The Likeness: A Novel (7 page)

“Which you could have told me over the phone,” I said.
“Ah,” Frank said, rummaging in his jacket pocket, “but I couldn’t have shown you these. Here we go: the Fantastic Four. Her housemates.” He pulled out a handful of photos and spread them on the table.
One of them was a snapshot, taken on a winter day, thin gray sky and a sprinkle of snow on the ground: five people in front of a big Georgian house, heads tilted together and hair blown sideways in a swirl of wind. Lexie was in the middle, bundled in that same peacoat and laughing, and my mind did that wild lurch and swerve again:
When was I ... ?
Frank was watching me like a hunting dog. I put the photo down.
The other shots were stills pulled off some kind of home video—they had that look, blurry edges where people were moving—and printed out in the Murder squad room: the printer always leaves a streak across the top right corner. Four full-length shots, four blown-up head shots, all taken in the same room against the same ratty wallpaper striped with tiny flowers. There was a huge fir tree, no decorations, caught in the corner of two of the shots: just before Christmas.
“Daniel March,” Frank said, pointing. “Not Dan, not God forbid Danny: Daniel. He’s the one who inherited the house. Only child, orphaned, from an old Anglo-Irish family. Grandfather lost most of their money in dodgy deals in the fifties, but there’s enough left to give Danny Boy a small income. He’s on a scholarship, so he doesn’t have fees to pay. Doing a PhD on, I kid you not, the inanimate object as narrator in early medieval epic poetry.”
“No idiot, then,” I said. Daniel was a big guy, well over six foot and built to match, with glossy dark hair and a square jaw. He was sitting in a wingbacked chair, delicately lifting a glass bauble out of its box and glancing up at the camera. His clothes—white shirt, black trousers, soft gray sweater—looked expensive. In the close-up his eyes, behind steel-rimmed glasses, were gray and cool as stone.
“Definitely no idiot. None of them are, but especially not him. You’ll need to watch your step around that one.”
I ignored that. “Justin Mannering,” Frank said, moving on. Justin had got himself wound up in a snarl of white Christmas lights and was giving them a helpless look. He was tall, too, but in a narrow, prematurely professorial way: short mousy hair already starting to recede, little rimless glasses, long gentle face. “From Belfast. Doing his PhD on sacred and profane love in Renaissance literature, whatever profane love may be; sounds to me like it would cost a couple of quid a minute. Mother died when he was seven, father remarried, two half brothers, Justin doesn’t go home much. But Daddy—Daddy’s a lawyer—still pays his fees and sends money every month. Nice for some, eh?”
“They can’t help it if their parents have money,” I said absently.
“They could get a bloody job, couldn’t they? Lexie gave tutorials, marked papers, invigilated exams—she worked in a café, till they moved out to Glenskehy and the commute got too complicated. Didn’t you work in college?”
“I waited tables in a pub, and it sucked. No way would I have done it if I’d had any choice. Getting your arse pinched by drunk accountants doesn’t necessarily make you a better person.”
Frank shrugged. “I don’t like people who get everything for free. Speaking of whom: Raphael Hyland, goes by Rafe. Sarky little fucker. Daddy’s a merchant banker, originally from Dublin, moved to London in the seventies; Mummy’s a socialite. They divorced when he was six, dumped him straight into boarding school, moved him every couple of years when Daddy got another raise and could afford to trade up.
Rafe
lives off his trust fund. Doing his PhD on the malcontent in Jacobean drama.”
Rafe was stretched out on a sofa with a glass of wine and a Santa hat, being purely ornamental and doing it well. He was ridiculously beautiful, in that way that makes a lot of guys feel a panicky urge to come out with snide comments in their deepest voices. He was the same general height and build as Justin, but his face was all bones and dangerous curves, and he was gold all over: heavy dark-blond hair, that skin that always looks faintly tanned, long iced-tea eyes hooded like a hawk’s. He was like a mask from some Egyptian prince’s tomb.
“Wow,” I said. “All of a sudden this gig looks more tempting.”
“If you’re good, I won’t tell your fella you said that. The guy’s probably a bender anyway,” Frank said, with crashing predictability. “Last but not least: Abigail Stone. Goes by Abby.”
Abby wasn’t pretty, exactly—small, with shoulder-length brown hair and a snub nose—but there was something about her face: the quirk of her eyebrows and the twist of her mouth gave her a quizzical air that made you want to look twice. She was sitting in front of a turf fire, threading popcorn for garlands, but she was giving the cameraperson—Lexie, presumably—a wry look, and the blur of her free hand made me think she had just whipped a piece of popcorn at the camera.
“She’s a very different story,” Frank said. “From Dublin, father was never on the scene, mother dumped her in foster care when she was ten. Abby aced her Leaving Cert, got into Trinity, worked her arse off and came out with a first. PhD on social class in Victorian literature. Used to pay her way by cleaning offices and tutoring schoolkids in English; now that she doesn’t have rent to pay—Daniel doesn’t charge them—she picks up a few bob giving tutorials in college and helping her professor with research. You’ll get on.”
Even caught off guard like that, the four of them made you want to keep looking. Partly it was the sheer luminous perfection of it all—I could practically smell gingerbread baking and hear carolers in the background, they were about one robin redbreast away from a greeting card. Partly it was the way they dressed, austere, almost Puritan: the guys’ shirts dazzling white, knife creases in their trousers, Abby’s long woolen skirt tucked demurely round her knees, not a logo or a slogan in sight. Back when I was a student, all our clothes always looked as if they had been washed once too often in a dodgy laundrette with off-brand detergent, which they had. These guys were so pristine it was almost eerie. Separately they might have looked subdued, even boring, in the middle of Dublin’s orgy of designer-label self-expression, but together: they had a cool, challenging quadruple gaze that made them not just eccentric but alien, something from another century, remote and formidable. Like most detectives—and Frank knew this, of course he did—I’ve never been able to look away from anything that I can’t figure out.
“They’re quite a bunch,” I said.
“They’re a weird bunch, is what they are, according to the rest of the English department. The four of them met when they started college, almost seven years ago now. Been inseparable ever since; no time for anyone else. They’re not particularly popular in the department—the other students think they’re up themselves, amazingly enough. But somehow our girl got in with them, almost as soon as she started at Trinity. Other people tried to make friends with her, but she wasn’t interested. She’d set her sights on this lot.”
I could see why, and I warmed towards her, just a little. Whatever else about this girl, she hadn’t had cheap taste. “What have you told them?”
Frank grinned. “Once she got to the cottage and passed out, the shock and the cold sent her into a hypothermic coma. That slowed down her heartbeat—so anyone who found her could easily have thought she was dead, right?—stopped the blood loss and prevented organ damage. Cooper says it’s ‘clinically ludicrous, but quite possibly plausible to those with no medical knowledge,’ which is fine by me. So far no one seems to have a problem with it.”
He lit up and blew smoke rings at the ceiling. “She’s still unconscious and it’s touch and go, but she might well pull through. You never know.”
I wasn’t about to rise to that. “They’ll want to see her,” I said.
“They already asked. Unfortunately, due to security concerns, we are unable to disclose her location at this time.”
He was enjoying this. “How’d they take it?” I asked.
Frank thought about that for a while, head leaned back on the sofa, smoking slowly. “Shaken up,” he said at last, “naturally enough. But there’s no way of knowing whether they’re all four shaky because she got stabbed, or whether one of them’s shaky because she might come round and tell us what happened. They’re very helpful, answer all our questions, no reluctance, nothing like that; it’s only afterwards that you realize they haven’t actually told you very much at all. They’re an odd bunch, Cass; hard to read. I’d love to see what you make of them.”
I swept the photos into a pile and passed them back to Frank. “OK,” I said. “Why did you need to come over and show me these, again?”
He shrugged, all wide innocent blue eyes. “To see if you recognized any of them. That could give a whole different angle—”
“I don’t. Come clean, Frankie. What do you want?”
Frank sighed. He tapped the photos methodically on the table, aligning the edges, and tucked them back into his jacket pocket.
“I want to know,” he said quietly, “if I’m wasting my time here. I need to know if you’re one hundred percent sure that what you want is to go back into work on Monday morning, to DV, and forget this ever happened.”
All the laughter and façade had gone out of his voice, and I knew Frank well enough to know that this was when he was most dangerous. “I’m not sure I have the option of forgetting about it,” I said, carefully. “This thing’s thrown me for a loop. I don’t like it, and I don’t want to get involved.”
“You’re sure about that? Because I’ve been working my arse off these last two days, pumping everyone in sight for every detail of Lexie Madison’s life—”
“Which would’ve needed doing anyway. Quit guilt-tripping me.”
“—and if you’re absolutely positive, then there’s no point in you wasting any more of your time and mine by humoring me.”
“You wanted me to humor you,” I pointed out. “Just for three days, no commitment, blah blah blah.”
He nodded, thoughtfully. “And that’s all you’ve been doing here: humoring me. You’re happy in DV. You’re sure.”
The truth is that Frank had—it’s a talent—hit a nerve. Maybe it was seeing him again, his grin and the fast rhythms of his voice snapping me straight back to when this job looked so shiny and fine I just wanted to take a running leap and dive in. Maybe it was the fizz of spring in the air, tugging at me; maybe it was just that I’ve never been any good at staying miserable for any length of time. But whatever the reason, I felt like I was awake for the first time in months, and suddenly the thought of going into DV on Monday—though I had no intention of telling Frank this—made me itch all over. I was working with this Kerryman called Maher who wore golf sweaters and thought any non-Irish accent was a source of endless amusement and breathed through his mouth when he typed, and all of a sudden I wasn’t sure I could make it through another hour of his company without throwing my stapler at his head.
“What’s that got to do with this case?” I asked.
Frank shrugged, stubbed out his cigarette. “Just curious. The Cassie Maddox I knew wouldn’t have been happy on some nice safe nine-to-five she could do in her sleep. That’s all.”
Suddenly and fiercely, I wanted Frank out of my flat. He made it feel too small, crowded and dangerous. “Yeah, well,” I said, picking up the wineglasses and taking them over to the sink. “Long time no see.”
“Cassie,” Frank said behind me, in his gentlest voice. “What happened to you?”
“I found Jesus Christ as my Personal Savior,” I said, slamming the glasses into the sink, “and he doesn’t approve of fucking with people’s heads. I got a brain transplant, I got mad cow disease, I got stabbed and I got older and I got sense, you can call it whatever you like, I don’t
know
what happened, Frank. All I know is I want some bloody peace and quiet in my life for a change, and this fucked-up case and this fucked-up idea of yours are unlikely to give me it. OK?”
“Hey, fair enough,” Frank said, in an equable voice that made me feel like an idiot. “It’s your call. But if I promise not to go on about the case, can I get another glass of wine?”
My hands were shaking. I turned on the tap hard and didn’t answer.
“We can catch up. Like you said, long time no see. We’ll bitch about the weather, I’ll show you photos of my kid and you can tell me all about your new fella. What happened to Whatsisname who you were seeing before, the barrister? I always thought he was a little square for you.”
Undercover happened to Aidan. He dumped me when I kept breaking appointments, wouldn’t tell him why and wouldn’t tell him what I did all day. He said I cared more about the job than about him. I rinsed out the glasses and shoved them onto the draining rack.
“Unless you need time on your own, to think this over,” Frank added, solicitously. “I can understand that. It’s a big decision.”
I couldn’t help it: after a second, I laughed. Frank can be a little bollocks when he feels like it. If I threw him out now, it would be as good as saying I was considering his wacko idea. “OK,” I said. “Fine. Have all the wine you want. But if you mention this case once more, I’m going to give you a dead arm. Fair enough?”
“Beautiful,” Frank said happily. “Usually I have to pay for that kind of thing.”
“For you, I’ll do freebies any time.” I threw the glasses back to him, one by one. He dried them on his shirt and reached for the wine bottle.
“So,” he said. “What’s our Sammy like in the scratcher?”
We finished off the first bottle and got started on the second. Frank gave me the Undercover gossip, the stuff that other squads never hear. I knew exactly what he was doing, but it still felt good, hearing the names again, the jargon, the dangerous in-jokes and the fast, truncated professional rhythms. We played do-you-remember: the time I was at a party and Frank needed to get me some piece of info, so he sent another agent to play the rejected suitor and do a Stanley Kowalski under the window (
“Lexiiiiiie!”
) until I came out; the time we were having an update session on a bench in Merrion Square and I saw someone from college heading our way, so I called Frank an old pervert at the top of my lungs and flounced off. I realized that, whether I wanted to or not, I was enjoying having Frank there. I used to have people over all the time—friends, my old partner, sprawled on the sofa and staying up too late, music in the background and everyone a little tipsy—but it had been a long time since anyone but Sam had been to my flat, a longer time since I had laughed like this, and it felt good.