Tana French: Broken Harbour

Richie ignored the texting, which was good, and watched the GPS instead. He said, “Out of town, yeah?”

“Brianstown. Heard of it?”

He shook his head. “Name like that, it’s got to be one of those new estates.”

“Right. Up the coast. It used to be a village called Broken Harbor, but it sounds like someone’s developed it since.” The wanker in the 4x4 had managed to get out of everyone’s way, and the traffic was moving again. One of the upsides of the recession: now that half the cars are off the roads, those of us who still have somewhere to go can actually get there. “Tell me something. What’s the worst thing you’ve seen on the job?”

Richie shrugged. “I worked traffic for ages, before Motor Vehicles. I saw some pretty bad stuff. Accidents.”

All of them think that. I’m sure I thought it too, once upon a time. “No, old son. You didn’t. That tells me just how innocent you are. It’s no fun seeing a kid with his head split open because some moron took a bend too fast, but it’s nothing compared to seeing a kid with his head split open because some prick deliberately smacked him off a wall till he stopped breathing. So far, you’ve only seen what bad luck can do to people. You’re about to take your first good look at what people can do to each other. Believe me: not the same thing.”

Richie asked, “Is this a kid? That we’re going to?”

“It’s a family. Father, mother and two kids. The wife might make it. The rest are gone.”

His hands had gone motionless on his knees. It was the first time I’d seen him absolutely still. “Ah, sweet Jaysus. What age kids?”

“We don’t know yet.”

“What happened to them?”

“It looks like they were stabbed. In their home, probably sometime last night.”

“That’s rotten, that is. That’s only bloody rotten.” Richie’s face was pulled into a grimace.

“Yeah,” I said, “it is. And by the time we get to the scene, you need to be over that. Rule Number One, and you can write this down: no emotions on scene. Count to ten, say the rosary, make sick jokes, do whatever you need to do. If you need a few tips on coping, ask me now.”

“I’m all right.”

“You’d better be. The wife’s sister is out there, and she’s not interested in how much you care. She just needs to know you’re on top of this.”

“I am on top of it.”

“Good. Have a read.”

I passed him the call sheet and gave him thirty seconds to skim it. His face changed when he concentrated: he looked older, and smarter. “When we get out there,” I said, once his time was up, “what’s the first question you’re going to want to ask the uniforms?”

“The weapon. Has it been found at the scene?”

“Why not ‘Any signs of forced entry?’”

“Someone could fake those.”

I said, “Let’s not beat around the bush. By ‘someone,’ you mean Patrick or Jennifer Spain.”

The wince was small enough that I could have missed it, if I hadn’t been watching for it. “Anyone who had access. A relative, or a mate. Anyone they’d let in.”

“That’s not what you had in mind, though, was it? You were thinking of the Spains.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“It happens, old son. No point pretending it doesn’t. The fact that Jennifer Spain survived puts her front and center. On the other hand, when it plays out like this, it’s usually the father: a woman just takes out the kids and herself, a man goes for the whole family. Either way, though, they don’t normally bother to fake forced entry. They’re way past caring about that.”

“Still. I figure we can decide that for ourselves, once the Bureau gets there; we won’t be taking the uniforms’ word for it. The weapon, though: I’d want to know about that straightaway.”

“Good man. That’s top of the list for the uniforms, all right. And what’s the first thing you’ll want to ask the sister?”

“Whether anyone had anything against Jennifer Spain. Or Patrick Spain.”

“Well, sure, but that’s something we’re going to ask everyone we can find. What do you want to ask Fiona Rafferty, specifically?”

He shook his head.

“No? Personally, I’d be very interested to hear what she’s doing there.”

“It says-” Richie held up the call sheet. “The two of them talked every day. She couldn’t get through.”

“So? Think about the timing, Richie. Let’s say they normally talk at, what, nine o’clock, once the hubbies are off to work and the kids are off to school-”

“Or once they’re in work themselves, the women. They could have jobs.”

“Jennifer Spain didn’t, or the sister’s problem would have been ‘She’s not in work,’ not ‘I couldn’t get through.’ So Fiona rings Jennifer at nine-ish, maybe half past eight at the earliest-up until then, they’d still be busy getting their day underway. And at ten thirty-six”-I tapped the call sheet-“she’s in Brianstown calling the uniforms. I don’t know where Fiona Rafferty lives, or where she works, but I do know Brianstown is a good hour’s drive away from just about anything. In other words, when Jennifer’s an hour late for their morning chat-and that’s an hour maximum , it could be a lot less-Fiona gets panicked enough to drop everything and haul her arse out to the back of beyond. That sounds a lot like overreacting to me. I don’t know about you, my man, but I’d love to know what had her knickers in such a twist.”

“She mightn’t be an hour away. Maybe she lives next door, just called round to see what the story was.”

“Then why drive? If she’s too far away to walk, then she’s far enough away that her going over there is odd. And here’s Rule Number Two: when someone’s behavior is odd, that’s a little present just for you, and you don’t let go of it till you’ve got it unwrapped. This isn’t Motor Vehicles, Richie. In this gig, you don’t get to say, ‘Ah, sure, it’s probably not important, she was just in a funny mood that day, let’s forget it.’ Ever.”

There was the kind of silence that meant the conversation wasn’t over. Finally Richie said, “I’m a good detective.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re going to be an excellent detective, someday. But right now, you’ve still got just about everything left to learn.”

“Whether I wear ties or not.”

I said, “You’re not fifteen, chum. Dressing like a mugger doesn’t make you a big daring threat to the Establishment; it just makes you a prat.”

Richie fingered the thin cloth of his shirt front. He said, picking his words carefully, “I know the Murder lads aren’t usually from where I’m from. Everyone else comes from farmers, yeah? Or from teachers. I’m not what anyone expects. I understand that.”

His eyes, when I glanced across, were green and level. I said, “It doesn’t matter where you come from. There’s nothing you can do about it, so don’t waste your energy thinking about it. What matters is where you’re going. And that, mate, is something you can control.”

“I know that. I’m here, amn’t I?”

“And it’s my job to help you get further. One of the ways you take charge of where you’re going is by acting like you’re already there. Do you follow me?”

He looked blank.

“Put it this way. Why do you think we’re driving a Beemer?”

Richie shrugged. “Figured you liked the car.”

I took a hand off the wheel to point a finger at him. “You figured my ego liked the car, you mean. Don’t fool yourself: it’s not that simple. These aren’t shoplifters we’re going after, Richie. Murderers are the big fish in this pond. What they do is a big deal. If we tool up to the scene in a beat-up ’95 Toyota, it looks disrespectful; like we don’t think the victims deserve our best. That puts people’s backs up. Is that how you want to start off?”