Authors: Tana French
It’s a smartphone, but Aislinn has the screen lock set on swipe, no code. She’s got two unread texts, but I go through her contacts first. Nothing under Mum or Dad or any variation, but she does have an ICE contact: Lucy Riordan, and a mobile number. I write it down in my notebook, for later – lucky Lucy is gonna make the formal ID. Then I go into Aislinn’s text messages and start piecing together the dinner-guest story.
Lover Boy’s name is Rory Fallon and he was due over at eight o’clock yesterday evening. He first shows up on Aislinn’s phone seven weeks ago, in the second week of December.
Great to meet you – hope you had a wonderful evening. Would you be free for a drink on Friday?
Aislinn made him work for it.
I’m busy that night, might be able to do Thursday,
and then when he took a few hours to get back to her,
Oops just made plans for Thursday!
She had him jump through hoops coming up with days, times, places, till finally she decided he’d done enough and they went for a drink in town. He rang her the next day, she didn’t answer the phone till the third call. He begged her into graciously letting him buy her dinner in a pricey restaurant – she messed him around on that too, cancelled on the morning of the date (
Really sorry, something’s come up tonight!
) and made him reschedule. Somewhere in this house we’re gonna find a copy of
The Rules
.
I’ve got no time for women who play games, or for men who play along. That shite is for teenagers, not for grown adults. And when it goes wrong, it goes way wrong. The first few games, you have a blast, get your guy panting along after you like a puppy chasing his chew toy. Then you play one game too many, and you’ve got a houseful of Murder Ds.
In between Aislinn’s little games is the rest of her thrilling life: reminder for a dentist appointment; a few texts back and forth with Lucy Riordan about
Game of Thrones
; a week-old voice message from what sounds like someone from work, freaking out because his e-mail account’s been hacked and can Aislinn tell him how to reset his password? No wonder she needed to make a restaurant meal into a major drama.
The invite for home-cooked dinner must have gone out in person or in a phone call – the call log shows a bunch of those from Rory, some answered, some not, none from Aislinn to him – but he confirmed by text. Wednesday evening:
Hi Aislinn, just checking if we’re still on for 8 on Saturday? What wine will I bring?
She let him wait till the next day before she got back to him.
Yes 8 on Saturday! No need to bring anything, just yourself :-)
‘If he showed up without a dozen red roses,’ I say, ‘he’d’ve been in deep shite.’
‘Maybe he didn’t know that,’ Steve says. ‘No flowers anywhere.’
We’ve both seen murders that boiled up out of dumber reasons. ‘That could explain how it happened so fast. He arrives, she sees he’s brought nothing . . .’
Steve is shaking his head. ‘And what? Going by the stuff on here, she’s not the type who’d tell him to fuck off and come back with a bouquet. She’d play it passive-aggressive: freeze up, let him go mental trying to figure out what he’d done wrong.’
The problem with Steve taking contradiction so nicely is that I feel like I have to live up to him. ‘True enough. No wonder she got herself killed.’ Sometimes I worry that if I work with Steve for too long, I’m gonna turn into a sweetheart.
With her pal Lucy, though, Aislinn dropped the hard-to-get act. Yesterday evening, 6.49:
Omigod I’m so excited it’s ridiculous!!! Getting ready singing into corkscrew like teenager w hairbrush. Am I pathetic or wha??
Lucy came back to her straightaway.
Depends what you’re singing
Beyoncé :-D
Could be worse . . . tell me it’s not Put a ring on it
Nooo!!! Run the world!
Ah well then you’re golden. Just don’t feed him on celery and ryvita, you don’t want him fainting from hunger before you can have your wicked way with him :-D
Ha ha so funny. Making beef wellington
Ooo get you!! Gordon ramsay
Hello it’s just from Marks & Sparks!
Ah gotcha. Have loads of fun. And be careful ok?
Stop worrying!! Tell you everything tomorrow xxx
That one went out at 7.13. Just time for Aislinn to put on the last layer of makeup, the last layer of hairspray, stick her M&S dinner into the cooker, swap Beyoncé for mood music and light the scented candle, before the doorbell rang.
‘“Be careful,” ’ Steve says.
When we talk to Lucy, she’ll explain why she was worried: how Rory got aggressive that time in the pub when he thought Aislinn was looking at another guy, or how he made her keep her coat on in the restaurant because her dress showed her cleavage, or how he used to go out with a friend of a friend and the word was he had slapped her around but Aislinn figured it was exaggerated and he was a lovely guy and all he needed was someone who treated him properly. ‘Same old story,’ I say. ‘Next time my ma asks me why I’m still single, I’m gonna tell her about this case. Or the last one. Or the one before that.’
Slam-dunk lovers’ tiff, just like the uniforms figured. Our boy Rory practically lay down on a platter and stuck an apple in his mouth for us. I’ve known this was coming since back in the squad room, but some thicko part of me still feels it like a kick in the teeth.
Domestics are mostly slam-dunks; the question isn’t whether you can arrest your guy, or girl, it’s whether you can build a case that’ll hold up in court. A lot of people love that – it pretties up your solve rate, looks good to the brass – but not me: it means domestics get you fuck-all respect from the squad, where I could do with it, because everyone knows the solve came easy. Which is also the other reason they piss me off: they’ve got a whole special level of idiotic all to themselves. You take out your wife or your husband or your Shag of the Day, what the fuck do you think is gonna happen? We’re gonna be standing there with our mouths open, scratching our heads at the mind-blowing mystery of it all,
Duh, I dunno, musta been the Mafia
? Surprise: we’re gonna go straight for you, the evidence is gonna pile up way over your head, and you’re gonna wind up with a life sentence. If you want to kill someone, have enough respect for my time to make it someone, anyone, other than the most gobsmackingly obvious person in the world.
One thing on that phone, though, doesn’t fit on that rock-bottom level of stupid. After the happy-clappy texts with Lucy, nothing in or out for almost an hour. Then, at 8.09 p.m., a text from Rory:
Hi Aislinn, just checking that I’ve got the right address? I’m outside 26 Viking Gardens but no one’s answering the door. Am I in the right place?
The text’s flagged as unread.
Steve taps the time stamp. ‘He wasn’t running late, anyway. No reason for her to turn off the cooker.’
‘Mm.’
8.15 p.m., Rory rang Aislinn. She didn’t pick up.
He rang her again at 8.25. At 8.32 he texted her:
Hi Aislinn, wondering if I’ve got the weeks mixed up? I thought I was due over for dinner tonight but it seems like you’re not around. Let me know the story whenever you get the chance?
Unread again.
‘Yeah, right,’ I say. ‘He knows damn well he hasn’t got the weeks mixed up. If he needed to double-check, the appointment’s right there in his messages.’
Steve says, ‘He’s trying to make it sound like, whatever’s gone wrong, it has to be his fault. He doesn’t want to piss Aislinn off.’
‘Or else he knows we’ll be reading these, and he wants to get it through to us loud and clear that he’s a meek little nice guy who could never do anything like punch his date in the face even if he was in the house which obviously he never was, swear to God, Officer, just look at his phone, see all these messages?’
A lot of domestics try to get smart like that: take one look at what they’ve done, and start setting up a story. Sometimes it even works – not on us, but on a jury. Rory Fallon pitched it nicely: enough messages to show he was really trying to get hold of Aislinn, honest, but nothing after the 8.32 text, so he doesn’t come across like a stalker. Again, not rock-bottom stupid.
‘Narrows down time of death, either way,’ Steve says. ‘She was texting Lucy at thirteen minutes past seven. By ten past eight, she was down.’
‘Either way?’ That makes me look up from the phone. ‘What, you think these could be legit?’
Steve does something noncommittal with his chin. ‘Probably not.’
‘Come
on
. Someone just happened to walk in looking to kill her, at the exact moment when Rory was due to arrive for his beef Wellington? Seriously?’
‘I said probably not. Just . . . we’ve got a couple of weird things, now. I’m keeping an open mind.’
Oh, Jesus. Little Stevie, bless his heart, is trying to convince us both that we’ve landed ourselves something special, so that our day will brighten up and I’ll turn that frown upside down and quit talking about my mate’s security firm and we’ll all live happily ever after. I can’t wait for this case to be over.
‘Let’s go pick up Rory Fallon and find out,’ I say. If we’re in luck and the pathetic-wimp version of Rory is the right one, he might even spill his guts in time for me to get in a run and some food before I crash out.
That gets Steve’s attention. ‘You want to go straight for him?’
‘Yeah. Why not?’
‘I was thinking the vic’s best friend – Lucy. If she knows anything, it’d be good to have it before we start on Rory. Go in there with all the ammo we can get.’
Which would be the perfect way to work this if it was a proper murder case, with one of those cunning psychopaths lurking in the shadows daring us to take our best shot, instead of some gobshite who got his knickers in a twist and threw a tantrum at his girlfriend and who deserves every short cut we can find. But Steve is giving me the hopeful puppy-dog eyes, and I figure what the hell: he’ll have his own burnout soon enough, no point dragging him down into mine. ‘Why not,’ I say. I lock Aislinn’s phone and drop it back into its evidence bag. ‘Let’s go talk to Lucy Riordan.’
Steve slams the oven door. The waft of air shoots through the kitchen, charred and rich with meat about to rot.
Sophie is squatting beside the fireplace, swabbing the bloodstain. ‘We’re getting out of your hair,’ I tell her. ‘You find anything we should know about, give us a bell.’
‘Will do. No surprises so far. Your vic did a pretty serious clean-up for her little dinner date – practically every surface in here’s been wiped – which is nice: if your guy left prints, we can show they hadn’t been there long. So far we’re getting bugger-all, though; looks like you could be right about him having his gloves on. Keep your fingers crossed.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Just so you know: Don Breslin’s gonna show up any minute.’
‘Oh, great. Be still, my beating heart.’ Sophie drops a swab into a test tube. ‘What do you want him for?’
‘The gaffer thinks we could use someone who’s good with witnesses.’ That brings Sophie’s head up to look at me. I shrug
.
‘Or some shit like that, I don’t know. So Breslin’s coming in with us on this one.’
‘Well, isn’t that special,’ Sophie says. She caps the test tube and starts labelling it.
I say, ‘He’s just backup. Anything you find comes straight to me or Moran. If you can’t get hold of us, keep trying till you do. Yeah?’
One of the reasons it took me and Steve so long to close the Romanian domestic, the reason we’re not about to tell O’Kelly, is that when a witness finally got up the guts to ring in, we never heard about the call. It was another two weeks before the witness tried again – fair play to him; a lot of people would have figured forget it – and got me. He said his first call had been put through to a guy, Irish accent – which narrows it down to anyone on the squad except me – who had promised to pass on the message. I don’t think it was Breslin, but I’m nowhere near sure enough to bet my case on it.
‘Not a problem.’ Sophie glances back and forth between her techs. ‘Conway, Moran or no one. Everyone clear on that?’
The techs nod. Techs don’t give a damn about Ds and our relationship problems – most of them think we’re a bunch of prima donnas who should try doing some real solid work for a change – but they’re loyal as hell to Sophie. Breslin will get nothing out of them.
‘The same for her phone and her laptop,’ I say. ‘When they get into her e-mail, Facebook, whatever, I want it coming straight to us.’
‘Sure. There’s this one computer guy who actually listens when people talk; I’ll make sure it goes to him.’ She drops the test tube into an evidence bag. ‘We’ll keep you updated.’
I take one last look at Aislinn, on my way out. Sophie’s hooked back her hair to take swabs, hoping for DNA from that punch. Death is starting to take over her face, starting to pull her lips back from her teeth, sink hollows under her eyes. Even through that, she hits me with that pulse of memory.
Please I just need please—
And me, barely bothering to hide the satisfaction:
Sorry. Can’t help you there.
‘She pissed me off,’ I say. ‘When I met her before.’
‘Something she did?’ Steve asks. ‘Something she said?’