Faithful Place (Dublin Murder Squad, #3)(36)
“Kylie in a thong?”
“Your professional prayers. All the info you could ever want, all the info that you’ll never get on your own because no one from around here is ever going to tell you, all neatly wrapped up in your very favorite trained observer. Me.”
Scorcher said, “Do me a favor and come down to my level for a second, Frank. Get specific. What do you want?”
I shook my head. “This isn’t about me. It’s about a win-win situation. The best way for us to turn this into a positive is together.”
“You want to be on the case.”
“Forget what I want. Think about what’s good for you and me both—not to mention for the case. We both want a solve here, am I right? Isn’t that everyone’s top priority?”
Scorcher pretended to think that over for a minute. Then he shook his head, slowly and regretfully. “No can do. Sorry, mate.”
Who the hell says No can do? I gave him a grin like a dare. “Are you worried? You’ll still be the lead detective, Scorch. It’ll still be your name on the result. We don’t do solve rates, over in Undercover.”
“Well, good for you,” Scorch said smoothly, not taking the bait. He’d got better at managing his ego, over the years. “You know I’d love to have you onboard, Frank, but my super would never go for it.”
The Murder Squad super is in fact not my biggest fan, but I doubted Scorcher knew that. I raised an eyebrow and did amused. “Your super doesn’t trust you to pick your own team?”
“Not unless I can back up my choices. Give me something solid to show him, Frank. Share some of this famous info. Did Rose Daly have any enemies?”
We both knew I wasn’t in a position to point out that I had already shared plenty. “None that I know of. That’s one reason why it never occurred to me that she could be dead.”
He looked disbelieving. “What, was she an idiot?”
I said, on a pleasant note that let him figure out whether I was joking, “She was a lot smarter than you’ll ever be.”
“Boring?”
“A long way from.”
“A dog?”
“The neighborhood babe. What the hell kind of taste do you think I have?”
“Then I guarantee you she had enemies. A bore or an uggo might manage not to get up anyone’s nose, but if a girl’s got brains and looks and personality, she’s going to piss someone off, somewhere along the way.” He gave me a curious look, over his pint. “The rose-colored glasses aren’t your style, Frank. You must have been really crazy about this one, were you?”
Dangerous waters. “First love,” I said, shrugging. “Long time ago. I probably idealized her, all right, but she was a genuinely nice girl. I don’t know of anyone who had a problem with her.”
“No exes with grudges? No catfights?”
“Rosie and I had been going out for years, Scorch. Since we were sixteen. I think she had a couple of boyfriends before me, but we’re talking kid stuff: hold hands in the cinema, write each other’s name on your desk in school, break up after three weeks because the commitment’s getting to be too intense.”
“Names?”
He had his shiny detective pen all ready. Some poor f*ckers were going to be getting unwelcome visits. “Martin Hearne, aka Zippy at the time, although he might not answer to that nowadays. Lived at Number Seven, called himself Rosie’s boyfriend very briefly when we were about fifteen. Before that there was some kid called Colm, who was in school with us till his parents moved back to bogland, and when we were about eight she kissed Larry Sweeney from Smith’s Road on a dare. I seriously doubt any of them was still carrying a torch for her.”
“No jealous girlies?”
“Jealous of what? Rosie wasn’t the femme fatale type; she didn’t flirt with other girls’ fellas. And I may be a ride, but even if anyone had known we were going out together, which they didn’t, I doubt some girl would have bumped Rosie off just to get her hands on my hot body.”
Scorcher snorted. “I’m with you on that one. But Jesus, Frank, help me out here. You’re giving me nothing I couldn’t have got from any gossipy old one within a mile. If I’m going to wangle you past my super, I need something special. Give me a couple of motives, or the victim’s juicy secrets, or—Ah, here we go.” He snapped his fingers, pointed at me. “Talk me through the night you were supposed to meet her. Eyewitness stuff. Then we’ll see what we can do.”
In other words, where were you on the evening of the fifteenth, sonny boy. I wasn’t clear on whether he genuinely thought I was stupid enough to miss that. “Fair enough,” I said. “Sunday into Monday, December fifteenth to sixteenth, 1985. At approximately half past eleven, I left my home at Eight Faithful Place and proceeded to the top of the road, where I had arranged to meet Rose Daly around twelve o’clock, depending on when our families went to sleep and we found opportunities to exit our homes without being seen. I remained there until somewhere between five and six in the morning—I couldn’t swear to the exact time. I left the spot only once, for maybe five minutes just after two o’clock, when I entered Number Sixteen to check whether there had been some confusion about the rendezvous point and Rose was waiting for me there instead.”