I say, and I don’t make it gentle, ‘Aislinn’s dead.’
It hits Rory like a strobe light to the face. He jerks back in his chair, hands spasming in front of him – his glasses go skittering halfway across the table. For a second there I think he’s having some kind of attack – he’s the type who would carry around an inhaler – but he gets himself back. He grabs for his glasses and shoves them onto his nose; it takes him three clumsy tries, catching them when they fall off and fumbling to get them right way up and trying not to smear the lenses. Then he presses his palms together, jams his fingers up against his mouth and breathes hard into them, staring at nothing.
Me and Breslin wait.
Rory says, into his fingers, ‘How? When?’
‘Last night. Someone killed her.’
His body jerks. ‘Oh God. Oh God. Is that why – was she – when I was knocking, was she – was the person still—’
I say, ‘Now do you see why we needed to talk to you?’
‘Yes. I— Oh God!’ Rory’s eyes snap into focus; focused on me, and huge. The penny’s dropped, or he’s decided to play it that way. ‘You don’t think – wait. No. Do you think I – am I a suspect?’
Breslin laughs, one cold note.
‘What? What? Why is that funny?’
‘Listen to that,’ Breslin says, to me. ‘He’s all about how much he cared about Aislinn and her great personality, right up until we tell him the poor girl’s dead. And just like that, it’s all about him. Forget her.’
‘I do care about her! I just – this wasn’t—’ Rory grabs for air. He looks like shit: white and ragged, staring wildly back and forth between us. I hope he brought his inhaler. ‘I thought a burglary, maybe. Or a, an assault. I never—’
His hands go to his head, and he rubs the heels back and forth on his temples. He’s breathing hard.
It all looks right. Shock and grief are clumsy, they’re ugly, they’re not pretty tears and a dabbing hanky. But Rory’s had all night to build himself an armour suit of what-if and dress up in it. And, because he’s used to focusing on what could have happened just as much as on what actually did, he could walk around in his made-up story like it’s the true one.
The one place where his story cracked and peeled: around that half-hour between him getting off the bus and him knocking on Aislinn’s door. There’s something there. Everything else could play either way, innocent or guilty. That half-hour, the half-hour that matters, wasn’t innocent.
The shock could be real and he could still be our guy. There’s one obvious reason why he might have been expecting to hear about an assault instead of a murder.
I say, ‘Why did you think there might have been a burglary or an assault?’
‘Can I—’ Rory’s voice has gone thick. He swallows hard, but his chin is shaking. ‘Can I please have a minute by myself?’
Breslin says, ‘What for?’
‘Because I just found out—’ He jerks his head like there are small things flying in his face. ‘I just need a minute.’
‘You’re doing grand,’ I say. ‘We’ll only be a little longer. Hang in there.’
‘No. I can’t. I need—’
‘We’re asking you to help us out here,’ Breslin says. ‘Any reason why you have a problem with that?’
‘I just need to clear my head. I just— Do I have to stay? Am I allowed to leave?’ Rory’s voice is spinning higher and louder.
Breslin’s leaning back in his chair, watching, with a curl to his lip. ‘Rory. Pull yourself together.’ But Rory is beyond reach of the snap of disgust. ‘This is just routine. It’s not personal. We’ll be having this same conversation with every single person who had anything to do with Aislinn. And I can guarantee you, the people who cared about her will want to do anything they can to help us. You don’t?’
‘I do. I just— I’m not under arrest, right? I can just go for a walk? And then come back?’
Not a total pushover, after all. Fluffy little Rory is well able to push back, when he really wants to.
He’s one nudge away from trying to walk out. If he goes for the door, I’m gonna have to choose: let him go, or arrest him. Neither of those sounds good.
‘Jesus, man, have you seen the weather?’ I say easily. ‘It’s lashing. You’ll get soaked. Plus, we’ll lose this interview room, and then we’ll all be hanging around for hours before we get another one.’ Rory stares at me, too disoriented to work out what he thinks about that. ‘Tell you what: we’ll give you a few minutes to yourself, OK? Just to get your breath. It’s a lot to take in.’
There’s a small sharp movement from Breslin, but I don’t look around. I give Rory a Cool Girl smile, enough sympathy to warm it but not enough to feel sticky. ‘We’ll have a cup of tea and come back to you,’ I say, scraping back my chair and standing up, before he can come up with a decision. ‘Can I get you a cuppa while I’m at it?’
‘No. Thanks. All I want is—’
Rory’s voice splits open. He presses the back of one hand against his mouth.
Breslin hasn’t moved. Those pale eyes are on me. They say, clear as a death grip on my wrist, Sit the fuck down.
I say, without taking my eyes off Breslin’s, ‘We’ll see you in a few, Rory. Hang in there.’
Then I turn around and go for the door. I leave it open behind me, but I don’t look back. I’m halfway to the observation room before I hear the nasty, juddering scrape of Breslin pushing back his chair on the grimy linoleum.
Steve’s at the one-way glass, with his shirtsleeves rolled up and red hair sticking out in all directions; he’s been putting a lot into watching us. I head over to see what Rory’s doing with his alone time. On the way my eyes hit Steve’s, but only for a second that says Later.
Rory has his elbows on the table and his face in his hands. The jump of his shoulders claims he’s crying. I can’t see if there are actual tears.
‘Well well well,’ Breslin says behind me, swinging the door shut with a bang. ‘I thought that went pretty well, for a first round. Nice work, Conway.’
Patronising fuck. ‘You didn’t do a bad job yourself,’ I say.
‘I’m not sure that was the right call, pulling out just when he’s going to pieces. That’s always a good moment to push for a confession.’ Breslin loosens his collar with a finger and rolls back his shoulders. ‘But hey: we got to him once, we can do it again. Am I right?’
‘Not a problem,’ I say. ‘So: what’s the betting?’
Breslin’s head pops forward like he can’t believe he heard me right. ‘Say what?’
‘The suspect, Detective. Guilty or not. I’m asking for your opinion.’
Breslin’s eyebrows are hitting his careful hairline. ‘Are you serious?’
‘About wanting your opinion? More or less.’