The Trespasser (35 page)

Gary says, ‘Left a missus – well, give or take: he never married your one he ran off with, seeing as he wasn’t divorced from Aislinn’s mam, but they were still together – and three kids.’

‘How much did you tell Aislinn?’

He blows out air. ‘Yeah, that wasn’t an easy one. I figured it’d be a bit of a shock to the missus and the half-sibs, Daddy’s past life turning up on their doorstep – and since the dad wasn’t around for Aislinn to talk to, it’s not like knowing the whole story would’ve got her what she wanted anyway. But I wasn’t going to just throw the poor girl back onto the street – “Off you go and keep looking for your dad, good luck with that!” She had a right to know her father was dead.’

Steve turns up his palms with a flourish:
Exactly.
I mime wanking. ‘So you told her.’

‘Yeah. Just that much: that the system showed him as deceased. And that I didn’t have any other info.’

‘How’d she take it?’

‘Not great.’ I can hear the grimace in Gary’s voice. ‘To be honest, she went bloody mental – which was fair enough, I suppose. She was hyperventilating, for a minute there I thought I was going to have to call an ambulance, but I had her hold her breath and she got it together again.’

‘No better man for it,’ I say.

‘Yeah, well. Sort of. She was still frantic – shaking, whimpery noises, all that. She wanted to know why no one had told her – had the lads been lying to her ma or were they really that useless, how had they missed something that I’d found in ten minutes flat . . . I told her the lads were good Ds, but sometimes an investigation hits a wall no matter how good you are, and info from other sources can take a while to make it onto the system . . .’

It’s instinct, as automatic as blinking when sand flies in your eye: a civilian accuses another cop of fucking up, you deny it. Whether she’s right is beside the point. You open your mouth and a lovely reassuring cover story comes out, smooth as butter. It’s never bothered me before – it’s not like a grovelling apology would have done Aislinn any good, or done anything at all except waste everyone’s time – but today everything feels dodgy, ready to blow up in my face at the wrong touch; nothing feels like it’s on my side.

I say, ‘Did she believe you?’

Gary makes a noncommittal noise. ‘Not sure. I just kept talking, trying to talk her down. I gave it loads about how at least now she had closure so she could move on, how she had every right to make a wonderful life for herself; and I went on about how her dad sounded like a lovely man and he’d obviously loved her a lot, and whatever had happened I was sure it had broken his heart to leave her . . . That kind of stuff. She didn’t look convinced – to be honest, I’m not sure she heard most of it – but I got her calmed down in the end.’ That voice, doing its job; he could’ve read her the duty roster and it would have done the same. ‘Once she was fit to drive, I sent her home. That’s it. See? There was nothing in there that could’ve made her think gangs.’

‘Doesn’t sound like it,’ I say, at Steve, who shrugs again. His eyes are on a guy hurrying towards the main gate, too far away to recognise in this light, but the guy is fighting the wind for his scarf and doesn’t even glance our way. ‘Thanks, Gar. I appreciate it.’

‘So can you go ahead and leave the other Ds alone? If you won’t do it for your own sake, do it because you owe me one. I don’t need them jumping down my throat about passing you their case files.’

Meaning Gary doesn’t need me getting my cooties all over him. Part of me understands completely: no one wants to catch the plague. The rest of me wants to go over there, deck the fucker and tell him to grow a pair.

‘Fair enough,’ I say. ‘Can you send that young fella back to pick up your file?’

‘No problem. He’ll be over to you now.’

‘Nice one. Thanks again. Catch you next week for those pints, yeah?’

‘Next week’s a bit mental. I’ll give you a ring when things settle down, OK? Good luck with the case. Sorry I wasn’t more use to you.’ And Gary’s gone, back to the squad room with his mug of real coffee, to take slaggings about his prostate and sing musicals and go after happy endings.

He won’t be ringing me, and it sticks in deeper and sharper than I was ready for. I pretend putting my phone back in my pocket needs my full concentration. Steve bends to mess around with his pile of alibi paper. I can’t tell whether he’s actually being tactful, in which case I might have to kill him.

‘So,’ I say briskly, ‘the gang theory’s out, at least as far as Des Murray’s concerned. If the Ds had had suspicions they didn’t want to put in the file, Gary would’ve known. Des Murray went off with his bit on the side. End of story.’

‘Sure,’ Steve says, straightening up. ‘But Aislinn didn’t know that.’

‘So? Gary’s right: there’s no reason she would have been thinking gangs. None. Zero.’

‘Not if she was thinking straight, no. But she wasn’t thinking— No, Antoinette,
listen
.’ He’s leaning in close, talking fast. ‘Aislinn was a fantasist. Remember what Lucy said, about when they were kids? When things were bad, Ash came up with mad stories to make them better. She had to, didn’t she? In real life, all she did was get pushed around by other people’s decisions. The one place where she had any power, the
one
place where she got to make the calls, was her imagination.’

He’s forgotten all about being cold. ‘So she built up this whole fantasy: she was going to go on a quest and find her daddy, and she’d throw herself into his arms and her life would be OK again. That fantasy was what kept her going. And then your mate Gary blew it right out of the water.’

I say, ‘You make it sound like he torched a poor helpless kiddie’s favourite dolly. Aislinn was a grown adult – and by that time, her ma was dead. She could do whatever she wanted with her life. She didn’t need the Daddy fantasy any more; it was only holding her back. Gary did her a favour.’

Steve’s shaking his head. ‘Aislinn hadn’t a clue how to do what she wanted with real life. She’d had no practice. You heard Lucy: she was only starting to play with that in the last year or two – and even then it was fantasy stuff, doing herself up like something out of a magazine and going to fancy clubs . . . So when Gary killed off her reunion fantasy, she would’ve needed a new one, ASAP. And a gang story would’ve been perfect.’

His face is lit up with it; he can see the whole thing. You have to love the guy. Where I’m seeing a dead end, he’s seeing a brilliant new twist to his amazing story. I wish I could take my holidays inside Steve’s head.

‘Maybe she decided her dad had been a witness to a gang hit, so he needed to get out of town fast, before the gang tracked him down – something like that. Plenty of drama, plenty of thrills, a great reason why her dad left and why he never came back to find her—’

‘Doesn’t explain why he couldn’t Facebook her, somewhere along the way,’ I point out. ‘“Hiya, sweetums, Daddy’s alive, love you, bye.” ’

‘He was scared to, in case the gang was watching her Facebook account and they went after her. Yeah,
I
know it’s bollix’ – when I snort – ‘but Aislinn might not have. There’s a million ways she could’ve explained that away to herself. And you know the next chapter of the fantasy? The next chapter’s going to star Aislinn as the brave daughter who goes into the heart of gangland to learn her da’s secret. Guaranteed.’

‘Learn it how? By walking into some radge pub and asking if anyone here knows anything about Desmond Murray?’

Steve’s nodding fast. Another civil servant trudges past, but he doesn’t even notice; too hypnotised by his sparkly story. ‘Probably not far off. Anyone who reads the news would be able to figure out a few names of gang pubs. Aislinn goes into one for a drink—’

‘You think she had balls that size?
I
wouldn’t be happy doing that, and I can handle myself a lot better than she could.’ This idea is annoying me: us, two grown-ass professional Ds, chasing some idiot’s Nancy Drew fantasy all around town. My job is dealing with stories that actually happen, getting them by the scruff of the neck and hauling them clawing and biting to the right ending. Stories that only happened inside someone’s pretty little head, floating bits of white fluff that I’ve got no way to grab hold of: those aren’t supposed to be my problem.

‘It’s not about having big balls. It’s about how deep she was in the fantasy. If that’s her place, where she’s in control, then she’s not going to believe it could go wrong. Like a little kid – that’s what Lucy said, remember? In Aislinn’s head, she’s the heroine. The heroine might get into hassle, but she always gets herself out again.’

‘And then what? She just sits in the pub hoping the right guy comes up to her?’

‘The way she looks,
someone
’s going to come up to her. No question. She flirts away, comes back another night, gets to know his pals; once she finds a guy who looks promising, she targets him. Actually—’ Steve’s hand whips up, fingers snapping. ‘You know something? Maybe that’s why she looked like that. We’ve been thinking she lost the weight and got the new clothes just because she wanted a fresh start, but what if it was part of a bigger plan?’

‘Huh,’ I say, considering that. It actually gives me my first fleck of respect for Aislinn. Anyone who turns herself into Barbie because that’s the only way she feels worthwhile needs a kick up the hole, but someone who does it for a revenge mission deserves a few points for determination.

‘The timeline would fit,’ Steve says. ‘According to Lucy, Aislinn started the makeover stuff two years ago, give or take. That’d put it not long after she talked to Gary and had to change her plan—’ That finger-snap again. He’s practically bouncing up and down. ‘Jesus: her gaff. You know how she had no family photos? This could be why. She didn’t want her boyfriend recognising a photo of her dad.’ Steve’s eyes are shining. I’m actually starting to hope we never pull a really good case; the excitement would make him widdle on my leg. ‘And that’s why she ditched the scumbag for Rory: she finally figured out there was nothing he could tell her. It all fits, Antoinette. It does.’

‘Or else,’ I say, ‘the whole gang thing is bollix straight through. Once she talked to Gary and found out that her hugs and hot cocoa with Daddy weren’t gonna happen, Aislinn took down the family photos because they wrecked her buzz, and she decided she just wanted a nice happy-ever-after fantasy. The kind where the ugly duckling gets a makeover, turns into a beautiful swan and finds herself a handsome prince. Except the handsome prince turned out to be a big bad ogre. That fits, too.’

But nothing’s gonna wet-blanket Steve now. Way before I finish, he’s shaking his head. ‘Then what about Lucy? You think she made up the whole secret-boyfriend thing out of nothing? All the twitchiness, she was just putting that on?’

‘Maybe,’ I say. That spark of respect for Aislinn is fading; this whole theory is pissing me off worse and worse. I press my heel down to stop one knee jittering. ‘I’ve got feelers out; if Aislinn was hanging with gangsters, I’ll hear about it. And when Lucy gets up the guts to come in, we’ll squeeze her harder, see what comes out. She won’t be as happy about withholding information when it’s all official and on the record. Until then—’

Steve is woodpecker-tapping two fingers off the wall; he’s frustrated too, with me for not getting it. ‘Until when? What if she doesn’t come in?’

‘We give her a couple more days to get good and stressed, and then we go get her. Until then, we stick to what we’ve got. Not what you think might just maybe be out there somewhere.’

He doesn’t look happy. I say, ‘What else do you want to do? Take a pub crawl around the gang holes yourself, ask all the boys if they were banging our vic?’

‘I want to pull mug shots of Cueball Lanigan’s lot, run them past the barman in Ganly’s. He might remember more than he thinks.’

I shrug. ‘Knock yourself out. Me, I’m gonna concentrate on how Aislinn’s bullshit could actually come in useful.’ I already have my phone out, swiping for Sophie’s number.

‘What? Who?’

Sophie’s phone goes to voicemail. ‘Hey, it’s Antoinette. If your computer guy hasn’t cracked the password on that folder yet, I might have a couple of ideas for him. Try variations on “Desmond Murray” or “Des Murray”, and stuff to do with “dad” or “daddy” – finding Dad, looking for Dad, missing Dad. Our vic’s father did a runner when she was a kid, and our info says she might have been looking for him. It’s worth a shot, anyway. Thanks.’

I hang up. ‘Nice one,’ Steve says. He’s looking a lot happier with me. ‘If that folder’s full of pics of dodgy geezers,
then
will you—’

‘OhmyGod,’ I say, wide-eyed. ‘What if Aislinn thought her da had actually
become
a gangster? What if she thought he’d, like, dumped some poor schlub’s body with his ID on it, and he was alive and well under a whole new evil identity?’ And when Steve opens his mouth and leaves it that way, trying to figure out if I’m serious: ‘You spa, you. Come on and get this case meeting done.’

We need to go back into the incident room separately, and let the cold and the outdoors smell wear off us first. I head for the jacks and slather on the hand soap till I reek of fake herbal goodness; Steve goes to the canteen for a cup of coffee. When we wander back to our desks, nice and casual, Breslin is pouring smarm down the phone at one of Rory’s exes and barely glances up at either of us.