I say, ‘Rory told us he had to look up the nearest Tesco on his phone, Saturday night.’
‘He did. He also gave us the very definite impression that he’d never been to Stoneybatter before.’ On the screen, Rory scoops his change out of the checkout machine and glances around. For a second he looks straight into the camera. His eyes, blurred and wide and intent, stare like he can see me staring back. ‘But like I said, this is just the tip of the iceberg. We’ve got him within a few minutes’ walk of Aislinn’s house at least three other times this month. His car went past a camera on Manor Street last Thursday evening, he bought his Sunday paper in the corner shop on the eleventh of January, and he had a pint in Hanlon’s on the fifth.’
Rory squirming when we talked about his side trip to Tesco. I thought it was the timeline that was making him twitchy, but it was a lot more than that. Rory hadn’t needed to look up local shops on his phone. He already knew them by heart.
‘And that’s not counting the times Reilly didn’t spot, and the times that didn’t get caught on CCTV, and the times more than four weeks ago.’ Breslin takes his phone back. ‘Talk about “too full-on”,’ he says. ‘Rory’s been stalking Aislinn.’
I say, ‘Looks like it.’
‘He wasn’t bringing nutritious meals to Stoneybatter’s senior citizens. Anything innocent, he would’ve told us by now.’ He slides the phone into his pocket. ‘Now, wasn’t that worth sticking around for?’
‘I’m gonna have a chat with Reilly,’ I say. ‘Then I want to see the rest of that footage. Then I’ll pull Rory back in and I’ll see what he’s got to say.’
‘Why don’t we make that we. You and I, we’ll see what he’s got to say.’
‘I’m OK on my own. Thanks.’
Breslin’s eyebrows go up on that. ‘On your own? What about Moran?’
‘He’s out.’
‘Uh-huh,’ Breslin says. ‘You’re making him shake his trees by himself now, yeah? I thought your patience was wearing thin, all right.’
‘Moran’s well able to take care of business on his own. He doesn’t need me to hold his hand.’
Breslin’s scanning me, amused. He says, ‘I could’ve told you that you and Moran weren’t right for each other.’
I say, ‘I didn’t ask.’
‘Give that kid a dozen witnesses and a DNA match and a video of the murder going down, and he’d spend the next year making totally positively sure that the scumbag didn’t have a long-lost twin and the witnesses weren’t confused and no one spit in the DNA, just in case. I’m not knocking it; there are cases that need that approach. But you, on the other hand: you want to get stuff done.’
‘I do, yeah. That’s why I’m gonna go sort out Reilly and have a look at that footage, instead of having the chats about life in here. See you later.’
‘Jesus Christ, Conway, can you un-bunch your panties just for one minute? I’m on your side here. You keep acting like I’m the enemy. I don’t know where you got that idea, but I’d like to put it to bed.’
‘Breslin,’ I say. ‘I appreciate you showing me the footage, and all that shite. But I’m gonna assume anyone on this squad is the enemy, unless I’ve got stone-cold proof that he’s not. I’m pretty sure you can understand why.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ Breslin says. He cracks the door and checks the corridor: no one there. ‘I understand exactly why. In fact, I understand a lot better than you do. Do you want to know the story I heard about you?’
He thinks he sounds tempting. I say, ‘Why don’t you just assume it was all bollix, and we’ll go from there.’
‘I do assume it’s all bollix. But you still need to hear it.’
‘I’ve made it thirty-two years without giving a shite about other people’s bitching. I think I can manage a while longer.’
‘No. You can’t. Every time you walk into the squad room, when you think you’re just checking your e-mail and drinking coffee, this story is what the lads are hearing in their heads. As far as they’re concerned, this is who you are. And how’s that working out for you?’
He wants to tell me the story, badly. Him and McCann have worked hard to make me think he’s just a big-hearted guy, but that kind of offer – here, let me take a chunk of your life and rewrite it my way – that never comes out of the goodness of anyone’s heart. I say, ‘When I need a hand, I’ll let you know.’
‘It’ll sting. I’m not going to lie to you.’ Breslin has his sympathetic face on, but I’ve seen it before, in interview rooms. ‘I can see why you might not want to deal with that.’
‘I don’t. I don’t want to deal with anything except my cases. And I want that word with Reilly.’
I go for the door, but Breslin stretches out an arm to block my way. ‘You had a run-in with Roche, your first week,’ he says. ‘Remember that?’
‘Barely. Old news.’
‘Except it’s not. You underestimated Roche. Not long after, he told us that back when you were in uniform, you fucked up big-time. You were supposed to be guarding some drug dealer while your partner did a sweep of his house; you took off the cuffs so the suspect could go behind a hedge and take a piss, and he did a legger. Then you told your partner – Roche didn’t name names; he’s too smart for that – that if he put anything in the report, you’d have him up for sexual assault, claim he’d been grabbing your tits in the patrol car.’
Breslin lowers his arm and takes one deliberate step to the side, out of my way. I don’t move, just like he knew I wouldn’t.
‘When your partner wrote you up anyway,’ he says, ‘you followed through: went to your gaffer. The shit hit the fan, the report got rewritten your way, your partner’s stuck in blue for the rest of his career, and you got three weeks’ paid leave to recover from the trauma of it all. Is any of this sounding familiar?’
The three weeks I spent being Fleas’s cousin. And before that, there was a suspect – some idiot off his face on speed; I don’t even remember his name, that’s how big an impression the whole thing made – who did a runner on me and my partner. My partner was a good guy, in the uninspired way that stamps BLUE FOR LIFE on your forehead from your first day. Roche did his research, made sure the story tasted of truth just enough that people would swallow it whole.
Breslin says, ‘About half the squad believes it. And they want you gone, asap, before you pull the same shite on one of them. They’re very, very serious about it.’
He’s watching me under his eyelids for a tear, a tremor, a sign that I want to kick Roche’s teeth out the back of his skull. ‘I was right,’ I say. ‘I could’ve survived just fine without knowing that. Thanks, though. I’ll keep it in mind.’
That snaps his eyes open. ‘You’re taking this very lightly, Conway.’
‘Roche is a shitball. That’s not exactly breaking news. What do you want me to do? Faint? Cry?’