“You’ll go where you’re sent,” said O’Kelly.
“It is, of course,” Frank told me reproachfully. “I’m getting to you. I felt it would be polite to start by discussing matters with Detective O’Neill, what with this being a joint investigation and all. Am I wrong?”
This is why joint investigations are from hell: nobody is ever quite sure who the big boss is, and nobody wants to find out. Officially, Sam and Frank were supposed to agree on any major decisions, but if it came to the crunch, anything to do with undercover was Frank’s call. Sam could probably override him, since this had started out as his investigation, but not without an awful lot of string-pulling and a damn good reason. Frank was making sure—I felt it would be polite—that Sam remembered that. “You’re dead right,” I said. “Just remember, you need to discuss matters with me, too. So far, I haven’t heard anything very convincing.”
“How long are we talking about?” Sam asked. He was asking Frank, but his eyes were on me, and the look in them startled me: they were intent and very grave, almost sad. That was the second when I realized Sam was going to say yes.
Frank saw it too; his voice didn’t change, but his back had straightened and there was a new spark in his face, something alert and predatory. “Not long. A month, max. It’s not like we’re investigating organized crime and we could need someone on the inside for years. If this doesn’t pay off inside a few weeks, then it’s not going to.”
“She’d have backup.”
“Twenty-four-hour.”
“If there’s any indication of danger—”
“We’ll pull Detective Maddox out straightaway, or go in and get her if we need to. Same if you develop information that means she’s no longer necessary to the investigation: we’ll have her out that same day.”
“So I’d better get cracking,” Sam said quietly, on a long breath. “OK: if Detective Maddox wants to do it, then we’ll do it. On condition that I’m kept fully informed of all developments. No exceptions.”
“Beautiful,” Frank said, sliding off his chair fast, before Sam could change his mind. “You won’t regret it. Hang on, Cassie—before you say anything, I want to show you this. I promised you videos, and I’m a man of my word.”
O’Kelly let out a snort and said something predictable about amateur porn, but I barely heard him. Frank fished around in his big black knapsack, waved a DVD labeled in marker scrawl at me and shoved it into the squad room’s cheapo DVD player.
“Date stamp says the twelfth of September last,” he said, turning on the monitor. “Daniel got the keys to the house on the tenth. He and Justin drove down that afternoon to make sure the roof hadn’t fallen in or anything, the five of them spent the eleventh packing up their stuff, and on the twelfth they all handed in the keys to their flats and moved out to Whitethorn House, lock, stock and barrel. They don’t hang about, this lot.” He hoisted himself onto Costello’s desk, beside me, and hit Play on the remote.
Darkness; a click and rattle, like an old key turning; feet thumping on wood. “Sweet Jesus,” someone said. A finely modulated voice with a Belfast tinge: Justin. “The smell.”
“What are you being shocked about?” demanded a deeper voice, cool and almost accentless. (“That’s Daniel,” Frank said, next to me.) “You knew what to expect.”
“I blanked it out of my mind.”
“Is this thing working?” a girl asked. “Rafe, can you tell?”
“That’s our girl,” Frank said softly, but I already knew. Her voice was lighter than mine, alto and very clear, and the first syllable had hit me straight in the back of the neck, at the top of my spine.
“My God,” said a guy with an English accent, amused: Rafe. “You’re recording this?”
“Course I am. Our new home. Only I can’t tell if it’s doing anything, because I’m only recording black anyway. Does the electricity work?”
Another clatter of feet; a door creaked. “This should be the kitchen,” Daniel said. “As far as I remember.”
“Where’s the switch?”
“I’ve got a lighter,” said another girl’s voice. Abigail; Abby.
“Brace yourselves,” said Justin.
A tiny flame, wavering in the center of the screen. All I could see was one side of Abby’s face, eyebrow raised, mouth a little open.
“Jesus H. Christ, Daniel,” said Rafe.
“I did warn you,” said Justin.
“In fairness, he did,” said Abby. “If I remember, he said it was a cross between an archaeological site and the nastier bits of Stephen King.”
“I know, but I thought he was exaggerating as usual. I didn’t expect him to be understating.”
Someone—Daniel—took the lighter off Abby and cupped his hand around a cigarette; there was a draft coming from somewhere. His face on the wobbly screen was calm, unperturbed. He glanced up over the flame and gave Lexie a solemn wink. Maybe because I had spent so long staring at that photo, there was something astonishing about seeing them all in action. It was like being one of those kids in books who find a magic spyglass that lets them into the secret life of some old painting, enthralling and risky.
“Don’t,” said Justin, taking the lighter and poking gingerly at something on a rickety shelf. “If you want to smoke, go outside.”
“Why?” asked Daniel. “So I don’t smudge the wallpaper, or so I don’t stink up the curtains?”
“He’s got a point,” said Abby.
“What a bunch of wusses,” said Lexie. “I think this place is terrifantastic. I feel like one of the Famous Five.”
“Five Find a Prehistoric Ruin,” Daniel said.
“Five Find the Mold Planet,” said Rafe. “Simply spiffing.”
“We should have ginger cake and potted meat,” Lexie said.
“Together?” asked Rafe.
“And sardines,” said Lexie. “What is potted meat?”
“Spam,” Abby told her.
“Ew.”
Justin went over to the sink, held the lighter close and turned on the taps. One of them sputtered, popped and eventually let out a thin stream of water.
“Mmm,” said Abby. “Typhoid tea, anyone?”