The Secret Place (Dublin Murder Squad, #5)(36)

Her eyes on mine, torn.

‘Alison,’ I said gently. I thought strong, thought protective, thought myself into all her wishes. Didn’t blink. ‘Anything you know, you need to tell me. They’ll never find out it came from you. No one will. I swear.’

Alison said – hunched forward, a whisper, shrunk so as not to reach Houlihan – ‘They’re witches.’

Now that was new.

I could hear What the f*ck? inside Conway’s head.

I nodded. ‘Right,’ I said. ‘How did you find that out?’

Houlihan, in the corner of my eye, leaning half off her chair. Too far away to hear. She wouldn’t come closer. If she tried, Conway would stop her.

Alison was breathing faster, with the shock of having said it. ‘They used to be, like, normal. Then they just went weird. Everyone noticed.’

‘Yeah? When?’

‘Like the start of last year? A year and a half ago?’ Before Chris; before that Valentine’s dance when even Orla had spotted something. ‘People said all kinds of stuff about why—’

‘Like what?’

‘Just stuff. Like they were gay. Or they were abused when they were kids, I heard that. But we thought they were witches.’

Glance at me, fearful. I asked, ‘Why’s that?’

‘I don’t know. Just because. We just thought it.’ Alison hunched down farther, over whatever she was hiding. ‘Probably I shouldn’t have told you.’

Her voice was tamped down to a whisper. Conway had stopped writing, in case she drowned it out. Took me a second to cop: Alison figured she’d just put herself in line for a good cursing.

‘Alison. You’re doing the right thing, telling us. That’s going to protect you.’

Alison didn’t look convinced.

I felt Conway shift. Keeping her mouth shut, like she’d promised, but doing it loudly.

I said, ‘Just a couple more questions. Are you going out with anyone?’

A surge of blush that nearly drowned Alison. A muffled clump of words I couldn’t hear.

‘Say again?’

She shook her head. Huddled right down, eyes on her knees. Braced. Alison thought I was going to point and laugh at her for not having a fella.

I smiled. ‘Not met the right guy, no? You’re dead right to wait. Plenty of time for that.’

Something else muffled.

I said – f*ck Conway, she had her answer, I was getting mine – ‘If you had to pick just one thing to tell me about Chris, what would it be?’

‘Huh? . . . I barely even knew him. Can’t you ask the others?’

‘I will, of course. But you’re my observer. I’d love to hear what you remember most.’

The smile was automatic this time, a reflex spasm with nothing behind it. Alison said, ‘People noticed him. Not just me; everyone noticed him.’

‘How come?’

‘He was . . . I mean, he was so good-looking. And he was good at everything – rugby, and basketball; and talking to people, making everyone laugh. And I heard him sing once, he was really good, everyone was telling him he should do the X Factor auditions . . . But it wasn’t just that. It was . . . He was just more than everyone else. More there. You could walk into a room with like fifty people in it, and the only one you’d see would be Chris.’

A wistful something in her voice, in the droop of her eyelids. Gemma was right: everyone had fancied Chris.

‘What do you think happened to him?’

That made Alison shrink. ‘I don’t know.’

‘I know you don’t. That’s OK. I’m only asking for guesses. You’re my observant one, remember?’

A thin ghost of the smile. ‘Everyone said it was the groundskeeper.’

No thoughts of her own, or else a dodge. ‘Is that what you think?’

Shrug. Not looking at me. ‘I guess.’

I let the silence grow. So did she. That was all I was getting.

Card, speech, smile. Alison dived out of the door like the room was on fire. Houlihan flapped after her.

Conway said, ‘That one’s still in the running.’

Watching the door, not me. I couldn’t read her. Couldn’t tell if that meant You f*cked up.

I said, ‘Pushing any harder wouldn’t have done any good. I’ve set up the beginnings of rapport; if I talk to her again, I can move it on, maybe get an answer.’

Conway’s eye sliding sideways to me. She said, ‘If you talk to her again.’

That sardonic corner of a grin, like my obviousness brightened her day. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘If.’

Conway flipped to a clean page in her notebook. ‘Joanne Heffernan,’ she said. ‘Joanne’s a bitch. Enjoy.’



Joanne was like looking at all the other three averaged out. I’d been expecting something impressive, all the hype. Medium height. Medium thin. Medium looks. Hard-work straight blond hair, fake tan, skinny eyebrows. No glance at the Secret Place.

Only the way she stood – hip cocked, chin tucked, eyebrows up – said Impress me. Said The Boss.

Joanne wanted me to think she was important. No: admit she was important.

‘Joanne,’ I said. Stood up for her. ‘I’m Stephen Moran. Thanks for coming in.’