The Secret Place (Dublin Murder Squad, #5)(76)

‘Did one of yous fancy him, yeah? Nothing wrong with that.’

That cringe again, hunching down into her shoulders. Something was scaring her worse than us and Chris combined. Joanne; had to be. Joanne had wanted Chris.

Conway tapped the book. ‘When was the last time any of yous snuck out?’

‘Gemma was out like a week before what happened to Chris. I mean, how creepy is that? We were all, “OhmyGod, if there was like a serial killer stalking the school, he could totally have got her instead!”’

‘You never went out after that? Any of yous? Ah-ah’ – finger lifting again – ‘think about it before you go lying to us.’

Orla was shaking her head so hard her hair whipped her in the face. ‘No. I swear. None of us. After Chris, we weren’t exactly about to go wandering around out there. Joanne actually told me to go get that key and bin it or something, and I tried, but I was just taking the books out and oh! my God! one of the prefects came barging in? And she was all, “What are you doing in here?” ’cause it was after lights-out ’cause I couldn’t exactly do it while everyone was in the common room? I almost had a heart attack. So after that, no way was I trying again.’

Conway lifted an eyebrow. ‘Joanne was OK with that?’

‘Oh my God, she would’ve been so furious! I told her . . .’ Snorty giggle from Orla, hand going over her mouth. ‘I told her I’d done it. I mean, it’s not like anyone could tell it was ours anyway, or even what it was . . .’ Something dawned on her. ‘How’d you guys know?’

‘DNA,’ Conway said. ‘Go back to the common room.’



‘Selena and Chris,’ Conway said, watching down the corridor as the common-room door shut behind Orla. ‘Not bullshit after all.’

She didn’t sound happy about it. I knew why. Conway figured she should have got to this a year ago.

I said, ‘Unless Orla’s lying. Or Gemma lied to her.’

‘Yeah. I don’t think so, but.’ Neither did I. ‘Let’s see what Selena has to say.’

We’d get nothing out of Selena. I could feel it, in with that feeling that she was at the heart of the mystery: she was wrapped so deep in layers of it, we would never get through them to her. ‘Not Selena,’ I said. ‘Julia.’

Conway started to give me the glare. Changed her mind – I’d been right about Orla – nodded instead. ‘OK. Julia.’

Orla was at the centre of the common-room gabble, flopped on a sofa with one hand on her chest like she had the vapours, eating up the attention. Joanne looked ready to kill: Orla had come clean about not binning the key. Holly’s lot hadn’t moved, but their eyes were on Orla.

A nun – civvies and headgear and a grim puggy underbite – was supervising from a corner, letting them talk but keeping a tough eye on where the chat was going. For a second I was surprised at McKenna, delegating this, but then I copped. Day girls had got home, boarders had rung home. McKenna’s phone was going like goodo. She was up to her glasses in damage control.

Sooner not later, some pissed-off daddy with pull was going to ring the brass. The brass was going to ring O’Kelly. O’Kelly was going to ring Conway and take her head off.

‘Julia,’ Conway said, past the nun. ‘Let’s go.’

A beat, and then Julia got up and came. No glance back at her mates.

Their room was two doors down from Orla’s. It had that same feeling, left in a hurry: locker doors open, clothes dropped in the dash. This time, though, I knew straight off what bit belonged to who, no need to check the bedside photos. Bright red bed linen, vintage poster of Max’s Kansas City: Julia. Old-looking patchwork quilt, poem written out poster-size in careful art-project calligraphy: Rebecca. Hanging mobile made of curled silver forks and spoons, good black-and-white photo that looked like a rock against low sky, till you looked twice and it was an old man’s profile: Holly. And Conway had been bang on about Selena: no dreamcatcher, but over her bed was a print of some medium-quality old oil, unicorn bending to drink at a dark lake by moonlight. Conway caught it too. Her eyes met mine, and the shadow of a private grin flipped back and forth between us. Before I knew it, it felt good.

Julia bounced down on her bed, propped herself up on her pillow, hands behind her head. Stretched out her legs – she was in jeans, a bright orange T-shirt with Patti Smith on, hair down – and crossed her ankles. Nice and comfy. ‘Hit me,’ she said.

Conway didn’t f*ck about with fairy tales this time. She whipped out the evidence envelope, dangled it from finger and thumb in front of Julia’s face. Stood over her and watched. I got out my notebook.

Julia took her time. Let Conway hold the bag while she read the book’s title. ‘Is this a hint? I should be more virtuous?’

Conway said, ‘Are we gonna find your prints on that?’

Julia pointed at the book. ‘You think this is my bedtime reading? Seriously?’

‘Cute. Don’t do that again. We ask, you answer.’

Sigh. ‘No you are not going to find my prints on this OK thank you for asking. The only way I read about saints is when I’m forced to for essays. And even then I do, like, Joan of Arc. Not some simpering wimp.’

‘Wouldn’t know the difference,’ Conway said. ‘You can explain it to me some other time. Inside that book there’s a key to the connecting door between here and the school. Belonged to Joanne and her gang, last year.’