Antoinette Conway came in with a handful of paper, slammed the door with her elbow. Headed for her desk.
Still that stride, keep up or fuck off. Tall as me – six foot – and it was on purpose: two inches of that was square heels, crush your toe right off. Black trouser suit, not cheap, cut sharp and narrow; no effort to hide the shape on those long legs, the tight arse. Just crossing that squad room, she said You want to make something of it? half a dozen ways.
‘He confess, Conway?’
‘No.’
‘Tsk. Losing your touch.’
‘He’s not a suspect, fuckhead.’
‘You let that stop you? Good kick in the nads and Bob’s your uncle: confession.’
Not just the normal back-and-forth. A prickle in the air, a slicing edge. I couldn’t tell if it was about her, or just the day that was in it, or if it was the squad. Murder is different. The beat goes faster and harder; the tightrope is higher and narrower. One foot wrong, and you’re gone.
Conway dropped into her chair, started pulling up something on her computer.
‘Your boyfriend’s here, Conway.’
She ignored that.
‘Does he not get a snog, no?’
‘What’re you shiteing on about?’
The joker jerked a thumb at me. ‘All yours.’
Conway gave me a stare. Cold dark eyes, full mouth that didn’t give a millimetre. No makeup.
‘Yeah?’
‘Stephen Moran. Cold Cases.’ I held out the evidence envelope, across her desk. Thanked God I wasn’t one of the ones who’d sleazed her up in training. ‘This came in to me today.’
Her face didn’t change when she saw the card. She took her time looking it over, both sides, reading the statement. ‘Her,’ she said, when she got to Holly’s name.
‘You know her?’
‘Interviewed her, last year. Couple of times. Got fuck-all out of her; snotty little bitch. All of them are, in that school, but she was one of the worst. Like pulling teeth.’
I said, ‘You figure she knew something?’
Sharp glance, lift of the statement sheet. ‘How’d you end up with this?’
‘Holly Mackey was a witness in a case I worked, back in ’07. We got on. Even better than I thought, looks like.’
Conway’s eyebrow went up. She’d heard about the case. Which meant she’d heard about me. ‘OK,’ she said. Nothing in her tone, either way. ‘Thanks.’
She swung her chair away from me and punched at her phone. Clamped the receiver under her jaw and leaned back in her chair, rereading.
Rough, my mam would have called Conway. That Antoinette one, and a sideways look with her chin tucked down: a bit rough. Not meaning her personality, or not just; meaning where she came from, and what. The accent told you, and the stare. Dublin, inner city; just a quick walk from where I grew up, maybe, but miles away all the same. Tower blocks. IRA-wannabe graffiti and puddles of piss. Junkies. People who’d never passed an exam in their lives but had every twist and turn of dole maths down pat. People who wouldn’t have approved of Conway’s career choice.
There’s people who like rough. They think it’s cool, it’s street, it’ll rub off and they’ll be able to pull off all the good slang. Rough doesn’t look so sexy when you grew up on the banks of it, your whole family doggy-paddling like mad to keep their heads above the flood tide. I like smooth, smooth as velvet.
I reminded myself: no need to be Conway’s best bud. Just be useful enough to get on her gaffer’s radar, and keep moving.
‘Sophie. It’s Antoinette.’ Her mouth loosened when she talked to someone she liked; got a ready-for-anything curl to the corner, like a dare. It made her younger, made her into someone you’d try and chat up in the pub, if you were feeling gutsy. ‘Yeah, good. You? . . . I got a photo coming your way . . . Nah, the Harper case. I need fingerprints, but can you have a look at the actual pic for me, too? Check out what it was taken on, when it was taken, where, what it was printed out on. Anything you can give me.’ She tilted the envelope closer. ‘And I got words stuck on it. Cut-out words, like ransom-note shite. See can you figure out where they got cut out of, yeah? . . . Yeah, I know. Make me a miracle. See you ’round.’
She hung up. Pulled a smartphone out of her pocket and took shots of the card: front, back, up close, far off, details. Headed over to a printer in the corner to print them off. Turned back to her desk and saw me.
Stared me out of it. I looked back.
‘You still here?’
I said, ‘I want to work with you on this one.’
A slice of a laugh. ‘I bet you do.’ She dropped back into her chair, found an envelope in a desk drawer.
‘You said yourself you got nowhere with Holly Mackey and her mates. But she likes me enough, or trusts me enough, that she brought me this. And if she’ll talk to me, she’ll get her mates talking to me.’
Conway thought about that. Swung her chair from side to side.
I asked, ‘What’ve you got to lose?’
Maybe the accent did it. Most cops come up from farms, from small towns; no love for the smart-arse Dubs who think they’re the centre of the universe, when everyone knows that’s Ballybumfuck. Or maybe she liked whatever it was she’d heard about me. Either way:
She scrawled a name on the envelope, slid the card inside. Said, ‘I’m going down the school, take a look at this noticeboard, have a few chats. You can come if you want. If you’re any use to me, we can talk about what happens next. If you’re not, you can fuck off back to Cold Cases.’
I knew better than to let the Yes! show. ‘Sounds good.’
‘Do you need to ring your mammy and say you’re not coming home?’
‘My gaffer knows the story. It’s not a problem.’
‘Right,’ Conway said. She shoved her chair back. ‘I’ll get you up to speed on the way. And I drive.’
Someone wolf-whistled after us, low, as we went out the door. Ripple of snickers. Conway didn’t look back.