Tana French: The Trespasser

‘So,’ Steve says, squinting up at a shadow crossing one of the windows. ‘You putting in your papers?’

I can practically see the might-bes, bobbing like marsh lights over the cobblestones, skimming past the high windows, tricky and beckoning. Me in a suit that makes this one look like a binliner, striding through Harrods after some Saudi princess, one eye on her and the other on everything else. Me stretching out my legs in business class, checking exit routes in the hushed corridors of 24-carat hotels, lounging beside blinding blue sea with a cocktail in one hand and the other on the gun in my beach bag. All the might-have-beens, whirling in and out among the bars of the gate, and gone.

‘Nah,’ I say. ‘I hate paperwork.’

I swear Steve’s head falls back with relief. ‘Jaysus,’ he says. ‘I was worried.’

I never saw that one coming. ‘Yeah?’

His face turns towards me. He’s as startled as I am. ‘Course. What’d you think?’

‘Don’t know. Never thought about it.’ Not once. And I should’ve. For a second I see Breslin in the interview room, practically lifting off his feet with fury, There’s no fucking way he did this ; Breslin in his dark sitting room, before dawn, muffling his voice on the phone to Stoneybatter station. ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I’ve made a bleeding tosser of myself, the last while. A lot of ways.’

Steve doesn’t even try to deny that. ‘You’re all right. We’ve all done it.’

‘I’m not planning on doing it again.’

‘That’ll be nice.’

‘Fuck off, you.’ The cobblestones have lost that misty feel, they’re centuries’ worth of solid again, and the cold air hits my lungs like caffeine. I need to ring Crowley, tell him he’s off the hook for the article, make sure he knows he still owes me a big one and I’m gonna collect. I need to ring my ma and tell her about last night, whether I want to or not. Maybe it’ll give the pair of us a laugh. Maybe Fleas will e-mail me tomorrow, when he sees the headlines: Hiya Rach, saw your news, delighted everythings workin out for you, have to meet up to celebrate x . Maybe at the weekend I’ll text Lisa and the rest of my mates, see if they’re about. ‘You know what I need, I need a pint. Brogan’s?’

Steve hitches his satchel up his shoulder. ‘You’re buying. You still owe me for Rory not crying.’

‘What’re you on about? He bawled his eyes-’

‘I thought you were done being a tosser-’

‘Nice try. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna be a pushover-’

‘Ah, good, ’cause I was dead worried about that-’

I take one more look up at the rest of my life, waiting for me inside those neat sturdy squares of gold light. Then we start off across the courtyard, arguing, to get a few pints and a few hours’ kip before it’s time to head back and find out what’s in there.

Even more than usual, I owe huge thanks to Dave Walsh, whose insights into the world of detectives gave me everything in this book that’s true to life, and none of the elements that aren’t.

I also owe huge thanks to the consistently amazing Darley Anderson and everyone at the agency, especially Mary, Emma, Rosanna, Pippa and Mandy; Andrea Schulz, Ciara Considine, Nick Sayers and Sue Fletcher, for their immense editorial skill, insight and wisdom; Breda Purdue, Ruth Shern, Joanna Smyth and everyone at Hachette Books Ireland; Swati Gamble, Kerry Hood and everyone at Hodder & Stoughton; Carolyn Coleburn, Angie Messina, the wonderful Ben Petrone, and everyone at Viking; Susanne Halbleib and everyone at Fischer Verlage; Rachel Burd; Steve Fisher of APA, the most patient man in LA; Dr Fearghas Ó Cochláin, for straightening out my haematomas; Sophie Hannah, for pointing me towards the title; Alex French, Susan Collins, Ann-Marie Hardiman, Jessica Ryan, Karen Gillece, Kendra Harpster, Kristina Johansen and Catherine Farrell, for every kind of support from practical to emotional to hilarious; David Ryan, top with smoked ham, bacon strips, ground beef, mushrooms and black olives, bake for ten minutes on pizza stone, serve with German Pilsner; my mother, Elena Lombardi; my father, David French; and, for more reasons every time, the man who can sort out the worst plot tangle before the starters arrive, my husband, Anthony Breatnach.

Tana French grew up in Ireland, Italy, the US and Malawi, and has lived in Dublin since 1990. She trained as a professional actress at Trinity College, Dublin, and has worked in theatre, film and voiceover. In the Woods is her first novel.