‘Or else,’ I say, ‘the whole gang thing is bollix straight through. Once she talked to Gary and found out that her hugs and hot cocoa with Daddy weren’t gonna happen, Aislinn took down the family photos because they wrecked her buzz, and she decided she just wanted a nice happy-ever-after fantasy. The kind where the ugly duckling gets a makeover, turns into a beautiful swan and finds herself a handsome prince. Except the handsome prince turned out to be a big bad ogre. That fits, too.’
But nothing’s gonna wet-blanket Steve now. Way before I finish, he’s shaking his head. ‘Then what about Lucy? You think she made up the whole secret-boyfriend thing out of nothing? All the twitchiness, she was just putting that on?’
‘Maybe,’ I say. That spark of respect for Aislinn is fading; this whole theory is pissing me off worse and worse. I press my heel down to stop one knee jittering. ‘I’ve got feelers out; if Aislinn was hanging with gangsters, I’ll hear about it. And when Lucy gets up the guts to come in, we’ll squeeze her harder, see what comes out. She won’t be as happy about withholding information when it’s all official and on the record. Until then—’
Steve is woodpecker-tapping two fingers off the wall; he’s frustrated too, with me for not getting it. ‘Until when? What if she doesn’t come in?’
‘We give her a couple more days to get good and stressed, and then we go get her. Until then, we stick to what we’ve got. Not what you think might just maybe be out there somewhere.’
He doesn’t look happy. I say, ‘What else do you want to do? Take a pub crawl around the gang holes yourself, ask all the boys if they were banging our vic?’
‘I want to pull mug shots of Cueball Lanigan’s lot, run them past the barman in Ganly’s. He might remember more than he thinks.’
I shrug. ‘Knock yourself out. Me, I’m gonna concentrate on how Aislinn’s bullshit could actually come in useful.’ I already have my phone out, swiping for Sophie’s number.
‘What? Who?’
Sophie’s phone goes to voicemail. ‘Hey, it’s Antoinette. If your computer guy hasn’t cracked the password on that folder yet, I might have a couple of ideas for him. Try variations on “Desmond Murray” or “Des Murray”, and stuff to do with “dad” or “daddy” – finding Dad, looking for Dad, missing Dad. Our vic’s father did a runner when she was a kid, and our info says she might have been looking for him. It’s worth a shot, anyway. Thanks.’
I hang up. ‘Nice one,’ Steve says. He’s looking a lot happier with me. ‘If that folder’s full of pics of dodgy geezers, then will you—’
‘OhmyGod,’ I say, wide-eyed. ‘What if Aislinn thought her da had actually become a gangster? What if she thought he’d, like, dumped some poor schlub’s body with his ID on it, and he was alive and well under a whole new evil identity?’ And when Steve opens his mouth and leaves it that way, trying to figure out if I’m serious: ‘You spa, you. Come on and get this case meeting done.’
We need to go back into the incident room separately, and let the cold and the outdoors smell wear off us first. I head for the jacks and slather on the hand soap till I reek of fake herbal goodness; Steve goes to the canteen for a cup of coffee. When we wander back to our desks, nice and casual, Breslin is pouring smarm down the phone at one of Rory’s exes and barely glances up at either of us.
Only: my stuff is wrong. I’m positive I had Rory’s bank statement on top, but now my notebook is overlapping it; and the notebook is open to my notes on Cooper’s phone call, when I think I remember closing it. I look over at Breslin, but he’s schmoozing away, convincing Rory’s ex to let him come for a chat this evening, and doesn’t even look my way. The more I try to remember what was where, the less sure I am.
Gaffney comes rushing in just in time for the case meeting, mottled and watery-eyed from the cold, to tell us how he got on at Stoneybatter station: he played the recordings of Rory, both his brothers, and all his best guy friends, and the uniform is ninety-nine per cent sure the call didn’t come from any of them. ‘Ah well,’ Breslin says. ‘Thanks anyway. I appreciate that. And this.’ He starts unwrapping his sandwich. ‘Beautiful.’
‘I’d say I did more harm than good, like,’ Gaffney says worriedly. He hands over Breslin’s change, a great big handful of notes and coins. ‘By the end, after he’d listened to all those different voices, he was actually having a harder time remembering what the original one had sounded like. D’ye know what I mean? Now, if we get more voices for him to listen to, he won’t be able to—’
‘Lineups’ll do that,’ Breslin says, honouring Gaffney with a smile. ‘Not your fault, my son; it goes with the territory. You did fine.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’ It comes out an ungracious grunt – not that it matters: Gaffney is too busy giving Breslin the hero-worship goo-goo eyes to notice I exist. All I can think is that of course the lineup wrecked our chances of getting an ID. Even when we have something, touching it crumbles it into nothing. More nothing, sifting down like fine dust, piling up in sticky drifts on the glossy desks, gumming up the swanky computers.
Before we head home, me and Steve give the gaffer his update. O’Kelly stands at the tall sash window, with his back to us and his hands in the pockets of his tweed suit, rocking back and forth on his heels. He looks like he’s gazing out at the dark gardens, only half listening, but I can see his eyes in the glass, zipping fast between my reflection and Steve’s.
When we finish talking, he leaves a silence that says he wants more. Steve’s reflection glances at mine. I don’t look back.
O’Kelly says, without turning round, ‘I looked in on your incident room, around noon. Ye weren’t there. Where were ye?’
It’s been a long time since any gaffer made me account for my whereabouts like a fucking kid. Before I can open my mouth, Steve says easily, ‘We did the search on Aislinn’s gaff. Then we brought a photo of her round Stoneybatter, asked pubs and local places if they recognised her. See if anyone had spotted her doing anything interesting.’
‘And?’
Steve lifts one shoulder. ‘Not really.’
O’Kelly lets that lie for a few seconds. Then he says, ‘This afternoon you got a delivery from some lad who wouldn’t let it out of his hands. What was it?’
Bernadette’s had a thing for the gaffer as long as anyone can remember; everyone knows she’ll grab any chance to drop a word in his ear. She could’ve grassed us up; or not. ‘Aislinn’s father went missing when she was a kid,’ Steve says. ‘It seemed like a bit of a coincidence, so we took a look at the file.’
‘Any joy?’
‘Nothing. He ran off with a young one. Died a few years back.’
O’Kelly turns around. He leans back against the window and examines us. His shave went wrong this morning; his face is raw and flaky, like he’s slowly eroding away. ‘D’you know what ye’re acting like?’ he asks.
We wait.