‘Nope. And my guy says no one’s been messing with the internet history.’
‘Can you take the search back a bit further? We need her history for at least the last six months. A year would be even better.’
Sophie blows out air. ‘You sure? If you piss off my computer guy, he’s gonna send you a list of every single URL she ever visited. You’ll spend the rest of your lives checking out every page of every designer-outlet website in the universe.’
‘That’s why God invented floaters,’ I say. ‘Was that it for the laptop, yeah?’
‘Don’t rush me,’ Sophie says, through tape. ‘I’m getting to the good part. My guy went through her documents – the only mildly interesting thing in there is that she updated her CV a couple of months ago: looks like she was considering switching jobs. And he had a look at her photos. Most of them are the same stuff that’s on her phone, selfies in clubs; but there’s one folder that’s password-protected. It was created last September and it’s called “MORTGAGE”, but who the hell takes photos of her mortgage? And puts a password on them?’
I don’t even need coffee any more; I’m well awake. September: long before Aislinn met Rory, and not long after, according to Lucy, she hooked up with her secret squeeze. ‘Camouflage folder name,’ I say. ‘To turn off anyone who went looking through her stuff. How are you doing on getting in there?’
‘No joy yet. My guy’s thrown the dictionary at that folder, tried various combinations of Aislinn’s name and DOB, and nada.’
‘Did you try the password from her Facebook account?’
‘We haven’t got it. Facebook and her Gmail were both already open on her phone; we reset her passwords by answering her security question – her mother’s maiden name, for Christ’s sake – so we can get in on other machines if we want, but we don’t have the original passwords. And the providers won’t have them, either; they’re encrypted.’
‘Is your guy still working on it?’
‘Yeah, and he’s going to crack it. This chick wasn’t Jason Bourne; no chance she was up to my guy’s standards. I’m just telling you: she was at least a little bit serious about keeping this folder locked down.’
‘I’ve got faith in you and your guy,’ I say. The adrenaline is rising inside me again; no matter how hard I try to stamp it down, part of me is picturing Sophie’s guy cracking the password and coming up with both hands full of pics of Aislinn riding Cueball Lanigan, with Breslin counting cash in the background. ‘Let me know when you get in there, OK?’
‘As soon as.’ Sophie rips one more strip of tape and slaps it down. ‘That’ll have to do. I swear, this thing’s ugly enough, I kind of hope they do smash it. The world would be a better place.’
I go looking for Breslin. Bernadette says he’s in the building, but there’s no sign of him in the squad room – the chat deflates to flat stares when I open the door, rises up again under a layer of sniggers when I close it behind me – and he’s not in the canteen. I head upstairs to check the incident room.
I’m on the landing when I hear that smooth voiceover drawl coming down the stairwell. Breslin, somewhere up above me, talking low.
I stop dead. Then I move carefully – the stairs are wide white marble, part of the old castle, every sound echoes – till I can see through the banisters. Breslin and McCann, at the top of the stairs, close together.
I’m meant to be grabbing any chance for chats with these two, but McCann doesn’t look like he’s in a chatty mood. He’s slumped into his suit, hands stuffed in his pockets. Breslin is lounging against the banister rail with his back to me. From the line of his shoulders I can tell the casual slouch is taking effort.
McCann is muttering something that includes the words ‘that bitch’. He sounds like he means it.
‘I’m on it,’ Breslin says. ‘You sit tight and leave it to me. OK?’
McCann moves like his suit is clammy. ‘She doesn’t like being pushed around. If you try to—’
‘I’m not going to push her around. It’s not about that. It’s about making her see that she’s really only got one option here.’
McCann swipes his fingers along his eyebags, head falling back.
Breslin says, ‘I’ll sort her out. Everything’s going to be back to normal in no time.’
As McCann brings his head up to say something, he catches my black suit against the white of the stairs, and goes still. ‘Bres,’ he says.
Breslin turns around, and a blank look slams down across his gob. ‘Detective Conway,’ he says. ‘Nice of you to call in.’
‘I had some leftovers from Saturday night to take care of,’ I say. ‘This isn’t the JFK assassination; I’m not gonna clear my whole schedule for it. I need a word with you.’
‘Let’s do that. Walk with me. Mac: later, yeah?’ McCann nods without looking up. Breslin gives him a clap on the shoulder and heads past me, down the stairs.
I follow him. When I look back, McCann is still on the landing, staring at nothing.
‘McCann and his missus have been going through a bit of a rough patch,’ Breslin says confidentially, under the clatter of our footsteps. ‘You’ve probably heard the phone calls, right?’
I make a noise that could mean anything. We’ve all heard the phone calls: McCann muttering through a clenched jaw about being home earlier tonight, while his head sinks lower and lower over his desk and the lads snicker just loud enough.
‘She doesn’t like the job. Doesn’t like the hours, doesn’t like him coming home with his head full of dead little kids, all the usual – hard to blame her, right? McCann thinks she’s winding up to an ultimatum: he transfers out, or she kicks him out.’
I nod along. It’s bollix. This squad gossips like a bingo hall, but no one ever bothers filling me in. The two of them were talking about me: either how to make me close this case, or how to get me off the squad. The only question is why. ‘Huh,’ I say. ‘What’s he gonna do?’
‘Well, he’s not crazy about either of those options, obviously. I said I’ll have a chat with his missus, settle her down. We’ve all been friends a long time; she knows I’ve got their best interests at heart.’ Breslin does the benevolent smile of a guy who’s got everyone’s best interests at heart. ‘I’m going to need your word on something, Conway. This doesn’t go any further. McCann doesn’t want his private life splashed all over the squad. You shouldn’t have heard any of that’ – the reproachful finger-wag is a nice touch – ‘but since you did, you need to treat it with respect.’
‘I don’t do gossip,’ I say. ‘I leave that to the lads.’ I’m itching to punch Breslin in both his faces, but I wanted a chat with him, and here it is. ‘You think you’re gonna get it sorted out?’
‘Oh, yeah. They’re mad about each other, underneath it all; they just need a little reminder of that. It’ll be fine in no time. McCann’s just worried.’
‘Yeah. The pair of yous looked a bit stressed, all right.’
Breslin stops and gives me a stare. ‘Me? What’s that supposed to mean?’