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XM:I would need to check with our legal counsel before I give out that information.
VE:OK, if that’s how you want to play it. And while you’re at it, tell them I’m about to send through an email requesting copies of all correspondence between Dry Riser employees and Robin Tierney. Emails, files, WhatsApps – any contact in the last three months. And before you ask, I don’t have a warrant, or at least not a Californian one, I’m just hoping you’ll see your way to helping us out so we don’t need to resort to that. In the circumstances.
XM:I’m sorry, I’m not with you. What circumstances?
VE:Our murder victim, I’m afraid it’s Robin Tierney. Needless to say, that is confidential at present -
XM:But she can’t be dead – that’s impossible – I got a WhatsApp from her only a couple of weeks ago –
VE:Yes, well, that’s rather the point.
***
‘Mr O’Brien?’
He doesn’t look immediately wary, despite their official demeanour. In fact, of the two of them it’s the little girl who senses something’s a bit off. She rushes up to her father and grabs him round the leg, peering up at Asante through her fringe.
‘Yeah, that’s me,’ says O’Brien. His Ulster accent is unmistakable. ‘Who are you?’
Asante pulls out his warrant card. ‘DS Asante, Thames Valley, and this is DS Bradley from South Mercia Police. Could we talk to you for a moment?’
He looks from one to the other and laughs nervously. ‘Whenever they say that on telly it never ends well.’
Bradley smiles. ‘We’ll do our best not to be a narrative cliché.’
He’s not reassured. ‘No, seriously, what’s this about?’
‘It’d be easier to do this inside,’ says Asante.
‘Sorry, I have to take Sky to her party.’
‘Maybe your wife could –’
‘Ex-wife. And Dawn’s about to go out.’
But as every police officer knows, there’s a lot to be said for stand-there-and-stare-until-they-realize-they’re-beat. O’Brien’s shoulders sink a little and he bends to talk to his daughter.
‘Let’s just have a quick word with Mummy, shall we?’
Her face crumples; she obviously knows exactly what that tone means, and Bradley feels sorry for her; she’s far too young to be that conditioned to disappointment. ‘But we’ll belate–’
‘I just need to see if Mummy can drop you off on her way to Uncle Matt’s, OK?’
Sky throws her wand down on the path and hurls off back into the house. O’Brien makes a mortified face and rushes after her calling her name, and Bradley and Asante spend five excruciating minutes while he negotiates with a loud and furious Dawn who wants to know why she has to do absolutely fuckingeverythingaround here and what the fuck are the police doing on her fucking doorstep anyway?
And then she’s banging down the path without even looking at them, dragging her daughter after her. O’Brien appears on the doorstep, a little red about the cheeks.
‘Sorry about that. The timing wasn’t great.’
Asante spreads his hands. ‘No need to apologize. Sorry we got in the way of your plans.’
From the outside the house had looked reasonably tidy, though perhaps ‘featureless’ would be a better word. Inside, however, is a different matter. When O’Brien shows them into the front room it’s as if someone has stood in the centre and hurled an entire jumble-sale’s worth of tat in all directions. Clothes, cushions, stuffed plushies, plastic toys in every primary shade. It’s hard to see what colour the carpet is. Or the sofa, for that matter, which is evidently where O’Brien is currently sleeping. Just looking at it all gives Bradley a headache, and she can tell from the look on Asante’s face that the feeling is mutual. She’s had a quiet bet with herself that he lives in a sleek modern studio apartment with lots of white and chrome. And no pets.
O’Brien is looking a little shamefaced. ‘Sorry about the mess, we just never seem to get round to tidying up.’
Bradley looks about her but there’s really no way she can suggest they sit down. If this room is anything to go by, the inside of Dawn O’Brien’s head must be like an animated Hieronymus Bosch.
‘So what’s this about, then? You never said.’