Broken Harbor (62 page)

I saw the fast blink as it went in. After a long moment Fiona said, “Me?”

“If I could come up with a way to do this without your help, I wouldn’t be talking to you.”

Her face was tight, watchful. “How do I know you’re not setting me up?”

“What for? If I just wanted a solve and I was looking for someone to take the fall, I wouldn’t need you: I’ve got Conor Brennan, all packaged up and good to go.” A porter shoved a clanging trolley past the end of the corridor, and we both jumped. I said, even more quietly, “And I’m taking at least as much of a risk as you are. If you ever decide to tell anyone about this—tomorrow, or next month, or ten years down the line—then I’m facing an Internal Affairs investigation at the very least, and at the worst I’m looking at a review of every case I’ve ever touched and criminal charges of my own. I’m putting everything I’ve got in your hands, Ms. Rafferty.”

Fiona said, “Why?”

There were too many answers. Because of that moment, still flickering small and searingly bright inside me, when she had told me she was certain of me. Because of Richie. Because of Dina, her lips stained dark with red wine, telling me
There isn’t any why.
In the end I gave her the only one I could stand to share. “We had one piece of evidence that might have been enough, but it got destroyed. It was my fault.”

After a moment Fiona said, “What’ll they do to her? If she gets arrested. How long . . . ?”

“She’ll be sent to a psychiatric hospital, at least at first. If she’s found fit to stand trial, her defense will plead either not guilty or insanity. If the jury finds she was insane, then she’ll go back to the hospital until the doctors decide she’s no longer a danger to herself or others. If she’s found guilty, then she’ll probably be in prison for ten or fifteen years.” Fiona winced. “I know it sounds like a long time, but we can make sure she gets the treatment she needs, and by the time she’s my age she’ll be out. She can start over, with you and Conor there to help her.”

The PA squealed into life, ordered Dr. Something to Accident and Emergency please; Fiona didn’t move. Finally she nodded. Every muscle in her was still stretched taut, but that wariness had gone out of her face. “OK,” she said. “I’m on.”

“I need you to be sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“Then here’s what we’re going to do,” I said. The words felt heavy as stones, sinking me. “You’re going to mention to me that you’re heading out to Ocean View, to pick up supplies for your sister—her dressing gown, toiletries, her iPod, books, whatever you think she might need. I’m going to tell you that the house is still sealed and you can’t go in there. Instead, I’ll offer to drive out myself, go into the house and pick up whatever Jenny needs—I’ll bring you along, so that you can make sure I get the right things. You can make me a list on the way. Write it out, so I’ve got it to show anyone who asks.”

Fiona nodded. She was watching me like a floater at a briefing, alert and attentive, memorizing every word.

“Seeing the house again is going to jog your memory. All of a sudden you’ll remember that, on the morning when you and the uniformed officers found the bodies, when you followed the officers into the house, you picked up something that was lying at the bottom of the stairs. You did it automatically: the house was always so tidy that anything on the floor seemed out of place, so you tucked it in your coat pocket without even realizing what you were doing—your mind was on other things, after all. Does this all hang together for you?”

“The thing I picked up. What is it?”

“Jenny’s got a handful of bracelets in her jewelry box. Is there one she wears a lot? Not one of those solid things, what do you call them, bangles; we need a chain. A strong one.”

Fiona thought. “She’s got a charm bracelet. It’s a gold chain, a thick one; it looks pretty strong. Pat gave it to Jenny for her twenty-first, and after that he gave her charms when anything important happened—like a heart when they got married, and initials when the kids were born, and a little house when they bought the house. Jenny wears it a lot.”

“Perfect. That’s the other reason why you picked it up: you knew it meant a lot to Jenny, she wouldn’t want it lying around on the floor. When you saw what had happened, that blew the bracelet right out of your mind. Naturally enough, you haven’t thought of it since. But while you’re waiting for me to come out of the house, it’ll come back to you. You’ll go through your coat pockets and find it. When I get back to the car, you’ll hand it over to me, on the off chance that it might come in useful.”

Fiona said, “How’s that going to help?”

I said, “If everything had happened exactly the way I’m describing, then you wouldn’t have any way of knowing how the bracelet would fit into our investigation. So it’s better you don’t know it now. Less chance of you slipping up. You’re going to have to trust me.”

She said, “You’re sure, too, right? This will work. It’s not going to go all wrong. You’re sure.”

“It isn’t perfect. Some people, possibly including the prosecutor, are going to think that you knew all along and deliberately held back. And some people are going to wonder if the whole thing is just a little too convenient to be true—department politics; you don’t need to know the details. I can make sure you don’t get into any actual trouble—you won’t be arrested for concealing evidence or obstruction of justice, nothing like that—but I can’t make sure you won’t get a tough time from the prosecutor, or the defender if it gets that far. They may even try to imply that you should be a suspect, given that you’d have been the beneficiary if Jenny had died.”

Fiona’s eyes snapped wide. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I promise, there’s no way that could go anywhere. You’re not going to get in trouble. I’m just telling you in advance: this isn’t perfect. But it’s the best I can do.”

“OK,” Fiona said, on a deep breath. She pulled herself upright in the chair and pushed hair off her face with both hands, ready for action. “What comes now?”

“We need to do it, conversations and all. If we go through every step, then you’ll remember the details when you give your statement, or when you’re cross-examined. You’ll sound truthful, because you’ll be telling the truth.”

She nodded. “So,” I said. “Where are you off to, Ms. Rafferty?”

“If Jenny’s asleep, I should drive down to Brianstown. She needs some things from the house.”

Her voice was wooden and empty, nothing left in it but a sediment of sadness. I said, “I’m afraid you can’t go into the house. It’s still a crime scene. If it would help, I can take you down there and get out whatever you need.”

“That’d be good. Thanks.”

I said, “Let’s go.”

I stood up, bracing myself against the wall like an old man. Fiona buttoned her coat, wrapped the scarf around her neck and tugged it tight. The child had stopped crying. We stood there in the corridor for a moment, listening by Jenny’s door for a call, a movement, anything that would keep us there, but nothing came.

* * *

For the rest of my life I will remember that journey. It was the last moment when I could have turned back: picked up Jenny’s bits and pieces, told Fiona I had spotted a flaw in my grand plan, dropped her back at the hospital and said good-bye. On the way to Broken Harbor that day, I was what I had given all my adult life to becoming: a murder detective, the finest on the squad, the one who got the solves and got them on the straight and narrow. By the time I left, I was something else.

Fiona huddled against the passenger door, staring out the window. When we got onto the motorway I took one hand off the wheel, found my notebook and pen and passed them to her. She balanced the notebook on her knee and I kept my speed steady while she wrote. When she was done she passed them back to me. I took a quick glance at the page: her handwriting was clear and rounded, with fast little flourishes on the tails.
Moisturizer (whatever’s on bedside table or in bathroom). Jeans. Top. Jumper. Bra. Socks. Shoes (runners). Coat. Scarf.

Fiona said, “She’ll need clothes to leave the hospital in. Wherever she’s going next.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

You’re doing the right thing.
It almost came out automatically. Instead I said, “You’re saving your sister’s life.”

“I’m putting her in prison.”

“You’re doing the best you can. That’s all any of us can do.”

She said suddenly, as if the words had forced their way out, “When we were kids I used to pray that Jenny would do something awful. I was always in trouble—nothing major, I wasn’t some delinquent, just little stuff like giving my mum cheek or talking in class. Jenny never did anything bad, ever. She wasn’t a goody-goody; it just came natural to her. I used to pray she’d do something really terrible, just once. Then I would tell and she’d get in trouble, and everyone would be like, ‘Well done, Fiona. You did the right thing. Good girl.’”

She had her hands clasped together in her lap, tightly, like a child at confession. I said, “Don’t tell that story again, Ms. Rafferty.”

My voice came out sharper than I meant it to. Fiona went back to staring out the window. “I wouldn’t.”

After that we didn’t talk. As I turned into Ocean View a man swung out from a side road, running hard; I slammed on the brakes, but it was a jogger, eyes staring and unseeing, nostrils flaring like a runaway horse’s. For a second I thought I heard the great gasps of his breath, through the glass; then he was gone. He was the only person we saw. The wind coming off the sea shook the chain-link fences, held the tall weeds in the gardens at a steep slant, shoved at the car windows.

Fiona said, “I read in the paper they’re talking about bulldozing these places, the ghost estates. Just smash them down to the ground, walk away and pretend it never happened.”

For one last second, I saw Broken Harbor the way it should have been. The lawn mowers buzzing and the radios blasting sweet fast beats while men washed their cars in the drives, the little kids shrieking and swerving on scooters; the girls out jogging with their ponytails bouncing, the women leaning over the garden fences to swap news, the teenagers shoving and giggling and flirting on every corner; color exploding from geranium pots and new cars and children’s toys, smell of fresh paint and barbecue blowing on the sea wind. The image leapt out of the air, so strong that I saw it more clearly than all the rusting pipes and potholed dirt. I said, “That’s a shame.”

“It’s good riddance. It should’ve happened four years ago, before this place was ever built: burn the plans and walk away. Better late than never.”

I had got the hang of the estate: I got us to the Spains’ house on the first try, without asking Fiona for directions—she had vanished into her mind again, and I was happy to leave her there. When I parked the car and opened my door, the wind roared in, filling my ears and my eyes like cold water.

I said, “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Go through the motions of finding something in your pocket, just in case someone’s watching.” The Gogans’ curtains hadn’t moved, but it was only a matter of time. “If anyone comes over to you, don’t talk to them.” Fiona nodded, out the window.

The padlock was still in place: the souvenir hunters and ghouls were biding their time. I found the key I had taken off Dr. Dolittle. When I stepped inside out of the wind, the instant silence rang in my ears.

I rummaged through kitchen cupboards, not bothering to stay clear of the blood spatter, till I found a bin-liner. I took it upstairs and threw things into it, working fast—Sinéad Gogan was presumably glued to her front window by now, and would be happy to tell anyone who asked exactly how long I had spent in here. When I was done, I put on my gloves and opened Jenny’s jewelry box.

The charm bracelet was laid out in a little compartment all its own, ready to put on. The golden heart, the tiny golden house, glowing in the soft light drifting through the cream lampshade; the curly E, chips of diamond sparkling; the J, enameled in red; the diamond drop that must have been for Jenny’s twenty-first. There was plenty of room left on the chain, for all the wonderful things that had still been going to happen.

I left the bin-liner on the floor and took the bracelet into Emma’s room. I switched on the light—I wasn’t about to do this with the curtains open. The room was the way Richie and I had left it when we finished searching: tidy, full of thought and love and pink, only the stripped bed to tell you something had happened here. On the bedside table the monitor was flashing a warning:
12º. TOO COLD.

Emma’s hairbrush—pink, with a pony on the back—was on her chest of drawers. I picked out the hairs carefully, matching the lengths, holding them up—they were so fine and fair, at the wrong angle they vanished into the light—to find the ones with roots and skin tags still attached where a careless sweep of the brush had tugged too hard. In the end I had eight.

I smoothed them together into a tiny lock, held the roots between thumb and finger and wound the other end into the charm bracelet. It took me a few tries—on the chain, the clasp, the little gold heart—before it caught tightly enough, in the loop holding the enameled J, that a tug jerked the hairs free of my fingers and left them fluttering against the gold.

I put the bracelet around one hand and pulled till a link bent open. It left a red mark across my palm, but Jenny’s wrists had been covered with bruises and abrasions where Pat had tried to hold her off. Any one of them, blurred by the others, could have come from the bracelet.

Emma had fought; Cooper had told us that already. For a moment she had managed to pull the pillow off her head. As Jenny scrabbled to get it back into place, her bracelet had snagged in Emma’s whipping hair. Emma had grabbed hold of it, yanked till a weak link bent, then lost her grip; her hand had been trapped under the pillow again, nothing left in it but a few strands of her own hair.

The bracelet had stayed on Jenny’s wrist while she finished what she was doing. As she went downstairs to find Pat, the bent link had slipped loose.

Probably it wouldn’t be enough for a conviction. Emma’s hair could have snagged in the bracelet as Jenny brushed it before bed, that last evening; the link could have caught on a door handle as she rushed downstairs to see what the commotion was. The whole thing was dripping with reasonable doubt. But together with everything else, it would be enough to arrest her, charge her, to keep her on remand while she waited for trial.