Back in the incident room, I ring Rory and ask him, all friendly and casual, if he would mind giving us a hand by coming in for another quick chat. I’m all ready to knock down a bunch of excuses about how he can’t leave the shop and he’s got an appointment and he doesn’t feel well, but he falls over himself agreeing to come in straightaway. He’s just desperate to prove he’s on our side, but I’m so unused to things being easy that it feels unnatural, almost creepy, like the world has slid a notch sideways and won’t click back to reality. I want sleep, a lot of it.
Steve is still out. I catch some autopilot part of me actually hoping he’ll show up before Rory does – I’ll have to start off the interview with Breslin, what with him bringing me that footage, but I can swap Steve in before we get to the final push; we’ll get a confession off Rory, show that ditzy fool Steve that I was right all along, he’ll apologise and we’ll go for a pint and everything will go back to normal— This is when my brain catches up and remembers that things aren’t going back to normal, not ever again. The incident room lurches, light jumping and stuttering, the hum of the computers rising like sirens.
When I beckon Reilly over to my desk, he doesn’t even bother faking an apology, just puts on a blank pig-face and stares over my shoulder, waiting for me to be done. I was all geared up to take his head off, but looking at that face barely hiding a sneer, all I can think of is Steve: Steve, on that old case years back, getting that key piece of info and pinning it to his lapel instead of bringing it home to the lead D. Reilly makes me sick. I don’t want him ripped to pieces any more; all I want is him out of my sight. When I tell him to go back to the floater pool, his face – sneer slapped right off, raw burn of anger and humiliation rising – doesn’t even give me a drop of satisfaction. The other floaters pretend they’re concentrating on work while he gathers up his stuff and leaves, slamming the door on his way out. Breslin lounges at his desk and watches me, eyes hooded, pen between his teeth, all ready to tell me whether I’ve done the right thing or not. I don’t ask.
The footage shows exactly what Breslin said it did: Rory, wandering around Stoneybatter when he shouldn’t have been. I send Meehan to head over there, pull all the December CCTV footage he can get – there won’t be much left – and start watching. Then I pick out the best shots of Rory, with time stamps, and print them off.
The phone on my desk rings: Bernadette, to say Rory Fallon is downstairs. ‘He’s here,’ I say to Breslin.
‘Let’s do it,’ he says, shoving his chair back. ‘See you later, boys. We’ll bring you back a nice scalp.’
The floaters glance up and nod, too quickly, scared I’ll rip the throat out of anyone who makes eye contact. On my monitor, a blurry black-and-white Stoneybatter street moves in jumps – runner frozen in one corner of the screen, teleported to the opposite side in a blink; Alsatian caught in mid-piss, then vanished – till I hit Stop. The computers and the whiteboard and the floaters billow and shrink around the edges like thin fabric underwater, drifting farther away all the time.
Chapter 12
Rory is in even worse shape than he was on Sunday. His hair still has that plastered-down look, his eyes are bloodshot and his skin is a dry, clothy white. He smells of clothes left too long in the washing machine. A smile jerks up on his face when he sees us, but it’s a reflex, jittery and mechanical. We’re gonna have fun getting him chilled out enough to be useful.
We start by taking him to the nice interview room, the one for shaken-up witnesses and victims’ relatives. It’s cute: pastel-yellow paint, chairs that don’t hate you, a kettle and a hotel-style basket of tea bags and itty-bitty sachets of instant coffee. My First Interview Room, we call it. Even through his jitters, Rory feels the difference; he relaxes enough to take off his second-best coat and hang it tidily over the back of his chair. Underneath he has on jeans and a baggy beige jumper that’s twenty quid’s worth of knitted depression.
‘Let’s get through the paperwork first,’ Breslin says, sliding a rights sheet and a pen across the table. Since Chief Jock is the intimidating one, he’s armed with a big file bursting with everything that could come in useful, plus random paper for padding. Cool Girl is on Rory’s side, deep down, so I’ve got nothing but my notebook and my pen. ‘Sorry about this; I know you’ve already done it, but we need a new one of these every time. You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but anything you do say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence. Just like last time. Is that all OK?’
Rory signs without reading. ‘Thanks,’ Breslin says, through a yawn and a pec-display stretch. ‘I need real coffee, not that instant rubbish. Rory? Antoinette? What’ll I get you?’
Normally I’d smack down the ‘Antoinette’ crap, but I know what he’s at. ‘Oh God, yeah, real coffee,’ I say. ‘Black, no sugar. And see if you can find a couple of biscuits, would you? I’m starving.’
‘I’ll raid O’Gorman’s stash,’ Breslin says, grinning. ‘He buys the good stuff; no Rich Tea nonsense there. Rory, what’ll you have?’
‘Um, I—’ A baffled blink while Rory tries to chase down the potential implications of hot drinks. ‘Tea would be— No, coffee. With a bit of milk. Please.’
‘Your wish is my command,’ Breslin says, and hauls himself out of his chair with a groan. ‘I could sleep for a week. It’s this bloody weather. One decent bit of sunshine and I’d be a new man.’
‘Have a look through O’Gorman’s desk, while you’re at it,’ I say. ‘See if he’s got a couple of tickets to Barbados in there.’
‘If he does, we’re out of here. Rory, got your passport?’ Rory manages to catch up and find a laugh, a few seconds too late. Breslin throws us both a grin on his way out the door.
I lean back in my chair, stretching out my legs in front of me, and pull out my hair elastic to redo my bun while we wait. ‘Oof,’ I say. ‘Long few days. How’ve you been getting on?’
‘OK. It’s a lot to take in.’ Rory’s on guard. He hasn’t forgotten that I’m the mean cop who didn’t tell him Aislinn was dead. Steve would have had him cosy and chatting in no time.
Steve isn’t the only one who can play nice. ‘It is, all right,’ I say. ‘Do you want me to set you up with Victim Support, find you someone you can talk to? That’s their job, helping people through this kind of thing. They’re good.’
‘No. Thanks.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yes. I’ll be fine. I just . . . what I really need is to know what happened. I need to know that.’
‘Well, yeah,’ I say, with a rueful grin. ‘Don’t we all.’