Ryan - 04 - Broken Harbour Page 24

  That got me a disgusted glance. Plenty of people take me for a pompous git way too fond of the sound of his own voice, which is absolutely fine with me. Go ahead and dismiss me; go right ahead and drop your guard.

  “What I’m saying, son, is that you are, metaphorically speaking, a bunny. If you can point us at something bigger, off you hop. Otherwise, your fuzzy little head’s going over our mantelpiece.”

  “Point you at what?”

  The flare of aggression in his voice would have told me, all on its own, that he didn’t need to ask. I ignored it. “We’re on the hunt for info, and you’re the very man to give it to us. Because when you were picking a house for your bit of breaking and entering, you struck it lucky. As I’m pretty sure you’ve noticed, your little nest looks straight down into the kitchen of Number Nine Ocean View Rise. Like you had your very own reality-show channel, playing twenty-four-seven.”

  “World’s most boring reality-show channel,” Richie said. “Would you not have found, like, a strip club? Or a bunch of girls that go around topless?”

  I pointed a finger at him. “We don’t know it was boring, now do we? That’s what we’re here to find out. Conor, my man, you tell us. The people who live at Number Nine: boring?”

  Conor turned the question over, testing for dangers. In the end he said, “A family. Man and woman. Little girl and little boy.”

  “Well, no shit, Sherlock, pardon my French. That much we’ve worked out for ourselves; there’s a reason they call us detectives. What are they like? How do they spend their time? Do they get on? Is it snuggles or screaming matches down there?”

  “Not screaming matches. They used to . . .” That grief stirring again, dark and massive, under his voice. “They’d play games.”

  “What kind of games? Like Monopoly?”

  “Now I see why you picked them,” Richie said, rolling his eyes. “The excitement, yeah?”

  “Like once they built a fort in that kitchen, cardboard boxes and blankets. Played cowboys and Indians, all four of them; kids climbing all over him, her lipstick for war paint. Evenings, him and her used to sit out in the garden, after the kids were in bed. Bottle of wine. She’d rub his back. They’d laugh.”

  Which was the longest speech we’d heard him make. He was dying to talk about the Spains, gagging for the chance. I nodded away, pulled out my notebook and my pen and made squiggles that could have been notes. “This is good stuff, Conor my man. This is exactly what we’re after. Keep it coming. You’d say they’re happy? It’s a good marriage?”

  Conor said quietly, “I’d say it was a beautiful marriage. Beautiful.”

  Was. “Never saw him do anything nasty to her?”

  That snapped his head round towards me. His eyes were gray and cold as water, amid the swollen red. “Like what?”

  “You tell me.”

  “He used to bring her presents all the time: small stuff, fancy chocolate, books, candles—she liked candles. They’d kiss when they passed in the kitchen. All those years together, and they were still mad about each other. He’d have died sooner than hurt her. OK?”

  “Hey, fair enough,” I said, raising my hands. “A man’s got to ask.”

  “There’s your answer.” He hadn’t blinked. Under the stubble his skin had a rough, windburned look, like he had spent too much time in cold sea air.

  “And I appreciate it. That’s what we’re here for: to get the facts straight.” I made a careful note in my book. “The kids. What are they like?”

  Conor said, “Her.” The grief surged in his voice, close to the surface. “Like a little doll, little girl in a book. Always in pink. She had wings she’d wear, fairy wings—”

  “‘She’? Who’s ‘she’?”

  “The little girl.”

  “Oh, come on, fella, don’t play games. Of course you know their names. What, they never yelled to each other in the garden? The mum never called the kids in for dinner? Use their names, for God’s sake. I’m too old to keep all this him-her-she-he stuff straight.”

  Conor said quietly, like he was being gentle with the name, “Emma.”

  “That’s right. Go on about Emma.”

  “Emma. She loved stuff around the house: putting on her little apron, making Rice Krispie buns. She had a little chalkboard; she’d line up her dolls in front of it and play teacher, teach them their letters. Tried to teach her brother, too, only he wouldn’t stay still long enough; knocked over the dolls and legged it. Peaceful, she was. Happy-natured.”

  Was again. “And her brother? What’s he like?”

  “Loud. Always laughing, shouting—not even words, just shouting to make noise, because that was so funny it creased him up. He—”

  “His name.”

  “Jack. He’d knock over Emma’s dolls, like I said, but then he’d come help her pick them back up, kiss them better. Give them sips of his juice. Once Emma was home sick, a cold or something: he brought her stuff all day long, his toys, his blanket. Sweet kids, both of them. Good kids. Great.”

  Richie’s feet shifted, under the table: he was working hard to let that go by. I tapped my pen off my teeth and examined my notes. “Let me tell you something interesting that I’ve noticed, Conor. You keep saying ‘used to.’ They used to play family games, Pat used to bring Jenny presents . . . Did something change?”

  Conor stared at his reflection in the one-way glass like he was measuring a stranger, volatile and dangerous. He said, “He lost his job. Pat.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He was there during the day.”

  And so had Conor been, which didn’t exactly point to him being a productive little worker bee. “No more cowboys and Indians after that? No more cuddles in the garden?”

  That cold gray flash again. “Being out of work wrecks people’s heads. Not just him. Plenty of people.”

  The quick leap to the defense: I couldn’t tell whether that was on Pat’s behalf or his own. I nodded thoughtfully. “Is that how you’d describe him? Head-wrecked?”

  “Maybe.” That sediment of wariness was starting to build up again, stiffening his back.

  “What gave you that impression? Give us a few examples.”

  A one-shouldered jerk that could have been a shrug. “Don’t remember.” The finality in his voice said he wasn’t planning to.

  I leaned back in my chair and took leisurely fake notes, giving him time to settle. The air was heating up, pressing around us dense and scratchy as wool. Richie blew out air loudly and fanned himself with his top, but Conor didn’t seem to notice. The coat was staying on.

  I said, “That’s going back a few months, Pat losing his job. When did you start spending time out at Ocean View?”

  A second’s silence. “A while back.”

  “A year? Two?”

  “Maybe a year. Maybe less. I didn’t keep track.”

  “And how often do you get up there?”

  A longer silence, this time. The wariness was starting to crystallize. “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  Shrug.

  “I’m not looking for a stamped time sheet here, Conor. Just give us a ballpark. Every day? Once a week? Once a month?”

  “Couple of times a week, maybe. Less, probably.”

  Which meant every other day, at least. “What time? Day or night?”

  “Nights, mostly. Sometimes daytime.”

  “What about night before last? Did you head up to your little holiday home?”

  Conor leaned back in his seat, folded his arms and focused on the ceiling. “I don’t remember.”

  End of conversation. “OK,” I said, nodding. “You don’t want to talk about that just yet, fine with us. We can talk about something else instead. Let’s talk about you. What do you do, when you’re not kipping in
abandoned houses? Got a job?”

  Nothing. “Ah, for God’s sake, man,” Richie said, rolling his eyes. “Like pulling teeth. What d’you think we’re gonna do? Arrest you for being in IT?”

  “Not IT. Web design.”

  And a web designer would have known more than enough about computers to wipe the Spains’. “See, Conor? How hard was that? Web design’s nothing to be ashamed of. There’s good money in it.”

  A humorless sniff of a laugh, up at the ceiling. “You think?”

  “Recession,” Richie said, snapping his fingers and pointing at Conor. “Am I right? You were doing grand, all up and coming and web-designing away, and then the crash came and bang, just like that, on the dole.”

  That hard almost-laugh again. “I wish. I’m self-employed. No dole for me; when the work went, the money went.”

  “Shit,” Richie said suddenly, eyes widening. “Are you homeless, man? Because we can give you a hand there. I’ll make a few calls—”

  “I’m not bloody homeless. I’m grand.”

  “No reason to be embarrassed. These days there’s loads of people—”

  “Not me.”

  Richie looked skeptical. “Yeah? D’you live in a house or a flat?”

  “Flat.”

  “Where?”

  “Killester.” Northside: just right for a regular commute up to Ocean View.

  “Sharing with who? Girlfriend? Flatmates?”

  “No one. Just me. All right?”

  Richie turned up his hands. “Only trying to help.”

  “I don’t need your help.”

  “I’ve got a question, Conor,” I said, twirling my pen between my fingers and watching it with interest. “Your flat got running water?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “I’m a cop. I’m nosy. Running water?”

  “Yeah. Hot and cold.”

  “Electricity?”

  Conor said, “For fuck’s sake,” to the ceiling.

  “Mind your language, son. Got electricity?”

  “Yeah. Electricity. Heating. A cooker. Even a microwave. What are you, my mum?”

  “Couldn’t be further from it, fella. Because my question is, if you’ve got a nice cozy bachelor pad with all mod cons and even a microwave, why the hell are you spending your nights pissing out the window of a freezing rattrap in Brianstown?”

  There was a silence. I said, “I’m going to need an answer, Conor.”

  His chin set hard. “Because. I like it.”

  Richie stood up, stretched and started moving around the edges of the room, in the loose-kneed, bobbing lope that says Trouble on any backstreet. I said, “That’s not going to do the job, fella. Because—and stop me if this isn’t news to you—two nights ago, when you don’t remember what you were doing, someone got into the Spains’ house and murdered the lot of them.”

  He didn’t bother to pretend that came as a shock. His mouth tightened like a vicious cramp had wrenched through him, but nothing else moved.

  I said, “So, naturally, we’re interested in anyone who has links to the Spains—especially anyone whose link is what you might call out of the ordinary, and I’d say your playhouse qualifies there. You could even say we’re very interested. Am I right, Detective Curran?”

  “Fascinated,” Richie said, from behind Conor’s shoulder. “Is that the word I’m after, yeah?” He was making Conor edgy. The bad-news walk wasn’t intimidating him, nothing like that, but it was breaking his concentration, keeping him from slamming his silence shut around himself. I realized that I was liking working with Richie, more and more.

  “‘Fascinated’ would work, all right. Even ‘obsessed’ wouldn’t be out of place. Two little kids are dead. Personally, and I don’t think I’m alone here, I’m willing to do whatever it takes to put away the cock-sucking bastard who killed them. I’d like to think any decent member of society would do the same.”

  “Dead right,” said Richie approvingly. The circles were getting tighter, faster. “Are you with us on that, Conor, yeah? You’re a decent member of society, aren’t you?”

  “Haven’t got a clue.”

  I said pleasantly, “Well, let’s find out, shall we? We’ll start with this: in the course of your year or so of breaking and entering—you didn’t keep track, of course, you just liked it out there—did you happen to notice anyone unsavory hanging around Ocean View?”

  Shrug.

  “Is that a no?”

  Nothing. Richie sighed noisily and started skimming the sides of his shoe soles off the linoleum on each step, with a horrible squealing noise. Conor winced. “Yeah. It’s a no. I saw no one.”

  “What about the night before last? Because we need to cut the crap, Conor: you were out there. See anyone interesting?”

  “I’ve got nothing to tell you.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “You know, Conor, I doubt that. Because I’m only seeing two options here. Either you saw what happened, or you are what happened. If it’s Door Number One, then you need to start talking right now. If it’s Door Number Two . . . well, that’s the only reason why you would want to keep your mouth shut. Isn’t it?”

  People tend to react, when you accuse them of murder. He sucked his teeth, stared at a thumbnail.

  “If you can see an option I’ve missed, old son, then by all means share it with us. All donations gratefully accepted.”

  Richie’s shoe squealed inches behind Conor, and he jumped. He said, and there was an edge to his voice, “Like I said: I’ve got nothing to tell you. Pick your own options; not my problem.”

  I swept my pen and notebook out of my way and leaned forward across the table, into his face, leaving him nowhere else to look. “Yeah, it is, old son. It bloody well is. Because me and Detective Curran and the entire police force of this country, every single one of us is out to bring down the fucker who slaughtered this family. And you’re right smack in our crosshairs. You’re the guy who’s on the spot for no good reason, who’s been spying on the Spains for a year, who’s filling us up with bullshit when any innocent man in the world would be helping us out . . . What do you think that says to us?”

  Shrug.

  “It says you’re a murdering scumbag, fella. I’d say that’s very much your problem.”

  Conor’s jaw tightened. “If that’s what you want to think, there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  “Jesus,” Richie said, rolling his eyes. “Self-pity much?”

  “Call it what you want.”

  “Come on. There’s loads you can do about it. You could give us a hand, just for starters: tell us everything you saw going down around the Spains’ gaff, hope something in there helps us out. Instead, you’re gonna sit here and sulk like some kid who’s got caught smoking hash? Grow up, man. Seriously.”

  That got Richie a filthy look, but Conor wasn’t biting. He kept his mouth shut.

  I eased back into my seat, adjusted the knot in my tie and changed the note to something gentler, almost curious. “Do we have it wrong, Conor? Maybe it wasn’t like it looks. We weren’t there, me and Detective Curran; there could have been a lot more to it than we realize. This might not be murder at all; it could have been manslaughter. I can even see how it could have started out as self-defense, and then things got out of hand. I’m willing to accept that. But we can’t do that unless you tell us your side of the story.”

  Conor said, to the air somewhere over my head, “There’s no fucking story.”

  “Oh, but there is. That’s not really up for debate, is it? The story might be ‘I wasn’t in Brianstown that night, and here’s my alibi.’ Or it might be ‘I was out there and I saw someone dodgy hanging about, and here’s a description.’ Or ‘The Spains caught me breaking in, they went for me and I had to defend myself.’ Or ‘I was up in m
y hide getting good and stoned when everything went black, and the next thing I remember I was sitting in my bathtub, covered in blood.’ Any one of those could fly with us, but we need to hear it. Otherwise, we’re going to assume the worst. Surely you can see that. Can’t you?”

  Silence, so packed with stubborn that you could feel it elbowing you. There are detectives, even nowadays, who would have fixed this problem with a few rabbit punches to the kidneys, either on a toilet trip or while the video camera was mysteriously on the blink. I had been tempted once or twice, when I was younger, had never given in—handing out slaps is for morons like Quigley, who have nothing else in their arsenal—and I had had that under control for a long time. But in that thick, overheated stillness I understood for the first time exactly how fine the line was, and how very easily crossed. Conor’s hands holding the edge of the table were long-fingered and strong, big capable hands with the tendons standing out and the cuticles bitten bloody. I thought of what they had done, of Emma’s cat pillow and the gap in her front teeth and Jack’s soft pale curls, and I wanted to pound a lump hammer down on those hands until they were crunching pulp. The thought of doing it made the blood shake in my throat. It horrified me, how deep in my gut I wanted it, how simple and natural a desire it seemed.

  I tamped it down hard and waited until my heart rate subsided. Then I sighed and shook my head, more in sorrow than in anger. “Conor, Conor, Conor. What do you think this is going to accomplish? Tell me that, at least. Do you seriously believe we’re going to be so impressed by your little act that we’ll send you off home and forget the whole thing? ‘I like a man who sticks to his guns, old son, don’t you worry about those nasty murders’?”