‘After that, we get some fucking sleep. I’m wrecked.’
Saying it pulls a huge yawn out of him. I bite one back, but too late: it’s hit me that I’m shattered too. My vision is jumping; I can’t tell how far away the walls are. ‘But Breslin’s not,’ I say. ‘If we go home, we’re leaving him in charge to do whatever he wants.’
‘And if we don’t, we’re tipping him off.’
Steve’s right. For a dead kid or a dead cop, you work twenty-four hours straight if you need to, then grab a shower and a quick kip and head in for another twenty-four. If you do that for every case, you’ll burn out inside three months. Your basic murder gets an eight-hour shift, maybe twelve or fourteen if something interesting happens. If me and Steve go twenty-four hours for this, we might as well run to Breslin and tell him we think there’s something dodgy going on.
I say, ‘So what do we do about him?’
‘Load him up with busywork at the case meeting. Keep him out of trouble.’
‘Yeah, right. He’d love that. Big man like him—’
Steve’s grinning. ‘This isn’t about his ego, remember? He told us so. It’s all about the squad. He won’t mind tracking down every passenger on the 39A, not when it’s for the squad.’
I’m grinning too. ‘Search every bin between Stoneybatter and Ranelagh: Breslin, for the sake of the squad. Go to the post-mortem: Breslin, for the sake of the squad. Type up statements—’
‘Pizza run: Breslin, for the sake of the squad—’
We’re both on the edge of a full-on fit of the giggles. If I relax that much, I’m gonna fall asleep right here on my feet.
‘We’ll keep him on checking out Fallon,’ I say. ‘If he gets through the KAs, he can talk to Fallon’s old girlfriends, see if he’s got any history of giving out the slaps—’
‘He won’t have.’ Steve runs his hand under the water-cooler tap and over his face, trying to wake himself up.
‘Probably not. But if Breslin wants Fallon charged this bad, he won’t have a problem digging for dirt on him, right? That should keep him too busy to make trouble for us, at least for the evening. And we’ll send a floater with him. Might make him think twice before he disappears any statement he doesn’t like.’
There must be something in my voice. Steve glances up sharply. ‘Has more stuff been going missing on you? Since that witness on the Petrescu case, like?’
‘Nah,’ I say – I’m not about to sob on his shoulder about the mean boys who stole my lovely statement sheet. ‘That doesn’t mean it won’t. We need to be careful here.’
Steve is still watching me, palming drops of water off his jaw, and I feel like it’s half a blink too long before he answers. But he says, easily enough, ‘A floater won’t stop Breslin from feeding Crowley info, if he’s the one doing it.’
‘I know that. What’s your plan? You gonna follow him into the jacks, make sure he doesn’t text Crowley with one hand while he’s got his dick in the other?’
‘Nah, the floater’s a good idea. We can tell Breslin he needs mentoring.’
That gets a snort out of me. ‘He’ll eat that up. It might not work – Breslin’ll probably wrap the guy round his finger – but it’s better than nothing.’
Steve says, ‘We need to keep Breslin away from Aislinn’s electronics.’
Her phone, her e-mails, her social media accounts; the places where, if there is a gangster boyfriend, there might be something to point us his way. ‘At the case meeting we’ll make sure everyone knows we’ve got those,’ I say. ‘Breslin’s probably already had a look through her phone, when he went to the scene, but there’s nothing good on there as far as I could tell.’
‘Tell you what else we need to do,’ Steve says. ‘We need to have chats with Breslin, whenever we get the chance. Or let him chat to us, more like.’
‘Ah, Jaysus. Shoot me now.’
‘We do. Get him talking. He’s not an idiot, but . . .’
‘But he loves the sound of his own voice,’ I say. ‘Yeah. Let him knock himself out enlightening us; you never know what might slip out. Chats with McCann, too, if the chance comes up.’ McCann and Breslin have been partnering for ten years. They’re tight. If Breslin wants Rory Fallon done, for whatever reason, or if he just wants this case to blow up in my face, McCann will know. ‘Not that he’s much of a talker, but you never know.’
‘It’s the best we can do. We definitely can’t talk to Organised Crime now, not upfront.’ Steve is biting a cuticle, staring at Rory without seeing him. ‘You said you’ve got a mate in there. Can you get on to him? See if he’s heard anything?’
‘Yeah, it’s not that simple.’ I wet my palm at the water cooler and run it around my neck. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘And we don’t type anything up.’
‘God, no. Or leave anything on our desks.’ I think about my statements, locked in my desk drawer; no one’s gonna bother screwing with those again, they like mixing it up to keep me on my toes, but all of a sudden the diddy little lock feels like a joke. ‘Or in the desk drawers. Notes stay on us.’
Steve bites down on the corner of his lip. He says, ‘Jesus.’
This is all a load of nothing, shadows that could be thrown by something huge or by something barely worth tracking down, but the adrenaline is banging through me and I can’t help loving it. I almost flick water at Steve. ‘The face on you. Cheer up, man. This could be the best bit of action we’ve ever seen.’
‘This isn’t my kind of action. Hiding stuff from our own squad—’
‘Chillax on the jacks,’ I say. ‘It’s probably all a load of shite. Like I said: just being careful.’
Movement in the corridor. I’m at the door in two long steps, but it’s just Winters walking an unimpressed little prick in a tracksuit to one of the other interview rooms. All the same: ‘We better move,’ I say. ‘Before Breslin comes back to check up on us.’
Steve nods and tosses his mangled cup into the bin. I take one more look at Rory, who by this point is jittering like his chair is electrified. Then we head in to take it nice and easy for a while.
The interview room stinks of sweat and crying. ‘Detectives Conway and Moran entering the interview room,’ I tell the video recorder.
‘Hi,’ Steve says, taking a seat and giving Rory a sympathetic grin. ‘Detective Breslin had to head off. I’ll be joining you instead. Detective Moran.’
Rory barely nods. I say, pulling up my chair, ‘How’re you doing?’
‘I’m all right.’ His nose is stuffed up. ‘Sorry for . . .’
‘Not a problem,’ I say. ‘Are you OK to talk now?’