Tana French - The Secret Place

I’d never been anywhere like this before, but it felt like it took me back. It had that pull, all down the length of your bones. It made me think words I hadn’t thought since I was a young fella reading my way through the Ilac Centre library, thinking that would get me in between walls like these. Deliquescent. Numinous. Halcyon. Me, long-legged and clumsy and daydreaming, far off my patch so no one would see me, giddy with thrill like I was doing something bold.

‘We’ll start with the headmistress,’ Conway said, on the landing, when we could get side by side again. ‘McKenna. She’s a cow. First thing she asked me and Costello, when we got on the scene? Could we stop the media naming the school. Do you believe that? Fuck the dead kid, fuck gathering info to catch whoever did it: all she cared about was that this made her school look bad .’

Girls dodging past us, ‘’Scuse me!’ high and breathless. A couple of them threw looks back over their shoulders at one of us, or both; most were moving too fast to care. Lockers banging open. Even the corridors were lovely, high ceilings and plaster mouldings, soft green and paintings on the walls.

‘Here,’ Conway said, nodding at a door. ‘Put your game face on.’ And pushed the door open.

A curly blonde turned around from a filing cabinet, hitting the big-smile button, but Conway said, ‘Howya,’ and kept walking, past her and through the inner door. She closed it behind us.

Quiet, in there. Thick carpet. The room had been done up with plenty of time and money, to look like someone’s old-fashioned study: antique desk with green leather on top, full bookshelves everywhere, heavy-framed oil painting of a nun who was no oil painting. Only the fancy executive chair and the sleek laptop said office .

The woman behind the desk put down a pen and stood up. ‘Detective Conway,’ she said. ‘We’ve been expecting you.’

‘No flies on you,’ Conway said, tapping her temple. She picked up two straight chairs from against a wall, spun them both to the desk and sat down. ‘Nice to be back.’

The woman ignored that. ‘And this is…?’

‘Detective Stephen Moran,’ I said.

‘Ah,’ said the woman. ‘I believe you spoke to the school secretary earlier today.’

‘That was me.’

‘Thank you for keeping us informed. Miss Eileen McKenna. Headmistress.’ She didn’t put out her hand, so I didn’t either.

‘Sometimes we like to bring in a fresh pair of eyes,’ Conway said. Her accent had got rougher. ‘A specialist. Yeah?’

Miss McKenna raised her eyebrows, but when no one gave her more, she didn’t ask. Sat down again – I waited to sit till she had – and folded her hands on the green leather. ‘And what can I do for you?’

Big woman, Miss Eileen McKenna. Not fat, just big, the way some women get in their fifties after years of being the boss: all out front, hoisted up high and solid, ready to sail through anything and not get wet. I could see her in a breaktime corridor, girls skittering away in front of her before they even knew she was coming. Lots of chin; lots of eyebrow. Iron hair and steely glasses. I don’t know women’s gear but I know quality, and the greeny tweed was quality; the pearls weren’t from Penney’s.

Conway said, ‘How’s the school getting on?’

Leaning back in her chair, legs sprawled, elbows out. Taking up as much of the office as she could. Prickly as fuck. History there, or just chemistry.

‘Very well. Thank you.’

‘Yeah? Seriously? ’Cause I remember you telling me the whole place was about to go…’ Nosedive move with her hand, long whistle. ‘All those years of tradition and whatever, down the tubes, if us plebs insisted on doing our jobs. Here was me feeling guilty. Nice to see it all turned out grand after all.’

Miss McKenna said – to me, leaving Conway out – ‘As I’m sure you can imagine, most parents were disturbed by the thought of letting their daughters stay in a school where a murder had been committed. The fact that the murderer remained uncaught didn’t improve matters.’

Thin smile at Conway. Nothing back.

‘Ironically, neither did the ongoing police presence and the constant interviews – possibly they should have helped everyone to feel that the situation was under control, but in fact they prevented any return to normality. The persistent media intrusion, which the police were too busy to curb, exacerbated the problem. Twenty-three sets of parents removed their daughters from the school. Almost all the others threatened to, but I was able to persuade them that it would not be in their daughters’ best interests.’

I bet she had. That voice: like Maggie Thatcher turned Irish, shoulder-barging the world into its place with no room for argument. Made me feel like I should apologise quick, if I could work out what for. It’d take a parent with balls of steel to contradict that voice.

‘For several months it was touch and go. But St Kilda’s has survived more than a century of various ups and downs. It has survived this.’

‘Lovely,’ said Conway. ‘While it was surviving, anything come up that we should know?’

‘If anything had, we would have contacted you immediately. On which note, Detective, I should be asking you the same question.’

‘Yeah? Why’s that?’

‘I assume,’ Miss McKenna said, ‘that this visit is connected to the fact that Holly Mackey left school without permission, this morning, to speak to you.’

She was talking to me. I said, ‘We can’t go into details.’

‘I wouldn’t expect you to. But, just as you have the right to know anything that might be crucial to your job – hence the fact that I have always given consent for you to speak with the students – I have a right, even an obligation, to know anything that might be crucial to mine.’

Just the right amount of threat. ‘I appreciate that. You can be sure I’ll tell you if anything relevant comes up.’

Glint off the glasses. ‘With all due respect, Detective, I’m afraid I’ll have to be the judge of what is and isn’t relevant. It’s impossible for you to make that decision for a school and a girl about which you know nothing.’

That test-vibe drilling in from both sides, this time. Miss McKenna leaning in to see if I could be pushed; Conway watching, leaving me to it, to see the same thing.

I said, ‘It’s not the perfect answer, no. But it’s the best we can do.’

Miss McKenna eyed me up some more. Copped there was no point in pushing harder. Smiled at me instead. ‘Then we shall have to rely on your best.’

Conway shifted, getting comfortable. Said, ‘Why don’t you tell us about the Secret Place.’

Outside, the bell exploded again. Faint yelps, more running feet, classroom doors closing; then silence.

Wariness curling like smoke in Miss McKenna’s eyes, but her face hadn’t changed. ‘The Secret Place is a noticeboard,’ she said. Took her time, picked her words. ‘We established it in December, I believe. The students pin cards on it, using images and captions to convey their messages anonymously – many of the cards are very creative. It gives the students a place to express emotions that they don’t feel comfortable expressing elsewhere.’

Conway said, ‘A place where they get to slag off anyone they don’t like, no worries that they’ll get in hassle for bullying. Spread any rumour they want, no tracing it back. Maybe I’m just too thick to get it, maybe your young ladies would never do anything that common, but this seems like one of the worst ideas I’ve heard in a long time.’ Piranha grin. ‘No offence.’

Miss McKenna said, ‘We felt it was the lesser of two evils. Last autumn, a group of girls set up a website that fulfilled the same function. The kind of behaviour you describe was, in fact, rife. We have one student whose father took his own life a few years ago. The site was brought to our attention by her mother. Someone had posted a photo of the girl in question, with the caption “If my daughter was this ugly I’d kill myself too.”’