Authors: Tana French
We go side by side up the wide marble staircase, our footsteps circling blurrily around the stairwell, to the squad room. We go in there with no stack of papers, no videocassettes, no voice recorders. We go in with our hands empty.
The squad room’s almost deserted, everyone out on cases or on lunch. For a second there, it reminds me of early Sunday morning, just before the gaffer came in to dump this case on me and Steve. The quiet, just touched at the edges by the far-off drone of traffic; the white light of the fluorescents sealing the room against the thick grey press of cloud at the windows, charging the scattered paperwork and forgotten coffee cups with latent meaning. Me thinking how I could love this room, if only.
McCann is hunched in his corner, peck-typing. He looks worse every time I see him. Me, bloody eejit, asking Fleas to look out for anyone who seems like he’s had a bad week. You could fit your case notes in those eyebags.
‘McCann,’ I say. ‘Got a few minutes? We could do with a hand.’
He looks up from his computer and he knows.
For a second I think he’s gonna shut us down: got work of my own to do, bye. But he needs to know what we’ve got. And he’s the veteran; we’re rookies, can’t even get through this first step without cracking – Steve is shifting his feet, I’m rubbing at my mouth. McCann can’t resist. He figures he can do this, not a problem, and walk away.
‘All right.’ He hits Save and stands up. O’Neill and Winters, examining a statement sheet across the room, barely even glance over.
‘Thanks for this,’ Steve says, on our way up the stairs. ‘We really appreciate it.’
‘Yeah. What do you need a hand with?’
‘Aislinn Murray case,’ I say, over my shoulder. McCann’s face doesn’t change. ‘We need all the witnesses we can get. Is in here OK, yeah?’ I push open the door of the nice interview room, the pastel-yellow one with the coffee sachets that we used for Rory the second time round, and give McCann a hopeful look.
McCann grunts. He picks one of the chairs on the detectives’ side, with its back to the one-way mirror, and gives it a quick rock to see if it’s a dud. ‘I’ll have tea,’ he says, landing in it heavily. ‘Drop of milk, no sugar.’
‘You sure you’re all right for this?’ Steve asks, obediently heading for the kettle. ‘Not meaning to get personal, but you’re looking a bit rough, man.’
‘Thanks.’
‘The missus not doing your ironing this week, no?’ I want to know, with a grin that could go any way. ‘You in the doghouse?’
‘I’m grand. How’s your personal life?’
‘Shite,’ I say. Me and Steve laugh; McCann comes up with something that’s meant to be a smile, except he’s out of practice. ‘You’re married twenty-five years, amn’t I right? How do you do it?’
‘Twenty-six. Is this what you wanted me for, yeah? Relationship advice?’
‘Nah. You mind if we have this on?’ I’m already turning on the video camera.
McCann’s eyebrows jerk down; he didn’t think we had the nads. ‘Why the fuck do you want that yoke?’
‘Because I’m paranoid. A few months back, right? I got stuck helping Roche interview some scumbag’s mammy. I got her to drop the fake alibi; Roche told the gaffer it was him.’ I pull up the chair opposite McCann, the suspect’s chair. ‘Now I video everything. I’m thinking of getting myself a body cam.’
‘In fairness,’ Steve says apologetically, dropping teabags into cups, ‘it’s best practice to record witness statements, when we have the—’
‘Jesus Christ,’ McCann says. ‘Video whatever you want.’
‘Ah, man,’ Steve says. He’s practically curling into a ball with embarrassment, puppy-dog eyes begging McCann not to hold it against him. ‘I’m really sorry about this. We’d’ve only loved to not bother you with this shite. If it was only one bit of evidence, then we’d have just dumped it down the back of the file and left it to go away; we wouldn’t have taken up your time. But . . . I mean, it’s coming at us from all directions. We figured we’d be better off getting on top of it now.’
‘At least ye have the sense to make him the good cop,’ McCann says to me. ‘I can’t see you pulling that off.’
Steve does an awkward laugh. ‘No flies on you,’ I say, shaking my head ruefully. ‘No point in us trying to pull the wool over your eyes. We wouldn’t waste our time, or yours.’
‘You are wasting my time. What do you want?’
‘That’s you put in your place,’ I say to Steve. He manages an embarrassed half-grin as he makes his way to the table, eyes on his carefully balanced double handful of mugs. He passes them out and pulls the spare chair around the table, next to me. McCann slurps his tea and makes a face.
‘So let’s clear one thing up straightaway,’ I say, ‘save us all some time. You were having an affair with Aislinn Murray.’
McCann sucks his teeth and stares at me, not bothering to hide the disgust. ‘You little quisling,’ he says.
What surprises me is that I can’t even come up with a spark of anger at that. ‘We’ve got a witness who saw you chat Aislinn up and take her phone number,’ I say. ‘She’s ID’d your photo. We’ve got a witness who saw you and Aislinn having a drink in Ganly’s together. He’s ID’d your photo. We’ve got a witness who saw you in the vicinity of Viking Gardens at least three times over the past six weeks. He’s ID’d your photo. All of them will ID you in a lineup if you make us take it that far. Do I need to go to all that hassle, or can we just cut to the chase?’
McCann drinks his tea and thinks. I can see him rearranging pieces in his head like a chess player, tracking each strategy a dozen moves down the line.
What he needs to say is ‘No comment.’ That simple. Put up a wall of that, let us throw piece after piece of evidence at it till we run out, then walk away. This is the one and only non-idiotic thing to do, and every detective in the world knows that. We’ve all had jaw-dropped conversations where we can’t believe the moron actually talked to us, when all he had to do was keep his face shut and he could have gone home; we’ve all seen the pros fold their arms and repeat ‘No comment’ on a loop, till we give up and cut them loose. We’ve all thought it:
If that was me, no way in hell would I open my big gob.
We all know for a fact that if we ever get pulled in, innocent or guilty, it’ll be
No comment
all the way.
McCann can’t make himself do it. Once he says, ‘No comment,’ he loses hold of himself as the detective, maybe forever. Once those two words come out of his mouth, he’s no different from any junkie shoplifter, any pervert groping girls on buses: he’s the suspect.
He says, ‘I knew Aislinn Murray. We met up a few times.’
‘And that’s it,’ I say.
‘Yeah.’
‘Were you ever in her home?’
Cogs turning again, as he weighs up whether there might be anything we’ve managed to keep away from Breslin, any fingerprints he missed during his wipe-down, anything that could catch him out. ‘Yeah,’ he says eventually. ‘The odd chat, cup of tea.’
‘Ever shag her?’
‘You got a good reason for asking me that question?’
Me and Steve glance at each other. McCann doesn’t react.
I say, ‘We got male DNA off her mattress.’
‘It’s not mine.’
‘You mean you wore condoms. It’s not semen. It’s sweat.’
McCann goes back inside his head to think. I say helpfully, ‘We’re pretty sure Aislinn didn’t sleep with anyone else in the last couple of years.’
Not a budge out of him, as he weighs and measures. Then he nods. ‘Yeah. We had the odd shag.’
And that’s the preliminaries done with. Everything we can afford to give up, all three of us, is laid out on the table. Like the brisk initial stage of a board game, sacrifice this to take that, till almost by cooperation you’ve cleared the board of the small stuff, readied it for the real battle ahead.
‘Ah, man,’ Steve says ruefully, raking his fingers through his hair. ‘Ah,
man
. Of all the girls in this town, you had to pick one who was going to get herself murdered?’
McCann shrugs, swigs his tea. ‘What can I say. She didn’t seem like the type.’
‘You should’ve said,’ Steve tells him reproachfully. ‘As soon as the case came in.’
McCann’s eyes move across us both like we’re not worth stopping for. ‘If it’d been any other Ds, I would’ve.’
‘It’s not like we were going to ring your missus and grass you up.’
‘That’s what you say. You’re telling me you’d have stood by your squad? Look where we are.’
‘You know this needs doing,’ Steve says, worried. ‘It does. What do you want us to do? Ignore all this, go ahead with Rory, and have his defence dig this up and throw it in our faces halfway through the trial?’
‘I want you to have some respect. Something like this, you want to bring it up, you do it in
private
. Not in a fucking
interview room
. With a fucking
camera
going. Jesus.’ He shoots a narrow, furious glance at the camera.
‘If I was any other D,’ I say, ‘I would’ve. But I’ve taken enough shite from this squad that nowadays, anything that matters, I’m getting it on record. We’ll try and keep it to ourselves, but I can’t promise anything till I know what I’m dealing with.’
It’s the oldest line in the book. McCann’s mouth curls. ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’
‘So let’s hear it,’ I say. ‘Start with the first time you and Aislinn met. When, where, how.’
McCann leans back in his chair, stretches his legs out and folds his arms, settling in. ‘Horgan’s. Last summer; I don’t remember the date.’
‘Don’t worry about it. We can find that out. Had you seen her in there before?’
‘No.’
‘You would have noticed her.’
‘Yeah, I would. All the lads noticed her. Probably some of the girls, too.’ Snide look at me.
‘I’m not surprised,’ I say. ‘I’ve seen photos. How’d you get up the brass neck to chat her up?’
‘I didn’t. She came on to me.’
I laugh out loud. ‘Course she did. Gorgeous twenty-something, could have any fella in the bar, throws herself at some middle-aged guy with a faceful of wrinkles and a beer gut. She just won’t take no for an answer; what choice has the poor guy got?’
McCann has his arms folded tight, not budging. ‘I’m telling you. She wasn’t forward about it – I wouldn’t’ve been into that. But she was the one that gave me the eye.’
I’ve still got one eyebrow high. ‘Jaysus, come on,’ Steve says to me, reasonably. ‘People have different tastes. Just because someone wouldn’t be your cup of tea—’
‘I like them young enough to be some use to me,’ I tell McCann, throwing him a wink. ‘And good-looking.’
‘What do you do, pay for it?’ We’re starting to get to him.
‘—that doesn’t mean he’s not some other girl’s,’ Steve finishes. ‘It happens.’
‘It does happen,’ I admit. ‘On the soaps. Every time I turn on the telly, there’s some young babe hanging out of an uggo old enough to be her da. Does this look like the set off
Fair City
to you?’
‘Ah, Conway. It’s not just on the soaps. Real life, too.’
‘If you’re Donald Trump, sure. You been holding out on us, Joey? Are you a secret millionaire?’
He doesn’t like the ‘Joey’, but he almost hides it behind a wry grin. ‘I wish.’
‘Not everyone’s all about the money,’ Steve says. ‘Aislinn could’ve just liked the look of him. Nothing wrong with that.’
‘Maybe. Do you look like George Clooney, Joey? On your days off, like?’
‘You tell me.’
I grimace, waver one hand. ‘Gotta tell you, pal, I’m not seeing it. So I’m dying to know: why would she go for you? Don’t tell me you never wondered.’
McCann shifts. Unfolds his arms, shoves his hands in his pockets. He says, ‘She was a badge bunny.’
We thought the same thing. Aislinn led the whole lot of us down her garden path. What me and Steve need to know is whether McCann believes it still.
‘A girl like that goes hunting for a badge,’ I say, ‘and you’re what she brings home? Seriously?’
McCann’s jaw moves. ‘I was there.’
‘And so were plenty of others. Horgan’s is wall-to-wall cops. So why you?’
‘Because she wanted a D. She liked to hear about the job: what cases have you worked, what was it like, what did you do next? Gave her a thrill. You know what I’m talking about?’ The grin’s a nasty one. I don’t blink. ‘She picked me out because I was old enough, and dressed nice enough, that she figured I was a D – she knew her stuff, that one. When she heard I worked Murder, that was it. Her eyes lit up. I’d’ve had to hold her off with a garden rake. And you saw her: why would I want to do that?’
‘Because you’re married?’ I suggest. ‘I hear to some people that means you don’t go sticking your dick in any hole you can find.’
McCann lifts one shoulder. ‘We had a few shags. It happens. It was no big deal.’
Good call. If Aislinn was nothing but a shag, then there’s no reason he would’ve killed her for having another fella. I ask, ‘You do that on a regular basis, yeah? Cheat on your missus?’
‘No.’
‘Ever done it before?’