The Trespasser

by Tana French

  I say, not bitchily, ‘Sorry to start your day off like this.’

  Lucy grabs for a pack of Marlboro Lights on the coffee table and reefs one out without asking permission. Even her hands look active: strong wrists, short nails, scrapes and calluses. For a second the lighter flame jumps and wavers; then she gets it under control and draws hard on the smoke.

  She asks, ‘How?’

  Her head is down, that white-blond streak hiding her face. I say, ‘We don’t have any definitive answers yet, but we’re treating the death as suspicious.’

  ‘That means someone killed her. Right?’

  ‘Looks like it. Yeah.’

  ‘Shit,’ Lucy says, low – I’m pretty sure she doesn’t know she’s saying it. ‘Ah, shit. Ah, shit.’

  Steve says, ‘Why did you assume we were here about Aislinn?’

  Lucy’s head comes up. She’s not crying, which is a relief, but her face is a nasty white; her eyes look like she’s having trouble seeing, or trouble not getting sick. She says, ‘What?’

  ‘When you came to the door, you said, “Is it Aislinn?” Why would you think that?’

  The cigarette’s shaking. Lucy stares at it, curls her fingers tighter to keep it still. ‘I don’t know. I just did.’

  ‘Think back. There has to have been a reason.’

  ‘I don’t remember. That’s just what came into my head.’

  We wait. In the walls, pipes hoot and groan; upstairs a guy yells something about hot water and someone gallops across the floor, making the postcard curtains tremble. Next to Lucy on the sofa is a Homer Simpson stuffed toy with a Rizla that says princess buttercup stuck to its forehead. Last night was a good one. Next time Lucy sees that toy, she’s gonna shove it to the bottom of her bin.

  After a long minute, the line of Lucy’s spine resets. She’s not gonna cry or puke, not now anyway; she’s got other things to do. I’m pretty sure she’s just decided to lie to us.

  She taps ash without even clocking the spliff butts in the ashtray. She says – carefully, feeling her way – ‘Aislinn just started seeing this guy Rory. Last night she was cooking him dinner. It was his first time in her house; they’d only met in public places before. So when you said you were Guards, that’s the only thing I could think of: something went wrong there. I mean, I couldn’t think of any other reason you’d want to talk to me.’

  Bullshit. Just off the top of my head I can think of half a dozen reasons – the hash, noise complaint from the neighbours, street fight outside and we need witnesses, domestic in another flat ditto, I could keep going – and Lucy’s well able to do the same. Here it is: the lie.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘About that. Yesterday evening, you and Aislinn were texting about her dinner date.’ The wariness goes up a notch, as Lucy tries to remember what she said. ‘You told Aislinn to’ – I pretend to check my notebook – ‘“be careful, OK?” Why was that?’

  ‘Like I said. She hadn’t known him that long, and she was going to be on her own in the house with him.’

  Steve is doing puzzled. ‘Is that not a bit paranoid, no?’

  Lucy’s eyebrows shoot up and she stares at Steve like he’s the enemy. ‘You think? I wasn’t telling her to have a loaded gun in her bra. Just to mind herself with a strange guy in her house. That’s paranoid?’

  ‘Sounds like basic good sense to me,’ I say. Lucy turns to me gratefully, relaxing back off the attack. ‘I’d tell my mate the same thing. Had you met Rory?’

  ‘Yeah. I was actually there when the two of them met. This guy I know from work, Lar, he published a book about the history of Dublin theatres, and the launch was at the bookshop Rory runs – the Wayward Bookshop, in Ranelagh? A bunch of us went from the Torch, and I talked Aislinn into coming along. I thought she needed a night out.’

  Which is more info than I asked for. It’s the oldest technique in the book – get the witness pissed off with one of you, she’ll give the other one extra – and me and Steve do it a lot, but mostly we do it the other way round. I let Steve take the notes while I enjoy the feeling of being the good cop for the first time in a long time. ‘And Aislinn and Rory clicked,’ I say.

  ‘Big-time. Lar had read a bit out of the book and he was signing copies, and the rest of us were hanging around drinking the free wine, and Aislinn and Rory got talking. They basically vanished into a corner together – not snogging or anything, just talking and having a laugh. I think Rory would’ve stayed there all night, but Ash has this rule about not talking to a guy for too long—’

  Lucy cuts off, blinking. It’s that filter – God forbid we should think bad things about poor sweet Ash – but I know what she’s on about: The Rules. ‘In case the guy guesses she’s into him,’ I say, nodding like this makes total sense.

  ‘Yeah. Exactly. I don’t know, that’s a bad thing for some reason.’ A twist of Lucy’s shoulder and her mouth, but it’s affectionate, not bitchy. ‘So after maybe an hour Ash came dashing over to me, and she was all, “OhmyGod, he’s so sweet and so funny and so interesting and so lovely, that was sooo much fun . . .” She said she’d given him her number and now she had to find someone else to talk to, so she stuck with me and the gang from work, but she spent the whole rest of the night going, “Is he looking over? What’s he doing now, is he looking at me?” Which he always was. They were both totally smitten.’

  ‘Lar who?’ I say. ‘And when was the book launch?’

  ‘Lar Flannery – Laurence. It was at the beginning of December, I don’t remember the exact date. A Sunday night, so theatre people could come.’

  ‘Did you meet Rory again after that?’

  ‘No, that was it. Aislinn’s only seen him a few times. She was taking it slow.’ Lucy’s head ducks to her cigarette, a long pull. We’ve just brushed past whatever she’s hiding. We leave a silence, but this time she drops nothing into it. Instead she asks, ‘Are you . . . ? I mean, do you think Rory was the one who . . . ?’

  The question’s natural enough, but all of a sudden her voice is full up and leaping with things I can’t catch, and the flash of her eyes under her fringe is too fast and too intent. This means more to her, or means something more urgent, than it should.

  Steve says, ‘What do you think? Would he be your guess?’

  ‘I don’t have a guess. You’re the detectives. Is he your prime suspect, or whatever you call it?’

  ‘Was there anything specific about Rory that set off your radar?’ I ask. ‘Made him seem like someone to be careful of?’

  Lucy’s twitching to ask again, but she knows better. Smart, capable and used to thinking on her feet: whatever she’s keeping back, we’ll be lucky to get to it. She takes another drag of her smoke. ‘No. Nothing. He seemed like a nice guy. Kind of boring – I thought, anyway – but Ash was obviously seeing something I missed, so . . .’

  ‘She ever say anything indicating that he frightened her? Pressured her? Tried to control her?’

  Lucy’s shaking her head. ‘No. Seriously. Nothing like that, ever. It was always how lovely he was and how relaxed she was around him, and how she couldn’t wait to see him again. Are you thinking—’

  I say, ‘Then I’ve gotta be straight with you, Lucy. It doesn’t make sense that you were this worried about Aislinn. Texting her to be careful, yeah, sure, I can see that. But taking one look at us and figuring we had to be here about her? When you just told me Rory seemed like a good guy, no threat? Nah. When we showed up, you should’ve been wondering if the guy downstairs was dealing, or if someone got stabbed outside last night, or if one of your family was mugged or hit by a car. There’s no way your mind should’ve gone straight to Aislinn. Unless there’s something about her that you’re not telling us.’

  Lucy’s smoke is right down to the butt. She grinds it out in the ashtray, taking her time, but she’s not stonewalling; she’s deciding. The light through the window is filling out; it’s ruthless on her, scraping away what should be offbeat-pretty, turning her to nothing but eyebags and mascara smudg
es on white.

  She says, ‘Is it OK if I get a glass of water? My head’s killing me.’

  ‘No problem,’ I say. ‘We’re in no hurry.’

  She takes her time running the tap in the kitchenette, her back to us; cups water in her hands and ducks her face into them, stays there while her shoulders lift and fall once. She comes back holding a pint glass in one hand, wiping water off her face with the other wrist and looking a couple of notches more alive. When she sits down she says, ‘OK. I think Ash might’ve been seeing someone else. As well as Rory.’

  That flash of her eyes again, checking our reactions, too ferociously intent. Me and Steve don’t look at each other, but you can feel your thoughts click together like glances. Steve thinking I knew it, I knew something was weird here; me thinking Not a fucking chance I’m gonna get my run today.

  Steve says, ‘What was his name?’

  ‘I don’t know. She never said.’

  ‘Not even a first name?’

  Lucy’s shaking her head hard enough that her fringe falls forward. She shoves it back again. ‘No. She never even actually said she was seeing anyone else. It’s just a feeling I got; I don’t know anything specific. OK?’

  ‘OK,’ I say. ‘Fair enough. What gave you that feeling?’

  ‘Just stuff. Like the last few months – way before Ash met Rory – I’d ask if she wanted to meet up for a drink, and she’d say no, she couldn’t, but without any reason why not – and normally she’d have been like, “Can’t, I’ve got Pilates” or whatever. Or she’d say yes, and then at the last minute she’d text me like, “Change of plans, can we do it tomorrow instead?” She was around a lot less, mainly. And she got her hair done a lot more, and her nails – they were always perfect. And when someone’s around less, and gets more high-maintenance . . .’ Lucy shrugs. ‘Mostly it’s a new relationship.’

  Aislinn cancelling her restaurant date with Rory, with just a few hours to go. I thought she was showing him who was boss.

  I feel it again, that faint pulse that caught at me in Aislinn’s kitchen when Steve showed me the cooker. A pulse like hunger, like dance music: something good, away on the horizon, tugging. I can feel the beat of it hitting Steve’s blood too.

  He says, ‘How long ago did this start?’

  Lucy draws tight lines in the condensation on her glass and has a think, either about the actual answer or about the one she wants to give us. ‘Maybe five or six months ago. Towards the end of summer.’

  ‘Any idea where they might have met? Work? Pub? Hobby?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue.’

  ‘Who else did Aislinn hang out with, besides you?’

  Lucy shrugs. ‘She went for a drink with people from work, sometimes. She doesn’t have a lot of friends.’

  ‘What about hobbies? She have any?’

  ‘Not serious ones. She’s been doing a bunch of evening classes, the last couple of years: she did salsa for a while, and then some image and styling thing, and she learned a bit of Spanish . . . Last summer I think she was doing cooking. She liked the people, but she never talked about any guy in particular. There was never anyone she mentioned that bit too often, nothing like that.’

  Aislinn Murray is sounding like more and more of a laugh riot. I say, ‘I’ve gotta tell you, Lucy, this is coming across pretty weird to me. You and Ash, you were best friends since you were kids, but she tells you nothing about her fella?’

  Her eyes come up, wary. ‘I said we’ve been friends since we were kids. I didn’t say we were best friends.’

  ‘No? Then what were you?’

  ‘Friends. We hung out in school, we stayed in touch when we grew up. We didn’t have a Vulcan mind meld.’

  Steve has this lovely mix of worried and reproachful growing on his face. He says, ‘You know how we got your name? Aislinn had you down as her emergency contact. When you’re picking that, you pick someone who you think cares about you.’

  Lucy’s head jerks away from the reproachful frown. ‘Her mum died a few years back, her dad’s not around, she’s an only kid. Who else was she going to put?’

  Lying again. For some reason she’s trying to make the friendship sound like a leftover stuck to her shoe, but the layer of warmth when she talked about Aislinn’s idiot rules said different. I say, ‘You’re also the person Aislinn texted and rang most often. Like you said, she didn’t have a lot of mates. She thought of you as her closest friend, all right. Did she know you didn’t feel the same way?’

  ‘We are friends. I said that. I’m just saying, we don’t live in each other’s pocket. We don’t know everything about each other’s life. OK?’

  ‘So who would know all about Aislinn’s life? Who was her best friend, if it wasn’t you?’

  ‘She didn’t have one, not like you mean. Some people don’t.’

  Her voice is pulling tighter. I leave it: she’s holding herself together by her fingernails, and I don’t want her going to pieces on us right now. ‘Regardless,’ I say. ‘Me, when I’m going out with someone, I tell my friends, even if they’re not my best bosom buddies. Don’t you?’

  Lucy takes a gulp of her water and gets herself back. ‘Yeah. Sure. But Aislinn didn’t.’

  ‘You said she was dying to talk to you about Rory, how great he was. Did she tell you about other boyfriends, before him? Introduce them to you?’

  ‘Yeah. I mean, it’s been a few years since she went out with anyone, but yeah, I met him.’

  ‘She wanted to talk about him, see what you thought of him, all that. Right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘But not this time.’

  ‘No. Not this time.’

  Steve asks, ‘Why did you figure that was?’

  Lucy rubs her water glass over a smear of purple paint on the knee of her combats, scrapes at it with a fingernail. She says, ‘I figured the guy was married. Wouldn’t you?’

  She’s looking at me. I say, ‘That’d be my first thought, all right. Did you ask her?’

  ‘I didn’t want to know. As far as I’m concerned, anyone who’s taken is well off limits, and Ash knows that. Neither one of us wanted to have the conversation. It would only have turned into a fight.’

  ‘You’re saying she might’ve been OK with seeing a married guy, though. They weren’t off limits to her.’

  Purple paint flakes away. Lucy rubs it to a smudge between her fingertips. ‘That makes her sound like some homewrecker vamp manhunter. She’s not like that. At all. She just . . . she’s really unsure. Of a lot of stuff. Does that make sense?’ A quick glance up at me. I nod. Her face looks older than it did when we got here, dragged down around the edges. This conversation is taking a lot out of her. ‘And if the other person’s totally sure, a lot of the time she ends up thinking they’re probably right. So yeah, I could see her hooking up with a married guy. Not because she thought it was OK, or because she didn’t care, but because he convinced her that it might not be not OK.’

  ‘Gotcha,’ I say. I’m glad Aislinn is the vic and Lucy is the witness here, not the other way round. By this point I would’ve brained Aislinn with something gingham.

  ‘So you must’ve been well pleased when she hit it off with Rory,’ Steve says. ‘Nice single guy, nothing to cause tension between the two of you, nothing to cause Aislinn hassle. Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’ But there’s a fraction of a second before it. Another brush past something Lucy isn’t telling us.

  I say, ‘Did you get the sense she’d finished it with the other fella before she started seeing Rory? Or would you guess she had them both on the go?’

  ‘How would I know? Like I said—’

  ‘Was she still being vague about her social plans? Still cancelling on you at the last minute?’

  ‘I guess. Yeah, she was.’

  I say, ‘So that’s why you were worried about Aislinn?’

  Lucy’s still messing around with paint smears, elbows on her thighs and her head right down. ‘Anyone would be. I mean, juggling two guys,
one of them’s married . . . that’s not going to end well. And Ash . . . she’s really naïve, in a lot of ways. It wouldn’t occur to her that this was a pretty volatile situation. I just wanted her to be aware of that.’

  This is making more sense, but not enough. ‘You said Rory didn’t set off your alarm bells,’ I say. ‘What about this other guy?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about him to set off alarm bells. Like I said. I just didn’t like the whole setup.’

  She’s tensing, digging her elbows into her thighs. Whatever we’re circling, she’s not happy being this close to it. I’m not happy myself. Lucy is no idiot; she should know this isn’t the time to fuck about. I say, ‘That still doesn’t explain why your mind went straight to Aislinn when we showed up at your door. You want to try again?’

  The edge on my voice makes her elbows dig in harder. ‘That’s why. Because what else was it going to be? Maybe I lead a really boring life, but most people I know don’t do anything that could land actual detectives on my doorstep.’

  I’m less and less in the mood for bullshit. ‘Right,’ I say. I lean over and give the ashtray a shove so it slides towards Lucy, a little puff of rancid ash rising into the light. ‘Like I said: try again.’

  Lucy’s head comes up and she gives me a whole new kind of wary look.

  Steve shifts his weight beside me. I know that shift: Leave it.

  I consider punching my elbow through his ribs, but the fact is, he’s right. I’ve been getting on well with Lucy, and I’m about to throw that away for good. I say, more gently, ‘We’re not planning on doing anything about that. We’re only interested in Aislinn.’

  The wary look fades, but not all the way. Steve – right back in the Good Cop seat, where he’s happiest – says, ‘Tell us a bit about her. How did yous meet?’

  Lucy lights another smoke. I love nicotine. It puts witnesses back in their comfort zone when things get tricky, it keeps the vic’s friends and family from going to pieces, it means we can make suspects as antsy as we want and then throw them an instant chill pill when we want them calm again. Non-smokers are double the hassle; you have to find other ways to adjust their dials. If it was my call, everyone involved in murders would be on a pack a day. She says, ‘When we started secondary school. So when we were twelve.’