Me and Steve look at each other, all puzzled. Steve says, ‘The vic’s phone records, yeah?’
‘Not unless she made an awful lot of calls. McCann said you had a big box of something so special, the delivery boy wouldn’t let it out of his hot little hands.’ He nudges the corner of the box, sticking out from under our desk, with the toe of his shiny shoe. ‘Would this be it?’
His eyes are hooded and watching me, just on the edge of too casual. There’s no point trying to dodge, not unless I’m prepared to rugby-tackle him off the box; and anyway, all of a sudden I’ve had enough of tiptoeing around Big Bad Breslin, hiding my own investigation behind my back like a kid with a smoke when a teacher walks past. ‘That? Aislinn’s da went missing when she was a kid,’ I say, and watch his face. ‘Moran thought there might be a link. Like maybe a gang thing, or a reunion gone wrong.’
Breslin’s eyes pop. ‘A gang thing? Moran. Conway. Are you serious? You think gangs kidnapped Aislinn’s dad, and then came back for her twenty years later? I’m loving this. Tell me more.’
He’s just about managing to keep the laugh in. Steve ducks his head and goes red. ‘Ah, no, it wasn’t that we really . . . I mean, I just wondered.’ He’s back in gormless-newbie mode, but the redner is real.
Part of me is actually with Breslin on this, but I’ve got other stuff on my mind. His face, when I told him what was in the box: just for a tenth of a second, I saw his mouth go slack with relief. Whatever he’s trying to steer us away from, Aislinn’s da isn’t it.
‘So don’t keep me in suspense,’ Breslin says. He’s still grinning. ‘Whodunit? Drug lords? Arms smugglers? The Mafia?’
‘The da did,’ I say. ‘Turns out he did a runner to England to shack up with some young one. And no reunion gone wrong: there’s no unaccounted-for contact in Aislinn’s electronics.’
I think I see that tiny explosion of relief on Breslin’s face again, but before I can be sure, it’s gone under a blast of jaw-dropped fake amazement. ‘No!’ He recoils, one hand going up to his chest. ‘You’re kidding me. Who would’ve guessed?’
He’s overdoing it. Breslin is too old a hand for that. He wants, too badly, to embarrass us away from the gang idea.
‘I know,’ Steve says, doing a rueful nod-and-shrug thing. ‘I do, honest. I just didn’t want to miss anything, you know?’
‘Shaking trees,’ Breslin says dryly. The grin is gone. ‘Wasn’t that the phrase? I’m not convinced that’s how the taxpayers would want us using their money, but hey, I’m not the one running this show. You keep shaking. Let me know if anything ever falls out.’
‘Will do,’ Steve says. ‘I was hoping . . .’ He rumples up his hair and looks hangdog.
Breslin shrugs off his coat and throws it over the back of his chair – he picked a desk good and close to ours, which makes me feel all special. ‘There’s a fine line between hope and desperation. You have to know when to let it go, as the song says.’
‘It’s gone,’ I say. ‘Does McCann want a go of the file, yeah? Before we send it back to Missing Persons?’
That gets me a stare. ‘McCann was trying to help you out, Conway. It’s called being nice. You might want to learn to accept it without throwing a wobbler.’
Steve moves in his chair, trying to beam peaceful thought-waves into my head. ‘I’ll send him a thank-you card,’ I say. ‘How’d Gaffney do, yesterday evening?’
‘Fine. He’s not the brightest little pixie in the forest, but he’ll get there in the end.’
I say, ‘Then how come you ditched him today?’
Breslin is giving his coat a brush-down and a few twitches to make sure it won’t get creased – and to make sure we notice the Armani label – but that brings his head up to stare at me. ‘Say what?’
‘He was supposed to be shadowing you. He says you told him you didn’t need him for the KA interviews.’
‘I didn’t. I can write and listen at the same time. Multitasking, Conway: it’s not just for the ladies any more.’
‘Good to hear. Gaffney needed you, though. That’s why I told him to stick with you in the first place: I don’t want some rookie screwing up because no one’s shown him the ropes. Why’d you leave him behind?’
I’m expecting the same clamp-jawed fake matiness I got this morning. That’s half the reason I’m giving him hassle: I want Steve to have a look at this. Instead, Breslin leans in conspiratorially, with a grin lifting one corner of his mouth. ‘Conway. Come on. Cut a guy some slack. Every now and then a man’s got an appointment he needs to keep all by his lonesome. Know what I mean?’ And he shoots me an actual wink.
Meaning he stopped off along the way to stick his dick somewhere it shouldn’t be. Which would explain not just him ditching Gaffney, but the person who shouldn’t have been ringing his mobile this morning.
I don’t buy it. In a squad where cheating strategies count as coffee-break chat, Breslin and McCann get called The Monks. The grapevine says neither of them has ever even given the eye to a pretty uniform, or tried to chat up the Bureau babe who everyone tries to chat up. Breslin probably thinks me and Steve are too far out of the loop to know that. He’s forgotten that we haven’t always been Murder’s resident rejects, and forgotten how kids longing for Murder suck up every drop of gossip about the tall shining creatures they might someday become.
‘Say no more,’ Steve says quickly, lifting his hands. He has on a grin halfway between embarrassed and impressed, but I’m pretty sure he’s thinking the same thing as me. ‘A gentleman never tells.’
‘No he does not, Moran. Thank you very much.’
‘Fair enough,’ I say, matching Steve’s grin. ‘I guess it’s not like Gaffney could do a lot of damage playing with paper in here. How’d you get on with Rory’s KAs?’
‘Great chats all round.’ Breslin swings himself into his chair, switches on his computer and has a stretch while it boots up. ‘They’re a shower of dry shites, the type who correct your grammar and think three drinks is a wild night out, but I’d say they’re too terrified of us to do any major lying. They all say the same things about Rory: the guy’s a sweetheart, wouldn’t hurt a fly – one of his mates told me he won’t even watch boxing because it’s just too distressing. What a pussy.’
Sounds about right: Rory doesn’t like reality getting all up in his face. ‘Even pussies lose the head,’ I say.