Tana French - The Secret Place

If you get in an appropriate adult, then it’s for reasons. I got the social worker in with Holly because I was on my own with a teenage girl, and because of her da. Conway wanted Houlihan for reasons.

Wanted the art room for reasons, too. ‘That,’ she said, at the door, jerking her chin at the Secret Place across the corridor. ‘When our girl walks past that, she’s gonna look.’

I said, ‘Unless she’s got serious self-control.’

‘If she did, she wouldn’t’ve put up that card to begin with.’

‘She had enough self-control to wait a year.’

‘Yeah. And now it’s cracking.’ Conway pushed open the art-room door.

The art room was cleaner-fresh, blackboard and long green tables washed bare. Gleaming sinks, two potter’s wheels. Easels, wooden frames stacked in a corner; smell of paint and clay. The back of the room was tall windows, looking out over the lawn and the grounds. I felt Conway remembering art class, one roll of paper and a handful of hairy paints.

She spun three chairs into an aisle, in a rough circle. Pulled a handful of pastels out of a drawer and went between tables scattering them, shoving chairs off kilter with her hip. Sun turned the air bright and hot-still.

I stayed by the door, watching. She said, like I’d asked, ‘I fucked up, last time. We did the interviews in McKenna’s office, had McKenna be the appropriate adult. Three of us sitting in a row behind her desk like a parole board, staring some kid out of it.’

A last glance down the aisles. She turned to the blackboard, found a piece of yellow chalk and started scribbling nothing.

‘Costello’s idea. Make it formal, he said, make it like being called in to the headmistress, only way worse. Put the fear of God into them, he said. Sounded right, made sense – just kids, just little girls, used to doing what they’re told, crank up the authority high enough and they’ll crack, right?’

She tossed the chalk on the teacher’s desk and rubbed out the scribbles, leaving snippets and swipe-marks. Specks of chalk-dust whirled in the sun all round her. ‘Even then, I knew it was wrong. Me sitting there like I’d a poker up my arse, knowing every second a little more of our chance was going out the window. But it went fast, I couldn’t put my finger on how to do it any different, then it was too late. And Costello… even if it was my name on the case, wasn’t like I could tell him to shove it.’

She ripped bits off a roll of blank paper, crumpled them, threw them without checking where they landed. ‘In here, they’re on their own turf. Nice and chilled, nothing formal, no need to get the guard up. And Houlihan’s the type, kids spend the whole class asking her the French for “testicle” to make her blush – that’s if they can be arsed noticing she’s there. She’s not gonna put the fear of God into anyone.’

Conway tugged open a window with a thump, let in a smooth sweep of cool and mown grass.

‘This time,’ she said, ‘I fuck up, I’m fucking up my way.’

There was my shot, lined up all ready to pot. I said, ‘If you want them relaxed, let me do the talking.’

That got me a stare. I didn’t blink.

Conway leaned her arse on the windowsill. Chewed her cheek, looked me over from hair to shoes. Behind her, faint urgent calls from the playing field, football flying high.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘You talk. I open my mouth, you shut yours till I’m done. I tell you to close the window, that means you’re out, I’ll take it from there, and you don’t say Word One till I tell you to. Got it?’

Click, and into the pocket. ‘Got it,’ I said. Felt the soft gold air move up the back of my neck and wondered if this was it, this room riddled with echoes and shining with old wood: if this was the place where, finally, I got the chance to fight that door unlocked again. I wanted to memorise the room. Salute someone.

‘I want their accounts of yesterday evening. And then I want them hit with the card, out of nowhere, so we can see their reactions. If they say, “Wasn’t me,” I want to know who they think it was. Can you do that?’

‘I’d say I can just about handle it, yeah.’

‘Jesus,’ Conway said, shaking her head like she couldn’t believe herself. ‘Just try not to get down on the floor and start licking anyone’s boots.’

I said, ‘We hit them with the card, it’ll be all round the school before home-time.’

‘You think I don’t know that? I want that.’

‘You’re not worried?’

‘That our killer’ll get spooked and come after the card girl.’

‘Yeah.’

Conway tapped the edge of the window blind, light one-fingered tap, sent a shake and a sway running down the slats. She said, ‘I want something to happen. This is gonna get things happening.’ She pushed herself off the windowsill. Went to the three chairs in the aisle, turned one of them back to its table. ‘You’re worried about the card girl? Find her before someone else does.’

There was a one-knuckle knock at the door, and had-to-be-Houlihan stuck a worried rabbity face round the edge and lisped, ‘Detectives, you wanted to see me?’

Joanne Heffernan’s lot had been the first ones buzzing around the Secret Place: we started with them. Orla Burgess, we kicked off with. ‘That’ll put Joanne’s designer knickers in a twist,’ Conway said, when Houlihan had gone to find her, ‘not getting top billing. If she’s pissed off enough, she’ll get sloppy. And Orla’s got the brains of roadkill. We catch her off guard, we lean on her: if she’s got anything, she’ll spill. What?’

She’d snared me trying not to smile. ‘Thought this time we were going for relaxation. Not intimidation.’

‘Fuck you,’ Conway said, but there was the corner of a grin there too, bitten back. ‘Yeah, yeah. I’m a hard bitch. Be glad. If I was a sweetheart, you’d be out of a gig.’

‘I’m not complaining.’

‘Better not,’ Conway said, ‘or I bet there’s some no-hoper case from the seventies that could use your relaxation techniques. You want to do the talking, take a seat. I’ll watch Orla coming in, see if she looks for her card.’

I settled myself on one of the chairs in the aisle, nice and casual. Conway went to the door.

Fast double trip-trap of steps down the corridor, and Orla was in the doorway, wiggling, trying not to giggle. No beauty – no height, no neck and no waist, plenty of nose to make up for it – but she tried. Hard-work straight blond hair, fake tan. Something done to her eyebrows.

Conway’s quick fraction of a head-shake, behind her back, said Orla hadn’t clocked the Secret Place. ‘Thanks for that,’ she told Houlihan. ‘Why don’t you have a seat over here,’ and she had Houlihan swept to the back of the room and planted in a corner before Houlihan could manage more than a gasp.

‘Orla,’ I said, ‘I’m Detective Stephen Moran.’ That made a bit of the giggle burst out. Comic genius, me. ‘Have a seat.’ I stretched out a hand to the chair opposite me.

Conway propped herself against a table, near my shoulder, not too near. Orla gave her a vacant look, on her way over. Conway’s the type that makes an impression, but this kid barely recognised her.

Orla sat down, squirmed her skirt down over her knees. ‘Is this about Chris Harper again? OhmyGod, did you find out who…? You know. Who…?’

Snuffly voice. Pitched high, all ready for a squeal or a simper. That accent you get these days, like a bad actor faking American.

I said, ‘Why? Is there something you want to tell us about Chris Harper?’

Orla practically jumped back out of the chair. ‘Huh? No! No way.’

‘Because if you’ve got anything new to add, now’s the time. You know that, right?’