‘I need to shut him down, remember? And I’ve got an idea.’ I shove the phone in my pocket, stand up and tug the creases out of my suit. ‘Come with me? I could do with backup.’
All of a sudden there’s a twitch tugging at the corner of Steve’s mouth. He says, ‘Would this idea count as a glitch in the Plan?’
‘I fucking well hope so. You coming or not?’
Steve shoves back his chair and stands up, grinning. ‘Wouldn’t miss it.’
No one is in the corridors; when we get our coats, no one’s in the locker room. The familiar run of sound comes through the squad-room door, keyboards, phone calls, bitching, the printer; in the middle of it all is that smooth power-voice of Breslin’s, raised in some punchline that gets a big laugh. Up in Incident Room C, the floaters are working away, busy little bees piling up paper that’ll go straight down to the basement. Even reception is empty; Bernadette’s on break or in the jacks. We walk out of the Murder building and no one even knows we’re gone.
Crowley’s on his own at a corner table in Grogan’s, sipping a pint of Smithwick’s and reading a bet-up paperback with SARTRE on the cover in massive letters, so everyone will get that he’s on a higher plane. He pretends he doesn’t notice us till we’re practically on top of his table. ‘Crowley,’ I say.
He does a bad fake startle and puts the book down. Steve is a surprise, but Crowley covers OK: ‘Ah,’ he says, holding out his hand and giving Steve a gracious smile, ignoring me, to put me in my place. ‘Detective Moran.’
‘Howya,’ Steve says, without taking Crowley up on the handshake. He thumps down on a stool, long legs sprawled everywhere, pulls out his phone and gives it his full attention.
I can see Crowley trying to figure this out. I sit down opposite him, prop my elbows on the table and my chin on my fingers, and smile at him. ‘Howya.’
‘Yes,’ he says, with a nice mix of distaste and wariness; he’s not getting the feed of desperation I promised him. ‘Hello.’
‘Nice articles you’ve been running. I’ve never been on the front page before. I feel like Kim Kardashian.’
‘Hardly,’ Crowley says, eyeballing me. ‘You liked the photo?’
‘Crowley,’ I say. ‘You’re after making a bad mistake.’
This isn’t going the way Crowley expected, but he holds up well – after all, he’s still got the upper hand, whether I behave myself or not. ‘Oh, I don’t think so. If you don’t want to look like a bully in the eyes of the nation—’ Steve has fired up some game that’s a mixture of beeping noises and cherry bombs; Crowley twitches, but he manages to hang on to his train of moral outrage. ‘—then don’t try to bully the agents of free speech. It really is that simple.’
‘Nah nah nah. I’m not here about the photo. My problem is a guy who saw the photo. He rang you up looking for my address, and you gave it to him.’
‘Haven’t a clue what you’re talking about,’ Crowley says. He folds his pudgy little hands on the table and smirks at me. ‘How is your father, by the way?’
While I’m still being puzzled, Steve’s head snaps up and he lets out a great big snort of laughter. ‘He did not. Did he?’
Crowley’s eyes zip back and forth between us. The smirk’s fading. This is why I wanted Steve along: if I was here to beg Crowley to keep my deepest family secret just between us, I wouldn’t have brought company. ‘Who didn’t do what?’ I demand. ‘And you, where do you know my da from?’
‘Your man who rang you,’ Steve says, to Crowley. ‘He didn’t actually tell you he was Conway’s da. Did he?’
‘Ah, for fuck’s sake,’ I say. ‘Seriously?’
Steve starts to laugh properly. Crowley shoots him a poison look. ‘That’s what he said. He said he’d lost touch a long time back and wanted to reconnect.’
‘And you fell for it?’ I demand. ‘Just like that?’
‘He seemed legit. I didn’t see any reason to doubt him.’
‘You’re supposed to be a journalist,’ Steve points out, still grinning. ‘Doubt’s supposed to be your thing.’
‘Jesus,’ I say. ‘I don’t even like you, and I’m scarlet for you.’
‘You got played, man,’ Steve says, shaking his head and going back to his game. ‘Played like a pound-shop kazoo.’
‘Crowley,’ I say. ‘You’re a walking fucking lobotomy. The guy who rang you isn’t my da’ – Steve starts laughing again on that. ‘He’s a scumbag from up North who I helped put away for a few years, and when he saw that photo it occurred to him that this was his big chance to get his own back. And you gave him my fucking home address.’
A lot of the air goes out of Crowley.
‘He’s been casing my gaff ever since,’ I say, ‘and last night I found him in my sitting room. You figure he was just there for the chats?’
‘“Conwaaay,” ’ Steve says, in his deepest voice. ‘“I am your faaather.” ’
‘Luckily for everyone,’ I say, ‘I sorted the situation. He’s not gonna be back. The only problem I’ve got left is you. Me and my partner, we’ve been trying to decide what to charge you with.’
‘Conspiracy to commit burglary,’ Steve suggests, jabbing away at his phone. ‘And assault, depending on whether your man was only planning on leaving a chocolate log in Conway’s fridge or whether he was hoping to do very bad things to her personally. Or accessory before the fact. Or we could go for the lot, just for laughs, and see what sticks.’
Crowley’s gone even paler and sweatier than usual. He says, ‘I want to talk to my solicitor.’
‘You’re in deep shite here,’ I tell him. ‘Lucky for you, though, I’ve got a use for you.’
‘I’m serious. I want to talk to my solicitor right now.’
‘Hey, genius,’ Steve says, zapping something with a nuke noise and a flourish. ‘Tell us: does this look like an interview room?’
‘No. Because I’m not under arrest. I know my rights—’
‘Course you do,’ Steve says. ‘Since you’re not under arrest, you’ve got no right to a solicitor. You’ve got the right to leave any time you like, obviously.’ I shift my stool back helpfully, making room for Crowley to go. ‘I wouldn’t recommend it, but. If you do, we’ll take this to our boss, and then you will be under arrest. And then you can have any solicitor you like.’
Crowley starts to get up. When we watch him with interest and don’t try to stop him, he changes his mind.
‘Or,’ I say, ‘you can do me a quick favour, and we’ll forget the whole thing. I’ll even throw you a bit of a scoop, just to show there’s no hard feelings.’
‘I’d go with that one,’ Steve advises him. ‘If it was me, like.’
‘The favour,’ Crowley says. Most of the pompous puff has leaked out of his voice. ‘What’s the favour?’
‘You’ve been showing up at way too many of my crime scenes, the last while,’ I say. ‘Who’s been tipping you off?’
Crowley nearly crumples off his bench with relief. He tries to cover by pursing his lips and doing scruples. Me and Steve wait.