The Secret Place (Dublin Murder Squad, #5)(64)

I said, ‘We don’t know for sure that this was actually the key to the connecting door.’

‘Exactly. I’ve got a copy of the real thing back at HQ, I can match it against that. Till then, I’m not calling out half the force for the key to someone’s ma’s booze cupboard.’

‘And we’ve only got the text girl’s word on who put it here and when. It might not even have been here last May.’

‘Might not.’ Conway let the pocket drop closed. ‘I wanted to take this place apart, top to bottom. The gaffer said no. Said there was no evidence that anyone inside Kilda’s was involved. What he meant was, all the posh mummies and daddies would have a conniption about some dirty detective going through their little darlings’ undies. So yeah: for all we know, the key wasn’t there to find.’

I said, ‘Why would Joanne’s lot leave it here, all this time? Why not bin it when Chris got killed and people started asking questions?’

Conway shut the book. Delicate touch, when she needed it. ‘You should’ve seen this place, after the murder. The kids didn’t get left on their own for a second, in case Hannibal Lecter jumped out of a wardrobe and ate their brains. None of them would go to the jacks without five of their mates in tow. Our lot everywhere, teachers patrolling the corridors, nuns flapping about, everyone going off like fire alarms if they spotted anything out of the ordinary. This’ – she flicked a finger at the book, no touching – ‘would’ve been the smart thing to do: leave the key, don’t risk getting caught moving it. And just a few weeks later, the school year finished up. When our girls came back in September, they were fourth-years. No code for this room, no good reason to be in it. Coming after the key would’ve been riskier than leaving it. How often do you think this book gets read? What’s the odds of anyone finding the key, or knowing what it was if they did?’

‘If Joanne or whoever didn’t bin the key, it’s a good bet she didn’t wipe down the book.’

‘Nah. We’ll get prints.’ Conway pulled a plastic evidence bag out of her satchel, shook it open with a snap. ‘Who d’you figure for the text? None of Holly’s lot are mad about Joanne.’

She held the bag open while I balanced the book into it, two-fingered. I said, ‘“Who” isn’t the bit that’s getting me. I’d love to know why.’

Wry glance from Conway, as she tucked the bag back into her satchel. ‘My scare speech wasn’t good enough for you?’

‘It was good. But it wouldn’t scare anyone into texting us about this. What’s to be scared of? Why would the killer come after her for knowing this key was here?’

‘Unless,’ Conway said. She was pulling off her gloves, carefully, finger by finger. ‘Unless the killer’s Joanne.’

The first time we’d had a name to say. It sent a fine zing through the air, rippling the throws on the sofas, twitching the curtains.

I said, ‘You’re the boss. But if it was me, I wouldn’t go at her yet.’

I half-expected a slap-down. Didn’t get one. ‘Me neither. If Joanne hid this, her buddies knew about it. Who d’you want to try? Alison?’

‘I’d go for Orla. Alison’s nervier, all right, but that’s not what we need. One push and she’ll run crying to Daddy, and we’re bollixed.’ The we flicked Conway’s eyebrow, but she said nothing. ‘Orla’s more solid, and she’s thick enough that we can run rings round her. I’d try her.’

‘Mm,’ Conway said. She was opening her mouth to say something else when we heard the sound.

Thin shrilling sound, dipping and rising like an alarm. Before I copped what it was, Conway was up and running for the door. The savage bright burst on her face as she passed me said Yes, said Action, said At f*cking last.

Girls clotted halfway down the corridor, a dozen of them, more. Half of them out of their uniforms now, bright in hoodies and T-shirts, cheap bangles shaking; a few half-changed, clutching buttons together, shoving into sleeves. All of them crowding and yammering, high and fast, Whatwhatwhat? In the middle of the clot someone was screaming.

We were taller than them. Over shining heads: Joanne and her lot, surrounded. Alison was the one screaming, back pressed against the wall, hands splayed in front of her face. Joanne was trying to do something, cradle her, ministering angel, who knows. Alison was too far gone even for that.

Holly, between heads, the only one not gawping at Alison. Holly was scanning faces, with eyes like her da’s. Holly was watching for someone to give something away.

Conway grabbed the nearest kid by the arm, little dark girl who leaped and screamed. ‘What’s the story?’

‘Alison saw a ghost! She saw, she said, she said she saw Chris Harper, his ghost, she saw—’

The shrieks kept coming; the kid was jumping and rattling under them. Conway said, loud, so anyone who could hear anything could hear her: ‘You know why he’s back, right?’

The kid stared, open-mouthed. Other girls were starting to look at us, baffled, tennis-heading, trying to work out through the brain-battering noise why these adults weren’t stepping in and getting control and turning everything back to sane.

‘Because someone here knows who killed him. He’s come back to make her talk. We see it all the time, on murder cases, all the time, amn’t I right?’