“For definite?”
“Totally.”
“Jesus,” Sam said, on a deep rush of breath. “Thank God. That prick Mackey heard the whole thing, did you know that? Didn’t ring me, didn’t say a word, just waited for this morning and headed down to you. Left me sitting on my arse in the incident room, like an eejit. If this case doesn’t wind up soon, I’m going to end up splattering that fucker.”
Sam almost never swears unless he’s full-on furious. “Fair enough,” I said. “I’m not surprised.”
A moment’s pause. “The others are there, right?”
“More or less.”
“I’ll keep it short. We sent Byrne to watch Naylor’s house, have a look at him when he came home from work this evening, and the man’s face is in bits—the three of ye did a good job, by the sound of things. He’s my fella, all right. I’m pulling him in tomorrow morning—into the Murder squad, this time. I don’t care about spooking him, not any more. If he gets itchy feet, I can hold him on breaking and entering. Do you want to come in, have a look?”
“Sure,” I said. A big part of me wanted to wuss out: spend tomorrow in the library with the others around me, eat lunch in the Buttery watching rain fall outside the windows, forget all about what might be happening just up the road, while I still could. But whatever this interview turned out to be, I needed to be there for it. “What time?”
“I’ll catch him before he goes to work, have him in here from about eight. Come whenever you like. Are you . . . You’re OK with coming into the squad?”
I’d forgotten even to worry about that. “No problem.”
“He fits the profile, doesn’t he? Bang on.”
“I guess,” I said, “yeah.” In the sitting room there was a comical groan from Rafe—he had obviously just made a mess of his hand—and a burst of laughter from the others. “You bastard,” Rafe was saying, but he was laughing too, “you sly bastard, I fall for it every time . . .” Sam is a good interrogator. If there was something to get out of Naylor, odds were he would get it.
“This could be it,” Sam said. The hope in his voice made me flinch, the intensity of it. “If I play my cards right tomorrow, this could be the end of it. You could be coming home.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Sounds good. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I love you,” Sam said, keeping his voice down, right before he hung up. I stood there in the cool hallway for a long moment, biting down on my thumbnail and listening to the sounds from the sitting room—voices and the snap of cards, clink of glass, the crackle and whoosh of the fire—before I went back inside.
“Who was that?” Daniel asked, looking up from his hand.
“That detective,” I said. “He wants me to come in to them.”
“Which one?”
“The cute blond one. O’Neill.”
“Why?”
Everyone was looking at me, motionless as startled animals; Abby had stopped with a card pulled halfway out of her hand. “They’ve found some guy,” I said, sliding back into my chair. “About last night. They’re going to question him tomorrow.”
“You’re joking,” Abby said. “Already?”
“Go on, get it over with,” Rafe told Daniel. “Say I told you so. You know you want to.”
Daniel paid no attention. “But why you? What do they want?”
I shrugged. "They just want me to have a look at him. And O’Neill asked if I remembered anything more, about that night. I think he’s hoping I’ll take one look at this guy and point a trembling finger and go, ‘That’s him! The man who stabbed me!’ ”
“One of you has seen way too many made-for-TV movies,” said Rafe.
“Have you?” Daniel asked. “Remembered anything more?”
“Sweet fuck-all,” I said. My imagination, or did some wire-fine tension drop out of the air? Abby changed her mind about her hand, tucked the card back in and pulled out another; Justin reached for the wine bottle. “Maybe he’ll get someone to hypnotize me—do they do that in real life?”
“Get him to program you to get some work done every once in a while,” Rafe said.
“Oo. Could he? Program me to get my thesis done faster?”
“Possibly he could, but I doubt he will,” Daniel said. “I’m not sure evidence obtained under hypnosis is admissible in court. Where are you meeting O’Neill?”
“His work,” I said. “I would have tried to get him to meet up in the pub, come for a pint in Brogan’s, or something, but I don’t think he’d go for it.”
“I thought you hated Brogan’s,” Daniel said, surprised.
I was opening my mouth for a fast backpedal—Duh, course I do, I was only messing . . . It was nothing about Daniel that saved me; he was looking at me over his cards with calm, unblinking, owlish eyes. It was the puzzled little drop of Justin’s eyebrows, the cock of Abby’s head: they had no idea what he was talking about. Something was wrong.
“Me?” I said, puzzled. “I don’t mind Brogan’s. I never really think about it; I only said it ’cause it’s right across from where he works.”
Daniel shrugged. “I must have confused it with somewhere else,” he said. He was smiling at me, that extraordinary sweet smile, and I felt it again: that sudden slackening in the air, the sigh of release. “You and your quirks; I can’t keep track.” I made a face at him.
“What are you doing flirting with cops, anyway?” Rafe demanded. “That’s just wrong on so many levels.”
“What? He’s cute.” My hands were shaking; I didn’t dare pick up my cards. It had taken a second to sink in: Daniel had tried to trap me. I had been a fraction of a second from bouncing happily down his false trail.
“You’re incorrigible,” Justin said, topping up my wine. “Anyway, the other one is much more attractive, in a bastard-y kind of way. Mackey.”
“Oh, ewww,” I said. Those fucking onions—I was sure, from that smile, that I had called this one right, but whether it had been enough to reassure Daniel; with him you could never tell . . . “No way. Bet you anything he’s got a hairy back. Back me up here, Abby.”
“Different strokes,” Abby said comfortably. “And you’re both incorrigible.”
"Mackey’s a prat,” Rafe said. “And O’Neill’s a yokel. And it’s diamonds and it’s Abby’s go.”
I managed to pick up my cards and tried to work out what the hell to do with them. I watched Daniel all evening, as carefully as I could without getting caught, but he was the same as always: gentle, polite, distant; paying no more attention to me than to anyone else. When I put my hand on his shoulder, on my way past to get another bottle of wine, he reached up and covered it with his own hand, squeezed hard.