Tana French: The Trespasser

Lover Boy is changing, in my mind. I had him down as some snivelling little gobshite who threw a punch that went wrong and who was probably back in his flat shitting himself and waiting for us to show up so he could spill his guts and explain how it was all her fault. But that guy would have been halfway home before Aislinn’s body hit the floor. He would never have been able to make himself stand still and think strategy.

I say, ‘He’s got a cool head.’

‘Oh yeah,’ Steve says. There’s a leap in his voice, like when you smell good food and you’re suddenly hungry. ‘He’s just punched out his girlfriend. He probably doesn’t even know whether she’s alive or dead, but he’s steady enough to think about smoke alarms and what’s in the cooker. If he’s a first-timer, he’s a natural.’

The smoke alarm is above our heads. I say, ‘Why not go ahead and let the food set off the alarm, but? If the place burns down, it’s gonna take a lot of evidence with it. If you get lucky, the body might even be too destroyed for us to tell it was murder.’

‘Something to do with his alibi, maybe. If the smoke alarm had gone off, someone would’ve been out here a lot sooner. Maybe he figured the longer it took us to find her, the less we could narrow down the time of death – and for whatever reason, he doesn’t want it narrowed down.’

‘Then why call it in, this morning? She could’ve stayed here another day, maybe more, before anyone came looking. By then, time of death would’ve been bollixed; we’d’ve been lucky to pin it down within twelve hours.’

Steve is rubbing rhythmically at the back of his head, rucking up the red hair in clumps. ‘Maybe he panicked.’

I make an unconvinced noise. Lover Boy is flicking back and forth like a hologram: pathetic wimp, cold thinker, wimp again. ‘He’s cool as ice at the actual scene, but a few hours later he’s freaking out? Badly enough to call us in?’

‘People are mad.’ Steve reaches up and pokes the tester button on the smoke alarm with the tip of his Biro. It beeps: working. ‘Or else the call wasn’t him.’

I try that on for size. ‘He runs to someone else: a mate, a brother, maybe his da. Tells him what’s after happening. The mate’s got a conscience: he doesn’t want to leave Aislinn lying here, when she might be still alive and doctors might be able to save her. Soon as he gets a moment on his own, he rings it in.’

‘If it’s that,’ Steve says, ‘we need the mate.’

‘Yeah.’ I’m already pulling my notebook out of my jacket pocket: Suspect KAs ASAP . As soon as we get an ID on Lover Boy, we’re gonna need a list of his known associates. A mate with a conscience is one of every detective’s favourite things.

‘Here’s the other thing,’ Steve says. ‘She hadn’t put the veg in to cook, hadn’t poured out the wine. Like we said before, he’d only just walked in the door.’

I shove my notebook back in my pocket and move around the kitchen. Cupboard full of delft with pretty pink flowers on, fridge empty except for low-fat yoghurt and pre-chopped carrot sticks and a twin-pack of M &S fruit tarts for dessert. Some people keep most of their personality in their kitchens, but not Aislinn. ‘Right. So?’

‘So how’d they have time to get in an argument? This isn’t a married couple who’ve been bickering for years, he forgets the milk and it blows up into a massive row. These two, they’re still at the fancy-dinner-date stage, everyone’s on their best behaviour. What are they going to fight about, the second he walks in?’

‘You think it wasn’t an argument? This was his plan all along?’ I flip open the bin: M &S packaging and an empty yoghurt carton. ‘Nah. The only way that plays is if he’s a stone-cold sadist, picks out a victim and kills her just for kicks. And that guy isn’t gonna be done after one punch.’

‘I’m not saying he came over here to kill her. Not necessarily. I’m just saying…’ Steve shrugs, narrowing his eyes at a china cat with a pink gingham bow that’s giving us a schizoid stare from the windowsill. ‘I’m just saying it’s weird.’

‘We should be so lucky.’ Little pink notepad stuck to a cupboard: Dry cleaning, toilet roll, lettuce. ‘The argument might’ve started before he arrived. Where’s that phone?’

I bring Aislinn’s mobile back into the kitchen, out of the techs’ way. Steve moves in to read over my shoulder, which is another thing that most people can’t do without pissing me off. Steve manages not to breathe in my ear.

It’s a smartphone, but Aislinn has the screen lock set on swipe, no code. She’s got two unread texts, but I go through her contacts first. Nothing under Mum or Dad or any variation, but she does have an ICE contact: Lucy Riordan, and a mobile number. I write it down in my notebook, for later – lucky Lucy is gonna make the formal ID. Then I go into Aislinn’s text messages and start piecing together the dinner-guest story.

Lover Boy’s name is Rory Fallon and he was due over at eight o’clock yesterday evening. He first shows up on Aislinn’s phone seven weeks ago, in the second week of December. Great to meet you – hope you had a wonderful evening. Would you be free for a drink on Friday?

Aislinn made him work for it. I’m busy that night, might be able to do Thursday, and then when he took a few hours to get back to her, Oops just made plans for Thursday! She had him jump through hoops coming up with days, times, places, till finally she decided he’d done enough and they went for a drink in town. He rang her the next day, she didn’t answer the phone till the third call. He begged her into graciously letting him buy her dinner in a pricey restaurant – she messed him around on that too, cancelled on the morning of the date ( Really sorry, something’s come up tonight! ) and made him reschedule. Somewhere in this house we’re gonna find a copy of The Rules .

I’ve got no time for women who play games, or for men who play along. That shite is for teenagers, not for grown adults. And when it goes wrong, it goes way wrong. The first few games, you have a blast, get your guy panting along after you like a puppy chasing his chew toy. Then you play one game too many, and you’ve got a houseful of Murder Ds.

In between Aislinn’s little games is the rest of her thrilling life: reminder for a dentist appointment; a few texts back and forth with Lucy Riordan about Game of Thrones ; a week-old voice message from what sounds like someone from work, freaking out because his e-mail account’s been hacked and can Aislinn tell him how to reset his password? No wonder she needed to make a restaurant meal into a major drama.

The invite for home-cooked dinner must have gone out in person or in a phone call – the call log shows a bunch of those from Rory, some answered, some not, none from Aislinn to him – but he confirmed by text. Wednesday evening: Hi Aislinn, just checking if we’re still on for 8 on Saturday? What wine will I bring?

She let him wait till the next day before she got back to him. Yes 8 on Saturday! No need to bring anything, just yourself:-)

‘If he showed up without a dozen red roses,’ I say, ‘he’d’ve been in deep shite.’

‘Maybe he didn’t know that,’ Steve says. ‘No flowers anywhere.’

We’ve both seen murders that boiled up out of dumber reasons. ‘That could explain how it happened so fast. He arrives, she sees he’s brought nothing…’

Steve is shaking his head. ‘And what? Going by the stuff on here, she’s not the type who’d tell him to fuck off and come back with a bouquet. She’d play it passive-aggressive: freeze up, let him go mental trying to figure out what he’d done wrong.’