The Secret Place (Dublin Murder Squad, #5)(33)

Houlihan cleared her throat, a compromise between asking and keeping schtum. I’d forgotten her.

Conway shut her notebook.

I said, ‘Thanks, Orla. We might need to talk to you again. Meanwhile, if you think of anything that might help us, anything at all, here’s my card. Ring me any time. Yeah?’

Orla gave the card a look like I’d asked her to jump into my white van. Conway said, ‘Thanks. We’ll talk soon.’ To Houlihan, who jumped: ‘Gemma Harding next.’

I gave Orla more smiles. Got the two of them out of the door.

Conway said, ‘Like, totes OMG?’

I said, ‘Like, OMG, WTF?’

We almost looked at each other. Almost laughed.

Conway said, ‘Not our girl.’

‘Nah.’

I waited. Didn’t ask, wouldn’t give her the satisfaction, but I needed to know.

She said, ‘That went all right.’

I almost caught a huge breath, crushed it back in time. Stuck the photo away in my pocket, ready for the next go-round. ‘Anything you figure I should know about Gemma?’

Conway grinned. ‘Thinks she’s a sex bomb, kept leaning over to show Costello her cleavage. Poor bastard didn’t know where to look.’ The grin went. ‘But this one’s not thick. Not by a long way.’



Gemma was like looking at Orla stretched. Tall, slim – trying hard for thin, only she didn’t have the build for it. Pretty, top end of pretty, but that jaw was going to give her manface before she was thirty. Hard-work straight blond hair, fake tan, skinny eyebrows. No glance at the Secret Place, but then Conway had said she wasn’t stupid.

She took the walk to the chair like a catwalk. Sat down and crossed one long leg over the other, slow flourish. Arched her throat.

Even after what Conway had said, it took me a second to see it, through the school uniform and the sixteen. Gemma wanted me to fancy her. Not because she fancied me; that hadn’t even crossed her mind. Just because I was there.

I went to school with dozens like that, too. I didn’t play their game.

Conway’s eye like a hot pin burning through the back of my jacket, into my shoulder blade.

I told myself again. Nothing special means nothing you can’t handle.

I offered Gemma a slow grin, lazy. Appreciative. ‘Gemma, right? I’m Detective Stephen Moran. It’s very nice to meet you.’

She soaked it up. Tiny smile tucked in the corners of her mouth, almost hidden, not quite.

‘We’ve just got a few routine questions for you.’

‘No problem. Anything you want.’

A little too much weight on Anything. The smile swelled. That easy.

Gemma had the same story as Orla, in the same bad-actor American accent. Drawled off, bored, too cool for school. Foot swinging. Checking me out to make sure I kept checking her out. If talking about last night spiked her adrenaline, it didn’t show.

Conway said, ‘You made a phone call while you were up here.’

‘Yeah. I rang my boyfriend.’ Gemma licked the last word. Threw Houlihan a glance – phone calls during study period obviously weren’t allowed – to see if she was shocked.

Conway asked, ‘What’s his name?’

‘Phil McDowell. He’s at Colm’s.’

Course he was. Conway sat back.

I said, ‘And you went outside to talk to him.’

‘I went out in the corridor. We had stuff to talk about. Private stuff.’ Puckered-up smile, slantwise to me. Like I was in on the secret, or could be.

I smiled back. ‘Did you have a look at the Secret Place, while you were out there?’

‘No.’

‘No? You’re not into it?’

Gemma shrugged. ‘It’s mostly stupid. Basically all of it is “Oh, everyone’s mean to me and I’m so unique!” Which, hello, they totally never are? If anything juicy goes up, everyone’s talking about it anyway. I don’t need to look.’

‘Ever put up any cards of your own?’

Another shrug. ‘Back when they first put the board up. Just for the laugh. I don’t even remember all of them. We made some of them up.’ Small flurry of concern from Houlihan’s corner. Gemma gave herself a little slap on the wrist. ‘Bad girl.’ Amused.

I said, ‘How about this one?’ Passed Gemma the photo.

Gemma’s foot stopped swinging. Her eyebrows hit her hairline.

After a second, slowly: ‘Oh. My. God.’

Real. Caught in the quickening of her breath, in the darkened eyes, slashing through all that carefully built sexiness: something true. Not our girl. Two down.

I said, ‘Did you put that up?’

Gemma shook her head. Still scanning the card, looking for sense.

‘No? Just for the laugh?’

‘I’m not stupid. My dad’s a solicitor. I know this isn’t a laugh.’

‘Any idea who might have?’

Head-shake.

‘If you had to guess.’

‘I don’t know. Honest to God. I’d be surprised if it was Joanne or Orla or Alison, but I’m not swearing it wasn’t, or anything. I’m just saying, if it was, they never told me.’

Two out of two, now, ready to throw their mates in the shite so they could leap away unspattered. Lovely.