The Secret Place (59 page)

‘No. I just didn’t know what to do. Sorry I’m not some kind of
genius
.’

I’d got to Holly before, from this angle; Conway was banking on getting to her again. Mackey was paying attention.

‘Like you just said, though, you’re not some kind of idiot, either. You wouldn’t freeze up just because you had to deal with something all by yourself. You’re not a baby. Are you?’ It was working. Holly had her arms folded, starting to knot into a furious ball. ‘I think you went to Selena, told her you knew about Chris. I think she told you she was planning on getting back with him. And I think you went,
Fuck no.
Made a chance to get hold of Selena’s phone, texted Chris to meet up. Probably you just wanted him to leave Selena alone, did you?’

Holly had her face turned away from Conway, staring out the window.

‘How’d you try to convince him? You said before, Chris wasn’t happy that he was never going to get anywhere with you. Did you offer him a swap: leave Selena alone, I’ll make up for it?’

That almost lifted her out of the chair. ‘I’d rather have my skin peeled off than do anything with Chris.
Jesus!
’

Nothing from Mackey. Holly hadn’t even clocked him on that, and she would have, if she’d hooked up with Chris: talking about your sex life in front of Daddy, that had to get some reaction. She was telling the truth: she’d never touched Chris.

Conway said, ‘Then how’d you go at him?’

Holly bit down on her lip, angry at herself: she’d been got. Turned her face away again, started the ignoring from scratch.

‘Whatever you tried, you gave it a few shots, it didn’t work. Finally you made one more appointment with him. For the sixteenth of May.’

Holly biting her lip harder, stop herself answering. Mackey didn’t move, but he was pulled like a crossbow on the edge of it.

‘This time you weren’t planning on any persuading. You got out early, you got your weapon ready, and when Chris showed up—’

Holly whipped round on Conway. ‘Are you
stupid
? I
didn’t kill Chris
. We can stay here all night and you can come up with four million different reasons I could’ve killed him, and I still won’t have
done
it. Do you actually think I’m going to get confused enough that in the end I’ll just be like, “OhmyGod, you know what, maybe I totally
did
climb up a tree and drop a piano on his head because I hated his poncy haircut”?’

Mackey was grinning. ‘Nicely put,’ he told her.

Holly and Conway didn’t even hear him, too focused on each other. ‘If you didn’t,’ Conway said, ‘then you know who did. Why did you hide that phone?’

‘I told you. I didn’t want Selena—’

‘You said she hadn’t been in touch with Chris for weeks before he died. The phone would’ve showed that. What’s incriminating there?’

‘I didn’t say it was
incriminating
, I said you’d have given her
hassle
. Which you would have.’

‘You’re a cop’s kid, you know better than to conceal evidence in a murder case, but you do it to save your mate a bit of
hassle
? Nah. No way.’ Holly tried to say something, but Conway’s voice came down hard on top of hers. ‘One of you four had been texting Chris from that phone, after he split up with Selena. Arranging meetings with him. One of you four had arranged to meet him
the night he died
. Now that’s incriminating, amn’t I right? That’s something you’d want to cover up.’

‘Whoa whoa whoa,’ Mackey said, lifting a hand. ‘Hang on a minute there.
That’s
your evidence? Texts sent from someone else’s phone?’

Conway said, to Holly, ‘A hidden phone, that you had access to. You and no one else that we know of, except Selena, and we’re satisfied Selena didn’t send the texts.’

Mackey said, ‘A phone kept in a room that four girls share. Are the texts signed in Holly’s handwriting, yeah? Got her prints on them?’

I copped, finally, why Mackey had told me that touching little tale about how Holly wound up boarding. He had been telling me how much she loved her friends. Anything we got out of her, there was how he was going to shoot it down:
Holly’s protecting her friends. Prove she’s not
.

Hard to be sure of anything, ever, with Mackey. I was sure of this: he would throw an innocent sixteen-year-old under a bus without thinking twice, if it would save his kid.

A hundred per cent positive of this: he’d throw me and Conway.

Conway kept ignoring him. Said to Holly, ‘You’re the one who knew the phone needed to disappear. None of the others: just you. And the killer had been deleting the meeting texts as she went; you’d never have known they existed, unless you were the one who sent them.’

Mackey said, ‘Or unless someone told her, or unless she guessed, or unless she overreacted to what she already knew – God forbid a teenage girl should overreact, am I right?’

Conway looked at him then. Said, ‘I’m done interviewing you. You answer one more question, we’re getting a different appropriate adult.’

Mackey thought her over. Glint in his eye, raking her, would’ve had me twitching; Conway didn’t notice or didn’t care. Just waited for him to finish up and answer her.

‘Seems to me,’ he said, and stood up, ‘that you and I both need a moment to clear our heads. I’m going out for a smoke. I think you should join me.’

‘I don’t smoke.’

‘I’m not looking for a chance to give you shite about your attitude, Detective. That I could do right here. I’m suggesting that a deep breath and a bit of fresh air might do us both good; get us back on the right foot. When we come back, I promise not to answer any more questions for Holly. How’s that?’

I moved. This was it; I couldn’t tell what or how, but I could feel it, yelling warnings. Conway glanced at me; I thought
Careful
, loud as I could. She glanced at Mackey’s smile – open, straightforward, just the right bit sheepish.

Said, ‘Smoke fast.’

‘You’re the boss.’

I followed them to the doorway. When Mackey arched an eyebrow at me, I said, ‘I’ll wait out here.’

His grin said
Good boy, you protect yourself from the scary little girl.
I didn’t bite. He matched Conway’s pace down the corridor, so their steps fading away sounded like one person’s. Shoulder to shoulder, they looked like partners.

Holly hadn’t watched them go. Every muscle of her was still clamped tight; there was a ferocious crease between her eyebrows. She said, ‘Do you honest to God think I killed Chris?’

I stayed in the doorway. ‘What would you think, if you were me?’

‘I
hope
I’d be good enough at my job that I could tell when someone’s not a murderer.
Jesus.
’

Her adrenaline was firing, touch her and the electric zap would’ve kicked you across the room. I said, ‘You’re hiding something. That’s all I know. I’m not good enough to telepathically guess what it is. You need to tell us.’

Holly threw me a look I couldn’t read, maybe scorn. Jerked her ponytail tight, hard enough to hurt. Then she shoved back her chair and went over to the model school. Unwound a length, expertly, from a spool of fine copper wire; chopped it off with a little pair of wire cutters,
snick
in the bleached air.

She leaned one hip against the table, flipped tweezers out of an empty bedroom. Twirled the wire deftly around the end of a thin pencil, adjusted with the tip of a fingernail when it slid out of true. Her fingers moved like a dancer’s, tucking, swirling, weaving, like a spell-caster’s. The rhythm and the focus steadied her, smoothed that forehead crease away. Steadied me along with her, till part of me even forgot to tense against whatever Mackey was trying to do with Conway.

In the end Holly held out the pencil towards me. Perched on top of it: a hat, wide-brimmed, barely big enough for a fingertip, decorated with one copper-wire rose.

I said, ‘Beautiful.’

Holly smiled, a small detached smile, down at the hat. Spun it on the pencil.

She said, ‘I wish I’d never brought you that fucking postcard.’ Not angry, not wishing for an excuse to kick me in the nuts, not any more. Things that went too deep to leave room for that.

I said, ‘Why? You knew there’d be hassle; you had to expect all this. What’s changed?’

Holly said, ‘I’m not allowed to talk to you till my dad gets back.’ She slipped the hat off the pencil, edged it between wires and dropped it over a tiny bedpost. Then she went back to her chair and sat down. Pulled her hoodie sleeves down over her hands and watched the moon.

Fast feet on the stairs: Conway, stepping out of the layers of shadow down the corridor, cool evening caught on her clothes. She said to me, ‘Mackey’s hanging on for another smoke – in case it’s a while before his next chance, he says. He says you can join him if you want. You might as well; he’s not going to come in till you do.’

She wasn’t looking at me. Gave me a bad feeling, couldn’t put my finger on it. I waited a second, trying to catch her eye, but all I got was Holly alert and scanning back and forth between the two of us, trying to snatch something. I left.

The tree line had turned black, swooping and dipping like a bird’s flightline against deep blue sky. I’d never seen it in that light before, but it looked familiar all the same. The school was starting to feel like I’d been there forever, like I belonged.

Mackey was leaning against the wall. He lit his smoke, waggled it at me:
Look, see, I really did need one!

‘So,’ he said. ‘Interesting strategy you’ve got going on here, young Stephen. Some might say downright insane, but I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.’

‘What strategy?’

Double-take, amused. ‘Hello? Remember me? We’ve met before. We’ve
worked together
. Your aw-shucks-little-old-me act won’t fly here.’

I said, ‘What strategy are we talking about?’

Mackey sighed. ‘OK. I’ll play. Hooking up with Antoinette Conway. I’d love to know: what’s your plan there?’

‘No plan. I got the chance to work a murder, I took it.’

Mackey’s eyebrow went up. ‘I hope for your sake you’re still playing innocent, kid. How much do you know about Conway?’

‘She’s a good D. Works hard. Going places, fast.’

He waited. When he realised I was done: ‘That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?’

I shrugged. Seven years on and Mackey’s eye could still make me squirm, still turn me into a kid gone insta-thick at an oral exam. ‘Up till today, I didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about her.’

‘There’s a grapevine. There’s always gossip. You’re above that kind of thing?’

‘Not above it. Just never picked up anything about Conway.’

Mackey sighed, shoulders sagging. Ran a hand through his hair, shook his head. ‘Kid. Stephen.’ His voice had gone gentle. ‘In this gig, you need to make friends. Have to. Otherwise you won’t last.’

‘I’m lasting grand. And I’ve got friends.’

‘Not the kind I’m talking about. You need
real
friends, kid. Friends who have your back. Who tell you the things you need to know. Who don’t let you prance straight into a shit tornado without even giving you a heads-up.’

‘Like you?’

‘I’ve done OK for you so far. Haven’t I?’

‘I said thanks.’

‘And I’d like to think you meant it. But I don’t know, Stephen. I’m not feeling the love.’

‘If you’re my best buddy,’ I said, ‘go ahead and tell me what you think I need to know about Conway.’

Mackey leaned back against the wall. He wasn’t bothering to smoke his fag; it had done its job. He said, ‘Conway’s a leper, kid. She didn’t mention that?’

‘Hasn’t come up.’ I didn’t ask why she was a leper. He was going to tell me anyway.

‘Well, she’s not a whiner, anyway. I suppose that’s one plus.’ He flicked ash. ‘You’re no thicko. You had to have some clue that Conway’s never going to win Miss Congeniality. You didn’t mind teaming up with that?’

‘Like I said. I’m not looking for a new best friend.’

‘I’m not talking about your social life. Conway: her first week on Murder, she’s bending over writing something on the whiteboard, and this idiot called Roche smacks her arse. Conway whips round, grabs his hand, bends one finger back till his eyes pop out. Tells him next time he touches her, she’ll break it. Roche calls her a bitch. Conway gives his finger one more jerk, Roche yells, Conway lets go of him and goes back to the whiteboard.’

‘I can see how that would make Roche into a leper. Not Conway.’

Mackey laughed out loud. ‘I missed you, kid. I really did. I’d forgotten how cute you are. You’re right: in a perfect squad, that’s how it should work. And in some squads, in some years, it actually would. But Murder’s not a cuddly place right now. They’re not bad lads, most of them, in their own way; just a bit rugby-club, bit in-crowd, bit no-neck. If Conway had said something smart, or laughed along, or grabbed Roche’s arse the next time she caught him bending, she’d’ve been grand. If she’d just made
this
much effort to fit in. But she didn’t, and now the rest of the squad thinks she’s an uppity ball-breaking humourless bitch.’