Tana French - The Secret Place

I said, ‘That’s not naïve. That’s deliberate. And a place like this, things come from the top down. If the headmistress says everything’s perfect, and no one’s allowed to say it’s not… That’s not good.’

Conway’s head turning to look at me, full on and curious, like she was seeing something new. It felt good, walking side by side with a woman whose eyes met mine level, whose stride was the same length as mine. Felt easy. For a second I wished we liked each other.

She said, ‘Not good for the investigation, you mean? Or just not good?’

‘Both, yeah. But I meant just not good. Dangerous.’

I thought I had a slagging coming, for being dramatic. Instead she nodded. She said, ‘Something was that, all right.’

Round a bend in the path, out from thick trees and into a dapple of sun. Conway said, ‘That over there. That’s where the flowers came from.’

Blue, a blue that changed your eyes like you’d never seen blue before. Hyacinths: thousands of them, tumbling down a soft slope under trees, like they were being poured out of some great basket with no bottom. The smell could have set you seeing things.

Conway said, ‘I put two uniforms on that flowerbed. Going through every stalk, looking for broken-off ones. Two hours, they were there. Probably they still hate my guts, but I don’t give a fuck, ’cause they found the stems. Four of them, right about there, near the edge. The Bureau matched the break patterns to the flowers on Chris’s body. Not a hundred per cent definite, but near enough.’

That brought it home to me, that bed. Here, in this place that looked like nothing bad could ever happen in all the world: just last time those flowers bloomed, Chris Harper had come here looking for something. He must have smelled this, clearest thing in the dark around him. Last thing left, when everything else had dissolved away.

I asked, ‘Where was he?’

Conway said, ‘There.’ Pointed.

Maybe thirty feet off the path, up the slope, across short grass and past bushes clipped into neat balls: a grove of those same tall maybe-cypress trees, dense, dark, circled round a clearing. The grass in the middle had been left to grow long and wild. Haze of seed-heads, floating over it.

Conway took us around the side of the flowerbed and up. The slope pulled in my thighs. The air in the clearing was cooler. Deep.

I said, ‘How dark was it?’

‘Not. Cooper – you know Cooper, yeah? the pathologist? – Cooper said he died around one in the morning, give or take an hour or two either way. It was a clear night, half-moon, and the moon would’ve been highest a little after one. Visibility was about as good as it gets, for the middle of the night.’

Things moved in my head. Chris straightening with his hands full of blue, squinting to make out the quick shape in the moonlight glade, his girl, or…? And side by side with that, slipsliding in and out, the opposite. Someone stock-still in a shadow with their feet among flowers, her feet? his feet?, watching Chris’s face turn from side to side in the white among the cypress trees, watching him wait, waiting for him to stop watching.

Meanwhile, Conway was waiting and watching me. She reminded me of Holly. Neither of them would’ve liked that, but the narrowed slant to the eye, like a test, like a game of Snakes and Ladders: go careful: right move and you’ll be let in one more little step, wrong move and you’re back to square one.

I said, ‘What angle did the hoe hit him at?’

Right question. Conway took me by the arm, moved me a couple of yards nearer the middle of the clearing. Her hand was strong; not I’m-detaining-you cop, not I-fancy-you girl, just strong; well able to fix a car, or punch someone who needed punching. She turned me facing down to the flowers and the path, my back to the trees.

‘He was about here.’

Something buzzed, a bumblebee or a faraway lawnmower, I couldn’t tell; the acoustics were all swirl and ricochet. Seed-heads waved around my shins.

‘Someone came up behind him, or got him to turn away. Someone standing about here.’

Close behind me. I twisted my head around. She lifted the imaginary hoe over her left shoulder, two-handed. Brought it down, her whole body behind it. Somewhere behind the chirpy spring-sounds, the swish and thud shivered the air. Even though she was holding nothing, I flinched.

The corner of Conway’s mouth went up. She held up her empty hands.

I said, ‘And he went down.’

‘Got him here.’ She put the edge of her hand against the back of my skull, high up and to the left of the centre line, slanting up from left to right. ‘Chris was a couple of inches shorter than you: five foot ten. The killer wouldn’t’ve had to be tall. Over five foot, under six, was all Cooper could say from the angle of the wound. Probably right-handed.’

Her feet rustling, as she moved back from me. ‘The grass,’ I said. ‘Was it like this back then?’

Right question again, good boy. ‘Nah. They let it grow afterwards – some kind of memorial thing or the place spooks the groundskeepers, I don’t know. No one sees this part, so I guess it doesn’t ruin the school’s image . Back then, though, the grass was like the rest: short. If you had soft shoes, you could sneak across it without getting heard, no problem.’

And without leaving shoeprints, or at least none that the Bureau could use. The paths were pebbled: no prints there, either.

‘Where’d you find the hoe?’

‘Back in the shed, where it belonged. We spotted it because it matched what Cooper said about the weapon. The Bureau took about five seconds to confirm it. She – he, she, whatever – she’d tried to clean off the blade, smacked it into the earth over there a couple of times’ – the ground under one of the cypresses – ‘rubbed it on the grass. Smart; smarter than wiping it down with a cloth, then you’ve got the cloth to get rid of. But there was still plenty of blood left.’

‘Any prints?’

Conway shook her head. ‘The groundskeepers’. No one else’s epithelials, either, so no touch DNA. We figured she wore gloves.’

‘“She,”’ I said.

Conway said, ‘That’s what I’ve got. A load of shes and not a lot of hes. Back last year, one theory was it was some pervert, snuck in here to crack one off watching the girls’ windows or playing with their tennis rackets or whatever; Chris came in to meet someone, caught the guy out. Doesn’t fit the evidence – what, the guy had his mickey in one hand and a hoe in the other? – but a lot of people liked it anyway. Better than thinking it was some cute little rich girl. From a beautiful school like this.’

The slant to the eye again. Testing. A cross-beam of sun lightened her eyes to amber, like a wolf’s.

I said, ‘It wasn’t an outsider. Not with that postcard. If it had been, why all the secrecy? Why wouldn’t the girl just ring you up and tell you what she knew? If she’s not making up the lot, then she knows something about someone inside the school. And she’s scared.’

Conway said, ‘And we missed her first time round.’

A grim layer stamped on her voice. Not just hard on other people, Conway.

‘Maybe not,’ I said. ‘They’re young, these girls. If one of them saw something, heard something, she might not have copped what it meant; not at the time. Specially if it had to do with sex, or relationships. This generation know all the facts, they’ve seen the porn sites, probably they know more positions than you and me put together; but when it comes to the real thing, they’re miles out of their depth. A kid could see something and know it was important, but not understand why. Now she’s a year older, she’s got a bit more of a clue; something makes her look back, and all of a sudden it clicks together.’