Broken Harbour

Jenny’s head stirred on the pillow, like something hurt. “That was nothing. Not a big deal.”

“Fiona sounded like it was a pretty big deal at the time.”

“Fiona exaggerates. I was just stressed that day. I got worried about nothing.”

Richie’s eyes met mine, across the bed. Somehow, Jenny was managing to lie.

I said, “There are a number of holes in the walls of your home. Do those have anything to do with the break- in?”

“No. Those are… They’re nothing. They’re just DIY stuff.”

“Mrs. Spain,” Richie said. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I’m positive.”

Through all the fog of drugs and damage, something in her face glinted dense and hard as steel. I remembered what Fiona had said: Jenny isn’t a wimp.

I asked, “What kind of DIY stuff?”

We waited, but Jenny’s eyes had clouded over again. Her breathing was so shallow that I could barely see her chest rise and fall. She whispered, “Tired.”

I thought about Kieran and his ID hunt, but there was no way she would be able to find those in the wreckage of her mind. I said gently, “Just a few more questions, and we’ll let you rest. A woman called Aisling Rooney-her son Karl was a friend of Jack’s from preschool-she mentioned that she tried to get in touch over the summer, but you stopped returning her calls. Do you remember that?”

“Aisling. Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you ring her back?”

A shrug; barely a twitch, but it made her wince. “I just didn’t.”

“Had you had problems with her? With any of that family?”

“No. They’re fine. I just forgot to ring her.”

That flash of steel again. I pretended I hadn’t seen it, moved on. “Did you tell your sister Fiona that Jack had brought home a friend from preschool last week?”

After a long moment, Jenny nodded. Her chin had started to tremble.

“Had he?”

She shook her head. Her eyes and lips were squeezed tight. I said, “Can you tell me why you told Fiona he had?”

Tears leaked onto Jenny’s cheeks. She managed, “… Should have-” before a sob jackknifed her like a punch. “So tired… please…”

She pushed Richie’s hand away and covered her face with her arm. He said, “We’ll let you get some rest. We’re going to send someone from Victim Support to talk to you, OK?”

Jenny shook her head, gasping for breath. Blood had dried in the creases of her knuckles. “No. Please… no… just… by myself.”

“I promise, they’re good. I know nothing’s going to make this better, but they can help you get through it. They’ve helped out a load of people who’ve had this happen. Would you give them a shot?”

“I don’t…” She managed to catch her breath, in a deep, shaky heave. After a moment she asked, dazed, “What?” The painkillers were closing over her head again.

“Never mind,” Richie said gently. “Is there anything we can get you?”

“I don’t…”

Her eyes were closing. She was slipping into sleep, which was the best place for her. I said, “We’ll be back when you’re feeling stronger. For now, we’re going to leave our cards here with you. If you remember anything, anything at all, please call either one of us.”

Jenny made a sound between a moan and a sob. She was asleep, tears still sliding down her face. We put our cards on her bedside table and left.

Out in the corridor, everything was the same: the uniform was still standing to attention, and Jenny’s mother was still asleep in her chair. Her head had dropped to one side and her fingers had loosened on her purse, twitching against the worn handle. I sent the uniform into the room as quietly as I could and got us around the corner, walking fast, before I stopped to put away my notebook.

Richie said, “That was interesting, yeah?” He sounded subdued, but not shaken up: the live ones didn’t get to him. Once that empathy had somewhere to go, he was fine. If I had been in the market for a long-term partner, we would have been perfect for each other. “A lot of lies, for just a few minutes.”

“So you noticed that. They might or might not be relevant-like I told you, everyone lies-but we’ll need to find out. We’ll come back to Jenny.” It took me three tries to get my notebook into my coat pocket. I turned my shoulder to Richie to hide it.

He hovered, squinting up at me. “You all right?”

“I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

“You look a bit…” He wavered one hand. “That was rough enough, in there. I thought maybe…”

I said, “Why don’t you go ahead and assume that anything you can take, I can take. That wasn’t rough. That was just another day on the job-as you’ll know, once you get a little experience under your belt. And even if it had been rough as all hell, I’d be fine. That chat we had earlier, Richie, about control: did that not go in?”

He backed away, and I realized my tone had been a notch sharper than I wanted it to be. “Only asking.”

It took a second to sink in: he genuinely had been. Not prodding for weak spots, or trying to even things out after the post-mortem incident; just looking out for his partner. I said, more gently, “And I appreciate it. Sorry for snapping at you. How about you? Are you all right?”

“I’m grand, yeah.” He flexed his hand, wincing-I could see deep purple dents where Jenny’s nails had dug in- and glanced back over his shoulder. “The mother. Are we… when do we let her go in?”

I headed down the corridor, towards the exit stairs. “Whenever she wants, as long as she’s supervised. I’ll ring the uniform and let him know.”

“And Fiona?”

“Same goes for her: she’s more than welcome, once she doesn’t mind having company. Maybe they’ll be able to get Jenny to pull it together a bit, get more out of her than we could.”

Richie kept pace and said nothing, but I was starting to get the hang of his silences. I said, “You think I should be concentrating on how they can help Jenny, not how they can help us. And you think I should have let them go in yesterday.”

“She’s in hell. They’re family.”

I took the stairs fast. “Exactly, old son. E-fucking-xactly. They are family, which means we don’t have a hope of understanding the dynamics there, not yet anyway. I don’t know what a couple of hours with Mum and Sis would have done to Jenny’s story, and I didn’t want to find out. Maybe the mother’s a guilt-tripper, she makes Jenny feel even worse about ignoring the intruder, so when Jenny talks to us she skips over the fact that he broke in a few more times along the way. Maybe Fiona warns her that we were looking at Pat, and by the time we get to Jenny she won’t talk to us at all. And don’t forget: Fiona may not be top of our suspect list, but she’s not off it-not till we find out how our man picked the Spains-and she’s still the one who would have inherited if Jenny had died. I don’t care how badly the vic needs a hug, I’m not letting the heir talk to her before I do.”

“I guess,” Richie said. At the bottom of the stairs he moved aside to let a nurse go past, pushing a trolley of coiled plastic and glinting metal, and watched her bustle down the corridor. “Probably you’re right.”

I said, “You think I’m a cold bastard, don’t you?”

He shrugged. “Not for me to say.”

“Maybe I am. It depends on your definition. Because you see, Richie, to me, a cold bastard is someone who could look Jenny Spain in the eye and tell her, Sorry, ma’am, we won’t be catching the person who butchered your family, because I was too busy making sure everybody liked me, see you around, and then waltz off home for a nice dinner and a good night’s sleep. That’s something I can’t do. So if I have to do some minor cold shit along the way, to make sure that doesn’t happen, so be it.” The exit doors juddered open, and a wave of cool rain-drenched air rolled over us. I crammed as much of it into my lungs as I could.

Richie said, “Let’s talk to the uniform now. Before the ma wakes up.”

In the heavy gray light he looked terrible, eyes bloodshot, face flat and haggard; if it hadn’t been for the half- decent clothes, Security would have taken him for a junkie. The kid was exhausted. It was heading for three o’clock.