Tana French - The Secret Place

‘Yeah. I totally do. If I knew anything, I’d tell you. But I don’t. Honest to God.’

Tic-smile, involuntary, wet with hope and fear.

You want in with a witness, you figure out what she wants. Then you give her that, big handfuls. I’m good at that.

Orla wanted people to like her. Pay attention to her. Like her some more.

Stupid, it sounds; is. But I felt let down. Thrown down, with an ugly splat like puke. This place had had me expecting something, under these high ceilings, in this turning air that smelled of sun and hyacinths. Expecting special, expecting rare. Expecting a shimmering dappled something I had never seen before.

This girl: the same as a hundred girls I grew up with and stayed miles from, exact shoddy same, just with a fake accent and more money spent on her teeth. She was nothing special; nothing.

I didn’t want to look at Conway. Couldn’t shake the feeling that she knew exactly what was going on in my head, and was laughing at it. Not in a good way.

Big warm crinkly grin, I gave Orla. Leaned in. ‘No worries. I was just hoping. On the off-chance, you know the way?’

I held the grin till Orla smiled back. ‘Yeah.’ Grateful, pathetically grateful. Someone, probably Joanne, used Orla for kicking when the world pissed her off.

‘We’ve just got a few questions for you – routine stuff, no big deal. Could you answer those for us, yeah? Help me out?’

‘OK. Sure.’

Orla was still smiling. Conway slid backwards onto the table. Got out her notebook.

‘You’re a star,’ I said. ‘So let’s talk about yesterday evening. First study period, you were here in the art room?’

Defensive glance at Houlihan. ‘We’d got permission.’

Her only worry about yesterday evening: hassle from teachers.

I said, ‘I know, yeah. Tell us, how do you go about getting permission?’

‘We ask Miss Arnold. She’s the matron.’

‘Who asked her? And when?’

Blank look. ‘It wasn’t me.’

‘Whose idea was it to spend the extra time up here?’

More blank. ‘That wasn’t me either.’ I believed her. I got the feeling most ideas weren’t Orla.

‘No problem,’ I said. More smile. ‘Talk me through it. One of you got the key to the connecting door off Miss Arnold…’

‘I did. Right before first study period. And then we came up here. Me and Joanne and Gemma and Alison.’

‘And then?’

‘We just worked on this project we have. It has to be art and another subject, like mixed – ours is art and Computer Studies. That’s it over there.’

She pointed. Propped in a corner, five foot high, a portrait of a woman – a pre-Raphaelite I’d seen before, somewhere, but I couldn’t place her. She was only half-made, out of small glossy squares of coloured paper; the other half was still an empty grid, tiny code in each square to tell them what colour to stick on. The change had twisted the woman’s dreamy gaze, turned her wall-eyed and twitchy-looking, dangerous.

Orla said, ‘It’s about, like, how people see themselves differently because of the media and the internet? Or something; it wasn’t my idea. We turned the picture into squares on the computer, and now we’re cutting up photos from magazines to stick in the squares – it takes forever, that’s why we needed to use the study period. And then at the end of first study we went back to the boarders’ wing and I gave the key back to Miss Arnold.’

‘Did any of you leave the room, while you were up here?’

Orla tried to remember, which took some mouth-breathing. ‘I went to the toilet,’ she said, after a bit. ‘And Joanne did. And Gemma went into the corridor because she rang someone and she wanted to talk in private .’ Snigger. A guy. ‘And Alison went out for a phone call too, only hers was her mum.’

Every one of them. ‘In that order?’

Blank. ‘What?’

Sweet Jesus. ‘Do you remember who went out first?’

Think, think, mouth-breathe. ‘Maybe Gemma? And then me, and then Alison, and then Joanne – maybe, I’m not sure.’

Conway moved. I snapped my mouth shut, but she didn’t open hers; just pulled a photo of the postcard out of her pocket, handed it to me. Sat back on the table again, foot up on a chair, went back to her notebook.

I flipped the photo back and forth against my finger. ‘On your way here, you passed the Secret Place. You passed it again on your way to the toilet and back. And again when you left at the end of the evening. Right?’

Orla nodded. ‘Yeah.’ Hardly a glance at the photo. Not making any connection.

‘Did you stop for a look, any of those times?’

‘Yeah. When I was coming back from the toilet. Just to see if there was anything new. I didn’t touch anything.’

‘And was there? Anything new?’

‘Uh-uh. Nothing.’

Labrador and boob job, according to the PE teacher. If Orla had missed them, she could have missed one more.

‘What about you? Have you ever put up cards on the board?’

Orla did a coy squirm. ‘Maybe.’

I grinned along with her. ‘I know they’re private. I’m not asking for the details. Just tell me: when was the last one?’

‘Like a month ago?’

‘So this isn’t yours.’

I had the photo in Orla’s hand, face up, before she realised it was coming.

Prayed it wasn’t hers.

I needed to show Conway what I could do. Five minutes and an easy answer would get me nothing, except maybe a lift back to Cold Cases. I needed a fight.

And, somewhere in a locked back corner, detectives think old ways. You take down a predator, whatever bleeds out of it flows into you. Spear a leopard, grow braver and faster. All that St Kilda’s gloss, that walk through old oak doors like you belong, effortless: I wanted that. I wanted to lick it off my banged-up fists along with my enemy’s blood.

This fool, smelling of body spray and cheap gossip: not what I’d had in mind. This would be like taking down some kid’s fat hamster.

Orla stared, while the photo sank in. Then squealed. High flat wail, like air squeezed out of a squeaky toy.

‘Orla,’ I said. Sharp, before she could work herself up. ‘Did you put that up on the Secret Place?’

‘No! OhmyGod, I swear to God, no ! I don’t know anything about what happened to Chris. Swear to God .’

I believed her. The photo at arm’s length, like it could hurt her; the bug-eyed stare zipping from me to Conway to Houlihan, looking for help. Not our girl. Just the detective gods throwing me an easy one, to start me off.

I said, ‘Then one of your friends did. Who was it?’

‘I don’t know ! I don’t know anything about this. I totally swear .’

‘Any of them ever mention any ideas about Chris?’

‘No way. I mean, we all think it was that groundskeeper guy – he used to smile at us all the time, he was totally creepy, and you guys arrested him for having drugs, right? But we don’t know anything. Or anyway I don’t. And if any of the others do, they never told me. Ask them.’

‘We will,’ I said. Nice and soothing. Smile. ‘Don’t worry. You’re not in trouble.’

Orla was calming down. Gawping at the photo, starting to like having it in her hand. I wanted to whip it off her. I let her hang on to it, have her fun.

Reminded myself: the ones you don’t like are a bonus. They can’t fool you as easy as the ones you do.

Twenty watts went on over Orla’s head. ‘Probably it wasn’t even any of us. Julia Harte and all them were in here right after us. Probably they did it.’

‘You figure they know what happened to Chris?’

‘Not even. I mean, maybe, but no? Like, they could’ve just made it up.’

‘Why would they?’