I knew Conway, to see anyway, before she was famous. Back in training college, she was two years behind me. Tall girl, hair scraped back hard. Built like a runner, long limbs, long muscles. Chin always high, shoulders always back. A lot of guys buzzed round Conway, her first week: just trying to help her settle in, nice to be friendly, nice to be nice, just coincidence that the girls who didn’t look the same didn’t get the same. Whatever she said to the boys, after the first week they stopped giving her come-ons. They gave her shite instead.
Two years behind me, in training. Got out of uniform one year behind. Made Murder the same time I made Cold Cases.
Cold Cases is good. Very bleeding good for a guy like me: working-class Dub, first in my family to go for a Leaving Cert instead of an apprenticeship. I was out of uniform by twenty-six, out of the General Detective Unit and into Vice by twenty-eight – Holly’s da put in a word for me there. Into Cold Cases the week I turned thirty, hoping there was no word put in, scared there was. I’m thirty-two now. Time to keep moving on up.
Cold Cases is good. Murder is better.
Holly’s da can’t put in a word for me there, even if I wanted one. The Murder gaffer hates his guts. He’s not fond of mine, either.
That case when Holly was my witness: I took the collar. I gave the caution, I clicked the handcuffs, I signed my name on the arrest report. I was just a floater, should have handed over anything worthwhile that came my way; should have been back in the incident room, like a good boy, typing seen-nothing statements. I took the collar anyway. I had earned it.
Another thing about me: I know my shot when I see it.
That collar, along with the nudge off Frank Mackey, got me out of the General Unit. That collar got me my chance at Cold Cases. That collar locked me out of Murder.
I heard the click, with the click of the handcuffs. You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, and I knew that was me on Murder’s shit list for the foreseeable. But handing over the collar would have put me on the dead-end list, staring down the barrel of decades typing up other people’s seen-nothing statements. Anything you do say will be taken down in writing and may be used in evidence. Click.
You see your shot, you take it. I was sure that lock would open again, somewhere down the line.
Seven years on, and the truth was starting to hit.
Murder is the thoroughbred stable. Murder is a shine and a dazzle, a smooth ripple like honed muscle, take your breath away. Murder is a brand on your arm, like an elite army unit’s, like a gladiator’s, saying for all your life: One of us. The finest.
I want Murder.
I could have sent the card and Holly’s statement over to Antoinette Conway with a note, end of story. Even better behaved, I could have rung her the second Holly pulled out that card, handed the both of them over.
Not a chance. This was my shot. This was my one and only.
The second name on the Harper case: Thomas Costello. Murder’s old workhorse. A couple of hundred years on the squad, a couple of months into retirement. When a spot opens on the Murder squad, I know. Antoinette Conway hadn’t picked up a new partner yet. She was still flying solo.
I went and found my gaffer. He didn’t miss what I was at, but he liked what it would do for us, being involved in a high-profile solve. Liked what it would do for next year’s budget. Liked me, too, but not enough to miss me. He had no problem with me heading over to Murder to give Conway her Happy Wednesday card in person. No need to hurry back, said the gaffer. If Murder wanted me on this, they could have me.
Conway wasn’t going to want me. She was getting me anyway.
Conway was in an interview. I sat on an empty desk in the Murder squad room, had the crack with the lads. Not a lot of crack, now; Murder is busy. Walk in there, feel your heart rate notch up. Phones ringing, computers clicking, people going in and out; not hurried, but fast. But a few of them took time out to give me a poke or two. You want Conway? Thought she was getting some, all right, she hasn’t bust anyone’s balls all week; never thought she was getting it off a guy, though. Thanks for taking one for the team, man. Got your shots? Got your gimp suit?
They were all a few years older than me, all dressed that bit snappier. I grinned and kept my mouth shut, give or take.
‘Never would’ve guessed she went for the redsers.’
‘At least I’ve got hair, man. No one likes a baldy bollix.’
‘I’ve got a gorgeous babe at home who does.’
‘That’s not what she said last night.’
Give or take.
Antoinette Conway came in with a handful of paper, slammed the door with her elbow. Headed for her desk.
Still that stride, keep up or fuck off. Tall as me – six foot – and it was on purpose: two inches of that was square heels, crush your toe right off. Black trouser suit, not cheap, cut sharp and narrow; no effort to hide the shape on those long legs, the tight arse. Just crossing that squad room, she said You want to make something of it? half a dozen ways.
‘He confess, Conway?’
‘No.’
‘Tsk. Losing your touch.’
‘He’s not a suspect, fuckhead.’
‘You let that stop you? Good kick in the nads and Bob’s your uncle: confession.’
Not just the normal back-and-forth. A prickle in the air, a slicing edge. I couldn’t tell if it was about her, or just the day that was in it, or if it was the squad. Murder is different. The beat goes faster and harder; the tightrope is higher and narrower. One foot wrong, and you’re gone.
Conway dropped into her chair, started pulling up something on her computer.
‘Your boyfriend’s here, Conway.’
She ignored that.
‘Does he not get a snog, no?’
‘What’re you shiteing on about?’
The joker jerked a thumb at me. ‘All yours.’
Conway gave me a stare. Cold dark eyes, full mouth that didn’t give a millimetre. No makeup.
‘Yeah?’
‘Stephen Moran. Cold Cases.’ I held out the evidence envelope, across her desk. Thanked God I wasn’t one of the ones who’d sleazed her up in training. ‘This came in to me today.’
Her face didn’t change when she saw the card. She took her time looking it over, both sides, reading the statement. ‘Her,’ she said, when she got to Holly’s name.
‘You know her?’
‘Interviewed her, last year. Couple of times. Got fuck-all out of her; snotty little bitch. All of them are, in that school, but she was one of the worst. Like pulling teeth.’
I said, ‘You figure she knew something?’
Sharp glance, lift of the statement sheet. ‘How’d you end up with this?’
‘Holly Mackey was a witness in a case I worked, back in ’07. We got on. Even better than I thought, looks like.’
Conway’s eyebrow went up. She’d heard about the case. Which meant she’d heard about me. ‘OK,’ she said. Nothing in her tone, either way. ‘Thanks.’
She swung her chair away from me and punched at her phone. Clamped the receiver under her jaw and leaned back in her chair, rereading.
Rough, my mam would have called Conway. That Antoinette one, and a sideways look with her chin tucked down: a bit rough. Not meaning her personality, or not just; meaning where she came from, and what. The accent told you, and the stare. Dublin, inner city; just a quick walk from where I grew up, maybe, but miles away all the same. Tower blocks. IRA-wannabe graffiti and puddles of piss. Junkies. People who’d never passed an exam in their lives but had every twist and turn of dole maths down pat. People who wouldn’t have approved of Conway’s career choice.
There’s people who like rough. They think it’s cool, it’s street, it’ll rub off and they’ll be able to pull off all the good slang. Rough doesn’t look so sexy when you grew up on the banks of it, your whole family doggy-paddling like mad to keep their heads above the flood tide. I like smooth, smooth as velvet.
I reminded myself: n
o need to be Conway’s best bud. Just be useful enough to get on her gaffer’s radar, and keep moving.
‘Sophie. It’s Antoinette.’ Her mouth loosened when she talked to someone she liked; got a ready-for-anything curl to the corner, like a dare. It made her younger, made her into someone you’d try and chat up in the pub, if you were feeling gutsy. ‘Yeah, good. You? . . . I got a photo coming your way . . . Nah, the Harper case. I need fingerprints, but can you have a look at the actual pic for me, too? Check out what it was taken on, when it was taken, where, what it was printed out on. Anything you can give me.’ She tilted the envelope closer. ‘And I got words stuck on it. Cut-out words, like ransom-note shite. See can you figure out where they got cut out of, yeah? . . . Yeah, I know. Make me a miracle. See you ’round.’
She hung up. Pulled a smartphone out of her pocket and took shots of the card: front, back, up close, far off, details. Headed over to a printer in the corner to print them off. Turned back to her desk and saw me.
Stared me out of it. I looked back.
‘You still here?’
I said, ‘I want to work with you on this one.’
A slice of a laugh. ‘I bet you do.’ She dropped back into her chair, found an envelope in a desk drawer.
‘You said yourself you got nowhere with Holly Mackey and her mates. But she likes me enough, or trusts me enough, that she brought me this. And if she’ll talk to me, she’ll get her mates talking to me.’
Conway thought about that. Swung her chair from side to side.
I asked, ‘What’ve you got to lose?’
Maybe the accent did it. Most cops come up from farms, from small towns; no love for the smart-arse Dubs who think they’re the centre of the universe, when everyone knows that’s Ballybumfuck. Or maybe she liked whatever it was she’d heard about me. Either way:
She scrawled a name on the envelope, slid the card inside. Said, ‘I’m going down the school, take a look at this noticeboard, have a few chats. You can come if you want. If you’re any use to me, we can talk about what happens next. If you’re not, you can fuck off back to Cold Cases.’
I knew better than to let the Yes! show. ‘Sounds good.’
‘Do you need to ring your mammy and say you’re not coming home?’
‘My gaffer knows the story. It’s not a problem.’
‘Right,’ Conway said. She shoved her chair back. ‘I’ll get you up to speed on the way. And I drive.’
Someone wolf-whistled after us, low, as we went out the door. Ripple of snickers. Conway didn’t look back.
Tana French, The Trespasser
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