‘OK,’ I say. ‘Aislinn had the cooker on, right? Making Rory that lovely fancy dinner.’
‘Yeah. And?’
‘And before Rory left, he turned it off.’
Rory starts to say, ‘I wasn’t—’ but Breslin lifts a hand to shut him up. ‘Right. That’s important how?’
‘The only reason to turn it off,’ I say, ‘would be that he didn’t want the house going on fire. Now, if Rory knew Aislinn was dead, or if he didn’t care whether she died or not – hang on a sec’ – Rory’s trying to talk again – ‘then his best bet would be to let the place burn. The house goes up in smoke, so does any evidence that he was there: the fibres, the prints, the DNA, the lot. Anyone who’s ever seen a cop show on the telly would know that. Amn’t I right?’
‘I’m listening,’ says Breslin. To Rory, who’s practically coming out of his seat: ‘You might want to sit down and pay attention to this, pal. It sounds like it might actually do you some good, and just being straight with you, you can’t afford to miss anything that’ll do that.’
After a second Rory sits back. His chest is going up and down like he’s been running.
Breslin asks, ‘Are you going to let Detective Conway finish what she’s saying?’
‘Yes. I will.’ When Breslin’s raised eyebrow prompts him: ‘Sorry. For interrupting.’
‘My point is,’ I say, ‘the only reason Rory wouldn’t want the place going on fire would be if he didn’t think Aislinn was dead, and he didn’t want her to die. Meaning he never intended to kill her.’
‘Ah-ha,’ Breslin says, nodding slowly. ‘Now I see what you’re getting at, Detective. You’re right: it is important. Everything else we’ve got looks like murder, and a pretty nasty one too; but if you’re right about why that cooker got turned off, then it’s not murder at all. It’s manslaughter.’
‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘If I’m right.’
‘If. There’s any number of reasons that cooker could’ve been turned off. Maybe Aislinn turned it off herself. Or maybe Rory’s got a touch of OCD going on, can’t leave a house without turning all the appliances off. But if you’re right . . .’
We both look at Rory. He’s glazing over. Too many stories logjamming in his head: he’s starting to lose hold of them all. Up to a point, this works for us: if the guy can’t keep track of what he’s said about what when, he gets sloppy. Too far past that point, though, he just stops making sense. If we’re gonna get anything out of Rory, it needs to be soon.
‘I’m done, Rory,’ I say. ‘You can talk now.’
Breslin lets him open his mouth before he says, ‘Actually, don’t. You’re about to tell us you were never in that house, and you need to think very, very hard before you do that. Murder is an automatic life sentence, Rory. Manslaughter is maybe six years, out in four. And if you don’t tell us why you turned off that cooker, then we’ve got nothing, not one thing, that says this was manslaughter, and a whole lot that says it was murder. So I’m telling you, Rory, for your own sake: before you say one more word, take just five minutes to think.’ And, when Rory tries talking again: ‘Ah-ah. Five minutes. I’ll tell you when it’s up.’ He shoots his cuff and looks at his watch. ‘Starting now.’
Rory gives up. He stares into space, rocking a little with fatigue.
‘One.’
Slowly the lines of Rory’s face solidify. He stops swaying. Inside his mind, things are moving.
Breslin’s made the wrong call. I know what he’s at – he’s hoping the forced silence and the fear will bear down on Rory hard enough to crack him – but it’s the barrage of words and demands that was doing the job. Locking this guy into his own head is only giving him a chance to get his focus back and straighten out his stories. We’re losing him.
‘Two.’
‘Forget it,’ I say, bringing my hands down on the table with a bang. ‘That’s as much time as he’s getting. Rory: look at me.’ I snap my fingers in his face. He blinks. ‘Why’d you turn that cooker off?’
Too late. Rory says, ‘I didn’t. I’ve never been inside Aislinn’s house. I never hurt Aislinn in any way. And I want to go home.’
He stands up, wobbly-legged, and starts trying to pull his coat off the back of his chair. His hands are shaking; he keeps losing hold.
‘Whoa there,’ Breslin says. ‘We’re not done. Sit down.’
‘I’m done. Am I under arrest?’
I can see Breslin opening his mouth on the words. ‘No,’ I say, and ignore his head coming round towards me. ‘Not at the moment. But if you want us to believe your story, walking out on us isn’t the way to go about it. You need to stay here and work with us.’
‘No. If I’m not under arrest, I’m going home.’ Rory manages to get his coat off the chair and drops it.
‘Here’s what we’ll do,’ I say, closing my notebook. ‘You go home. Get some sleep. We’ll talk to Aislinn’s neighbours and see if any of them happened to look out their back windows and see you in the laneway between, say, 8.30 and 8.40. If they did, you’re off the hook: you wouldn’t have had time for the other thing.’ Obviously we’ve already talked to the neighbours, and I’m betting they would have mentioned some weirdo hanging around the laneway, but this doesn’t seem to occur to Rory. ‘Come back in to us tomorrow to sign your statement, and we’ll do updates then. Fair enough?’
Rory pulls his coat around his shoulders, not even trying the sleeves. ‘Yes. OK.’
‘We’ll come pick you up,’ Breslin says, keeping it just the right side of a threat. He stands up and stretches. ‘You’re not planning to be anywhere other than your flat or the bookshop, are you?’
‘No. I’m going nowhere.’
‘Good plan,’ Breslin tells him. He pulls the door open and sweeps his hand at it with a little mock bow. ‘After you.’
Steve is in the doorway of the observation room, suit jacket over his arm, sleeves rolled up against the heat. His eyes meet mine for a long level second. Then we’re past him and down the corridor, Rory speeding up towards the draught of cold fresh air coming up the stairwell, Breslin humming happily to himself under his breath.
Me and Breslin watch from the doorway as Rory heads off across the cobblestones. He looks small and messy, slams of wind flapping his coat and tangling in his hair, swerving him off course. It’s practically dark. Just a couple of months of bodyguard work, and I’ll have enough saved up for a holiday somewhere blazing hot in eye-shattering colours and very far away.
‘Enlighten me,’ Breslin says pleasantly. ‘Why is this guy going home?’
I say, ‘We’re nearly there with him. He was right on the edge, till that pause gave him a chance to pull his head together – and if we could get him there once, we can get him there again. But if we put him under arrest, he’s gonna get a solicitor in there, and we can say goodbye to any chance of a confession.’