It’s not like I can keep him away from newspapers forever, and hiding it would look like I’m upset that I’m a hound in the photo, about which I don’t give one fun-size fuck. ‘Here,’ I say, and pass him the phone.
His eyebrows go up. ‘Ah, Jaysus.’ A second later: ‘Whoa. Jaysus.’
‘No shit,’ I say.
The media don’t ID murder victims till they get the all-clear from us – for the sake of the families, who don’t need to find out from a supermarket newsstand, and because sometimes we have reasons for wanting to keep the ID quiet for a day or two. A lot of the time they drop enough info that locals can tell who it is – ‘the thirty-year-old father of two, who worked in finance’, or whatever – but then the locals knew already. And the media don’t use shots of the detectives on the case without permission, either, just in case we might not want to be instantly identifiable from ten metres away. I don’t let photos of me get out there, for a very good reason, but when a photo of Ds does go out, it’s one where they look professional and approachable and all that good shit; one that would make witnesses actually want to come talk to us, not one that’s going to terrify them into hiding because we look like hungover wolverines. If a journalist steps over the line, he pays: no more sources close to the investigation for you, and we make sure your editor knows it. That fuck Crowley has stepped over the line half a dozen ways.
He’s wiggled a toe over it plenty of times before, but that was all wimpy little stuff meant to make him feel like Bob Woodward without getting him in real hassle; never like this. Crowley doesn’t like cops, because he’s a rebel spirit who doesn’t bow down to The Man, but he’s a rebel spirit with rent to pay, so he keeps himself in check. Either he’s suddenly, late in life, grown himself a pair of nads, or he’s trying to commit career suicide; or someone is running him. Someone – the same someone who told Crowley where to find me this morning – told him to print those photos. Someone reassured him he won’t end up on any blacklist. Someone promised to make it worth his while.
Steve is still scrolling through the article. ‘There’s no inside info in there.’
Meaning nothing we can trace back to a source. ‘I know that. But he’s talking to someone on the inside. No question. If I find out who—’
Steve glances up. ‘We could swap Crowley for a scoop. Offer him first bite at every break on this case, if he tells us who his contact is.’
‘Won’t work. Whoever’s been onto Crowley, they’ve promised him plenty already. He’s not going to jeopardise that.’ I take my phone back and shove it in my pocket. ‘You know who had the best opportunity to talk to Crowley about this case.’
Steve says quietly, ‘Breslin.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Breslin likes looking good. That’d be one way to do it: turn this into a story where we’re making a balls of the case, till he steps in to save the day.’
I say, and I’m keeping my voice down too, ‘Or he just felt like fucking me around, getting a laugh from the lads. Or he’s got a deal in place with Crowley and he was due to throw him a bone, and lucky us just happened to be today’s bone.’
‘Maybe. Could be.’ Steve is watching the door. So am I. ‘Listen: we need to get on with Breslin. Either way.’
‘I get on with everyone. It’s who I am.’
‘Seriously.’
‘I’ll get on with him.’ I want to pace. I lean my arse on the edge of the table to keep myself still. ‘We’ll have to use him in the interviews. And we’ll have to keep him up to speed on your man in there’ – I jerk my chin at the one-way glass. ‘Apart from that, he doesn’t need to know anything about what we’re thinking.’
Steve says, suddenly and grimly, ‘Back when I was bursting my bollix trying to get on the squad? This isn’t what I was picturing.’
‘Me neither,’ I say. ‘Believe me.’ Trying to remember when today started makes my head swim. I get a vicious cramp of craving for cold air, music loud enough to blow my eardrums and a run that doesn’t stop till my whole body burns.
Breslin picks that moment to bang the observation-room door open. Both of us jump. He stays in the doorway, hands in his trouser pockets, looking us up and down. The curl to his mouth is a nicely judged balance between amused and cold.
‘Detective Conway. Detective Moran,’ he says. ‘At last.’
I should like Breslin just fine, given that he’s one of the few lads on the squad who haven’t given me more than the standard ration of shite, but I don’t. The first time you meet Breslin, you’re well impressed. He’s somewhere in his mid-forties, but he’s still in shape, all shoulders and straight back and none of the beer belly that gets hold of most Irish guys. He’s on the tall side, with pale eyes and slicked-back fair hair, and he’s good-looking – if you squint he looks sort of like some actor, I can’t remember the guy’s name but he plays maverick suits, which is a laugh given that Breslin is the least maverick guy around. But throw in the voice and somehow it all adds up to winner’s dazzle, the gold glow that shouts to everyone within range that this dude is something special: smarter, faster, savvier, smoother.
Breslin is so deep into this version of his bad self that he brings it sweeping into the room with him, and it carries you right along. Steve’s first few weeks in Murder, he watched Breslin the way a twelve-year-old with a crush watches the captain of the rugby team, drooling for a smile and a pat on the shoulder. I nearly bit my tongue in half not slagging the pathetic little bollix, but I managed because I knew it would wear off. I could practically have marked the day on the calendar. When I started on the squad, I spent a while praying Breslin and McCann would have a row so I could end up partnered with Breslin, on the fast track to glory. It wore off.
Sure enough, three weeks into Steve’s boy-crush, a guy in Vice ate his gun, and Breslin – in the middle of the squad room, surrounded by people who’d known the dead guy, worked with him, gone drinking with him – pushed back his chair, balanced a pen between his fingers and enlightened us with a deep and meaningful lecture about how the guy would still have been with us if he’d quit the smokes, got more exercise and put in the time to build up real friendships at work. The smarter guys on the squad kept working; the dumb ones nodded along, mouths hanging open at the genius unfolding in front of them. Poor Stevie looked like he’d just found out about Santy.
Once you realise Breslin is an idiot, you start counting the clichés on their way out of his mouth and noticing that the slick hair is organised over a balding spot, and somewhere in there you realise that he’s actually only around five foot ten and his solve rate is nothing special and you start wondering if he wears a girdle. None of that matters – the dazzle does its job on witnesses and suspects, and Breslin’s moved on long before it can wear off – but it left me pissed off with myself for being suckered, which left me pissed off with Breslin and everything about him.