Chapter 11
It was gone three o’clock. Conway knew where the canteen was, poked around till she found some drudge scrubbing spotless steel, told him to make us food. He tried a hairy look but Conway’s beat his. I kept an eye on him while he slapped together ham and cheese sandwiches, make sure he didn’t spit in them. Conway went to a coffee machine, hit buttons. Snagged apples out of a crate.
We took the food outside. Conway led, to a low wall off to one side of the grounds, overlooking the playing field and the gardens below it. On the playing field little girls were running around swinging hockey sticks, PE teacher keeping up a string of motivational shouts. Trees threw down shadows that stopped them spotting us. Between the branch-stripes, the sun heated my hair.
‘Eat fast,’ Conway said, parking herself on the wall. ‘After this, we search their rooms for whatever book those words got cut out of.’
Meaning she wasn’t packing me back to Cold Cases, not yet. And she wasn’t heading back to base either. A look at the noticeboard, a few chats, we’d come for. Somewhere along the line it had turned into more. Those glimpses of something peeking out at us from behind what we were being told: neither of us wanted to leave without pulling it out into the open, getting a proper look.
Unless our girl was thick, the book wasn’t in her room. But a soft tip like this one – could be nothing, could be everything – it’s a rock and a hard place. Call in a full team, swarm the school grounds with searchers, come out with nothing or with some kid’s messing: you’re the squad joke and the gaffer’s budget-waster headache, can’t be trusted to make the judgement calls. Stick to whatever you and one tagalong can get done, miss the clue stuffed behind a classroom rad, miss the witness who could steer you home: you’re the fool who had it handed to you on a plate and threw it away, who didn’t think a dead boy was important, can’t be trusted to make the judgement calls.
Conway was playing it tight, playing it careful. Not that she’d care, but I agreed with that. If our girl was smart, and the odds said she was, we wouldn’t find the book either way. Stuffed in a bush a mile away by now, into a city-centre bin. If she was extra smart she’d made the card weeks ago, ditched the book then, waited till it was well gone before she set things moving.
We set out the food on the wall between us. Conway ripped the clingfilm open and went for her sandwich. Ate like it was fast fuel, no taste. Mine was better than I’d been expecting. Nice mayo and all.
‘You’re good,’ she said, through a mouthful. Not like it was a compliment. ‘Give them what they want. Tailor it special for each one. Cute.’
I said, ‘Thought that was my job. Get them comfy.’
‘They were that, all right. Next time maybe you can give them a pedicure and a foot massage, how’s that?’
I reminded myself: Just a few days, make your mark with the gaffer, wave bye-bye. Said, ‘I thought you were gonna come in, maybe. Push them a little.’
Conway flashed me a stare that said, You questioning me? I thought that was my answer, but after a moment she said, out to the playing field, ‘I interviewed the shite out of them. Last time.’
‘Those eight?’
‘All the kids. Those eight. All their year. All Chris’s year. All of them who could’ve known anything. A week in, the tabloids were getting their kacks in a knot, “Cops are going easy on the little rich kids, there’s strings being pulled, that’s why there’s been no arrest” – a couple of them said right out, practically, there was a cover-up. But there was nothing like that. I went at these kids same as I’d have gone at a bunch of knackers out of the flats. Exactly the same.’
‘I believe you.’
Her head came round fast, chin out. Looking for snide. I stayed steady.
‘Costello,’ she said, once she relaxed again, ‘Costello was only horrified. The face on him; like I was mooning the nuns. Almost every interview, he’d stop the questioning and pull me outside to give me shite about what did I think I was doing, did I want to kill my career before I even got started.’
I kept my mouth full. No comment.
‘O’Kelly, our gaffer, he was as bad. Called me into his office twice, for a bollocking: who did I think these kids were, did I think I was dealing with the same scum I grew up with, why wasn’t I spending my time looking into homeless guys and mental patients, did I know how many phone calls the commissioner was getting from pissed-off daddies, he was gonna buy me a dictionary so I could look up “tact” . . .’
I do tact. I said, mild, ‘They’re a different generation. They’re old-school.’
‘Fuck that. They’re Murder. They’re trying to get a killer. That’s the only thing that matters. Or that’s what I thought back then.’
Bitter sediment, running along the bottom of her voice.
‘By that time I’d no hassle telling Costello to shove it. O’Kelly, even. The whole case was going to fuck, with my name on it. I’d’ve done anything. But by that time it was too late. Wherever my shot was, in there, I’d missed it.’
I made some kind of noise, Been there. Concentrated on my sandwich.
Some cases are like that: dirty bastards. We all get them. But get one straight out of the gate, and that’s what people see when they look at you: bad luck walking.
Anyone got too close to Typhoid Conway, he’d get that taint all over him. People would stay away from him, too; the Murder lads would.
Just a few days.
‘So,’ Conway said. Swigged her coffee, balanced it on the wall. ‘Boils down to I’ve got a file full of complaints from rich guys, I don’t have Costello to back me up any more, and best of all, a year on I still don’t have a solve. O’Kelly gets this much of an excuse’ – finger and thumb, a hair apart – ‘he’s gonna kick my arse off this case, give it to O’Gorman or one of that shower of tossers. The only reason he hasn’t done it already is he hates reassigning: says the media or the defence can spin that as the initial investigation fucked up. But they’re on at him, O’Gorman and McCann, dropping the little hints about a fresh pair of eyes.’
That was why Houlihan. Not to protect the kids. To protect Conway.
‘This time I’m playing the long game. Those interviews weren’t a waste: we’ve narrowed it down. Joanne, Alison, Selena, Julia as an outside chance. It’s a start. Yeah, maybe we’d’ve got farther if I’d started pushing them. I can’t afford to chance it.’
One more snap at Joanne, and there it would’ve been: Daddy’s phone call, O’Kelly’s excuse, both of our arse-kick out of the door.
I felt Conway think it too. Didn’t want her thanking me. Not that she probably would have, but just in case:
I said, ‘Rebecca’s changed, since you were here last. Yeah?’
‘You mean I steered you wrong.’
‘I mean with all of Joanne’s lot, what you told me was bang on. With Rebecca, it was out of date.’
‘No shit. Last time, Rebecca could hardly open her mouth. Acted like she’d be happy to curl up and die, if that’d make us leave her alone. Teachers said she was like that, just shyness, she’d outgrow it.’
‘She’s outgrown it now, all right.’
‘Yeah. She’s got better-looking – just bones and braces, last year, looked about ten; now she’s starting to come into herself. That could’ve upped her confidence.’
I nodded at the school. ‘How about the rest of that lot? Have they changed?’
Conway glanced at me. ‘Why? You figure whoever knows something, it’s gonna show?’
This whole chat, this was a test; same as the interviews, same as the search. Half of working a case together is this, table-tennising it. If that clicks, you’re golden. The best partners tossing a case around sound like two halves of the same mind. Not that I was aiming that high here – smart money said no one had ever partnered like that with Conway, even if anyone had wanted to – but the click: if that wasn’t there, I was going home.
I said, ‘They’re kids. They’re not tough. You think they could live with that for a year, like it was nothing?’
‘Maybe, maybe not. Kids, if they can’t cope with something, they’ll file it away, act like it never existed. And even if they’ve changed, so what? This age, they’re changing anyway.’
I said, ‘Have they?’
She chewed and thought. ‘Heffernan’s gang, nah. Just more of the same old. Even bitchier, even more alike. Thick blond geebag, slutty blond geebag, nervy blond geebag, geebaggy blond geebag, end of story. And the three lapdogs, they’re even scareder of Heffernan than they were.’
‘We said before: someone was scared, or she wouldn’t be messing about with postcards.’
Conway nodded. ‘Yeah. And I’m hoping she’s scareder now.’ She threw back coffee, eyes on the hockey. One of the little girls took another one down, whack to the shins, vicious enough that we heard it. ‘Holly and her gang, though. Back before, there was something about them, yeah. They were quirky or whatever, yeah. Now, though, Orla’s an idiot but she’s right: they’re weird.’
It took me till then to put my finger on it, what was different about them, or some of it. This: Joanne and all hers were what they thought I wanted them to be. What they thought guys wanted them to be, grown-ups wanted them to be, the world wanted them to be.