The Secret Place (Dublin Murder Squad, #5)(35)

Pinched little voice to match, rising towards a whine. Conway was right, Alison was scared: scared that she was screwing up, that everything she said and did and thought was wrong. She wanted me to reassure her that she was doing things right. Seen it in school, seen it in a million witnesses, patted it on the head and said all the right words.

I said, soothing, ‘Ah, I know that. Nothing’s gone missing, nothing like that. No one’s done anything wrong.’ Smile. ‘We’re just checking something out. All I need you to do is run through your evening. That’s it. Could you do that for me, yeah?’

Nod. ‘OK.’

‘Beautiful. It’ll be like a test where you know all the answers and you can’t get anything wrong. How’s that?’

Tiny smile back. Tiny step towards relaxing.

I needed Alison relaxed, before I whipped out that photo. That was what had got me my answers from Orla and from Gemma: the ease I had made for them, and the fast shove out of it.

Alison gave me the same story again, but in chips and snippets that I had to coax out of her, like playing pick-up sticks. Telling it made her tense up even more. No way to know if there was a good reason, a bad reason or none.

She backed Orla on who had left the art room when – Gemma, Orla, her, Joanne – and she sounded a lot more sure than Orla had. ‘You’re very observant,’ I said. Approving. ‘That’s what we like to see. I came in here praying we’d get someone exactly like you, you know that?’

Another scrawny smile. Another step.

I said, ‘Can you make my day? Tell me you had a look at the Secret Place, somewhere along the way.’

‘Yeah. When I went out to the . . . On my way back, I had a look.’ Quick glance at Houlihan. ‘I mean, only for a second. Then I came straight back in to do the project.’

‘Ah, lovely. That’s what I was hoping to hear. Spot any new cards up there?’

‘Yeah. There was one with this dog that was, like, so adorbs. And someone put up one of . . .’ Nervous smirk, duck. ‘You know.’

I waited. Alison twisted.

‘Just a . . . a lady’s, like, her chest. In a top, I mean! Not . . .’ High painful giggle. ‘And it said, “I’m saving up so the day I turn eighteen I can buy ones like this!”’

Observant, again. It went with the fear. Prey animal, watching everything for a threat. ‘That’s it? Nothing else new?’

Alison shook her head. ‘Those were it.’

If she was telling the truth, that backed what we thought already: Orla and Gemma were out. ‘Well done,’ I said. ‘That’s perfect. Tell us: have you ever put up any cards?’

Eyes skittering. I said, ‘Nothing wrong with it if you did. Sure, that’s what the board’s for; it’d be a waste if no one used it.’

That twitch of a smile again. ‘Well . . . yeah. Just a couple. Just . . . when something was bothering me and I couldn’t talk about it, sometimes I . . . But I stopped ages ago. I had to be so careful, and then I was always scared someone would guess they were mine and get angry ’cause I put it up there instead of telling her? So I stopped. I took mine down.’

Someone. One of her own gang, Alison had been scared of.

She was as relaxed as she was ever going to get: not a lot. I said, easily, ‘Is this one of yours?’

The photo. Alison gasped. Clapped her free hand over her mouth. A high humming noise came out through it.

Fear, but no way to read it: fear that she had been caught, that there was a killer out there, that someone knew who it was, reflex response to any surprise, take your pick. Petrified of bleeding everything, Conway had said. It blurred her like streaming rain on a windscreen, turned her opaque.

I said, ‘Did you put that up?’

‘No! No no no . . . I didn’t. Honest to God—’

‘Alison,’ I said, soothing, rhythmic. Leaned forward to take the photo back off her, stayed leaning. ‘Alison, look at me. If you did, there’s nothing wrong with it. Yeah? Whoever put this up was doing the right thing, and we’re grateful to her. We just need to have a chat with her.’

‘It wasn’t me. It wasn’t. I didn’t. Please—’

That was all I was getting. Pushing would do nothing but lose my next chance as well as this one.

Conway off in a corner, still playing invisible, watching me. Gauging.

‘Alison,’ I said. ‘I believe you. I just have to ask. Just routine. That’s all. OK?’

Finally I got Alison’s eyes back. I said, ‘So it wasn’t you. Any ideas about who it might have been? Anyone ever mention having suspicions about what happened to Chris?’

Head-shake.

‘Any chance it was one of your mates?’

‘I don’t think so. I don’t know. No. Ask them.’

Alison was sliding back towards panic. ‘That’s all I needed to know,’ I told her. ‘You’re doing great. Tell us something: you know Holly Mackey and her friends, yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Tell me about them.’

‘They’re just weird. Really weird.’

Alison’s arms tightening around her middle. Surprise: she was afraid of Holly’s lot.

I said, ‘That’s what we’ve heard, all right. But no one’s been able to tell us what kind of weird. I figure if anyone can put a finger on that, it’s you.’