The Secret Place (Dublin Murder Squad, #5)(152)

‘Um, duh, exactly where would he stay?’ Joanne, rolling her eyes.

‘Gems wants him to share with her.’ Orla, giggling hard.

‘Hello? Was I asking you?’ No being a bitch around here without Joanne’s say-so. ‘It’s not like he could share with you, anyway. He’d have to be like a midget to fit in with your massive fat thighs.’

Orla cringed. Joanne laughed: ‘OhmyGod, you should see your face! Chill out, it was a joke, ever heard of them?’ Orla cringed smaller.

Gemma ignoring them, eyeing me, corner of smile. ‘He could share with Sister Cornelius. Make her night.’

‘She’d bite it off him. Offer it up to the Child of Prague.’

Three feet deeper into the trees, we would’ve been in darkness. Here in the borderlands the light was mixed and moving, edges of moonlight, overspill from the lawn floodlights. It did things to their faces. That throwaway cheapness that had turned my stomach earlier, all artificial colourings and flavourings: it didn’t look throwaway now, not out here. It looked harder, chilled to something solid and waxy. Mysterious.

I said, ‘We’ll be heading soon. Just finishing up a few things.’

‘It talks.’ Gemma, smiling wider. ‘I thought you were giving us the silent treatment.’

Joanne said, ‘You don’t look like you’re finishing anything up.’

‘Taking a break.’

She smirked like she knew better. ‘Did you get in trouble with Detective Bitchface?’

To them I wasn’t a detective any more, big bad authority. I was something else: something to play with, play for, dance for. Strange thing dropped into their midst out of the sky, who knew what it might do, what it might mean. They were circling me.

I said, ‘Not that I know of.’

‘OhmyGod, her attitude? It’s like, hello, just because you managed to save up for one suit that isn’t from Penney’s, it doesn’t actually make you queen of the world?’

Gemma said, ‘Do you have to work with her all the time? Or sometimes, if you’re good, do they let you work with someone who doesn’t eat live hamsters for fun?’

All of them laughing, beckoning me or daring me to laugh back. I heard the small dull thud of Conway closing the door in my face. Watched those three faces dancing, every spark of it all for me.

I laughed. I said, ‘Jesus, have a heart. She’s not my partner. I’m only working with her for the day.’

Pretend collapses from relief, all of them fanning themselves: ‘Phew! OhmyGod, we were wondering how you survived, like if you were on Prozac . . .’

I said, ‘Another few days of this and I will be.’ We laughed harder. ‘That’s one reason I’m out here. I needed a chat and a laugh with people who won’t have my head melted.’

They liked that. Arched like cats, gratified. Orla – she bounced back fast; used to getting hit – she said, ‘We decided you’re a way better detective than her.’

‘Lickarse,’ said Gemma.

‘It’s true, though,’ said Joanne. Eyes on me. ‘Someone should tell your boss that Whatshername being such a B means she can’t actually do her job. She’d get a lot further if she had some basic manners. When she asks a question, it’s like, whoa, anyone got a lump of raw meat to throw, and maybe it’ll back off?’

Orla said, ‘We wouldn’t tell her the time unless we had to.’

‘When you ask us stuff,’ Joanne said, and twisted her head to one side to smile at me, ‘we want to talk to you.’

Last time I talked to her, we hadn’t been best buds, not like this. They wanted something from me, wanted to give me something, I couldn’t tell which. I said, sniffing my way, ‘Glad to hear it. You’ve been a lot of help to me so far; I don’t know what I’d’ve done without you.’

‘We like helping you.’

‘We’d be your spies any day.’

‘Undercover.’

‘We’ve got your phone number. We could text you anything suspicious we see.’

I said, ‘If you seriously want to give me a hand, you know how. You three, I’d say you know everything that happens in this school. Anything that could have to do with Chris, I’d only love to hear it.’

Orla hunching forward, glint of moonlight on her wet mouth: ‘Who’s in the art room?’

A zap of ‘Shhh!’ from Joanne. Orla shrank back.

Gemma, amused: ‘Oops. Too late.’ To me: ‘We weren’t going to just ask like that.’

‘But since Genius here did,’ said Joanne. Leaned back, throat arching. Pointed. ‘Who’s that?’

The art room, a flare of chilly white across the heavy slab of the school. Above it the stone balustrade was silhouetted against the sky, a ghost’s walk, black on near-black. In one window the wire school soared. In the next one was Mackey, slouching back, arms folded.

‘That,’ Joanne said.

I said, ‘Another detective.’

‘Ooo.’ Wrist-shake, mocking eyes. ‘I knew you’d got thrown out.’

‘Sometimes we change things up while we’re working. Keep everyone fresh.’

‘Who’re they talking to?’

‘Is it Holly Mackey?’