Faithful Place (Dublin Murder Squad, #3)(74)

I found Jackie backed into a corner, getting her ear bent by our uncle Bertie. I put on an agonized about-to-break-down face, detached her from his sweaty clutches, steered her into the bedroom and shut the door behind us. These days the room was peach-colored and every available surface was covered with little porcelain widgets, which argued a certain lack of foresight on Ma’s part. It smelled of cough syrup and something else, medical and stronger.

Jackie collapsed onto the bed. “God,” she said, fanning herself and blowing out air. “Thanks a million. Jaysus, I know it’s bad to pass remarks, but has he not had a wash since the midwife?”

“Jackie,” I said. “What’s going on?”

“What d’you mean, like?”

“Half the people here won’t say a word to me, they won’t even look me in the eye, but they’ve got plenty to say when they think I’m not looking. What’s the story?”

Jackie managed to look innocent and shifty at the same time, like a kid neck-deep in denials and chocolate. “You’ve been away, sure. They haven’t seen you in twenty years. They’re only feeling a bit awkward.”

“Bollix. Is this because I’m a cop now?”

“Ah, no. Maybe a little bit, like, but . . . Would you not just leave it, Francis? Do you not think maybe you’re only being paranoid?”

I said, “I need to know what’s going on, Jackie. I’m serious. Do not f*ck with me on this.”

“Jaysus, relax the kacks; I’m not one of your bleeding suspects.” She shook the cider can in her hand. “Do you know are there any more of these left, are there?”

I shoved my Guinness at her—I had barely touched it. “Now,” I said.

Jackie sighed, turning the can between her hands. She said, “You know the Place, sure. Any chance of a scandal . . .”

“And they’re on it like vultures. How did I turn into today’s Happy Meal?”

She shrugged uncomfortably. “Rosie got killed the night you left. Kevin died two nights after you came back. And you were on at the Dalys not to go to the cops. Some people . . .”

She let it trail off. I said, “Tell me you’re shitting me, Jackie. Tell me the Place is not saying I killed Rosie and Kevin.”

“Not the whole Place. Some people, only. I don’t think—Francis, listen to me—I don’t think they even believe it themselves. They’re saying it because it makes a better story—what with you having been away, and being a cop, and all. Don’t mind them. They’re only looking for more drama, so they are.”

I realized that I still had Jackie’s empty in my hand, and that I had crushed it into a mangled mess. I had expected this from Scorcher, from the rest of the Murder stud-muffins, maybe even from a few guys in Undercover. I had not expected it from my own street.

Jackie was gazing at me anxiously. “D’you know what I mean? And, as well, everyone else who could’ve hurt Rosie is from round here. People don’t want to be thinking—”

I said, “I’m from round here.”

There was a silence. Jackie reached out a hand, tentatively, and tried to touch my arm; I whipped it away. The room felt underlit and threatening, shadows piled up too thick in the corners. Outside in the sitting room people were joining in, raggedly, with Holy Tommy: “The years have made me bitter, the gargle dims my brain, and Dublin keeps on changing; nothing seems the same . . .”

I said, “People accused me of that, to your face, and you let them into this house?”

“Don’t be thicker than you can help,” Jackie snapped. “Nobody’s said a word to me, d’you think they’d have the nerve? I’d bleeding splatter them. It’s hints, only. Mrs. Nolan said to Carmel that you’re always around for the action, Sallie Hearne said to Ma that you always had a temper on you and did she remember that time you punched Zippy’s nose in—”

“Because he was hassling Kevin. That’s why I punched Zippy, for f*ck’s sake. When we were about ten.”

“I know that. Ignore them, Francis. Don’t give them the satisfaction. They’re only eejits. You’d think they’d have enough drama on their plates as it is, but that lot always have room for a bit more. The Place, sure.”

“Yeah,” I said. “The Place.” Outside the singing was rising, getting stronger as more people joined in and someone threw in a harmony: “Ringa-ring-a-rosy as the light declines, I remember Dublin city in the rare oul’ times . . .”

I leaned back against the wall and ran my hands over my face. Jackie watched me sideways and drank my Guinness. Eventually she asked, tentatively, “Will we go back out, will we?”

I said, “Did you ever ask Kevin what he wanted to talk to me about?”

Her face fell. “Ah, Francis, I’m sorry—I would’ve, only you said . . .”

“I know what I said.”

“Did he not get a hold of you, in the end?”

“No,” I said. “He didn’t.”

Another small silence. Jackie said, again, “I’m so sorry, Francis.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“People’ll be looking for us.”

“I know. Give me one more minute and we’ll go back out.”