Faithful Place (Dublin Murder Squad, #3)(116)

I laughed. “Don’t fool yourself: I’m not trying to protect you. I would happily get you to keep putting your career on the line through 2012, never mind through next Tuesday, if I thought for one second it would do any good. But it wouldn’t.”

“You wanted me to get involved here, you practically shoved me into it, and now I’m involved and I’m staying that way. You don’t get to keep changing your mind every few days: Fetch the stick, Stephen, drop the stick, Stephen, fetch the stick, Stephen . . . I’m not your bitch, any more than I’m Detective Kennedy’s.”

“Actually,” I said, “you are. I’m going to be keeping an eye on you, Stevie my friend, and if I get just one hint that you’re still poking your nose where it doesn’t belong, I’m going to take that post-mortem report and that fingerprint report to Detective Kennedy and tell him where I got them. Then you’ll be in his bad books, you’ll be in my bad books, and more than likely you’ll be at that desk in the arsehole of nowhere. So I’m telling you one more time: back off. Do you get that?”

Stephen was too stunned and too young to keep his face under control; he was staring at me with a naked, blazing mix of fury, amazement and disgust. This was exactly what I was aiming for—the snottier he got with me, the further he would be from the various forms of nasty that were coming up—but somehow it still stung. “Man,” he said, shaking his head, “I don’t get you. I really don’t.”

I said, “Ain’t that the truth,” and started fishing for my wallet.

“And I don’t need you buying me coffee. I can pay my own way.”

If I kicked him in the ego too hard, he might keep chasing the case just to prove to himself that he still had a pair. “Your choice,” I said. “And, Stephen?” He kept his head down, rummaging in his pockets. “Detective. I’m going to need you to look at me.” I waited till he cracked and reluctantly met my eyes before I said, “You’ve done some excellent work here. I know this isn’t how either of us wanted it to end, but all I can tell you is that I’m not going to forget it. When there’s something I can do for you—and there will be—I’m going to be all over it.”

“Like I said. I can pay my own way.”

“I know you can, but I like paying my debts too, and I owe you. It’s been a pleasure working with you, Detective. I look forward to doing it again.”

I didn’t try to shake hands. Stephen shot me a dark look that gave away nothing, slapped a tenner onto the table—which counted as a serious gesture, from someone on newbie wages—and shrugged on his coat. I stayed where I was and let him be the one who walked away.





And there I was, back where I had been just a week before, parking in front of Liv’s place to pick Holly up for the weekend. It felt like it had been years.

Olivia was wearing a discreet caramel-colored number instead of last week’s discreet little black dress, but the message was the same: Dermo the Pseudo-Pedo was on his way, and he was in with a chance. This time, though, instead of barricading the door, she opened it wide and drew me quickly into the kitchen. Back when we were married, I used to dread Liv’s “We need to talk” signals, but at this stage I actually welcomed them. They beat her “I’ve got nothing to say to you” routine, hands down.

I said, “Holly not ready, no?”

“She’s in the bath. It was bring-a-friend day at Sarah’s hip-hop class; she just got home, all sweaty. She’ll be a few minutes.”

“How’s she doing?”

Olivia sighed, ran a hand lightly over her immaculate hairdo. “I think she’s all right. As all right as we could expect, anyway. She had a nightmare last night, and she’s been quiet, but she doesn’t seem . . . I don’t know. She loved the hip-hop class.”

I said, “Is she eating?” When I moved out, Holly went on hunger strike for a while.

“Yes. But she’s not five any more; she’s not always as obvious about her feelings, these days. That doesn’t mean they’re not there. Would you try talking to her? Maybe you can get a better sense of how she’s coping.”

“So she’s keeping stuff to herself,” I said, nowhere near as nastily as I could have. “I wonder where she got that idea.”

The corners of Olivia’s lips tightened up. “I made a mistake. A bad one. I’ve admitted that, and apologized for it, and I’m doing my utmost to fix the damage. Believe me: there’s nothing you can say that would make me feel any worse about hurting her.”

I pulled out one of the bar stools and parked my arse heavily—not to piss Olivia off, this time, just because I was wrecked enough that even a two-minute sit-down in a room that smelled of toast and strawberry jam felt like a big treat. “People hurt each other. That’s how it works. At least you were trying to do something good. Not everyone can say that much.”

The tightness had spread down to Liv’s shoulders. She said, “People don’t necessarily hurt each other.”

“Yes, Liv, they do. Parents, lovers, brothers and sisters, you name it. The closer you get, the more damage you do.”

“Well, sometimes, yes. Of course. But talking like it’s some unavoidable law of nature—That’s a cop-out, Frank, and you know it.”