‘No problem. He’ll be over to you now.’
‘Nice one. Thanks again. Catch you next week for those pints, yeah?’
‘Next week’s a bit mental. I’ll give you a ring when things settle down, OK? Good luck with the case. Sorry I wasn’t more use to you.’ And Gary’s gone, back to the squad room with his mug of real coffee, to take slaggings about his prostate and sing musicals and go after happy endings.
He won’t be ringing me, and it sticks in deeper and sharper than I was ready for. I pretend putting my phone back in my pocket needs my full concentration. Steve bends to mess around with his pile of alibi paper. I can’t tell whether he’s actually being tactful, in which case I might have to kill him.
‘So,’ I say briskly, ‘the gang theory’s out, at least as far as Des Murray’s concerned. If the Ds had had suspicions they didn’t want to put in the file, Gary would’ve known. Des Murray went off with his bit on the side. End of story.’
‘Sure,’ Steve says, straightening up. ‘But Aislinn didn’t know that.’
‘So? Gary’s right: there’s no reason she would have been thinking gangs. None. Zero.’
‘Not if she was thinking straight, no. But she wasn’t thinking— No, Antoinette, listen.’ He’s leaning in close, talking fast. ‘Aislinn was a fantasist. Remember what Lucy said, about when they were kids? When things were bad, Ash came up with mad stories to make them better. She had to, didn’t she? In real life, all she did was get pushed around by other people’s decisions. The one place where she had any power, the one place where she got to make the calls, was her imagination.’
He’s forgotten all about being cold. ‘So she built up this whole fantasy: she was going to go on a quest and find her daddy, and she’d throw herself into his arms and her life would be OK again. That fantasy was what kept her going. And then your mate Gary blew it right out of the water.’
I say, ‘You make it sound like he torched a poor helpless kiddie’s favourite dolly. Aislinn was a grown adult – and by that time, her ma was dead. She could do whatever she wanted with her life. She didn’t need the Daddy fantasy any more; it was only holding her back. Gary did her a favour.’
Steve’s shaking his head. ‘Aislinn hadn’t a clue how to do what she wanted with real life. She’d had no practice. You heard Lucy: she was only starting to play with that in the last year or two – and even then it was fantasy stuff, doing herself up like something out of a magazine and going to fancy clubs . . . So when Gary killed off her reunion fantasy, she would’ve needed a new one, ASAP. And a gang story would’ve been perfect.’
His face is lit up with it; he can see the whole thing. You have to love the guy. Where I’m seeing a dead end, he’s seeing a brilliant new twist to his amazing story. I wish I could take my holidays inside Steve’s head.
‘Maybe she decided her dad had been a witness to a gang hit, so he needed to get out of town fast, before the gang tracked him down – something like that. Plenty of drama, plenty of thrills, a great reason why her dad left and why he never came back to find her—’
‘Doesn’t explain why he couldn’t Facebook her, somewhere along the way,’ I point out. ‘“Hiya, sweetums, Daddy’s alive, love you, bye.” ’
‘He was scared to, in case the gang was watching her Facebook account and they went after her. Yeah, I know it’s bollix’ – when I snort – ‘but Aislinn might not have. There’s a million ways she could’ve explained that away to herself. And you know the next chapter of the fantasy? The next chapter’s going to star Aislinn as the brave daughter who goes into the heart of gangland to learn her da’s secret. Guaranteed.’
‘Learn it how? By walking into some radge pub and asking if anyone here knows anything about Desmond Murray?’
Steve’s nodding fast. Another civil servant trudges past, but he doesn’t even notice; too hypnotised by his sparkly story. ‘Probably not far off. Anyone who reads the news would be able to figure out a few names of gang pubs. Aislinn goes into one for a drink—’
‘You think she had balls that size? I wouldn’t be happy doing that, and I can handle myself a lot better than she could.’ This idea is annoying me: us, two grown-ass professional Ds, chasing some idiot’s Nancy Drew fantasy all around town. My job is dealing with stories that actually happen, getting them by the scruff of the neck and hauling them clawing and biting to the right ending. Stories that only happened inside someone’s pretty little head, floating bits of white fluff that I’ve got no way to grab hold of: those aren’t supposed to be my problem.
‘It’s not about having big balls. It’s about how deep she was in the fantasy. If that’s her place, where she’s in control, then she’s not going to believe it could go wrong. Like a little kid – that’s what Lucy said, remember? In Aislinn’s head, she’s the heroine. The heroine might get into hassle, but she always gets herself out again.’
‘And then what? She just sits in the pub hoping the right guy comes up to her?’
‘The way she looks, someone’s going to come up to her. No question. She flirts away, comes back another night, gets to know his pals; once she finds a guy who looks promising, she targets him. Actually—’ Steve’s hand whips up, fingers snapping. ‘You know something? Maybe that’s why she looked like that. We’ve been thinking she lost the weight and got the new clothes just because she wanted a fresh start, but what if it was part of a bigger plan?’
‘Huh,’ I say, considering that. It actually gives me my first fleck of respect for Aislinn. Anyone who turns herself into Barbie because that’s the only way she feels worthwhile needs a kick up the hole, but someone who does it for a revenge mission deserves a few points for determination.
‘The timeline would fit,’ Steve says. ‘According to Lucy, Aislinn started the makeover stuff two years ago, give or take. That’d put it not long after she talked to Gary and had to change her plan—’ That finger-snap again. He’s practically bouncing up and down. ‘Jesus: her gaff. You know how she had no family photos? This could be why. She didn’t want her boyfriend recognising a photo of her dad.’ Steve’s eyes are shining. I’m actually starting to hope we never pull a really good case; the excitement would make him widdle on my leg. ‘And that’s why she ditched the scumbag for Rory: she finally figured out there was nothing he could tell her. It all fits, Antoinette. It does.’