Authors: Tana French
‘Ah, Jaysus,’ I say, wiping my eyes. ‘That’s beautiful, that is. You couldn’t just seize the haul and let the lads go, no?’
‘We tried. The gaffer had half the squad looking for some way the uniforms had fucked up, illegal search or something, yeah? But they were watertight. Poor old Goggles is going down. Here’ – Fleas points his sandwich at me – ‘you should visit him, inside. Cheer him up a bit.’
He’s messing, but it sounds like there’s a corner of serious in there. ‘I’ll get him to do his Katy Perry for me,’ I say. ‘Cheer us both up.’
‘Not from what I heard, it wouldn’t.’
‘Come here,’ I say. ‘Speaking of the lads. The
Courier
’s after running my photo. Is that gonna fuck you up?’
Fleas is the reason I don’t let my photo out there. They did me up for the gig – curls, big hoop earrings, shitload of makeup, pink crop tops with cheeky and your boyfriend wants me across the front – but still: better safe. He shrugs. ‘No hassle so far. See what happens.’ It takes a lot more than this to panic an undercover. ‘I wouldn’t say anyone recognised you. You’re all fancy these days’ – a nod at my suit, half impressed, half amused – ‘and in fairness, it’s been a few years.’
‘Rub it in, why don’t you.’
Fleas examines me critically, chewing. ‘You’re looking all right. Not great, now; you look like you could do with a holiday. Or a tonic.’
‘I’m grand. I could use a bit of sunshine, just. What are the chances?’
‘Or a change of scene.’
I look up fast from my food, but he’s leaning to get his mug off the coffee table; I can’t see his eyes. Undercovers are like that – they can’t go at anything straight – but I’m pretty sure I get the message. Fleas knows Murder isn’t working out. He thinks I e-mailed him because I need him to put in a good word for me on Undercover.
For a flash I think about straightening my leg and putting my foot in his guts. Instead I say, ‘I’m happy enough with the scenery I’ve got. I’d love your opinion on one bit of it, though.’
‘Yeah?’ Fleas’s tone hasn’t changed, but something streaks across his face, something that almost looks like regret. ‘What’s that?’
‘Look at this.’ I sit up and stretch for my satchel, find a photo of Aislinn Version 2.0 and pass it to him. ‘Her name’s Aislinn Murray. Twenty-six, five foot seven, probably a middle-class Greystones accent. Seen her around?’
Fleas chews, bounces one knee and takes his time looking. ‘Hard to say for sure; a lot of ones look like her. I don’t think so, but. Who is she?’
‘Murder victim.’
That stops his knee bouncing. ‘Her? The one off the front pages?’
‘Yeah. Her best mate says she had a secret boyfriend, the last six months or so. We’re thinking it could’ve been a gangster. One of Cueball Lanigan’s lot, maybe.’
He looks longer. Shakes his head. ‘Nah. She wasn’t with any of Lanigan’s lads, anyway.’
‘You’re sure,’ I say. I already know from his voice: he’s sure. The warm cosy feeling is sinking fast. I could kick myself for dragging him out here for this.
‘Hundred per cent. I’d’ve met her. Probably if she was with anyone from Crumlin or Drimnagh, too.’
‘Maybe not. If she was keeping the relationship on the downlow, he might’ve been too.’
Fleas laughs. ‘Nah nah nah. A bird who looks like that, anyone who’s shagging her is gonna want the world to know. He’d be showing her off in the pub, at parties, every time he got a chance.’
‘Even if he’s married?’
‘No problemo. No one expects these lads to be monks, know what I mean? Not even their wives. If someone’s married to another of the lads’ sister, then OK, he’s not gonna shove his bit on the side in the brother-in-law’s face, but he’ll still be bragging about her to the rest of us. And the lads gossip like aul’ ones. Everyone knows who’s got a little side action going on.’ He’s still scanning the photo, but his knee is jiggling again: he’s losing interest. ‘She have any bling that’s not accounted for? Rolex, jewellery, designer gear?’
‘Not that I spotted,’ I say. ‘Her stuff was mid-range, things she could’ve afforded herself; nothing that said someone else was buying for her. But maybe she just wasn’t into the sugar-daddy thing.’
Fleas snorts. ‘Any extra cash?’
‘Not that we’ve found. Her financials look clean.’
‘Any trips away? A lily-white like that, the boyfriend wouldn’t be able to resist using her to carry something. And if she’s the type who’d go for a gangster, she’s not the type who’d say no.’
I shake my head. ‘Her best friend said she’d never been out of Ireland. We found a passport application form – first-time, not renewal. No passport.’
‘There you go,’ Fleas says. He passes the photo back to me. ‘I’m not swearing on my life or anything, but if I was a betting man, I’d bet plenty that she had nothing to do with the scene.’
And there it is. The cosy feeling burns out to dirty ash.
I say, ‘You can’t swear to it, but. She still could have had connections.’
He shrugs. ‘She could’ve, yeah. So could my ma.’
Fleas isn’t like Steve; he doesn’t make up ifs and maybes for kicks. If Fleas says something, it’s solid.
There goes our beautiful gang theory, spiralling down the jacks with a long sucking sound. I thought I was ready for that.
Me spending the last day and a half thinking I was a big badass sniper deep in enemy jungle, swinging my scope from Breslin to McCann, my blood clarifying to pure adrenaline while I waited to see which one I should pick off. Idiot, five-star fucking cretin. No different from Goggles getting off his tits on his own shipment and turning himself into a lifetime punchline. The only thing I’ve done right, since the moment I got this case, was hold on to just enough sense to keep my gob shut. Every other thought I’ve had was a joke.
I stuff the photo back into my satchel – I don’t want to see the thing any more. ‘Can you keep an eye out anyway? See if anyone’s a little off his stride this week, maybe, or anyone’s spending more time in the pub, getting drunker than usual?’ The begging under my voice is pathetic. ‘She only got killed on Saturday evening, so whoever did it should be feeling it.’
Fleas has gone back to his sandwich. ‘Might be, might not. Plenty of them are total psychopaths; could blow their own grannies’ brains out and never break a sweat.’
‘Someone knows about this who isn’t a total psycho, but. A guy called it in to the local station, looking for an ambulance. If that wasn’t our boy, it was a mate who he talked to.’
‘Fair enough. I’ll keep an eye out for anyone who’s off form.’
He’s humouring me, but he’ll do it. ‘If you spot anything,’ I say, ‘you e-mail me before you show up here. I swear to God, if I find you under my bed tomorrow night, I’m gonna shoot your bony arse.’
‘Come here, but,’ Fleas says, wiping mayo off his cheek with the back of his hand. ‘I wasn’t joking about you needing better security. I had that alarm disabled in twenty seconds, tops; took me maybe another minute to get past the locks. And probably you already know this, but there’s some fella casing your road.’
The air in the room hardens, scraping at me like sandpaper. ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I was wondering about that. Where’d you spot him?’
‘I took a stroll past the top of the road earlier on, just getting the feel of the place before I headed in. He was hanging about. Like he was waiting for someone, only I got the vibe – you know the vibe.’
‘Yeah.’ We all know the vibe. ‘Did you get a decent look?’
‘Tried. I went to bum a smoke off him’ – Fleas slumps forward, lets his face go junkie-vacant and whines through his nose, ‘“Here, bud, gis a fag?” ’ Back to normal: ‘Only he saw me coming and legged it. Could’ve been he just didn’t fancy the likes of me getting a hold of him, in fairness; but . . .’ Fleas shrugs. ‘Middle-aged fella, tall, medium build, pricey overcoat, big schnozz. That’s all I could see; he was well wrapped up, trilby and a scarf over half his face. Again, that’s fair enough, in this weather. But.’
‘Right. But.’ That rules out Creepy Crowley and his short arse and his slimy mac, anyway, which is a shame; I would’ve only loved a good excuse to mistake him for a stalker. ‘I think it’s this gaff he’s watching.’
Fleas nods, unsurprised. ‘I’d say so, all right. Got any clue who he’d be?’
I shake my head. ‘I was wondering about some gangster looking to warn me off. With that
Courier
photo, anyone could’ve waited outside work and followed me home. But if you figure the gang thing’s a dead end . . .’ Every time I say the word ‘gang’, it sounds stupider. I stretch out my legs farther along the sofa and try to get back some of that relaxed feel. It’s well gone. I can feel the sitting-room window behind my shoulder, the dark wind shoving up against it.
‘They’re a shower of bollixes, the
Courier
,’ Fleas says. ‘And just ’cause it’s not a gangster, that doesn’t mean it’s not the fella who killed your girl.’
‘I already thought of that. Do I look thick to you?’
‘I’m only saying. You’d want to get that alarm sorted rapid. Get PhoneWatch or something.’
‘No, thanks.’ If PhoneWatch doesn’t get an answer off you when there’s a breach, they ring the Guards. I’d rather have a serial killer use me for parts than have the squad find out I went squealing for uniform help like some civilian. ‘I’m grand. I got you good and proper, didn’t I?’
‘I wasn’t here to kill you,’ Fleas points out. ‘Not the same thing. I know you’re well able for anyone, and I pity the poor little bollix that takes you on, but you have to sleep sometime, yeah?’
‘I’ll get the locks looked at in the morning.’
‘And the alarm.’
‘And the alarm. Mammy.’
Fleas watches me, over the rim of his mug. For once he isn’t moving. He says, ‘Will I stay the night?’
There are a few different ways he could mean that. Tonight, all of them sound good. If it wasn’t for the guy at the top of the road, wasn’t for the shite I’m taking at work, I would say yes, one way or another.
I can’t handle either of us thinking I need him there. ‘You’re all right,’ I say. ‘Thanks, but.’
‘No one’ll miss me.’
‘Ahhh. Poor baby.’
‘You sure, yeah?’
‘Positive. Just: if you see this fella again on your way out, give us a text, yeah?’
‘No probs,’ Fleas says. He slides off the sofa, hitches up his tracksuit bottoms and picks up his plate and mug. ‘I’ll get out of your hair, so.’
‘Leave that. I’ll do it.’ I was going to make another round of coffee, but it’s too late to say it now.
‘Ah, no. My mammy taught me to tidy up after meself.’ He heads into the kitchen. ‘Thanks for feeding me. You make a gorgeous fish-finger sambo, so you do.’
I follow him. He’s bent over the dishwasher, slotting his plate into place. ‘Here,’ he says, holding out his hand. ‘Give us that.’
I hand over my plate. ‘I’m glad you came,’ I say. ‘It’s good to see you.’
‘Same here. Yeah.’ Fleas slams the dishwasher and straightens up. ‘If I spot any of the lads acting a bit stressed, I’ll let you know – swear to God I’ll e-mail first, this time. Otherwise . . .’
I say, ‘Otherwise I’ll see you when I see you.’
Fleas gives me a grin and a quick, one-armed hug. His tough skinny arm and the smell of him – cheapo body spray, straight out of when I was fifteen – hit me with a blast of weakness that makes me glad he’s leaving. Then he switches off the motion-sensor light, unlocks the back door and is gone, over the wall, neat and silent as a fox. I lock the door behind him and wait, but he doesn’t text me.
Chapter 10
The next morning I lie in bed and think about staying there. I didn’t get a lot of sleep; after I rang my ma and told her about Aislinn’s mouthful of blood clots and smashed teeth (‘Huh’), I spent half the night leaping up to investigate random noises – in this weather, there were plenty of those – and the other half trying to lie still and trying to decide who deserves a punch in the gob more, Steve for coming up with the gang theory or me for actually going along with it. By six in the morning my body is one hard knot. I haven’t mitched off since school, but today I can’t remember why not. Two things stop me: if I don’t go to work, I’ll run till my legs give out and then sit at home driving myself mental; and if I don’t go to work, that’s one more day I’ll have to spend on this shitpile of a case.
I get into my running gear without turning on a light. Then I switch off the motion-sensor lights, slip out to my patio and go over the back wall. It’s dark, the flat drained dark that comes before dawn, when even the night things – foxes, bats, drunks and dangers – have finished their business and gone to sleep; even the wind has died down to an uneasy, feeble twitch. I move up the laneway without making a sound and flatten myself in shadows to peer around the corner and down the street. There’s no one hanging around at the top of my road; no one anywhere, in either direction, as far as I can see in the sick yellowish light. I go take a look down my road: no one there either.
Normally my run leaves me feeling like nothing but long muscles streaming with strength, able and beckoning for more, for anything, bring it on. That feeling is what gets me through my shift. Today the strength is nowhere. I’m lurching like a flabby first-timer; my legs drag like they’re wrapped in wet sandbags, my arms flop and my breathing can’t find a rhythm. I push harder, till my chest feels like it’s ripping and a thick red seethes up over my eyes. I hang onto a lamppost, doubled over, waiting for it to clear.