by Tana French
He makes it sound like the whole thing was as unthinking and cute as a smile, just Aislinn skipping along among the daisies scattering happy daydreams wherever she went. I’m not so sure. I think of her in Missing Persons that day, pelting me with everything that should have started my mind wandering off down stories: the mystery, the tears, the snippets of info about what her dad had been like, the scraps of childhood reminiscence. If I had bitten – and maybe I would have, if the Daddy crap hadn’t rubbed me up the wrong way – I would have been a lot more likely to give her what she was after: And then the genius detective solved the poor orphan girl’s problem, and they all lived happily ever after. It worked on Gary. Aislinn knew how to use her knack.
She didn’t get me. I raise a mental finger at her and say to Rory, ‘And you’re thinking that might have had something to do with what happened to her.’
Rory is nodding hard. ‘Yes. Yes. The thing about daydreams is that they don’t last. One brush up against reality, and that’s the end of them. I know I must sound ridiculously spacy to someone like you, but I do understand that much.’
A sudden slice to his voice, and a sharp flash of his eyes; gone almost too fast to catch, but I was watching. Rory isn’t fluffy clouds and adorable endings straight through; he’s got something solid and keen-edged at the centre. Just like Aislinn. That combination made the two of them a perfect match, and then it turned on them.
‘For someone like me,’ Rory says, ‘that’s not a problem. I spend half my time in my head anyway, always have. I realise that, too.’ That edge again. ‘So when I bang up against reality and it bursts my bubble, that’s not the end of the world. I’m used to it. Deep down, I was expecting it all the time.’
Which sounds a lot like a sideways explanation for why it couldn’t have been me, honest, Detective. You get them a lot. Mostly you get them from killers. I nod along, concentrating hard on all these valuable insights.
Rory says, ‘But a lot of people aren’t like that. It took me a while to realise, when I was younger: some people spend all their time focused on what’s actually happening.’
‘I know what you mean,’ I say. Confidentially: ‘You get a lot of cops like that. No imagination.’
That gets an automatic half-smile, but Rory’s too deep in his story to pay much attention to me. ‘So if a man like that were to run into Aislinn, he wouldn’t know how to prepare for the fact that his bubble was, almost definitely, going to burst. And when it did . . .’
‘I get you,’ I say, doing a little focused frown. ‘At least, I think I do. Tell me what you’re picturing. Specifics.’
Rory draws patterns on the table with one fingertip. He says, slowly, ‘I think he was someone who wouldn’t even have come onto your radar, because he knew Aislinn so briefly. They meet in a nightclub, maybe, or through her work, and they get talking. Maybe he gets her phone number and they meet up for a drink, or maybe it never even gets that far. But his mind’s already gone wild spinning stories, and he’s intoxicated by the feeling – especially since, to him, it’s brand-new.’
By now Breslin is waiting in the observation room, rolling his eyes and muttering at me to get a move on, while our coffee goes cold. He can do some deep breathing. If Rory needs all day to talk himself into this, then he’s gonna get all day.
‘And then, for whatever reason, Aislinn decides not to go any further with the relationship.’ Rory looks up at me. His fingers are pressing down hard on the tabletop. ‘If you’re not used to that reality check, it’s devastating. It’s like I imagine cold turkey would feel to a heroin addict: actual physical upheaval, as well as psychological. Your body and your mind, floundering.’
‘So he goes after her?’ I say.
Rory shakes his head vehemently. ‘No. Not like that. Someone who would do that, attack a woman just for breaking up with him after an evening or two – that’s a monster. A psychopath. And Aislinn wouldn’t have got involved with a monster to begin with. Just because she enjoyed daydreaming, that doesn’t mean she was oblivious to reality. This man must have been a decent guy. Things just got out of control.’
Your average innocent guy whose girlfriend’s been murdered, he’s gonna picture the killer as a foaming animal who deserves seven kinds of electric chair. Rory can’t afford to. ‘That makes sense, yeah,’ I say, taking notes and nodding. ‘So what does he do?’
‘If he can’t be with Aislinn, at least he needs more material for the daydreams. Something to feed them. She’s mentioned where she works, so he starts hanging around outside there, to see her come out. One evening he follows her home.’ Some new charge is revving up underneath Rory’s voice, powering it, swelling it. I don’t need to nudge him, not any more. ‘And once he knows where she lives, it becomes an addiction. He can’t stay away. He tries, but every few days he finds himself straying towards Stoneybatter, before he realises he’s going to do it. He finds himself wandering around the streets thinking about her feet touching those same pavements; buying chocolate bars he doesn’t want, just to shop where she does. He finds himself outside her house, watching her while she makes cups of herbal tea and does her ironing.’
He’s keeping close to the truth, staying parallel, almost touching. Smart choice: it makes the story ring almost true.
‘He gets used to it, being out there in the dark, curling his toes to keep them from freezing. Watching the light in her windows. Imagining himself turning the key in the door and stepping into that warmth, and her coming to kiss him. Imagining the two of them cooking dinner together in that bright kitchen. He finds a routine, a kind of equilibrium; a kind of contentment. He could live like that indefinitely.’
Rory has changed. No more timid little gerbil. He’s sitting forward, hands moving in fast, clean, confident gestures; that charge under his voice has built till every corner of the room hums with it. For the first time I can see why Aislinn went for him. This shite is the last thing I’d want in a guy, but it’s got power. Rory has risen up out of his beige huddle and become someone who would make you turn to look when he came through a door, and keep looking.
‘And then,’ he says. ‘Saturday night. This man went to watch Aislinn, as usual, but what he saw was different. He saw her all dressed up and made up, glowing like a treasure chest. He saw her making dinner, not just for herself, but for two people; taking two wineglasses out of the cupboard and bringing them into the sitting room. He saw her singing into her corkscrew, dancing, shaking her hair around and laughing at herself. He saw how happy she was. How she couldn’t wait.’
Getting ready singing into corkscrew like teenager w hairbrush. That smell of blood soaks the air again, butcher’s-shop thick. Rory’s imagination is good, but he’s not clairvoyant. He was watching Aislinn on Saturday night.
‘It would have knocked him breathless. He must have felt like the world was tilting, he must have thought he had believed in that daydream so hard that it had burst its way into reality . . . He wouldn’t have known that that’s not the way life works.’ A bitter wrench to one side of Rory’s mouth. ‘He would have been sure that, somehow, Aislinn was wearing that dress and cooking that meal for him. And when he could breathe again, he would have stepped out of the dark and wiped the worst of the rain off his coat, and he would have knocked on her door.’
Nice ending. Rory folds his hands, takes a long breath and looks at me expectantly. He wants to leave it there.
I’m loving this interview. Not just because it’s going well; I’m loving this interview because it’s clean. No ifs and maybes twitching in the corners, gumming up the air, itching inside my clothes. No layers on layers of outside chances and hypotheticals to take into account every time I open my mouth or listen to an answer. Just me and the guy across from me, and what we both know he did. It lies on the table between us, a solid thing with the taut dark shine of a meteorite, for the winner to claim.
I say, ‘And then?’
Rory’s neck twists. When I keep watching him, eyebrows up and inquiring, he
says, ‘Well. And obviously Aislinn wasn’t getting ready for him; she was getting ready for me. She hadn’t so much as thought about him in months. So she would have been astonished to see him. Presumably she told him to leave. And that’s when he snapped.’
I keep up the inquiring look. ‘And . . . ?’
Lower, to the table: ‘And hurt her.’ That charge is ebbing out of the room, out of Rory’s voice and his face, leaving him wispy and beige again. His lovely story has burst, just like he described, against the gravel-sharp reality of dead Aislinn. When the silence keeps going, even lower: ‘Killed her.’
‘How would he do it?’
Rory shakes his head.
‘Rory. Help me out here.’
‘Don’t you already know?’
‘I’m asking you a favour,’ I say gently, leaning in to catch his eye. ‘Pretend it’s just a made-up story, OK? Like the ones you told Aislinn? Just finish it for me. Please.’
‘I don’t . . . All I know is he wouldn’t have had a weapon with him. A knife or anything. He would never have been planning to . . . Maybe a, a, a lamp or something, something that was already there . . .’ He runs a trembling hand across his face. ‘I can’t—’
He’s not going to let slip that he knows how she died. No big deal; it was a long shot. ‘Wow,’ I say. I lean back in my chair, blow out a long sigh and run my hands through my hair. ‘Man. That’s some powerful stuff.’
‘Is it . . .’ Rory catches a deep breath. He pushes his glasses back on and blinks at me, trying to refocus. ‘Could it be useful? Do you think?’
‘It could,’ I say. ‘It could well be. I’m obviously not going to go into the details of what I’m thinking, but there’s a chance you could actually have given us something really valuable there. Thanks for doing that, man. Thanks a lot.’
‘No problem. Do you think—’
‘Hello-ello-ello,’ Breslin booms cheerfully, bursting the door open with his backside and swinging in with his hands full of mugs. ‘Sorry I took so long; that shower of uncivilised gits can never be arsed bringing their mugs back to the canteen, never mind washing them out. I had to chase these down. On the plus side—’ He hands out the mugs and sweeps a packet of biscuits out of his jacket pocket with a flourish. ‘O’Gorman’s stash didn’t let me down. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you chocolate-covered Oreos. Who’s your daddy?’
‘Ah, you star,’ I say. ‘I’m only starving.’
‘At your service.’ Breslin tosses an Oreo to me and one to Rory, who of course fumbles it, drops it on the carpet and has to go after it. He stares at it like he’s not sure what it’s for. ‘Get that into you,’ Breslin tells him. ‘Before O’Gorman comes looking.’
‘Come here,’ I say, dipping my Oreo in my coffee. ‘Rory’s got a theory.’
‘Thank Jesus,’ Breslin says. ‘At least someone has. Any good?’
‘Could be,’ I say, through most of my biscuit. ‘Long story short, he figures Aislinn was the type who could get a guy fantasising about happy-ever-afters a lot faster than normal. So there was some guy who Aislinn was seeing, so briefly that he hasn’t made it onto our radar; and once she dumped him, this guy got in over his head thinking about her. Started watching her. When he saw her getting ready for her dinner with Rory, he convinced himself she was waiting for him. Knocked on her door, got a nasty shock when she wasn’t happy to see him, and snapped.’
‘Interesting,’ Breslin says. He throws his biscuit into his mouth and chews meditatively, considering. ‘I like it. It could work with a lot of what we know.’
Rory doesn’t look encouraged. He’s huddled in his chair, picking carpet fluff off his Oreo. The second Breslin walked in, he faded and shrank and twisted like a boil-washed jumper.
‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘It’s got that feel, you know? In this job, you learn to recognise when something feels right. Practically and psychologically.’
‘We love that feel,’ Breslin tells Rory. ‘We’ve been hunting it all week. I’ve got to admit, my son, your theory is the nearest we’ve got to that feel. We’ll get people digging deeper into Aislinn’s incidental contacts – nightclubs, work connections. If this guy turns up, Rory, we owe you that ticket to Barbados after all.’
He leans back in his chair and takes a long slurp of coffee, sorting through his file. ‘Meanwhile,’ he says, ‘since we’re here, you mind clearing up a couple of small things? Just so we can cross them off our list?’
‘Ah, Jaysus, you and your lists,’ I say, rolling my eyes. ‘Ignore him, Rory. This guy makes lists of what he puts in his pockets, so he can double-check that he hasn’t dropped anything. Don’t get sucked in. Get out while you can.’
‘Don’t knock my lists, you,’ Breslin says, pointing at me. ‘How often have they saved our arses?’
‘Yeah yeah yeah.’
‘Rory? Is that cool with you? Just a few more minutes.’
We all know Rory’s not leaving, not with nowhere to go but round and round his flat and his head. He says, ‘I suppose—’
‘See?’ Breslin says to me. ‘Rory doesn’t mind humouring me. Am I right, Rory?’
‘Yes. I mean—’
‘I mind,’ I say. ‘If I have to put up with one more—’
‘Beautiful,’ Breslin says. ‘Suck it up, Conway.’ He flips paper. I sigh heavily, twisting my hair back into its bun: business time.
Breslin was right, we’re good in interviews. It shoves the message home: working well together means bugger-all else. I catch the smooth cold span of the one-way glass in the corner of my eye and wonder if Steve is behind it.
‘Ah,’ Breslin says. ‘Here we go: lovely list. Question One. Rory: Saturday evening, Aislinn and one of her friends were talking about you calling round for dinner. Sounds like she was looking forward to it.’ He gives Rory a smile, holds it till Rory more or less smiles back. ‘Sweet. And the friend warned Aislinn to’ – he pretends to check his notes – ‘“be careful OK?” Why would she do that?’
Rory stares, bewildered. ‘Who said that?’
‘Who would you expect to say it?’
‘I don’t – I wouldn’t. I hardly even know any of Aislinn’s friends. Who—?’
‘Hang on,’ Breslin says, lifting a hand. ‘You’re telling us that, if Aislinn’s friends had known you, they’d have had a reason to warn her to be careful? What reason?’
‘No. That’s not what I said. They wouldn’t have a—’
‘One of them thought she did.’
‘She didn’t. None of them had any reason. At all.’
‘Must’ve been a misunderstanding,’ I say. ‘Was there something the mate could’ve taken up wrong? A new fella on the scene, mates can get protective, start seeing red flags everywhere—’
‘Or jealous,’ Breslin offers. ‘Maybe the friend’s a hound, can’t get a fella of her own; she gets her knickers in a knot and decides to spin some little thing to try and put Aislinn off you. What could she have spun?’
Rory passes a hand over his eyes and tries to think. He’s abandoned his Oreo untouched; he’s figured out that we’re not playing that game any more. Me and Breslin are still all smiles, but the air in the room’s changed; the pulse is faster and harder and it’s Breslin setting it now, not Rory.
‘The only thing I can think of . . .’ We wait encouragingly. ‘I told you last time: it was complicated, setting up dates with Aislinn. But I kept trying, even when she cancelled. I suppose that could have come across as . . . I don’t know. Pushy? I mean, I know Aislinn didn’t think I was being too pushy, or she would have ended it, but maybe one of her friends might have—’
‘Whoa,’ Breslin says. ‘Slow down. You just said you kept pushing Aislinn for dates, even when she cancelled; but then you’re telling us, if she’d told you to get lost, you would’ve gone. Which is it?’
‘But— No. That’s not the same thing. She never said she didn’t want to see me any more. If she had, then of course I would have gone. Saying “I’m busy on Thursday”
isn’t the same, it’s completely—’
Rory’s winding himself into a tangle of indignation and defensiveness. ‘Hey, you don’t need to convince us,’ I say. ‘The mate’s the one who was worried. We’re just trying to work out why.’
‘That’s the only thing I can think of. That’s it.’
Breslin gets up from the table and goes for a stroll, giving Rory two places to look. He says, ‘Sounds a bit thin to me.’
‘And me,’ I say. ‘The friend’s not the hysterical type, you know what I mean? If she thought Aislinn needed to be careful, she had a reason.’
‘Maybe . . .’ Rory clears his throat. ‘Um, if I’m right, about the guy watching Aislinn . . . Maybe Aislinn had noticed him, and mentioned him to her friend? And the friend was worried that he’d get angry about her having me over?’
Breslin stops and gives Rory a long quizzical gaze – Rory holds it, in a blinky way. He says, ‘Did Aislinn ever mention an ex who gave her the willies?’
Rory shakes his head.
‘Out loud for the tape.’
‘No. She didn’t.’
‘Most women aren’t gonna bring up the ex to the new boyfriend,’ I point out. ‘Makes you sound like a bunny-boiler.’
Breslin shrugs. ‘Fair enough, I guess. She ever mention having a stalker?’
The word makes Rory wince. ‘No.’
‘Not once?’
‘No. But she might not have wanted to – I don’t know, scare me off—’
‘What, she thought you’d run a mile just because some rando was hanging around? Would you have?’
‘No! I—’
‘Of course you wouldn’t. And Aislinn, not being an idiot, knew that. You think she would’ve bothered her arse with you, if she thought you were that much of a wimp? Conway: would you want a guy who scared that easy?’
‘Nah,’ I say. ‘I like them to have at least one ball.’
