

She came looking for me. Most people stay arm’s length away.
A patchy murmur on the tip-line, Back in ’95 I saw, no name,
click if you ask. A letter printed out and posted from the wrong
town, paper and envelope dusted clean. If we want them, we
have to go hunting. But her: she was the one who came for me.
I didn’t recognise her. I was up the stairs and heading for the
squad room at a bounce. May morning that felt like summer,
juicy sun spilling through the reception windows, lighting the
whole cracked-plaster room. A tune playing in my head, me
humming along.
I saw her, course I did. On the scraped-up leather sofa in the
corner, arms folded, crossed ankle swinging. Long platinum
ponytail; sharp school uniform, green-and-navy kilt, navy
blazer. Someone’s kid, I figured, waiting for Daddy to bring her
to the dentist. The superintendent’s kid, maybe. Someone on
better money than me, anyway. Not just the crest on the blazer;
the graceful slouch, the cock of her chin like the place was hers
if she could be arsed with the paperwork. Then I was past her –
quick nod, in case she was the gaffer’s – and reaching for the
squad-room door.
I don’t know if she recognised me. Maybe not. It had been six
years, she’d been just a little kid, nothing about me stands out
except the red hair. She could have forgotten. Or she could have
known me right off, kept quiet for her own reasons.
She let our admin say, ‘Detective Moran, there’s someone to
see you,’ pen pointing at the sofa. ‘Miss Holly Mackey.’
Sun skidding across my face as I whipped around, and then:
of course. I should’ve known the eyes. Wide, bright blue, and

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 The Secret Place 

something about the delicate arc of the lids: a cat’s slant, a pale
jewelled girl in an old painting, a secret. ‘Holly,’ I said, hand out.
‘Hiya. It’s been a long time.’
A second where those eyes didn’t blink, took in everything
about me and gave back nothing. Then she stood up. She still
shook hands like a little girl, pulling away too quick. ‘Hi, Stephen,’
she said.
Her voice was good. Clear and cool, not that cartoon squeal.
The accent: high-end, but not the distorted ugly-posh. Her dad
wouldn’t have let her away with that. Straight out of the blazer
and into community school, if she’d brought that home.
‘What can I do for you?’
Lower: ‘I’ve got something to give you.’
That left me lost. Ten past nine in the morning, all uniformed
up: she was mitching off, from a school that would notice; this
wasn’t about a years-late thank-you card. ‘Yeah?’
‘Well, not here.’
The eye-tilt at our admin said privacy. A teenage girl, you
watch yourself. A detective’s kid, you watch twice as hard. But
Holly Mackey: bring in someone she doesn’t want, and you’re
done for the day.
I said, ‘Let’s find somewhere we can talk.’
I work Cold Cases. When we bring witnesses in, they want to
believe this doesn’t count: not really a murder investigation, not
a proper one with guns and cuffs, nothing that’ll slam through
your life like a tornado. Something old and soft, instead, worn
fuzzy round the edges. We play along. Our main interview room
looks like a nice dentist’s waiting room. Squashy sofas, Venetian
blinds, glass table of dog-eared magazines. Crap tea and coffee.
No need to notice the video camera in the corner or the one-way
glass behind one set of blinds, not if you don’t want to, and they
don’t. This won’t hurt a bit, sir, just a few little minutes and off
you go home.
I took Holly there. Another kid would have been twitching all
the way, playing head tennis, but none of this was new on Holly.
She headed down the corridor like it was part of her gaff.

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  Tana French

On the way I watched her. She was doing a grand job of

growing up. Average height, or a little under. Slim, very slim, but
it was natural: no starved look. Maybe halfway through getting
her curves. No stunner, not yet anyway, but nothing ugly there –
no spots, no braces, none of her face stuck on sideways – and
the eyes made her more than another blonde clone, made you
look twice.
A boyfriend who’d hit her? Groped her, raped her? Holly
coming to me instead of to some stranger in Sex Crime?
Something to give you. Evidence?
She shut the interview-room door behind us, flick of her
wrist and a slam. Looked around.
I switched on the camera, casual push of the switch. Said,
‘Have a seat.’
Holly stayed put. Ran a finger over the bald-patch green of
the sofa. ‘This room’s nicer than the ones before.’
‘How’re you getting on?’
Still looking around the room, not at me. ‘OK. Fine.’
‘Will I get you a cup of tea? Coffee?’
Shake of her head.
I waited. Holly said, ‘You’ve got older. You used to look like a
student.’
‘And you used to look like a little kid who brought her doll to
interviews. Clara, wasn’t it?’ That turned her head my way. ‘I’d
say we’ve both got older, here.’
For the first time, she smiled. Little crunch of a grin, the same
one I remembered. It had had something pathetic in it, back
then, it had caught at me every time. It did again.
She said, ‘It’s nice to see you.’
When Holly was nine, ten, she was a witness in a murder
case. The case wasn’t mine, but I was the one she’d talk to. I took
her statement; I prepped her to testify at the trial. She didn’t
want to do it, did it anyway. Maybe her da the detective made
her. Maybe. Even when she was nine, I never fooled myself I
had the measure of her.
‘Same here,’ I said.

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 The Secret Place 

A quick breath that lifted her shoulders, a nod – to herself,

like something had clicked. She dumped her schoolbag on the
floor. Hooked a thumb under her lapel, to point the crest at me.
Said, ‘I go to Kilda’s now.’ And watched me.
Just nodding made me feel cheeky. St Kilda’s: the kind of
school the likes of me aren’t supposed to have heard of. Never
would have heard of, if it wasn’t for a dead young fella.
Girls’ secondary, private, leafy suburb. Nuns. A year back,
two of the nuns went for an early stroll and found a boy lying in
a grove of trees, in a back corner of the school grounds. At first
they thought he was asleep, drunk maybe. Revved up to give
him seven shades of shite, find out whose precious virtue he’d
been corrupting. The full-on nun-voice thunder: Young man!
But he didn’t move.
Christopher Harper, sixteen, from the boys’ school one road
and two extra-high walls away. Sometime during the night,
someone had bashed his head in.
Enough manpower to build an office block, enough overtime
to pay off mortgages, enough paper to dam a river. A dodgy
janitor, handyman, something: eliminated. A classmate who’d
had a punch-up with the victim: eliminated. Local scary non-
nationals seen being locally scary: eliminated.
Then nothing. No more suspects, no reason why Christopher
was on St Kilda’s grounds. Then less overtime, and fewer men,
and more nothing. You can’t say it, not with a kid for a victim,
but the case was done. By this time, all that paper was in
Murder’s basement. Sooner or later the brass would catch some
hassle from the media and it would show up on our doorstep,
addressed to the Last Chance Saloon.
Holly pulled her lapel straight again. ‘You know about Chris
Harper,’ she said. ‘Right?’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Were you at St Kilda’s back then?’
‘Yeah. I’ve been there since first year. I’m in fourth year now.’
And left it at that, making me work for every step. One wrong
question and she’d be gone, I’d be thrown away: got too old,
another useless adult who didn’t understand. I picked carefully.

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  Tana French

‘Are you a boarder?’

‘The last two years, yeah. Only Monday to Friday. I go home
for weekends.’
I couldn’t remember the day. ‘Were you there the night it
happened?’
‘The night Chris got killed.’
Blue flash of annoyance. Daddy’s kid: no patience for pussy-
footing, or anyway not from other people.
‘The night Chris got killed,’ I said. ‘Were you there?’
‘I wasn’t there there. Obviously. But I was in school, yeah.’
‘Did you see something? Hear something?’
Annoyance again, sparking hotter this time. ‘They already
asked me that. The Murder detectives. They asked all of us, like,
a thousand times.’
I said, ‘But you could have remembered something since. Or
changed your mind about keeping something quiet.’
‘I’m not stupid. I know how this stuff works. Remember?’ She
was on her toes, ready to head for the door.
Change of tack. ‘Did you know Chris?’
Holly quieted. ‘Just from around. Our schools do stuff
together; you get to know people. We weren’t close, or anything,
but our gangs had hung out together a bunch of times.’
‘What was he like?’
Shrug. ‘A guy.’
‘Did you like him?’
Shrug again. ‘He was there.’
I know Holly’s da, a bit. Frank Mackey, Undercover. You go
at him straight, he’ll dodge and come in sideways; you go at him
sideways, he’ll charge head down. I said, ‘You came here because
there’s something you want me to know. I’m not going to play
guessing games I can’t win. If you’re not sure you want to tell
me, then go away and have a think till you are. If you’re sure
now, then spit it out.’
Holly approved of that. Almost smiled again; nodded instead.
‘There’s this board,’ she said. ‘In school. A noticeboard. It’s
on the top floor, across from the art room. It’s called the Secret

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 The Secret Place 

Place. If you’ve got a secret, like if you hate your parents or you
like a guy or whatever, you can put it on a card and stick it up
there.’
No point asking why anyone would want to. Teenage girls:
you’ll never understand. I’ve got sisters. I learned to just leave it.
‘Yesterday evening, me and my friends were up in the art
room – we’re working on this project. I forgot my phone up
there when we left, but I didn’t notice till lights-out, so I couldn’t
get it then. I went up for it first thing this morning, before
breakfast.’
Coming out way too pat; not a pause or a blink, not a stum-
ble. Another girl, I’d’ve called bullshit. But Holly had practice,
and she had her da; for all I knew, he took a statement every time
she was late home.
‘I had a look at the board,’ Holly said. Bent to her schoolbag,
flipped it open. ‘Just on my way past.’
And there it was: the hand hesitating above the green folder.
The extra second when she kept her face turned down to the
bag, away from me, ponytail tumbling to hide her. The nerves
I’d been watching for. Not ice-cream-cool and smooth right
through, after all.
Then she straightened and met my eyes again, blank-faced.
Her hand came up, held out the green folder. Let go as soon as
I touched it, so quick I almost let it fall.
‘This was on the board.’
The folder said ‘Holly Mackey, 4L, Social Awareness Studies’,
scribbled over. Inside: clear plastic envelope. Inside that: a
thumbtack, fallen down into one corner, and a piece of card.
I recognised the face faster than I’d recognised Holly’s. He
had spent weeks on every front page and every TV screen, on
every department bulletin.
This was a different shot. Caught turning over his shoulder
against a blur of autumn-yellow leaves, mouth opening in a
laugh. Good-looking. Glossy brown hair, brushed forward
boyband-style to thick dark eyebrows that sloped down at the
outsides, gave him a puppydog look. Clear skin, rosy cheeks;

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  Tana French

a few freckles along the cheekbones, not a lot. A jaw that

would’ve turned out strong, if there’d been time. Wide grin
that crinkled his eyes and nose. A little bit cocky, a little bit
sweet. Young, everything that rises green in your mind when
you hear the word young. Summer romance, baby brother’s
hero, cannon-fodder.
Glued below his face, across his blue T-shirt: words cut out of
a book, spaced wide like a ransom note. Neat edges, snipped
close.
I know who killed him
Holly watching me, silent.
I turned the envelope over. Plain white card, the kind you can
buy anywhere to print off your photos. No writing, nothing.
I said, ‘Did you touch it?’
Eyes to the ceiling. ‘Course not. I went into the art room and
got that’ – the envelope – ‘and a balsa knife. I pulled out the tack
with the knife, and I caught the card and the tack in the
envelope.’
‘Well done. And then?’
‘I put it up my shirt till I got back to my room, and then I put
it in the folder. Then I said I felt sick and went back to bed. After
the nurse came round, I sneaked out and came here.’
I asked, ‘Why?’
Holly gave me an eyebrows-up stare. ‘Because I thought you
guys might want to know. If you don’t care, then you can just
throw it away, and I can get back to school before they find out
I’m gone.’
‘I care. I’m only delighted you found this. I’m just wondering
why you didn’t take it to one of your teachers, or your dad.’
A glance up at the wall clock, catching the video camera on
the way. ‘Crap. That actually reminds me. The nurse comes
round again at breaktime, and if I’m not there, they will freak
out. Can you phone the school and say you’re my dad and I’m
with you? Say my granddad’s dying, and when you rang to tell
me, I did a runner without telling anyone because I didn’t want
to get sent to the guidance counsellor to talk about my feelings.’

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 The Secret Place 

All worked out for me. ‘I’ll ring the school now. I’m not going
to say I’m your dad, though.’ Exasperated explosion of sigh
from Holly. ‘I’ll just say you had something you wanted to pass
on to us, and you did the right thing. That should keep you out
of hassle. Yeah?’
‘Whatever. Can you at least tell them I’m not allowed to talk
about it? So they won’t bug me?’
‘No problem.’ Chris Harper still laughing at me, enough
energy running in the turn of those shoulders to power half
Dublin. I slid him back in the folder, closed it over. ‘Did you tell
anyone about this? Your best friend, maybe? It’s grand if you
did; I just need to know.’
A shadow sliding down the curve of Holly’s cheekbone, turn-
ing her mouth older, less simple. Layering something under her
voice. ‘No. I didn’t tell anyone.’
‘OK. I’m going to make this call, and then I’ll take your state-
ment. Do you want one of your parents to sit in?’
That brought her back. ‘Oh, Jesus, no. Does someone have to
sit in? Can’t you just do it?’
‘What age are you?’
She thought about lying. Decided against it. ‘Sixteen.’
‘We need an appropriate adult. Stop me intimidating you.’
‘You don’t intimidate me.’
No shit. ‘I know, yeah. Still. You hang on here, make yourself
a cup of tea if you fancy one. I’ll be back in two minutes.’
Holly thumped down on the sofa. Coiled into a twist: legs
curled under, arms wrapped round. Pulled the end of her ponytail
round to the front and started biting it. The building was boiling as
per usual, but she looked cold. She didn’t watch me leave.
Sex Crime, two floors down, keep a social worker on call. I
got her in, took Holly’s statement. Asked your woman, in the
corridor afterwards, would she drive Holly back to St Kilda’s –
Holly gave me the daggers for that. I said, ‘This way your school
knows for definite you were actually with us; you didn’t just get
a boyfriend to ring in. Save you hassle.’ Her look said I didn’t
fool anyone.

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  Tana French

She didn’t ask me what next, what we were going to do about

that card. She knew better. She just said, ‘See you soon.’
‘Thanks for coming in. You did the right thing.’
Holly didn’t answer that. Just gave me the edge of a smile and
a little wave, half sarcastic, half not.
I was watching that straight back move away down the corri-
dor, social worker duckfooting along beside her trying for a chat,
when I copped: she’d never answered my question. Swerved out
of the way, neat as a rollerblader, and kept right on moving.
‘Holly.’
She turned, hauling her bag strap up her shoulder. Wary.
‘What I asked you earlier. Why’d you bring this to me?’
Holly considered me. Unsettling, that look, like the follow-
you stare off a painting.
‘Back before,’ she said. ‘The whole year, everyone was tiptoe-
ing. Like if they said one single wrong word, I’d have a nervous
breakdown and get taken away in a straitjacket, foaming. Even
Dad – he pretended to be totally not bothered, but I could see
him worrying, all the time. It was just, ahhh!’ A gritted noise of
pure fury, hands starfished rigid. ‘You were the only one who
didn’t act like I was about to start thinking I was a chicken. You
were just like, OK, this sucks, but big deal, worse stuff happens to
people all the time and they survive. Now let’s get it done.’
It’s very very important to show sensitivity to juvenile
witnesses. We get workshops and all; PowerPoint presentations,
if our luck’s really in. Me, I remember what it was like, being a
kid. People forget that. A little dab of sensitive: lovely. A dab
more, grand. A dab more, you’re daydreaming throat-punches.
I said, ‘Being a witness does suck. For anyone.You were better
able for it than most.’
No sarcasm in the smile, this time. Other stuff, plenty, but
not sarcasm. ‘Can you explain to them at school that I don’t
think I’m a chicken?’ Holly asked the social worker, who was
plastering on extra sensitive to hide the baffled. ‘Not even a
little?’ And left.
* * *

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 The Secret Place 

One thing about me: I’ve got plans.

First thing I did, once I’d waved bye-bye to Holly and the
social worker, I looked up the Harper case on the system.
Lead detective: Antoinette Conway.
A woman working Murder shouldn’t rate scandal, shouldn’t
even rate a mention. But a lot of the old boys are old-school;
a lot of the young ones, too. Equality is paper-deep, peel it
away with a fingernail. The grapevine says Conway got the gig
by shagging someone, says she got it by ticking the token
boxes – something extra in there, something that’s not pasty
potato-face Irish: sallow skin, strong sweeps to her nose and
her cheekbones, blue-black shine on her hair. Shame she’s not
in a wheelchair, the grapevine says, or she’d be commissioner
by now.
I knew Conway, to see anyway, before she was famous. Back
in training college, she was two years behind me. Tall girl, hair
scraped back hard. Built like a runner, long limbs, long muscles.
Chin always high, shoulders always back. A lot of guys buzzed
round Conway, her first week: just trying to help her settle in,
nice to be friendly, nice to be nice, just coincidence that the girls
who didn’t look the same didn’t get the same. Whatever she said
to the boys, after the first week they stopped giving her come-
ons. They gave her shite instead.
Two years behind me, in training. Got out of uniform one
year behind. Made Murder the same time I made Cold Cases.
Cold Cases is good. Very bleeding good for a guy like me:
working-class Dub, first in my family to go for a Leaving Cert
instead of an apprenticeship. I was out of uniform by twenty-six,
out of the General Detective Unit and into Vice by twenty-
eight – Holly’s da put in a word for me there. Into Cold Cases
the week I turned thirty, hoping there was no word put in, scared
there was. I’m thirty-two now. Time to keep moving on up.
Cold Cases is good. Murder is better.
Holly’s da can’t put in a word for me there, even if I wanted
one. The Murder gaffer hates his guts. He’s not fond of mine,
either.

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  Tana French

That case when Holly was my witness: I took the collar. I

gave the caution, I clicked the handcuffs, I signed my name
on the arrest report. I was just a floater, should have handed
over anything worthwhile that came my way; should have
been back in the incident room, like a good boy, typing
seen-nothing statements. I took the collar anyway. I had
earned it.
Another thing about me: I know my shot when I see it.
That collar, along with the nudge off Frank Mackey, got me
out of the General Unit. That collar got me my chance at Cold
Cases. That collar locked me out of Murder.
I heard the click, with the click of the handcuffs. You are not
obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, and I knew that
was me on Murder’s shit list for the foreseeable. But handing
over the collar would have put me on the dead-end list, staring
down the barrel of decades typing up other people’s seen-
nothing statements. Anything you do say will be taken down in
writing and may be used in evidence. Click.
You see your shot, you take it. I was sure that lock would open
again, somewhere down the line.
Seven years on, and the truth was starting to hit.
Murder is the thoroughbred stable. Murder is a shine and a
dazzle, a smooth ripple like honed muscle, take your breath
away. Murder is a brand on your arm, like an elite army unit’s,
like a gladiator’s, saying for all your life: One of us. The finest.
I want Murder.
I could have sent the card and Holly’s statement over to
Antoinette Conway with a note, end of story. Even better
behaved, I could have rung her the second Holly pulled out that
card, handed the both of them over.
Not a chance. This was my shot. This was my one and only.
The second name on the Harper case: Thomas Costello.
Murder’s old workhorse. A couple of hundred years on the
squad, a couple of months into retirement. When a spot opens
on the Murder squad, I know. Antoinette Conway hadn’t picked
up a new partner yet. She was still flying solo.

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 The Secret Place 

I went and found my gaffer. He didn’t miss what I was at, but
he liked what it would do for us, being involved in a high-profile
solve. Liked what it would do for next year’s budget. Liked me,
too, but not enough to miss me. He had no problem with me
heading over to Murder to give Conway her Happy Wednesday
card in person. No need to hurry back, said the gaffer. If Murder
wanted me on this, they could have me.
Conway wasn’t going to want me. She was getting me anyway.

Conway was in an interview. I sat on an empty desk in the Murder

squad room, had the crack with the lads. Not a lot of crack, now;
Murder is busy. Walk in there, feel your heart rate notch up.
Phones ringing, computers clicking, people going in and out; not
hurried, but fast. But a few of them took time out to give me a
poke or two. You want Conway? Thought she was getting some,
all right, she hasn’t bust anyone’s balls all week; never thought she
was getting it off a guy, though. Thanks for taking one for the
team, man. Got your shots? Got your gimp suit?
They were all a few years older than me, all dressed that bit
snappier. I grinned and kept my mouth shut, give or take.
‘Never would’ve guessed she went for the redsers.’
‘At least I’ve got hair, man. No one likes a baldy bollix.’
‘I’ve got a gorgeous babe at home who does.’
‘That’s not what she said last night.’
Give or take.
Antoinette Conway came in with a handful of paper, slammed
the door with her elbow. Headed for her desk.
Still that stride, keep up or fuck off. Tall as me – six foot – and
it was on purpose: two inches of that was square heels, crush
your toe right off. Black trouser suit, not cheap, cut sharp and
narrow; no effort to hide the shape on those long legs, the tight
arse. Just crossing that squad room, she said You want to make
something of it? half a dozen ways.
‘He confess, Conway?’
‘No.’
‘Tsk. Losing your touch.’

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  Tana French

‘He’s not a suspect, fuckhead.’

‘You let that stop you? Good kick in the nads and Bob’s your
uncle: confession.’
Not just the normal back-and-forth. A prickle in the air, a
slicing edge. I couldn’t tell if it was about her, or just the day that
was in it, or if it was the squad. Murder is different. The beat
goes faster and harder; the tightrope is higher and narrower.
One foot wrong, and you’re gone.
Conway dropped into her chair, started pulling up some-
thing on her computer.
‘Your boyfriend’s here, Conway.’
She ignored that.
‘Does he not get a snog, no?’
‘What’re you shiteing on about?’
The joker jerked a thumb at me. ‘All yours.’
Conway gave me a stare. Cold dark eyes, full mouth that
didn’t give a millimetre. No makeup.
‘Yeah?’
‘Stephen Moran. Cold Cases.’ I held out the evidence enve-
lope, across her desk. Thanked God I wasn’t one of the ones
who’d sleazed her up in training. ‘This came in to me today.’
Her face didn’t change when she saw the card. She took her
time looking it over, both sides, reading the statement. ‘Her,’ she
said, when she got to Holly’s name.
‘You know her?’
‘Interviewed her, last year. Couple of times. Got fuck-all out
of her; snotty little bitch. All of them are, in that school, but she
was one of the worst. Like pulling teeth.’
I said, ‘You figure she knew something?’
Sharp glance, lift of the statement sheet. ‘How’d you end up
with this?’
‘Holly Mackey was a witness in a case I worked, back in ’07.
We got on. Even better than I thought, looks like.’
Conway’s eyebrow went up. She’d heard about the case.
Which meant she’d heard about me. ‘OK,’ she said. Nothing in
her tone, either way. ‘Thanks.’

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 The Secret Place 

She swung her chair away from me and punched at her

phone. Clamped the receiver under her jaw and leaned back in
her chair, rereading.
Rough, my mam would have called Conway. That Antoinette
one, and a sideways look with her chin tucked down: a bit rough.
Not meaning her personality, or not just; meaning where she
came from, and what. The accent told you, and the stare. Dublin,
inner city; just a quick walk from where I grew up, maybe, but
miles away all the same. Tower blocks. IRA-wannabe graffiti and
puddles of piss. Junkies. People who’d never passed an exam in
their lives but had every twist and turn of dole maths down pat.
People who wouldn’t have approved of Conway’s career choice.
There’s people who like rough. They think it’s cool, it’s street,
it’ll rub off and they’ll be able to pull off all the good slang.
Rough doesn’t look so sexy when you grew up on the banks of
it, your whole family doggy-paddling like mad to keep their
heads above the flood tide. I like smooth, smooth as velvet.
I reminded myself: no need to be Conway’s best bud. Just be
useful enough to get on her gaffer’s radar, and keep moving.
‘Sophie. It’s Antoinette.’ Her mouth loosened when she talked
to someone she liked; got a ready-for-anything curl to the
corner, like a dare. It made her younger, made her into someone
you’d try and chat up in the pub, if you were feeling gutsy. ‘Yeah,
good. You? . . . I got a photo coming your way . . . Nah, the
Harper case. I need fingerprints, but can you have a look at the
actual pic for me, too? Check out what it was taken on, when it
was taken, where, what it was printed out on. Anything you can
give me.’ She tilted the envelope closer. ‘And I got words stuck
on it. Cut-out words, like ransom-note shite. See can you figure
out where they got cut out of, yeah? . . . Yeah, I know. Make me
a miracle. See you ’round.’
She hung up. Pulled a smartphone out of her pocket and took
shots of the card: front, back, up close, far off, details. Headed
over to a printer in the corner to print them off. Turned back to
her desk and saw me.
Stared me out of it. I looked back.

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  Tana French

‘You still here?’

I said, ‘I want to work with you on this one.’
A slice of a laugh. ‘I bet you do.’ She dropped back into her
chair, found an envelope in a desk drawer.
‘You said yourself you got nowhere with Holly Mackey and
her mates. But she likes me enough, or trusts me enough, that
she brought me this. And if she’ll talk to me, she’ll get her mates
talking to me.’
Conway thought about that. Swung her chair from side to
side.
I asked, ‘What’ve you got to lose?’
Maybe the accent did it. Most cops come up from farms,
from small towns; no love for the smart-arse Dubs who think
they’re the centre of the universe, when everyone knows that’s
Ballybumfuck. Or maybe she liked whatever it was she’d heard
about me. Either way:
She scrawled a name on the envelope, slid the card inside.
Said, ‘I’m going down the school, take a look at this noticeboard,
have a few chats. You can come if you want. If you’re any use to
me, we can talk about what happens next. If you’re not, you can
fuck off back to Cold Cases.’
I knew better than to let the Yes! show. ‘Sounds good.’
‘Do you need to ring your mammy and say you’re not coming
home?’
‘My gaffer knows the story. It’s not a problem.’
‘Right,’ Conway said. She shoved her chair back. ‘I’ll get you
up to speed on the way. And I drive.’
Someone wolf-whistled after us, low, as we went out the door.
Ripple of snickers. Conway didn’t look back.

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