Fiona shook her head. “God, no. He lived in Howth or somewhere; he didn’t care if the whole of Monkstown was sticking pins in his voodoo doll. And even if we’d all eaten ice cream till we dropped dead of heart attacks, JoJo wouldn’t have been able to pay what the guy was looking for. I think we sort of knew that all along, that he was going to lose. We just wanted . . .” She turned the bag in her hands. “That was the summer before Pat and Jenny and Conor were going to college. We knew that, too, deep down: that everything was going to start changing when they went. I think Pat and Conor started the whole thing because they wanted to make that summer special. It was the last one. I think they wanted us all to have something good to look back on. Silly stories to tell, years down the line. Stuff so we could say, ‘Do you remember . . . ?’”
She would never say it about that summer again. I asked, “Do you still have your JoJo’s badge?”
“I don’t know. Maybe somewhere. I’ve got a bunch of stuff in boxes in my mum’s attic—I hate throwing stuff away. I haven’t seen it in years, though. Forever.” She smoothed the plastic over the badge for a moment, then held it out to me. “When you’re done with it, if Jenny doesn’t want it, could I have it?”
“I’m sure we can work something out.”
“Thanks,” Fiona said. “I’d like that.” She took a breath, pulling herself out of someplace wrapped in warm sunlight and helpless laughter, and checked her watch. “I should go. Is that . . . ? Was there anything else?”
Richie’s eyes met mine, with a question in them.
We would need to talk to Fiona again: we needed Richie to stay the good guy, the safe one who didn’t hit her on every bruise. “Ms. Rafferty,” I said quietly, leaning forward on my elbows, “there’s something I need to tell you.”
She froze. The look in her eyes was terrible: Oh God, not more. “The man we’ve got under arrest,” I said. “It’s Conor Brennan.”
Fiona stared. When she could, she said, panting for breath, “No. Hang on. Conor? What . . . Under arrest for what?”
“We’ve arrested him for the attack on your sister and the murders of her family.”
Fiona’s hands jumped; for a second I thought she was going to slap them over her ears, but she pressed them on the table again. She said, flat and hard as a brick slamming down on stone, “No. Conor didn’t.”
She was as certain as she had been about Pat. She needed to be. If either of them had done this, then her past as well as her present was a mauled, bleeding ruin. All that bright landscape of ice creams and in-jokes, screams of laughter on a wall, her first dance and her first drink and her first kiss: nuked, humming with radioactivity, untouchable.
I said, “He’s made a full confession.”
“I don’t care. You— What the fuck? Why didn’t you tell me? You just let me sit here talking about him, let me yap away and hoped I’d say something that would make things worse for him— That’s shit. If Conor actually confessed, then it’s only because you messed with his head the way you’ve been messing with mine. He didn’t do this. This is insane.”
Good middle-class girls don’t talk to detectives that way, but Fiona was too furiously intent for caution. Her hands were fisted on the table and her face looked bleached and friable, like a shell dried out on sand. She made me want to do something, anything, the stupider the better: take it all back, push her out the door, spin her chair to the wall so I wouldn’t have to see her eyes. “It’s not just the confession,” I said. “We have evidence backing it up. I’m so sorry.”
“What kind of evidence?”
“I’m afraid we can’t go into that. But we’re not talking about little coincidences that can be explained away. We’re talking about solid, unarguable, incriminating evidence. Proof.”
Fiona’s face shut down. I could see her mind speeding. “Right,” she said, after a minute. She pushed her mug away on the table and got up. “I have to get back to Jenny.”
I said, “Until Mr. Brennan is charged, we won’t be releasing his name to the press. We’d prefer that you don’t mention it to anyone, either. That includes your sister.”
“I wasn’t planning to.” She pulled her coat off the back of her chair and swung it on. “How do I get out of here?”
I opened the door for her. “We’ll be in touch,” I said, but Fiona didn’t look up. She headed down the corridor fast, with her chin tucked into her collar like she was already shielding herself against the cold.
14
The incident room had emptied, just the kid manning the tip line and a couple of others working late, who upped the paper shuffling when they saw me. Richie said bluntly, as we got to our desks, “I don’t think she had anything to do with it.”
He was all geared up to fight his corner. I said, giving him a quick grin, “Well, that’s a relief. At least we’re on the same page on this one.” He didn’t grin back. “Relax, Richie. I don’t think she did, either. She envied Jenny, all right, but if she was going to flip out on her, it would’ve been back when Jenny had the perfect picket-fence life, not now that it was all in ruins and Fiona got to say I told you so. Unless her phone records come back with a bunch of calls to Conor, or her financials come back with some massive debt, I think we can cross her off our list.”
Richie said, “Even if it turns out she’s skint. I believe her: she’s not into money. And she was doing her best to give us all the info she could, even when it hurt. Whoever did this, she wants him locked up.”
“Well, she did, until she found out it was Conor Brennan. If we need to talk to her again, she won’t be anywhere near as helpful.” I pulled my chair up to my desk and found a report form, for the Super. “And that’s another mark for her being innocent. I’d bet a lot of money that was genuine, her reaction when we told her. That hit her right out of the clear blue sky. If she was behind all this, she’d have been panicking about Conor ever since she found out we had someone in custody. And she sure as hell wouldn’t be pointing us in his direction by giving him a motive.”
Richie was copying Fiona’s phone numbers into his notebook. He said, “Not much of a motive.”
“Oh, come on. Spurned love, with a dose of humiliation thrown in? I couldn’t have asked for a better one if I’d ordered it from a catalog.”
“I could. Fiona thought maybe Conor might’ve fancied Jenny, ten years back. That’s not a lot of motive in my book.”
“He fancied her now. What else do you think the JoJo’s badge was about? Jenny wouldn’t have kept hers, neither would Pat, but I bet I know someone who would have. And one day, when he was wandering around the Spains’ house, he decided to leave Jenny a little present—the creepy bastard. Remember me, from back when everything was lovely and your life didn’t suck dick in hell? Remember all the happy times we had together? Don’t you miss me?”
Richie pocketed his notebook and started flicking through the pile of reports on his desk, but he wasn’t reading them. “Still doesn’t point to him killing her. Pat’s the jealous type, he’s already warned Conor off Jenny once, and he’s got to be feeling pretty insecure right now. If he found out Conor was leaving Jenny presents . . .”
I kept my voice down. “He didn’t find out, though, did he? That badge wasn’t thrown across the kitchen, or stuffed down Jenny’s throat. It was hidden away in her drawer, safe and sound.”
“The badge was. We don’t know what else Conor could’ve left.”
“True enough. But the more little treats he left Jenny, the more it points to him still being mad about her. That’s evidence against Conor. Not against Pat.”
“Except Jenny must’ve known who left that badge. Must’ve. How many people would own a JoJo’s badge, and know to leave it for her? And she kept it. Whatever Conor felt about her, it wasn’t just one-way. It’s not like she was binning his presents and he flipped out. Pat’s the one who would’ve flipped over what was going on.”
I said, “As soon as Jenny’s doctor cuts down the painkillers, we’ll need to have another chat with her, find out exactly what the story was there. She may not remember the other night, but she can’t have forgotten that badge.” I thought of Jenny’s ripped face, her wrecked eyes, and caught myself hoping that Fiona would convince the doctors to keep her doped up to the gills for a good long time.
Richie flipped pages faster. He asked, “What about Conor? Were you planning on having another go at him tonight?”
I checked my watch. It was past eight o’clock. “No. Let him stew a while longer. Tomorrow we’ll hit him with everything we’ve got.”
That made Richie’s knees start jiggling, under his desk. He said, “I’ll give Kieran a ring before I head. See if he’s come up with anything new on Pat’s websites.”
He was already reaching for the phone. “I’ll do it,” I said. “You do the report for the Super.” I shoved it onto his desk before he could argue.
Even at that hour, Kieran actually sounded pleased to hear from me. “Kemosabe! I was just thinking about you. One question: am I da man, or am I totally da man?”
For a second I thought matching the jaunty tone would take more than I had left. “I’m going to go out on a limb and say you’re totally da man. What have you got for me?”
“You would be correctamundo. To be honest, when I got your e-mail I was like, yeah, right, even if your guy did take his weasel issues somewhere else, the web’s a big place; how am I meant to find him, Google ‘weasel’? But remember that partial URL the recovery software tossed up? The home-and-garden forum?”
“Yeah.” I gave Richie the thumbs-up. He left the form on his desk and scooted his chair over to mine.
“We checked it out back when I first told you about it: went through the last two months of posts. Closest we got to drama was a couple of guys on the DIY board having a dick-measuring contest about drywalling, whatever the hell that is, which frankly I don’t actually care? No one was harassing anyone—there’s a decent chance this could be the most boring forum ever—no one matched your victim and no one was called anything like sparklyjenny, so we moved on. But then I got your e-mail and I had a brainwave: we could’ve been looking for the wrong thing, at the wrong time.”
I said, “It wasn’t Jenny who posted there. It was Pat.”
“Bada-bing. And not in the last two months, either. It was back in June. He last posted on Wildwatcher on the thirteenth, right? If he tried anywhere else in the next couple of weeks, I haven’t found it yet, but on the twenty-ninth of June he shows up on the Nature and Wildlife section of the home-and-garden site, going under Pat-the-lad again. He’d posted on the site before, like a year and a half ago—something to do with his toilet backing up—so probably that’s why it occurred to him. Want me to forward the link?”
“Please. Now, if you can.”
“Once more with feeling, Kemosabe: am I da man?”
“You are totally da man.” The corner of Richie’s mouth twitched. I gave him the finger. I knew I couldn’t get away with talking like that, but I didn’t care.