Faithful Place (Dublin Murder Squad, #3)(65)

“The lads at Documents will need to run some tests,” Scorcher said, “but I’d say we’ve both seen the other half of that before.”

Outside the window the sky was gray-white, turning icy. A cold swipe of air whipped in through the window and a tiny swirl of dust specks rose from the floorboards, sparkled for a second in the weak light, then fell and vanished. Somewhere I heard the hiss and rattle of plaster disintegrating, trickling away. Scorcher was watching me with something that I hoped, for the sake of his health, wasn’t sympathy.

I said, “Where did you get this?”

“It was in your brother’s inside jacket pocket.”

Which rounded off this morning’s set of one-two-three punches beautifully. When I got some air into my lungs I said, “That doesn’t tell you where he got it. It doesn’t even tell you he was the one who put it there.”

“No,” Scorcher agreed, too mildly. “It doesn’t.”

There was a silence. Scorch waited a tactful amount of time before he held out his hand for the evidence bag.

I said, “You’re thinking this means Kevin killed Rosie.”

“I’m not thinking anything. At this stage I’m just collecting the evidence.”

He reached for the bag; I whipped it away. “You keep collecting. Do you hear me?”

“I’m going to need that back.”

“Innocent until proven guilty, Kennedy. This is a long, long way from proof. Remember that.”

“Mmm,” Scorch said, neutrally. “The other thing I’m going to need is you keeping out of my way, Frank. I’m very serious.”

“There’s a coincidence. So am I.”

“Before was bad enough. But now . . . It doesn’t get much more emotionally involved than this. I realize you’re upset, but any interference from you could compromise my whole investigation, and I won’t allow that.”

I said, “Kevin didn’t kill anyone. Not himself, not Rosie, not anyone. You just keep collecting that evidence.”

Scorcher’s eyes flickered, away from mine. After a moment I gave him his precious Ziploc and left.

As I went through the door Scorcher said, “Hey, Frank? At least now we know for a fact she wasn’t planning on leaving you.”

I didn’t turn around. I could still feel the heat of her writing, reaching right through Scorcher’s prissy little label to wrap round my hand, searing me to the bones. This is the happiest day of my life.

She had been coming to me, and she had almost made it. There had been about ten yards between us and our hand-in-hand brave new world. It felt like freefalling, like being shoved out of a plane with the ground rushing up hard towards me and no parachute cord to pull.





11

I opened the front door a crack and closed it loudly, for Scorcher’s benefit; then I went down the back stairs, out to the garden and over the wall. I didn’t have time to deal with my family. Word spreads fast on the job, specially when the gossip is this juicy. I switched my mobiles off and headed for the squad, fast, to tell my super I was taking some time off before he could tell me the same thing.

George is a big guy, pushing retirement, with a droopy, exhausted face like a toy basset hound’s. We love him; suspects make the mistake of thinking they can love him too. “Ah,” he said, heaving himself out of his chair, when he saw me at the door. “Frank.” He held out his hand, across the desk. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“We weren’t close,” I said, giving him a good firm grip, “but it’s a shock, all right.”

“They’re saying it looks like he might have done it himself.”

“Yep,” I agreed, watching the sharp assessing flash in his eye as he sank back into his chair. “They are. It’s a head wrecker, all round. Boss, I’ve got a lot of holiday time saved up. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to cash it in, effective immediately.”

George passed a hand over his bald spot and examined it mournfully, pretending to consider that. “Can your investigations afford it?”

“Not a problem,” I said. Which he already knew: reading upside down is one of life’s more useful skills, and the file in front of him was one of mine. “Nothing’s at a crucial stage. They just need watching. An hour or two to get my paperwork in shape, and I can be ready to hand over.”

“Right,” George said, on a sigh. “Why not. Hand over to Yeates. He’s having to ease off on the southside coke op for a while; he’s got time.”

Yeates is good; we don’t have duds in Undercover. “I’ll bring him up to speed,” I said. “Thanks, boss.”

“Take a few weeks. Clear the head. What’ll you do? Spend time with the family?”

In other words, are you planning to hang around the scene, asking awkward questions. I said, “I was thinking about getting out of town. Wexford, maybe. I hear the coastline’s lovely this time of year.”

George massaged his forehead folds like they hurt. “Some gobshite from Murder was onto me bright and early this morning, giving out about you. Kennedy, Kenny, whatever. Says you’ve been interfering with his investigation.”

The squealing little arse-gerbil. “He’s PMSing,” I said. “I’ll bring him some pretty flowers and he’ll be grand.”