Tana French - Broken Harbour

I was itching to shove back my chair and start circling the room, but I knew if I got any closer to Richie I was going to hit him, and I knew that would be bad even if I was having trouble remembering why. I stayed put. “Right. So you said. And once you talked to Dina, you figured you knew why. Not just that: you figured you had a free hand to play about with the evidence. That sucker, you thought, that burnt-out old lunatic, he’ll never work this out himself. He’s too busy hugging his pillow and sobbing about his dead mummy. Is that right, Richie? Is that about the size of it?”

“No. No. I thought…” He caught a quick, deep breath. “I thought maybe we were gonna be partners for a good while, like. I know that sounds like, who do I think I am, but I just… I felt like it was working. I was hoping…” I stared him out of it until he let the sentence fall away. Instead he said, “This week, anyway, we were partners. And partners means if you’ve got a problem, I’ve got a problem.”

“That would be adorable, only I don’t have a fucking problem, chum. Or at least, I didn’t, up until you decided to get smart with evidence. My mother has nothing to do with this. Do you understand? Is that sinking in?”

His shoulders twisted. “I’m only saying. I figured maybe… I can see why you wouldn’t like the idea of Jenny finishing the job.”

“I don’t like the idea of people getting fucking killed . By themselves or anyone else. That’s what I’m doing here. That doesn’t require some deep psychological explanation. The part that’s begging for a good therapist is the part where you’re sitting there arguing that we should help Jenny Spain take a header off a tall building.”

“Come on, man. That’s stupid talk. No one’s saying to help her. I’m just saying… let nature take its course.”

In a way, it was a relief; a small, bitter one, but a relief all the same. He would never have made a detective. If it hadn’t been this, if I hadn’t been stupid and weak and pathetic enough to see just what I wanted to see and let the rest slide by, sooner or later it would have been something else. I said, “I’m not David fucking Attenborough. I don’t sit back on the sidelines and watch nature take its course . If I ever caught myself thinking that way, I’d be the one finding myself a tall building.” I heard the vicious flick of disgust in my voice and saw Richie flinch, but all I felt was a cold pleasure. “Murder is nature. Hadn’t you noticed that? People maiming each other, raping each other, killing each other, doing all the stuff that animals do: that’s nature in action. Nature is the devil I’m fighting, chum. Nature is my worst enemy. If it isn’t yours, then you’re in the wrong fucking gig.”

Richie didn’t answer. His head was down and he was running a fingernail over the table in tense, invisible geometric patterns-I remembered him doodling on the window of the observation room, like it had been a long, long time ago. After a moment he asked, “So what are you planning on doing? Just hand in that envelope to the evidence room like nothing ever happened, take it from there?”

You , not we . I said, “Even if that was how I roll, I don’t have the option. When Dina got here this morning, I wasn’t in yet. She gave this to Quigley instead.”

Richie stared. He said, like the breath had been punched out of him, “Oh, fuck.”

“Yeah: oh, fuck. Believe me, Quigley’s got no intention of letting this slide. What did I say to you, just a couple of days ago? Quigley would love a chance to throw the pair of us under a bus. Don’t play into his hands. ”

He had gone even whiter. Some sadistic part of me, creeping out of its dark storeroom because I had no energy left to keep it locked away, was loving the sight of him. He asked, “What do we do?”

His voice shook. His palms were upturned towards me, like I was the shining hero who could fix this hideous mess, make it all go away. I said, “ We don’t do anything. You go home.”

Richie watched me, uncertain, trying to work out what I meant. The cold room had him shivering in his shirtsleeves, but he didn’t seem to notice. I said, “Get your things and go home. Stay there till I tell you to come back in. You can use the time to think about how you’ll justify your actions to the Super, if you want, although I doubt it’ll make much difference.”

“What are you going to do?”

I stood up, leaning my weight on the table like an old man. “That’s not your problem.”

After a moment, Richie asked, “What’ll happen to me?”

It was one small thing to his credit, that this was the first time he had asked. I said, “You’ll be reverted back to uniform. You’ll stay there.”

I was still staring down at my hands planted on the table, but in my peripheral vision I could see him nodding, repetitive meaningless nods, trying to take in everything that that meant. I said, “You were right. We worked well together. We would have made good partners.”

“Yeah,” Richie said. The tide of grief in his voice almost rocked me on my feet. “We would.”

He picked up his sheaf of reports and got up, but he didn’t move towards the door. I didn’t look up. After a minute he said, “I want to apologize. I know that counts for fuck-all, at this stage, but still: I’m really, really sorry. For everything.”

I said, “Go home.”

I kept staring at my hands, till they slipped out of focus and turned into strange white things crouched on the table, deformed and maggoty, waiting to pounce. Finally I heard the door close. The light raked at me from every direction, ricocheted off the envelope’s plastic window to spike at my eyes. I had never been in a room that felt so savagely bright, or so empty.

There have been so many of them. Run-down rooms in tiny mountain-country stations, smelling of mold and feet; sitting rooms crammed with flowered upholstery, simpering holy cards, all the shining medals of respectability; council-flat kitchens where the baby whined through a bottle of Coke and the ashtray overflowed onto the cereal-crusted table; our own interview rooms, still as sanctuaries, so familiar that blindfolded I could have put my hand on that piece of graffiti, that crack in the wall. They are the rooms where I have come eye to eye with a killer and said, You. You did this.

I remember every one. I save them up, a deck of richly colored collector’s cards to be kept in velvet and thumbed through when the day has been too long for sleep. I know whether the air was cool or warm against my skin, how light soaked into worn yellow paint or ignited the blue of a mug, whether the echoes of my voice slid up into high corners or fell muffled by heavy curtains and shocked china ornaments. I know the grain of wooden chairs, the drift of a cobweb, the soft drip of a tap, the give of carpet under my shoes. In my father’s house there are many mansions : if somehow I earn one, it will be the one I have built out of these rooms.

I have always loved simplicity. With you, everything’s black and white, Richie had said, like an accusation; but the truth is that almost every murder case is, if not simple, capable of simplicity, and that this is not only necessary but breathtaking, that if there are miracles then this is one. In these rooms, the world’s vast hissing tangle of shadows burns away, all its treacherous grays are honed to the stark purity of a bare blade, two-edged: cause and effect, good and evil. To me, these rooms are beautiful. I go into them the way a boxer goes into the ring: intent, invincible, home.

Jenny Spain’s hospital room was the only one I have ever been afraid of. I couldn’t tell whether it was because the darkness inside was honed sharper than I had ever touched, or because something told me that it hadn’t been honed at all, that those shadows were still crisscrossing and multiplying, and this time there was no way to make them stop.