He said, “He didn’t find the Spains by accident. This isn’t the kind of place where someone could be just passing by, just happen to spot a set of victims that pushed his buttons.”
“No,” I said. “Not that kind of place at all. If he’s not dead or local, then he came in here looking.”
The floaters were seven guys and a girl, all somewhere in their late twenties, hanging around their cars trying to look sharp and businesslike and ready for anything. When they saw us coming their way they straightened up, tugged jackets down, the biggest guy threw his cigarette away. I pointed to the butt and asked, “What’s your plan there?”
He looked blank. I said, “You were going to leave it there, weren’t you? On the ground, for the Bureau to find and file and send away for DNA testing. Which one were you hoping for? That you’d wind up at the top of our suspect list, or at the top of our time-waster list?”
He whipped up the butt and fumbled it back into his packet, and just that fast, all eight of them were on notice: as long as you’re on my investigation, you do not drop the ball. Marlboro Man was scarlet, but someone had to take one for the good of the team.
I said, “Much better. I’m Detective Kennedy, and this is Detective Curran.” I didn’t ask for their names; no time for handshakes and chitchat, and I would only forget anyway. I don’t keep track of my floaters’ favorite sandwiches and their kids’ birthdays, I keep track of what they’re doing and whether they’re doing it well. “You’ll get a full briefing later on, but for now, this is all you need to know: we’re looking for a Cuisine Bleu-brand knife, curved six- inch blade, black plastic handle, part of a matching set, a lot like this but slightly larger.” I held up the plastic evidence bag. “All of you got camera phones? Take a picture, so you’ve got a reminder of exactly what you’re looking for. Delete the photo before you leave the scene tonight. Don’t forget.”
They whipped out phones and passed the evidence bag around, handling it like it was made of soap bubbles. I said, “The knife I’ve described is a good bet for the murder weapon, but we don’t get guarantees in this game, so if you come across another blade hanging around in the undergrowth, for God’s sake don’t skip on your merry way just because it doesn’t fit the description. We’re also keeping an eye out for bloody clothing, footprints, keys and anything else that looks remotely out of place. If you find something that’s got potential, what do you do?”
I nodded at Marlboro Man-if you take someone down a peg, always give him a way to climb back up. He said, “Don’t touch it. Don’t leave it unattended. Call the Bureau lads to photograph it and bag it.”
“Exactly. And call me, too. Anything you find, I want to see. Detective Curran and I will be interviewing the neighbors, so you’ll need our mobile numbers, and vice versa-we’ll be keeping this off the radio for now. The reception out here is shit, so if a call doesn’t get through, text. Don’t leave any voice-mail messages. Everyone got that?” Down the road, our first reporter had set herself up against some picturesque scaffolding and was doing a piece to camera, trying to keep her coattails down against the wind. Within an hour or two there would be a few dozen like her. Plenty of them wouldn’t think twice about hacking into a detective’s voice mail.
We did the number swap all round. “There’ll be more searchers joining us soon,” I said, “and when they take over I’ll have other jobs for you, but we need to get moving now. We’re going to start from the back of the house. Start at the garden wall, work your way outwards, make sure you don’t leave any gaps between your search areas, you know the drill. Go.”
The semi-d that shared a wall with the Spains’ house was empty-permanently empty, nothing in the front room except a screwed-up ball of newspaper and an architectural-level spiderweb-which was a bastard. The nearest signs of human life were two doors down on the other side, in Number 5: the lawn was dead, but there were lace curtains in the windows and a kid’s bike lying on its side in the drive.
Movement behind the lace, as we came up the path. Someone had been watching us.
The woman who answered the door was heavy, with a flat suspicious face and dark hair scraped back in a thin ponytail. She was wearing an oversized pink hoodie, undersized gray leggings that were a bad call, and a lot of fake tan that somehow didn’t stop her looking pasty. “Yeah?”
“Police,” I said, showing her my ID. “Can we come in and have a word?”
She looked at the ID like my photo wasn’t up to her high standards. “I went out earlier, asked those Guards what was going on. They told me to go back inside. I’ve got a right to be on my own road. Yous can’t tell me not to.”
This was going to be a real walk in the park. “I understand,” I said. “If you’d like to leave the premises at any point, they won’t stop you.”
“Better not. And I wasn’t trying to
“There’s been a crime. We’d like to have a few words with you.”
Her eyes went past me and Richie to the action, and nosiness beat wariness. It usually does. She stood back from the door.
The house had started out exactly like the Spains’, but it hadn’t stayed that way. The hall had been narrowed down by heaps of gear on the floor-Richie caught his ankle on the wheel of a pram, bit back something unprofessional-and the sitting room was overheated and messy, with crowded wallpaper and a thick smell of soup and wet clothes. A chunky kid about ten was hunched on the floor with his mouth open, going at some PlayStation game that was obviously rated 18s. “He’s off sick,” the woman said. She had her arms folded defensively.
“Lucky for us,” I said, nodding to the kid, who ignored us and kept jamming buttons. “He may be able to help us. I’m Detective Kennedy and this is Detective Curran. And you are…?”
“Sinead Gogan. Mrs. Sinead Gogan. Jayden, turn that thing off.” Her accent was some semi-rough outskirt of Dublin.
“Mrs. Gogan,” I said, taking a seat on the flowery sofa and finding my notebook, “how well do you know your neighbors?”
She jerked her head towards the Spains’ house. “Them?”
“The Spains, yes.”
Richie had followed me onto the sofa. Sinead Gogan’s small sharp eyes moved over us, but after a second she shrugged and planted herself in an armchair. “We’d say hiya. We wouldn’t be friendly.”
“You said she’s a snobby cow,” said Jayden, not missing a beat blasting zombies.
His mother shot him a glare that he didn’t see. “You shut up.”
“Or?”
“Or else.”
I said, “Is she a snobby cow?”
“I never said that. I saw an ambulance outside there. What’s happened?”
“There’s been a crime. What can you tell me about the Spains?”
“Did someone get shot?” Jayden wanted to know. The kid could multitask.
“No. What’s snobby about the Spains?”
Sinead shrugged. “Nothing. They’re grand.”
Richie scratched the side of his nose with his pen. “Seriously?” he asked, a little diffidently. “’Cause-I mean, I haven’t a clue, never met them before, but their gaff looked pretty poncy to me. You can always tell when people’ve got notions of themselves.”
“Should’ve seen it before. The big SUV outside, and him washing it and polishing it every weekend, showing off. That didn’t last, did it?”
Sinead was still slumped in her armchair, arms folded and thick legs planted apart, but the satisfaction was edging the snottiness out of her voice. Normally I wouldn’t let new lads do the questioning on their first day out, but Richie’s angle was good and his accent was getting us further than mine would. I left him to it.
“Not so much to show off about now,” he agreed.
“Doesn’t stop them. Still think they’re great. Jayden said something to that little young one-”
“Called her a stupid bitch,” Jayden said.
“-and your woman came over here giving it loads, all how the kids weren’t getting
