Authors: Tana French
I know better than to look at Steve. In the corner of my eye he’s still peacefully swinging his legs and drinking his water, but I can feel him knowing better than to look at me.
Breslin wants us to charge Rory Fallon. He wants it badly. It could be because he’s sick of babysitting the kindergarten case, wants to wind it up and go back to his pal McCann and their PhD-level fancy conspiracies and gang-boss shootings. Could be because he wants to shake himself in front of O’Kelly –
It took those two a month to crack their last domestic, with me on board it takes them a day, now give my ego a hand job and put me up for promotion
. Could be just that he’s so in the habit of arm-twisting, he can’t get through his day without that buzz. But.
I’ve been taking it for granted that whoever threw me to Crowley did it on the spur of the moment, for kicks, like whoever dropped my phone in my coffee back when I still left it on my desk. It didn’t occur to me, till this moment, that a lot more thought could have gone into it.
Creepy Crowley is whipping this case up into a big one, and someone is egging him on. If I fuck up spectacularly, like for example if I charge Fallon when there’s some great big chunk of exonerating evidence that somehow managed to vanish on its way to my desk, and if the papers somehow happen to get hold of the story, the whole country will explode with it. And there’ll be the excuse the squad’s gagging for: I’ll be gone.
In an interview, this is where I’d be on my feet, stopping the tape –
Interview paused at 2.52 p.m., Detectives Conway and Moran leaving the interview room
– and getting me and Steve the hell out of there. We need a chat, right now. I watch Breslin blandly and wait to see what comes next.
‘Here’s what we’ll do,’ Breslin says. ‘Moran, you go have a look through the CCTV, see if you can pick up Rory Fallon leaving the vic’s place last night and track him through town – maybe we can figure out where he ditched the gloves. Meanwhile, Conway and I will have another go at Rory, try for a confession – shouldn’t be a problem to us, am I right?’ He gives me a big pally grin and, I swear to God, an actual clap on the shoulder. I nearly punch the presumptuous fucker. ‘Even if we don’t get it, no big deal: we’ve got plenty on him already. We arrest him, charge him, I get to tell the lads that when the chips are down you two can do the business, and I can pretty much guarantee you won’t be getting any more hassle in the squad room. Everyone’s a happy camper.’
He’s a hair away from spelling it out for us:
You go along with me on this, and I’ll sort out the lads for you.
This isn’t just because he wants to get back to McCann, or because he wants to look pretty for the gaffer. He’s itching to get Fallon charged.
And he’s positive we’re gonna jump on the deal. He’s already tightening his tie and heading for the door.
I say, ‘Here’s what we’ll do. Deasy and Stanton are making a list of Rory Fallon’s KAs. If Rory’s our boy, then the guy who called it in will be on that list. I’d like you to have chats with them all, see if you can identify the caller. Start with best mates and brothers if he’s got them. If there’s no joy there, you can work your way down.’
Breslin has turned round. He’s staring at me, but he’s managing to stay nice and neutral, ready to keep the matey stuff coming if we let him. When he’s sure I’m done, he says, ‘Why?’
I say, ‘Because me and Detective Moran will take Fallon from here.’
Breslin looks back and forth between us – he’s aiming for big dog who’s been patient with the bold puppies long enough, but him having to look up at us takes some of the oomph out of it. He says, ‘I’m going to need an explanation here.’
I’m opening my mouth on
Because this is our fucking case and the next time you try to give me an order you’re getting a knee in the balls
, but Steve gets in there first. He says, ‘You’re dead right, man: we need to earn the lads’ respect. And that’s not going to happen if you get our confession for us. We appreciate the offer, but we’re going to have to handle this one ourselves.’
Which I have to admit is better than my version. The second of taken-aback on Breslin’s face gives me my control back. I tell Steve, ‘Detective Breslin knows that, you thicko. Does he look like a rookie to you? He was testing us. He was trying to see if we’d wimp out and offload the tough stuff on someone else when we got the chance, or if we’ve got the nads to actually do our job.’
Steve’s mouth opens. Then he bursts out laughing. ‘Jesus! And me standing here like an eejit, giving you the big speech about earning the lads’ respect. Fair play to you, man; you had me going, all right.’
Breslin’s got a bit of a smile on his mouth, but those pale eyes still moving back and forth between us are cold and expressionless. He doesn’t know whether he believes us or not.
I let myself crack a half-grin. ‘He had me, too, at first. There’s a reason he’s got that stellar rep. Thanks, Breslin: we get the message, loud and clear. We’ll do our job. And once we’ve done it, we’ll see you in the incident room. Case meeting at four.’
I give him a pleasant nod and turn away, to the one-way glass. Overlaid on Rory, Breslin’s reflection stays still, staring at me. My back prickles.
Then he shrugs. ‘I’d love to think you know what you’re doing,’ he says. ‘See you at four.’
The reflection turns and vanishes. The observation-room door clicks shut.
Me and Steve wait, listening, watching Rory fumble in his pocket and find a crumpled tissue and try to mop up the mess that’s his face. Then I go to the door and open it fast. The corridor is empty.
Steve says, ‘I don’t like this.’ His accent’s gone back to normal.
I say, ‘Me neither.’
‘What’s he playing at?’
‘I don’t know.’ I leave the door open. I’m trying to pace, but the observation room is too small; every two steps I’m slamming off a wall. The stink has thickened till it’s like another person in there, shoving us aside. ‘Did you hear him? “I can guarantee you won’t get any more hassle in the squad room . . .” He was trying to bribe us.’
‘Why would he want Fallon charged? This badly?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t think he was one of the ones trying to fuck me up.’ Steve has to see what goes down, what with not being in a coma, but I don’t do heart-to-hearts; this is the first time I’ve talked about this shit straight out, and it doesn’t feel good. ‘But if we charge Fallon too soon, and then it all goes tits-up, and Crowley splatters it all over the country . . .’ Even the thought – the burst of applause in the squad room, the smirk on Roche, the naked relief in O’Kelly’s voice as he explains that this isn’t working out – sends red zigzags across my brain. I say, ‘That’d be one way to put me out of commission.’
Steve has split his plastic water cup and is folding it into shapes. He says, ‘It could be just that: him trying to fuck us up.’ The ‘us’ is cute – no one’s on any campaign to fuck Steve up – but it gives me a quick ridiculous beat of warmth anyway. ‘I’ve never got that vibe off him either, but. I always got the sense he doesn’t give a monkey’s about us, either way.’
‘Me too. But if he was serious about getting rid of us, that’s exactly the sense we would get. Breslin’s no genius, but he’s been at this a long time. He’s well able to hide what he’s at.’
‘Or,’ Steve says. ‘If the gangster thing pans out . . .’
He leaves it there. The sharp crack of folding plastic jabs me in the ear.
Bent cops exist. Fewer in real life than on the telly, but they’re out there. Everything from the guy squaring a speeding fine in exchange for match tickets, to the guy who’s owned by a gang boss, body and soul.
If a gangster boyfriend killed Aislinn, the first thing he or his pals would do is ring their best bitch-boy and tell him to sort it out. The perfect way to sort it out, no loose ends, no worries, would be charging Rory Fallon and closing the case.
‘Breslin,’ I say. I’ve stopped pacing; stopped breathing, almost. ‘Breslin. You think? Seriously?’
Steve lifts one shoulder.
‘Nah. I don’t see it. He’s all about being the big hero. He wouldn’t be able to handle seeing himself as the bad guys’ pet cop. It’d blow his brain cells.’
Steve says, ‘Breslin would find a way to see himself as the hero, no matter what he did. That’s where he starts: with the idea that he’s the good guy, so whatever he’s doing must be right. Then he works backwards from there to figure out how.’
Which is true, but I never thought about it that way before – I’ve never spent this much time thinking anything about Breslin before. I don’t like the feel it gives me, clamped onto the back of my neck. What Steve’s talking about, it’s not just Breslin who thinks that way; we all do. When you badger a statement out of some traumatised witness, or manipulate a mother into giving evidence that’ll put her own kid in jail, you get to enjoy the buzz of winning without tying yourself in knots over the deeper moral subtleties, because you’re the good guy in this story. Steve is shredding that into something different, something tangled and thorny; dangerous.
He says, ‘And he’s the type they go for. Wife, kids, mortgage . . .’
The gang boys don’t bother with the likes of me and Steve, working-class singles on the way up; unless there’s a gambling problem or a coke habit, we don’t come with enough leverage. But Breslin has a high-maintenance blonde wife and three bucktoothed blond boys, like something out of an ad, and a house in a snazzy part of Templeogue. That’s a lot of needs tugging at his sleeves, and a lot to lose if he were to change his mind down the line. Once he was in, even one toe, he wouldn’t be getting out.
Breslin and McCann pull a lot of the big gang murders; they spend a lot of their time talking to seriously hard-core guys. It would be a miracle if, somewhere along the way, someone hadn’t made Breslin an offer.
That same flex to the air that I felt in the squad room, straight lines buckling at the edges of my eyes. My heart is going hard.
I say, ‘Yeah. He is.’
‘Exactly the type. And a Murder D would be worth top dollar to a gang boss.’
Breslin wears good suits, but we all do. He drives a 2014 BMW and he bangs on about how his kids go to private school because he’s not having them surrounded by skangers and immigrants who can barely speak English – and that’s just the skangers, ha ha ha, no offence, Conway, Moran – but I always figured Daddy and Mummy were bankrolling him. He takes his family to the Maldives for holidays, but if I’d cared enough to think about it, I would’ve assumed he’d squared a few penalty points for his bank manager in exchange for a sky-high credit-card limit and no pressure to pay it off.
Me and Steve have been wanting an interesting case. This could be a lot more interesting than we bargained for.
Steve says, ‘And if he’s the one who fed Crowley his info, that would explain why.’
Enough mud in the water can take you a long way towards reasonable doubt. The air twitches, in the corners.
And I can’t keep the grin off my face.
If Steve’s right, then there’s some high-level danger headed our way, from a bunch of directions at once. Gangs don’t kill cops, it would draw too much hassle, but they don’t have a problem firebombing your car to tell you to back off. And that’s small-time, compared to what the lads will do if we dob Breslin in to Internal Affairs.
I can’t wait for them all to bring it on. Danger doesn’t bother me; I’ll eat danger with a spoon. Breslin the puffed-up little tosspot, trying to twist me like a balloon animal, he made me feel like I was in a straitjacket and writhing to punch him. But Breslin the bent cop: he’s a dare, a bad poison dare that no one with sense should take, and I’ve always had a thing for dares.
Steve’s eyeing me like I’ve lost it. ‘What? What’s funny?’
‘Nothing. I like a challenge.’
‘So you think I’m right. You think he’s . . .’ Steve doesn’t finish.
That sobers me up a notch. ‘I don’t know yet. We’re way into the hypothetical here. I don’t like hypotheticals.’ I bite down on one thumb to get rid of the grin. ‘All we know for definite is, Breslin wants this guy charged and the case closed, ASAP. We need to stall till we’ve got a handle on why. What you came up with back there, about doing our own dirty work: that was good. That should buy us some time.’
The twist to Steve’s mouth doesn’t look convinced. ‘You think he went for it?’
‘Not sure. I think so. I hope so.’ The memory of Breslin’s cold stare makes me bite down harder. ‘Either way, that’s the line we stick to: we’re the thicko rookies who don’t get how things work around here, and we want to do our case our way. Are you OK with that?’
Part of me expects Steve to squirm away. There’s a decent chance that the bullshit here is all about me; as long as he plays it right, he can sidestep the blast and slot right into the squad once I’m a smoking crater, but he’ll blow his chance if he convinces Breslin he’s an idiot. But he grins. ‘I can manage thicko rookie.’
‘Right up your alley,’ I say. The relief hits me harder than I want to think about. ‘No acting required.’
‘Hey, you use what you’ve got.’ Steve tilts a thumb at the one-way glass. ‘What do we do with him?’
Rory has finished his cry. He’s getting antsy, popping his head up to peer worriedly around like a specky meerkat, wondering where we’ve disappeared to. He should be the biggest thing in our day. I practically forgot he existed.