Tana French - The Likeness

I photocopied the pictures and the interviews and sent the file back to Frank with a Post-it that said “Thank you.” The next afternoon I left work early and went to see Abby.

Her new address was on file: she was living in Ranelagh, Student Central, in a tattered little house with weeds in the front lawn and too many bells beside the door. I stayed out on the pavement, leaning on the railing. It was five o’clock, she would be coming home soon-routine dies hard-and I wanted to let her see me from far off, be braced and ready before she reached me.

It was about half an hour before she came around the corner, wearing her long gray coat and carrying two supermarket bags. She was too far away for me to see her face, but I knew that brisk, neat walk by heart. I saw the second when she spotted me, the wild rock backwards, the grab as her bags almost slipped out of her hands; the long pause, after she realized, when she stood in the middle of the empty pavement deciding whether to turn around and go somewhere else, anywhere else; the lift of her shoulders as she took a deep breath and started walking again, towards me. I remembered that first morning, around the kitchen table: how I had thought that, if things had been different, the two of us could have been friends.

She stopped at the gate and stood still, scanning every detail of my face, deliberate and unflinching. “I should kick the living shite out of you,” she said, eventually.

She didn’t look like she could do it. She had lost a lot of weight and her hair was pulled up in a knot that made her face look even thinner, but it was more than that. Something had gone out of her skin: a luminosity, a resilience. For the first time I got a flash of what she would be like as an old woman, erect and sharp-tongued and wiry, with tired eyes.

“You’d have every right,” I said.

“What do you want?”

“Five minutes,” I said. “We’ve found out some stuff about Lexie. I thought you might want to know. It might… I don’t know. It might help.”

A lanky kid in Docs and an iPod brushed past us, let himself into the house and slammed the door behind him. “Can I come in?” I asked. “Or if you’d rather I didn’t, we can stay out here. Just five minutes.”

“What’s your name again? They told us, but I forget.”

“Cassie Maddox.”

“Detective Cassie Maddox,” Abby said. After a moment she shifted one bag up onto her wrist and found her keys. “OK. You might as well come in. When I tell you to leave, you leave.” I nodded.

Her flat was one room, at the back of the first floor, smaller than mine and barer: a single bed, an armchair, a boarded-up fireplace, a minifridge, a tiny table and chair pulled up to the window; no door to a kitchen or a bathroom, nothing on the walls, no knickknacks on the mantelpiece. Outside it was a warm evening, but the air in the flat was cool as water. There were faint damp-stains on the ceiling, but every inch of the place was scrubbed clean and a big sash window looked out to the west, giving the room a long melancholy glow. I thought of her room in Whitethorn House, that rich, ornate nest.

Abby dumped the bags on the floor, shook off her coat and hung it on the back of the door. The bags had left red grooves on her wrists, like handcuff marks. “It’s not as crap as you think,” she said; defiantly, but there was a weary undertone there. “It does have its own bathroom. Out on the landing, but what can you do.”

“I don’t think it’s crap,” I said, which was actually sort of true; I’ve lived in worse. “I just expected… I thought there would be insurance money, or something. From the house.”

Abby’s lips tightened for a second. “We weren’t insured,” she said. “We always figured, the house had lasted this long; we’d rather put our money into doing it up. More fools us.” She pulled open what looked like a wardrobe; inside were a tiny sink, a two-ring cooker and a couple of cupboards. “So we sold up. To Ned. We didn’t have much choice. He won-or maybe Lexie won, or your lot, or the guy who burned us out, I don’t know. Someone else won, anyway.”

“Then why live here,” I asked, “if you don’t like it?”

Abby shrugged. She had her back to me, putting stuff away in the cupboards-baked beans, tinned tomatoes, a bag of off-brand cornflakes; her shoulder blades, sharp through the thin gray sweater, looked fine as a child’s. “First place I saw. I needed somewhere to live. After your lot let us go, the people from Victim Support found us this horrible B and B in Summerhill; we didn’t have any money, we put most of our cash into the kitty-as you know, obviously-and it all went up in the fire. The landlady made us get out by ten in the morning, come back in by ten at night, I spent all day in the library staring at nothing and all night sitting in my room by myself-the three of us weren’t really talking… I got out as fast as I could. Now that we’ve sold up, the logical thing would be to use my share for a deposit on an apartment, but for that I’d need a job that can pay the mortgage, and until I finish my PhD… The whole damn thing just feels too complicated. I have a hard time making decisions, these days. If I leave it long enough, my rent will eat up all the money and the decision’ll take care of itself.”

“You’re still in Trinity?” I wanted to scream. This tight, strange, eggshells conversation, when I’d danced to her singing, when we’d sat on my bed eating chocolate biscuits and swapping worst-kiss stories; this was more than I had any right to, and I couldn’t break through it and find her.

“I’ve started. I might as well finish.”

“What about Rafe and Justin?”

Abby slammed the cupboard doors and ran her hands through her hair, that gesture I’d seen a thousand times. “I don’t know what to do about you,” she said abruptly. “You ask me something like that, and part of me wants to fill you in on every detail, and part of me wants to give you hell for putting us through this when we were supposed to be your best friends, and part of me wants to tell you to mind your own fucking business, cop, don’t you dare even mention their names. I can’t… I don’t know how to talk to you. I don’t know how to look at you. What do you want?”

She was about two seconds from throwing me out. “I brought this,” I said, fast, and found the sheaf of photocopies in my satchel. “You know Lexie was going under a fake name, don’t you?”

Abby folded her arms at her waist and watched me, wary and expressionless. “One of your friends told us. Whatsisname, who was all over us from the start. Stocky blond guy, Galway accent?”

“Sam O’Neill,” I said. I was wearing the ring on my finger, these days-the slagging, which had ranged from affectionate to deeply bitchy, had more or less died down; the Murder squad even gave us some mystifying silver dish thing, for an engagement present-but there was no reason why she should make the connection.

“Him. I think he expected it to shock us into spilling our guts, or something. So?”

“We traced her,” I said, and held out the photocopies.

Abby took them and ran a thumbnail through the pages, one fast flip; I thought of that expert, effortless shuffle. “What’s all this?”

“Places she lived. Other IDs she used. Photos. Interviews.” She was still giving me that look, flat and final as a slap in the face. “I figured you should have the choice. The chance to have them, if you want them.”

Abby tossed the papers onto the table and went back to her shopping bags, slotting things into the tiny fridge: a pint of milk, a little plastic serving of some chocolate-mousse thing. “I don’t. I already know everything I need to know about Lexie.”