Faithful Place (Dublin Murder Squad, #3)(141)
There wasn’t much I could do about the black eyes or the lump on his jaw, but when I was done he was at least a few steps closer to presentable. I refolded the J-cloth and went at my own face. “How’s that?”
He barely glanced at me. “You’re grand.”
“If you say so. Like I said, it’s no skin off my nose what the Place sees.”
That made him take a proper look. After a moment he jabbed a finger, almost reluctantly, at the corner of his mouth. “There.”
I gave my cheek another scrub and raised an eyebrow at him. He nodded.
“OK,” I said. The cloth was smeared with great spreading splotches of blood, blooming crimson all over again where the water had revived them, soaking through the folds. It was starting to come off on my hands. “OK. Hang on there a sec.”
“Like I’ve a choice.”
I rinsed the cloth a bunch of times in the kitchen sink, tossed it in the bin for the search team to find later on, and scrubbed my hands hard. Then I went back out to the front room. The ashtray was under a chair in a scatter of gray ash, my smokes were in a corner and Shay was where I had left him. I sat down on the floor opposite him, like we were a couple of teenagers at a party, and put the ashtray between us. I lit two smokes and stuck one between his lips.
Shay inhaled hard, eyes closing, and let his head fall back on the sofa. I leaned back against the wall. After a while he asked, “Why didn’t you shoot me?”
“Are you complaining?”
“Don’t be a bleeding sap. I’m only asking.”
I peeled myself off the wall—it took an effort; my muscles were starting to stiffen up—and reached across to the ashtray. “I guess you were right all along,” I said. “I guess, when you get down to it, I’m a cop now.”
He nodded, without opening his eyes. The two of us sat there in silence, listening to the rhythm of each other’s breathing and to that faint elusive music coming from somewhere, only moving to lean forward and flick ash. It was the nearest to peaceful we’d ever been together. When the buzzer yelled, it almost felt like an intrusion.
I answered fast, before anyone could spot Stephen waiting outside. He ran up the stairs as lightly as Holly running down; the stream of voices from Ma’s never changed. I said, “Shay, meet Detective Stephen Moran. Detective, this is my brother, Seamus Mackey.”
The kid’s face said he had already got that far. Shay looked at Stephen with no expression at all in those swollen eyes, no curiosity, nothing but a kind of distilled exhaustion that made my spine want to sag just looking at it.
“As you can see,” I said, “we had a little disagreement. You might want to get him checked out for concussion. I’ve documented this for future reference, if you need pictures.”
Stephen was looking Shay over carefully, from head to toe, not missing an inch. “I might, yeah. Thanks. Do you want those back straight away? I can put him in mine.”
He was pointing at my handcuffs. I said, “I’m not planning on arresting anyone else tonight. Get them to me some other time. He’s all yours, Detective. He hasn’t been cautioned yet; I left that for you. You don’t want to get sloppy on the technicalities, by the way. He’s smarter than he looks.”
Stephen said, trying to phrase it delicately, “What do we . . . ? I mean . . . you know. Reasonable cause for arrest without a warrant.”
“I figure this story will probably have a happier ending if I don’t spill all our evidence in front of the suspect. But trust me, Detective, this isn’t just sibling rivalry gone wild. I’ll give you a ring in an hour or so for a full briefing. Until then, this should keep you going: half an hour ago he gave me a full confession to both murders, complete with in-depth motives and details about the manner of death that only the killer could know. He’s going to deny it till the cows come home, but luckily I’ve got lots of other tasty nibbles stashed away for you; that’s just your starter. Think it’ll hold you for now?”
Stephen’s face said he had his doubts about that confession, but he also had better sense than to go there. “That’s plenty. Thanks, Detective.”
Downstairs, Ma yelled, “Seamus! Francis! If this dinner burns on me, I swear I’ll malavogue the pair of yous!”
I said, “I’ve got to split. Do me a favor: hang on here for a while. My kid’s downstairs, and I’d rather she didn’t see this. Give me time to get her out before you leave. OK?”
I was talking to both of them. Shay nodded, without looking at either one of us.
Stephen said, “No problem. Will we get comfortable, yeah?” He tilted his head towards the sofa and reached out a hand to haul Shay to his feet. After a second, Shay took it.
I said, “Good luck.” I zipped up my jacket over the blood on my shirt, and swiped a black baseball cap—“M. Conaghy Bicycles”—off a coat hook to cover the cut on my head. Then I left them there.
The last thing I saw was Shay’s eyes, over Stephen’s shoulder. No one had ever looked at me like that, not Liv, not Rosie: like he could see right to the bottom of me, without even trying, and without a single corner left hidden or a single question left unanswered along the way. He never said a word.
22
Ma had pried everyone away from the telly and smacked the Christmas idyll back into shape: the kitchen was crowded with women and steam and voices, the guys were being herded back and forth with pot holders and dishes, the air was hopping with the sizzle of meat and the smell of roast potatoes. It made me light-headed. I felt like I had been gone for years.