucy Riordan’s address,’ I say. ‘I’ve got her mobile number.’

  We pull out our phones. Steve dials his contact at one of the mobile networks and hits speaker; we listen to the even buzz of the ring. Deer watch us from under bare spreading branches. I realise I’m still wearing my shoe covers – I’m lucky they didn’t slide on the pedals and crash the car. I take them off and
toss them in the back seat. The sunlight is still thin and warmthless; it still feels like dawn.

  Chapter 2

  Steve’s contact gives us a home address for Lucy Riordan in Rathmines, a work address at the Torch Theatre in town, and a birth date that makes her twenty-six. ‘Just gone half-nine,’ Steve says, checking his watch. ‘She should be home.’

  I’m dialling my voicemail; I’ve got a new message, and I just can’t wait to hear it. ‘She’ll be sleeping off last night. Like anyone with sense, this time on a Sunday morning.’ The park is making me edgy. Outside the car windows the sky is dead, not one bird, and the massive trees feel like they’re slowly tilting inwards over us. ‘You head up the interview.’ Seeing as I don’t have a legit reason to arrest Crowley or punch him in the mouth, or to tell the gaffer where to shove his domestics, I’m gonna take the head off the first person who gives me half an excuse, and I don’t want it to be our key witness.

  I didn’t use to be like this. I’ve always had a temper on me, but I’ve always kept it under control, no matter how hard I had to bite down. Even when I was a kid, I knew how to hold it loaded and cocked while I got my target in range, lined up my sights and picked my moment to blow the bastard away. Since I made Murder, that’s been changing – slowly, I never lose a lot of ground at once, but I never gain any back, and it’s starting to show. The last few months, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve caught myself in the half-second before I splattered temper everywhere and stuck myself cleaning up the mess for the rest of my life. I wasn’t kidding about telling that witness he was too stupid to live: my mouth was opening to do it, when Steve came in with some soothing question. I know, dead certain, that someday soon neither of us is gonna catch me in time.

  And I know, dead certain, that the rest of the squad is gonna be on that moment like sharks on chum. It’ll be blown up to ten times life-size and spread all round the force like it’s a full-frontal shot of me naked, and every day for the rest of my career someone will slap me in the face with it.