‘Rory hasn’t spilled the beans yet,’ Breslin says, ‘but he’s come close. We’re hoping tomorrow’s the day.’
‘Before we pull him back in,’ I say, ‘let’s find out just how much stalking he did, and what kind. I need two guys walking Rory’s picture around Stoneybatter to see if anyone recognises him from the last couple of months. He’s got the bookshop to run, so we’re mainly looking at evenings and Sundays. Try everywhere: houses, shops, pubs, offices where the workers might’ve crossed paths with him on their way out. Any community groups or bingo nights or sports clubs, track down the members.’ Kellegher lifts a finger. ‘Kellegher, you and Gaffney take that. And I want to know what Rory’s phone’s been doing over the last two months: when it pinged towers around Stoneybatter, whether it logged onto any wireless networks in the area. Stanton, while you’re making calls, make those.’
The case has changed. Before, we were dragnetting, sifting through what came up and hoping there was something good in there. Now we’re hunting. We’ve got the prey in our sights and we’re closing in, and everything we do is building towards the moment when we’ll have him pinned down for the kill shot.
That feeling, it’s not some bullshit figure of speech. It lives inside you somewhere deeper and older and more real than anything else except sex, and when it comes rising it takes your whole body for its own. It’s a smell of blood raging at the back of your nose, it’s your arm muscle throbbing to let go the bowstring, it’s drums speeding in your ears and a victory roar building at the bottom of your gut. I let myself love that feeling, one last time. I let myself drink it down, cram every second of it deep into me, lay away my store of it to last me the rest of my life.
‘I want to know where Rory drinks,’ I say, ‘and what the barman and the regulars think of him – if he’s got a rep for fixating on some girl, not taking no for an answer, if he’s got a temper, anything that could be relevant.’ Meehan’s hand is up. ‘Meehan, have that; it’ll give you a change of scenery from Stoneybatter. And I want to know what the other Ranelagh businesses think of Rory. Whether anyone’s got any stories about him coming on a little strong to a customer in the bookshop, or hanging about outside the bakery waiting for the pretty one to finish her shift.’
‘I’ll do that,’ Breslin says. ‘Moran, fancy joining me?’
Steve looks up, startled, but Breslin gives him a bland smile and after a second he says, ‘Yeah. Sure.’
‘Great,’ Breslin says, throwing him a wink. ‘Let’s take this bad boy down.’
I don’t feel like going into my plans for tomorrow. ‘I’ll check in with the Bureau first thing in the morning,’ I say, ‘see if they’ve got anywhere with fibre matches and DNA.’ And with Aislinn’s computer folder, which I also don’t feel like mentioning. ‘Meanwhile, someone needs to stay on Rory’s gaff – just for tonight and part of tomorrow, till we’re ready to bring him back in.’ Breslin gives me an amused glance. I don’t actually think Rory’s gonna throw himself in the Liffey, or skip town, or ditch evidence we haven’t spotted, but I’m not gonna risk it for the sake of a few hours’ surveillance. ‘Deasy: do that, or stick a couple of uniforms on it if you want, but tell them they need plainclothes and an unmarked car.’
Deasy nods. ‘OK,’ I say. ‘If we don’t get a confession, this is the stuff that’s going to make the case. So give it your best. Thanks, and see you tomorrow.’
In the second before I turn away, to get Steve so we can pretend we’re still partners while we report to the gaffer, the incident room grabs me by the gut. For that second it glows warm and steady from every corner with twenty years’ worth of might-have-beens. Every time I could have walked in there laughing with Steve, every shout of triumph when I could have held up the phone record or the DNA result we’d been waiting for, every thank-you speech I could have made at the end of a big case: all of those rise up to find me, now that they’re unreachable.
I don’t do that shite. I’ve got half a dozen excuses handy – no sleep, no food, pressure, big decision, blah blah blah – but still, that against-nature feeling prickles my skin like nettlerash. ‘Let’s go,’ I say to Steve. ‘The gaffer.’ I head out the door without waiting for him, so we won’t have to walk down the corridor together.
O’Kelly is polishing the dust off his spider plant, with one of those fiddly little cloths that people use to clean their glasses. ‘Conway. Moran,’ he says, barely glancing up. ‘Tell me you’re getting somewhere.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Looks like we are.’
‘About fucking time. Let’s hear it.’
I give him the rundown. He listens, turning the plant to the light to make sure he gets every angle. ‘Huh,’ he says, when I’m done. ‘And you’re happy enough with that.’
One sideways eye has come up to me. I say, ‘We’ll have another shot at the confession tomorrow. Don’t worry: we won’t send the file to the prosecutors till we’ve got it locked down tight.’
‘I didn’t mean are you happy enough to send the file. I mean are you happy enough that Fallon did it.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. That eye, edged wet and red where the eyelid’s starting to droop like an old man’s. I can’t read him; I can’t make myself care whether or not he’s in on Breslin’s game. ‘He did it.’ I feel Steve’s weight shift beside me, but he says nothing.
The gaffer eyes me for another long moment before he turns back to his plant. He tilts a leaf to examine it, gives one spot an extra dab. ‘I thought you were waiting for something that wasn’t circumstantial.’
Last night, I told him that, back when this case was a wild thing shooting out curls of possibility in every direction. It feels like years ago. ‘That or till we eliminated everything else. We’ve done that.’
‘You have.’
I say, ‘There’s zero reason to think that anyone other than Rory Fallon was involved.’
O’Kelly tests the point of a leaf on the pad of his thumb. ‘All right,’ he says. ‘All right.’
He looks like he’s forgotten us; I can’t tell whether we’ve been dismissed. ‘We could use another floater,’ I say. ‘I sent Reilly back to the floater pool.’
That gets the gaffer’s attention. ‘Why?’
‘He found evidence. Instead of bringing it to me, or to Moran, he took it to Breslin.’
‘Can’t have that,’ O’Kelly says. He doesn’t try to hide the long glance at Steve. ‘OK: I’ll get you another one. Keep me updated.’
He turns his shoulder to us and works his fingers delicately into the plant, pushing the leaves apart to slide the cloth right down to the base.
Steve says, in the corridor, ‘Zero reason to think anyone but Rory was involved.’
His voice still has that remote sound. ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Exactly zero reason.’
‘What about Lucy’s mystery guy? The folder on Aislinn’s computer?’