Richie was learning: he didn’t answer that. He said, “I rang because we’ve got some news for you. It’ll be on the telly later, but we figured you’d rather hear this from us. We’re after arresting someone.”
Silence. Then: “It wasn’t Pat. I told you. I told you.”
Richie’s eyes met mine for a second. “Yeah, you did.”
“Who— Oh, God. Who is he? Why did he? Why?”
“We’re still working on that. We figured maybe you could give us a hand. Can you come into Dublin Castle, have a talk about it? We’ll give you the details there.”
Another second of dead air, while Fiona tried to get hold of all this. “Yeah. Yeah, absolutely. Just, can I, can it wait a while? My mum went home, she’s getting some sleep, I don’t want to leave Jenny by herself—Mum’s coming back at six, I could be down to you by like seven. Would that be too late?”
Richie raised his eyebrows at me; I nodded. “That’s perfect,” he said. “And listen, Ms. Rafferty: do us a favor and don’t say it to your sister yet. Make sure your mother doesn’t, either. OK? Once the suspect’s been charged and all, we can tell her, but it’s still early days; we don’t want to be upsetting her if anything goes wrong. Will you promise me that?”
“Yeah. I won’t say anything.” A quick catch of breath. “This guy. Please. Who is he?”
Richie said gently, “We’ll talk later. Take care of your sister, yeah? And of yourself. See you soon.” He hung up before Fiona could keep asking.
I checked my watch. It was coming up to three o’clock: four hours to wait. “No free lunch for you, sunshine.”
Richie tucked his phone away and gave me a quick grin. “And here I was going to order the lobster.”
“Would you settle for tuna salad? I’d like to head up to Brianstown, check in with the search teams and give you another shot at the Gogan kid, but we should pick up something to eat on the way. It looks bad for me if you drop dead from starvation.”
“Tuna salad’s good. Wouldn’t want to wreck your rep.”
He was still grinning. Modesty or no, Richie was a happy man. “I appreciate your concern,” I said. “You finish up inside. I’ll give Larry a bell, tell him to bring his boys down here, and then we can get moving.”
Richie went bouncing back down the stairs two at a time. “Scorcher,” Larry said delightedly. “Have I told you lately that I love you?”
“It never gets old. What’ve I done now?”
“That car. Everything a man could want, and it’s not even my birthday.”
“Fill me in. If I’m sending you pressies, I deserve to know what’s in them.”
“Well, the first bit wasn’t in the car, exactly. When the boys went to tow it, a key ring fell out of the wheel well. We’ve got the car keys, we’ve got what looks like a pair of house keys—one Chubb, one Yale—and, drum roll please, we’ve got a key to the Spains’ back door.”
“Now that,” I said, “is sweet.” The alarm code, and now this: all we needed was where Conor had got the key—and one obvious answer was coming in for a chat in a few hours’ time—and the whole tangled question of access would be neatly tied up in a bow. Pat and Jenny’s nice solid house had been as secure as a tent on the open strand.
“I thought you’d like it. And once we actually got into the car, oh my. How I love cars. I’ve seen guys who practically took baths in pure bleach after they finished doing their business, but did they bother to clean their cars? No, they did not. This one’s an absolute nest of hairs and fibers and dirt and all things nice, and if I were a betting man, I’d bet you plenty that we’ll get at least one match between the car and the crime scene. We’ve also got a muddy shoe print on the driver’s floor mat: we’ll have to work it up to see how much detail we can get, but it’s from a man’s runner, size ten or eleven.”
“Even sweeter.”
“And then, of course,” Larry said demurely, “there’s the blood.”
By that stage I wasn’t even surprised. Every once in a while this job gives you a day like that, a day when all the dice roll your way, when you just have to stretch out your hand and a plump juicy piece of evidence drops into it. “How much?”
“Smears everywhere. Only a couple of smudges on the door handle and the steering wheel, he’d taken his gloves off by the time he got back to the car, but the driver’s seat is covered—we’ll send it all off for DNA, but I’m going to go out on a limb and guess it might just match up to your vics. Tell me I make you happy.”
“Happiest man in the world,” I said. “And in exchange, I’ve got another pressie for you. Richie and I are at the suspect’s flat, having a quick look around. Whenever you’ve got a moment, we’d love you to come down here and give it a proper going-over. No blood as far as we can see—sorry about that—but we’ve got another computer and another phone, to keep young Kieran busy, and I’m sure you’ll find something to interest you too.”
“My cup runneth over. I’ll be down as fast as I can skip. Will you and your new friend still be around?”
“Probably not. We’re heading back to the crime scene. Is your badger-tracking guy out there?”
“He is indeed. I’ll tell him to hang on for you. And I’ll save your great big hug for later. Ciao ciao.” Larry hung up.
The case was coming together. I could feel it, an actual physical sensation, as if it were my own vertebrae slipping into alignment with small confident clicks, letting me straighten and take a belly-deep breath for the first time in days. Killester is near the sea, and for a second I thought I caught a whiff of salt air, vivid and wild, slicing straight through all the city smells to find me. As I pocketed my phone and started down the stairs, I caught myself smiling, up at the gray sky and the turning birds.
Richie was piling crap back onto the sofa. I said, “Larry’s having a blast with Conor’s car. Hairs, fibers, a footprint, and—get this—a key to the Spains’ back door. Richie, my friend, this is our lucky day.”
“Great. That’s great, yeah.” Richie didn’t look up.
I said, “What is it?”
He turned around like he was dragging himself up from a sucking dream. “Nothing. I’m grand.”
His face was pinched and focused, turned inwards on itself. Something had happened.
I said, “Richie.”
“I just need that sandwich. Felt a bit crap all of a sudden, you know that way? Low blood sugar, probably. And the air in here, and all—”
“Richie. If something’s up, you need to tell me.”
Richie’s eyes came up to meet mine. He looked young and wildly lost, and when his lips parted I knew it was to ask for help. Then something in his face clicked shut and he said, “Nothing’s up. Seriously. Will we go, yeah?”
When I think about the Spain case, from deep inside endless nights, this is the moment I remember. Everything else, every other slip and stumble along the way, could have been redeemed. This is the one I clench tight because of how sharp it slices. Cold still air, a weak ray of sun glowing on the wall outside the window, smell of stale bread and apples.
I knew Richie was lying to me. He had seen something, heard something, fitted a piece into place and caught a glimpse of some brand-new picture. It was my job to keep pushing until he came clean. I understand that; I understood it then, in that low-ceilinged flat with the dust prickling my hands and clogging the air. I understood—or I would have, if I had pulled myself together, through the fatigue and all the other things that are no excuse—that Richie was my responsibility.
I thought he had twigged something that proved once and for all that Conor was our man, and he wanted to nurse the sting to his pride in private for a little while. I thought something had pointed him towards a motive and he wanted to move a few steps further down that road, till he was sure, before he brought me with him. I thought of the other partners on the squad, the ones going strong after longer than most marriages: the deft balance with which they moved around each other; the trust as solid and practical as a coat or a mug, something never talked about because it was always in use.
I said, “Yeah. You could probably do with some more coffee, too; I know I could. Let’s get out of here.”
Richie tossed the last of Conor’s crap onto the sofa, picked up the big evidence bag that held the orange crate and brushed past me, pulling off a glove with his teeth. I heard him heaving the crate up the steps.
Before I switched off the light I took one last look around, scanning every inch for the mysterious thing that had blazed up at him out of nowhere. The flat was silent, sullen, already closing back in on itself and turning deserted again. There was nothing there.