The Secret Place (Dublin Murder Squad, #5)(99)

She pulled out another drawer, hard enough that it nearly fell on her foot. ‘I don’t like bubbles.’

Down the back of Joanne’s headboard: dust and nothing. I said, ‘How about the squad?’

‘What about it?’

‘Murder’s a bubble.’

Conway flipped out a T-shirt with a snap. ‘Yeah,’ she said. Jaw set like she was seeing fights ahead. ‘Murder’s a lot like here. The difference is, I’m there for good.’

I thought about asking if that meant she was planning on making friends on the squad. Decided I had better sense.

Conway said, like she’d heard me anyway, ‘And I’m still not gonna get all buddy-buddy with the squad lads. I don’t want to belong. I want to do my f*cking job.’

I did my f*cking job – ran my hand over shiny posters; nothing – and thought about Conway. Tried to work out if I envied her, or felt sorry for her, or thought she was talking bollix.

We were finishing up when Conway’s phone buzzed. Message.

‘Sophie,’ she said, slamming the wardrobe door. ‘Here we go.’ This time I went to her shoulder without waiting for an invitation.

The e-mail said, Records for the number that texted Moran. My guy’s working on the actual texts, says they should still be in the system but might take him an hour or two. Probably all ‘OMGLOLWTFbwahaha!!!!’ but you want them, you’re getting them. Enjoy. S.

The attachment was pages long; Chris had been getting plenty of use out of his special phone. He’d activated it at the end of August, just before he went back to school – good little Boy Scout, coming prepared. By the middle of September, two numbers were showing up. No calls, but plenty of texts and media messages back and forth with both, every day, a few times a day. ‘You were right,’ Conway said, hard-edged. I felt her think it: witnesses she should have found.

‘Ladies’ man, our Chris.’

‘And smart, too. See all these picture messages? Those weren’t pics of fluffy kitties. If one of his girls started threatening to tell the world, these would keep her nice and quiet.’

I said, ‘That’ll be why none of them said it to you last year. They were hoping if they kept their mouths shut, no one would link these to them.’

Conway’s head came round, suspicious, ready to shove my comfort up my hole. I kept my eyes on the screen till she turned back to it.

October, both of Chris’s girls got the boot – same MO we’d seen on Joanne’s records: he ignored their texts, the flood of calls from one of them, till they gave up. As they faded, Joanne’s number kicked in. By the middle of November, Chris was two-timing her; after Joanne faded away in December, the other girl hung on a couple more weeks, but by Christmas she was history. January, a new number swapped a handful of texts and vanished: something that never got off the ground.

Conway said, ‘I wondered all along. Why Chris hadn’t had a girlfriend in a year. Popular guy like him, good-looking, did fine with the girls before; it didn’t add up. I should’ve . . .’ Quick jerk of her head, angry. She didn’t bother finishing.

Last week in February, the next run of texts started. One a day, then two, then half a dozen. All the one number. Conway scrolled down: March, April, the texts kept coming.

She tapped the screen. ‘That’ll be Selena.’

I said, ‘And he wasn’t two-timing her.’

We left a second for what that meant. My theory, the girl who had caught Chris cheating, she was out. Conway’s was getting stronger.

Conway said, ‘See that? No media messages, just texts. No tit pics here. Selena wasn’t giving Chris what he was after.’

‘Maybe he dumped her for that.’

‘Maybe.’

April 22nd, Monday, the usual couple of texts back and forth during the day – setting up the meeting, probably. That night, Joanne had taken the video.

Early on April 23rd, Chris texted Selena. She answered before school, he came straight back to her. No answer. Chris texted her again after school: nothing.

He tried three more times the next day. Selena didn’t answer.

Conway said, ‘Something went wrong, anyway, that night. After Joanne and Gemma went inside.’

I said, ‘And she’s the one dumping him.’ Conway’s theory swelled bigger.

It was the 25th, Thursday, when Selena finally got back to Chris. Just the one text. No answer.

Over the next few weeks, she texted him six times. He didn’t answer any of them. Conway’s eyebrows were pulled together.

Early on the morning of the 16th of May, Thursday, a text from Selena to Chris and, finally, one back. That night, Chris had been murdered.

After that, nothing into his phone or out, for a year. Then, today, the text to me.

Below the window, a tumble of high voices: girls outside, getting fresh air on their break between dinner and study. Nothing on our corridor. McKenna was keeping this lot where they were, under her eye.

Conway said, ‘It goes bad the night of the twenty-second. Next day, Chris tries to apologise, Selena tells him to f*ck off. He keeps trying, she ignores him.’

‘Over the next few days,’ I said, ‘she comes out of shock, starts getting mad. She decides she wants to confront Chris. By that time, though, he’s in a snot because she didn’t accept his apology; he’s decided to move on. Like that story Holly told us, with the muffin: he didn’t like not getting what he wanted.’