Read The Likeness Page 11

  “Don’t look at me,” O’Kelly said. “Your case, your call.” If this thing went splat, and he obviously thought it would, he wanted to be well out of range.

  All three of them were starting to get right up my nose. “Remember me?” I inquired. “You might want to start trying to convince me, too, Frank, because I’d say this was at least partly my call.”

  “You’ll go where you’re sent,” said O’Kelly.

  “It is, of course,” Frank told me reproachfully. “I’m getting to you. I felt it would be polite to start by discussing matters with Detective O’Neill, what with this being a joint investigation and all. Am I wrong?”

  This is why joint investigations are from hell: nobody is ever quite sure who the big boss is, and nobody wants to find out. Officially, Sam and Frank were supposed to agree on any major decisions, but if it came to the crunch, anything to do with undercover was Frank’s call. Sam could probably override him, since this had started out as his investigation, but not without an awful lot of string-pulling and a damn good reason. Frank was making sure—I felt it would be polite—that Sam remembered that. “You’re dead right,” I said. “Just remember, you need to discuss matters with me, too. So far, I haven’t heard anything very convincing.”

  “How long are we talking about?” Sam asked. He was asking Frank, but his eyes were on me, and the look in them startled me: they were intent and very grave, almost sad. That was the second when I realized Sam was going to say yes.

  Frank saw it too; his voice didn’t change, but his back had straightened and there was a new spark in his face, something alert and predatory. “Not long. A month, max. It’s not like we’re investigating organized crime and we could need someone on the inside for years. If this doesn’t pay off inside a few weeks, then it’s not going to.”

  “She’d have backup.”

  “Twenty-four-hour.”

  “If there’s any indication of danger—”

  “We’ll pull Detective Maddox out straightaway, or go in and get her if we need to. Same if you develop information that means she’s no longer necessary to the investigation: we’ll have her out that same day.”

  “So I’d better get cracking,” Sam said quietly, on a long breath. “OK: if Detective Maddox wants to do it, then we’ll do it. On condition that I’m kept fully informed of all developments. No exceptions.”

  “Beautiful,” Frank said, sliding off his chair fast, before Sam could change his mind. “You won’t regret it. Hang on, Cassie—before you say anything, I want to show you this. I promised you videos, and I’m a man of my word.”

  O’Kelly let out a snort and said something predictable about amateur porn, but I barely heard him. Frank fished around in his big black knapsack, waved a DVD labeled in marker scrawl at me and shoved it into the squad room’s cheapo DVD player.

  “Date stamp says the twelfth of September last,” he said, turning on the monitor. “Daniel got the keys to the house on the tenth. He and Justin drove down that afternoon to make sure the roof hadn’t fallen in or anything, the five of them spent the eleventh packing up their stuff, and on the twelfth they all handed in the keys to their flats and moved out to Whitethorn House, lock, stock and barrel. They don’t hang about, this lot.” He hoisted himself onto Costello’s desk, beside me, and hit Play on the remote.

  Darkness; a click and rattle, like an old key turning; feet thumping on wood. “Sweet Jesus,” someone said. A finely modulated voice with a Belfast tinge: Justin. “The smell.”

  “What are you being shocked about?” demanded a deeper voice, cool and almost accentless. (“That’s Daniel,” Frank said, next to me.) “You knew what to expect.”

  “I blanked it out of my mind.”

  “Is this thing working?” a girl asked. “Rafe, can you tell?”

  “That’s our girl,” Frank said softly, but I already knew. Her voice was lighter than mine, alto and very clear, and the first syllable had hit me straight in the back of the neck, at the top of my spine.

  “My God,” said a guy with an English accent, amused: Rafe. “You’re recording this?”

  “Course I am. Our new home. Only I can’t tell if it’s doing anything, because I’m only recording black anyway. Does the electricity work?”

  Another clatter of feet; a door creaked. “This should be the kitchen,” Daniel said. “As far as I remember.”

  “Where’s the switch?”

  “I’ve got a lighter,” said another girl’s voice. Abigail; Abby.

  “Brace yourselves,” said Justin.

  A tiny flame, wavering in the center of the screen. All I could see was one side of Abby’s face, eyebrow raised, mouth a little open.

  “Jesus H. Christ, Daniel,” said Rafe.

  “I did warn you,” said Justin.

  “In fairness, he did,” said Abby. “If I remember, he said it was a cross between an archaeological site and the nastier bits of Stephen King.”

  “I know, but I thought he was exaggerating as usual. I didn’t expect him to be understating.”

  Someone—Daniel—took the lighter off Abby and cupped his hand around a cigarette; there was a draft coming from somewhere. His face on the wobbly screen was calm, unperturbed. He glanced up over the flame and gave Lexie a solemn wink. Maybe because I had spent so long staring at that photo, there was something astonishing about seeing them all in action. It was like being one of those kids in books who find a magic spyglass that lets them into the secret life of some old painting, enthralling and risky.

  “Don’t,” said Justin, taking the lighter and poking gingerly at something on a rickety shelf. “If you want to smoke, go outside.”

  “Why?” asked Daniel. “So I don’t smudge the wallpaper, or so I don’t stink up the curtains?”

  “He’s got a point,” said Abby.

  “What a bunch of wusses,” said Lexie. “I think this place is terrifantastic. I feel like one of the Famous Five.”

  “Five Find a Prehistoric Ruin,” Daniel said.

  “Five Find the Mold Planet,” said Rafe. “Simply spiffing.”

  “We should have ginger cake and potted meat,” Lexie said.

  “Together?” asked Rafe.

  “And sardines,” said Lexie. “What is potted meat?”

  “Spam,” Abby told her.

  “Ew.”

  Justin went over to the sink, held the lighter close and turned on the taps. One of them sputtered, popped and eventually let out a thin stream of water.

  “Mmm,” said Abby. “Typhoid tea, anyone?”

  “I want to be George,” said Lexie. “She was cool.”

  “I don’t care as long as I’m not Anne,” Abby said. “She always got stuck doing the washing up, just because she was a girl.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” asked Rafe.

  “You can be Timmy the dog,” Lexie told him.

  The rhythms of their conversation were faster than I had expected, smart and sharp as a jitterbug, and I could see why the rest of the English department thought this lot were up themselves. They had to be impossible to talk to; those tight, polished syncopations didn’t leave room for anyone else. Somehow, though, Lexie had managed to slot herself in there, tailored herself or rearranged them inch by inch till she made a place for herself and became part of them, seamless. Whatever this girl’s game was, she had been good at it.

  A small clear voice at the back of my head said: Just like I’m good at mine.

  Miraculously, the screen lit up, more or less, as a forty-watt bulb came on overhead: Abby had found the light switch, in an unlikely corner by a grease-draped cooker. “Well done, Abby,” said Lexie, panning.

  “I’m not sure,” said Abby. “It looks even worse now that I can see it.”

  She was right. The walls had obviously been papered at some stage, but a greenish mold had staged a coup, creeping in from every corner and almost meeting in the middle. Spectacular Halloween-decoration cobwebs trailed from the ceiling, swaying gently in the draft. The linoleum was grayish and curling, with sinister dark streaks; on the table was a glass vase holding a bunch of very dead flowers, stalks broken and sagging at odd angles. Everything was about three
inches thick with dust. Abby looked deeply skeptical; Rafe looked amused, in a horrified kind of way; Daniel looked mildly intrigued; Justin looked like he might throw up.

  “You want me to live there?” I said to Frank.

  “It doesn’t look like that now,” he told me, reproachfully. “They’ve really done a lot with it.”

  “Have they bulldozed it and started over?”

  “It’s lovely. You’ll love it. Shh.”

  “Here,” Lexie said; the camera jerked and swung wildly, caught cobwebby curtains in a horrible seventies orange swirl. “You mind that. I want to explore.”

  “I hope you’ve had your shots,” Rafe said. “What do you want me to do with this?”

  “Don’t tempt me,” Lexie told him, and bounced into shot, heading over towards the cupboards.

  She moved lighter than me, small steps tipped up on the balls of her feet, and girlier: her curves were no more impressive than mine, obviously, but she had a dancing little swing that made you notice them. Her hair had been longer then, just long enough to pull into two curly bunches over her ears, and she was wearing jeans and a tight cream-colored sweater a lot like one I used to have. I still had no idea whether we would have liked each other, if we had had the chance to meet—probably not—but that was beside the point, so irrelevant that I didn’t even know how to think about it.

  “Wow,” Lexie said, peering into one of the cupboards. “What is it? Is it alive?”

  “It may well have been,” Daniel said, leaning over her shoulder. “A very long time ago.”

  “I think it’s the other way around,” said Abby. “It didn’t use to be alive, but it is now. Has it evolved opposable thumbs yet?”

  “I miss my flat,” said Justin lugubriously, from a safe distance.

  “You do not,” Lexie told him. “Your flat was three foot square and made from reconstituted cardboard and you hated it.”

  “My flat didn’t have unidentified life-forms.”

  “Whatsisname upstairs with the sound system who thought he was Ali G.”

  “I think it’s some kind of fungus,” Daniel said, inspecting the cupboard with interest.

  “That does it,” said Rafe. “I am not recording this. When we’re old and gray and wallowing in nostalgia, our first memories of our home should not be defined by fungus. How do I turn this thing off?”

  A second of linoleum; then the screen went black.

  “We’ve got forty-two clips like that,” Frank told me, hitting buttons, “all between about one minute and five minutes long. Add in, say, another week’s worth of intensive interviews with her associates, and I’m pretty sure we’ll have enough information to put together our very own DIY Lexie Madison. Assuming, that is, that you want to.”

  He froze the frame on Lexie, head turned over her shoulder to say something, eyes bright and mouth half open in a smile. I looked at her, soft-edged and flickering like she might fly off the screen at any second, and I thought: I used to be like that. Sure-footed and invulnerable, up for anything that came along. Just a few months ago, I used to be like that.

  “Cassie,” Frank said softly. “Your call.”

  For what seemed like a long time, I thought about saying no. Back to DV: the standard Monday crop of the weekend’s aftermath, too many bruises and high-necked sweaters and sunglasses indoors, the regulars filing charges on their boyfriends and withdrawing them by Tuesday night, Maher sitting beside me like a big pink ham in a sweater and sniggering predictably every time we pulled a case with foreign names.

  If I went back in there the next morning I would never leave. I knew it solid as a fist in my stomach. This girl was like a dare, flung hard and deadly accurate straight at me: a once-off chance, and catch it if you can.

  O’Kelly stretched out his legs and sighed ostentatiously; Cooper examined the cracks in the ceiling. I could tell from the stillness of Sam’s shoulders that he wasn’t breathing. Only Frank was looking at me, his eyes steady and unblinking. The air of the squad room hurt everywhere it touched me. Lexie in dim gold light on the screen was a dark lake I could high-dive into, she was a thin-ice river I could skate away on, she was a long-distance flight leaving now.

  “Tell me this woman smoked,” I said.

  My ribs opened up like windows, I’d forgotten you could breathe that deeply. "Jesus, you took your time,” said O’Kelly, heaving himself out of his chair and pulling his trousers up over his belly. “I think you’re bloody certifiable, but nothing new there. When you get yourself killed, don’t come crying to me.”

  “Fascinating,” Cooper said, eyeing me speculatively; a part of him was obviously working out the odds that I would end up on his table. “Do keep me posted.”

  Sam ran a hand over his mouth, hard, and I saw his neck sag. “Marlboro Lights,” Frank said, and hit Eject, a big grin slowly breaking across his face. "That’s my girl.”"

  * * *

  I used to believe, bless my naive little heart, that I had something to offer the robbed dead. Not revenge—there’s no revenge in the world that could return the tiniest fraction of what they’ve lost—and not justice, whatever that means, but the one thing left to give them: the truth. I was good at it. I had one, at least, of the things that make a great detective: the instinct for truth, the inner magnet whose pull tells you beyond any doubt what’s dross, what’s alloy and what’s the pure, uncut metal. I dug out the nuggets without caring when they cut my fingers and brought them in my cupped hands to lay on graves, until I found out—Operation Vestal again—how slippery they were, how easily they crumbled, how deep they sliced and, in the end, how very little they were worth.

  In Domestic Violence, if you can get one bruised girl to press charges or go to a shelter, then there’s at least one night when her boyfriend is not going to hit her. Safety is a small debased currency, copper-plated pennies to the gold I had been chasing in Murder, but what value it has it holds. I had learned, by that time, not to take that lightly. A few safe hours and a sheet of phone numbers to call: I had never been able to offer a single murder victim that much.

  I had no clue what currency I had to offer Lexie Madison—not safety, obviously, and truth didn’t appear to have been one of her main priorities—but she had come looking for me, alive and dead she had padded closer on soft feet till she arrived with a spectacular bang on my doorstep: she wanted something. What I wanted from her in exchange—I really believed this, at the time—was simple: I wanted her the fuck out of my life. I knew she would drive a hard bargain, but I was good with that; I had done it before.

  I don’t tell people this, it’s nobody’s business, but the job is the nearest thing I’ve got to a religion. The detective’s god is the truth, and you don’t get much higher or much more ruthless than that. The sacrifice, at least in Murder and Undercover—and those were always the ones I wanted, why go chasing diluted versions when you could have the breathtaking full-on thing?—is anything or everything you’ve got, your time, your dreams, your marriage, your sanity, your life. Those are the coldest and most capricious gods of the lot, and if they accept you into their service they take not what you want to offer but what they choose.

  Undercover picked my honesty. I should have seen this coming, but somehow I had been so caught by the dazzling absoluteness of the job that I had managed to miss the most obvious thing about it: you spend your day lying. I don’t like lying, don’t like doing it, don’t like people who do it, and to me it seemed deeply fucked-up to go after the truth by turning yourself into a liar. I spent months picking my way along a fine double-talk line, cozying up to this small-fish dealer and spinning jokes or sarcasm to mislead him with literal truths. Then one day he fried both his brain cells on speed, pulled a knife on me and asked me if I was just using him to get to know his supplier. I skated the fine line for what felt like hours—Chill out, what’s your problem, what have I ever done to make you think I’m trying to screw you over?—stalling and hoping to God that Frank was listening to the mike feed. Dealer Boy put the knife in between my ribs and shrieked in my face, Are you? Are you? No bullshit. Yes or no. Are you? When I hes
itated—because of course I was, even if it wasn’t for the reason he had in mind, and this seemed like too crucial a moment for lies—he stabbed me. Then he burst into tears, and sometime in there Frank arrived and carted me discreetly off to the hospital. But I knew. The sacrifice had been demanded and I had withheld it. I had thirty stitches for warning: Don’t do that again.

  I was a good Murder detective. Rob once told me that all through his first case he had elaborate visions of fucking up, sneezing on DNA evidence, waving a cheerful good-bye to someone who had just let slip the giveaway piece of withheld info, bumbling vacantly past every clue and red flag. I never had that. My first Murder case was about as banal and depressing as they get—a young junkie knifed in the stairwell of a nightmare block of flats, great blood smears down grimy flights of stairs and eyes watching behind chained doors and the smell of piss everywhere. I stood on the landing with my hands in my pockets so I wouldn’t touch anything by mistake, looking up at the victim sprawled on the steps with his tracksuit bottoms half pulled down by the fall or the fight, and I thought: So this is it. This is where I was coming to, all along.