Broken Harbour

14

The incident room had emptied, just the kid manning the tip line and a couple of others working late, who upped the paper shuffling when they saw me. Richie said bluntly, as we got to our desks, “I don’t think she had anything to do with it.”

He was all geared up to fight his corner. I said, giving him a quick grin, “Well, that’s a relief. At least we’re on the same page on this one.” He didn’t grin back. “Relax, Richie. I don’t think she did, either. She envied Jenny, all right, but if she was going to flip out on her, it would’ve been back when Jenny had the perfect picket-fence life, not now that it was all in ruins and Fiona got to say I told you so. Unless her phone records come back with a bunch of calls to Conor, or her financials come back with some massive debt, I think we can cross her off our list.”

Richie said, “Even if it turns out she’s skint. I believe her: she’s not into money. And she was doing her best to give us all the info she could, even when it hurt. Whoever did this, she wants him locked up.”

“Well, she did, until she found out it was Conor Brennan. If we need to talk to her again, she won’t be anywhere near as helpful.” I pulled my chair up to my desk and found a report form, for the Super. “And that’s another mark for her being innocent. I’d bet a lot of money that was genuine, her reaction when we told her. That hit her right out of the clear blue sky. If she was behind all this, she’d have been panicking about Conor ever since she found out we had someone in custody. And she sure as hell wouldn’t be pointing us in his direction by giving him a motive.”

Richie was copying Fiona’s phone numbers into his notebook. He said, “Not much of a motive.”

“Oh, come on. Spurned love, with a dose of humiliation thrown in? I couldn’t have asked for a better one if I’d ordered it from a catalog.”

“I could. Fiona thought maybe Conor might’ve fancied Jenny, ten years back. That’s not a lot of motive in my book.”

“He fancied her now. What else do you think the JoJo’s badge was about? Jenny wouldn’t have kept hers, neither would Pat, but I bet I know someone who would have. And one day, when he was wandering around the Spains’ house, he decided to leave Jenny a little present-the creepy bastard. Remember me, from back when everything was lovely and your life didn’t suck dick in hell? Remember all the happy times we had together? Don’t you miss me?”

Richie pocketed his notebook and started flicking through the pile of reports on his desk, but he wasn’t reading them. “Still doesn’t point to him killing her. Pat’s the jealous type, he’s already warned Conor off Jenny once, and he’s got to be feeling pretty insecure right now. If he found out Conor was leaving Jenny presents…”

I kept my voice down. “He didn’t find out, though, did he? That badge wasn’t thrown across the kitchen, or stuffed down Jenny’s throat. It was hidden away in her drawer, safe and sound.”

“The badge was. We don’t know what else Conor could’ve left.”

“True enough. But the more little treats he left Jenny, the more it points to him still being mad about her. That’s evidence against Conor. Not against Pat.”

“Except Jenny must’ve known who left that badge. Must’ve. How many people would own a JoJo’s badge, and know to leave it for her? And she kept it. Whatever Conor felt about her, it wasn’t just one-way. It’s not like she was binning his presents and he flipped out. Pat’s the one who would’ve flipped over what was going on.”

I said, “As soon as Jenny’s doctor cuts down the painkillers, we’ll need to have another chat with her, find out exactly what the story was there. She may not remember the other night, but she can’t have forgotten that badge.” I thought of Jenny’s ripped face, her wrecked eyes, and caught myself hoping that Fiona would convince the doctors to keep her doped up to the gills for a good long time.

Richie flipped pages faster. He asked, “What about Conor? Were you planning on having another go at him tonight?”

I checked my watch. It was past eight o’clock. “No. Let him stew a while longer. Tomorrow we’ll hit him with everything we’ve got.”

That made Richie’s knees start jiggling, under his desk. He said, “I’ll give Kieran a ring before I head. See if he’s come up with anything new on Pat’s websites.”

He was already reaching for the phone. “I’ll do it,” I said. “You do the report for the Super.” I shoved it onto his desk before he could argue.

Even at that hour, Kieran actually sounded pleased to hear from me. “Kemosabe! I was just thinking about you. One question: am I da man, or am I totally da man?”

For a second I thought matching the jaunty tone would take more than I had left. “I’m going to go out on a limb and say you’re totally da man. What have you got for me?”

“You would be correctamundo. To be honest, when I got your e-mail I was like, yeah, right, even if your guy did take his weasel issues somewhere else, the web’s a big place; how am I meant to find him, Google ‘weasel’? But remember that partial URL the recovery software tossed up? The home-and-garden forum?”

“Yeah.” I gave Richie the thumbs-up. He left the form on his desk and scooted his chair over to mine.

“We checked it out back when I first told you about it: went through the last two months of posts. Closest we got to drama was a couple of guys on the DIY board having a dick-measuring contest about drywalling, whatever the hell that is, which frankly I don’t actually care? No one was harassing anyone-there’s a decent chance this could be the most boring forum ever-no one matched your victim and no one was called anything like sparklyjenny, so we moved on. But then I got your e-mail and I had a brainwave: we could’ve been looking for the wrong thing, at the wrong time.”

I said, “It wasn’t Jenny who posted there. It was Pat.”

“Bada-bing. And not in the last two months, either. It was back in June. He last posted on Wildwatcher on the thirteenth, right? If he tried anywhere else in the next couple of weeks, I haven’t found it yet, but on the twenty-ninth of June he shows up on the Nature and Wildlife section of the home-and-garden site, going under Pat-the-lad again. He’d posted on the site before, like a year and a half ago-something to do with his toilet backing up-so probably that’s why it occurred to him. Want me to forward the link?”

“Please. Now, if you can.”

“Once more with feeling, Kemosabe: am I da man?”

“You are totally da man.” The corner of Richie’s mouth twitched. I gave him the finger. I knew I couldn’t get away with talking like that, but I didn’t care.

“Music to my ears,” Kieran said. “Link coming atcha,” and he hung up.

Pat’s thread on the home-and-garden site started the same way as his Wildwatcher thread: a rundown of the facts, quick and neat, the kind of rundown I would have been pleased to get from any of my floaters. Where the Wildwatcher thread had ended, though, this one kept going.

I’ve checked for scat a few times but no dice, the thing must be going outside to do its business. I put down flour to try and get paw prints but no joy there either, when I went back up to check the flour was sort of smudged and brushed around (can post pix if that helps) but no prints. Only physical sign I’ve seen is about 10 days ago the thing was going nuts, so I went up in the attic + right under the hole were four long stalks w leaves on, still green (??looked like something off one of the plants from down by the beach? no clue, city guy here) + a piece of wood about 4in x4-worn down, w bits of green paint peeling off, like maybe a piece of plank out of a boat. Have no clue a) why any animal would want it or b) how it got it into attic, hole under eaves is only barely big enough. Again can post pix if they could help.

“We saw that lot,” Richie said quietly. “In his wardrobe. Remember?”

The biscuit tin, tucked away on Pat’s wardrobe shelf. I had taken it for granted they were gifts from the kids, saved for their sweetness. “Yeah,” I said. “I remember.”

Put out another trap that nite w piece of chicken in it but no joy. Have had people suggest a mink, marten, stoat, but all of those would go for chicken wouldn’t they? + why would they be bringing in leaves + wood? Would really like to know what’s up there.

He caught the board’s interest straightaway, just like he had caught Wildwatcher’s. Within minutes he had replies. Someone thought the animal was moving in and bringing the whole family: Stockpiling leaves and wood could indicate nesting behavior. June is late in the year for that… but you never know. Have you checked whether any more nesting materials have been added since then?

Someone else thought he was making a fuss over nothing. If I were you I wouldnt worry about it. If it was a predator (in other words-anything dangerous) then it would of had to be something smart enough to stay away from free meat. I cant think of anything that would do that. Have you thought about squirrels?? Mice?? Or could be birds? Magpies? Maybe since your near the sea something like seagulls??

When he checked back in, the next day, Pat sounded unconvinced. Hi yeah, could be squirrels all right, but have to say from the noises it sounds way bigger. I’m not taking this as definite, cos the acoustics in the house are really weird (someone can be at the other end of the house + sound like they’re right next to you) but when its stamping around up there, sounds the size of like a badger to be honest w you-I know there’s no way a badger could get up there but defo bigger than a squirrel or a magpie + way bigger than a mouse. Not mad about the idea of having a predator that’s too clever to fall for traps. Also not mad about the idea of it nesting up there. Haven’t been up recently but guess I’ll have to go check it out.

The guy who had suggested mice still wasn’t impressed. You said yourself the acoustics are weird. Their probably just amplifing the noises from a couple of mice or something. Your not in Africa or somewhere that it could be a leopard or whatever. Seriously keep going with the mouse traps try different kinds of bait and forget it.

Pat was still online: Yeah that’s what my wife thinks, actually she thinks prob some kind of bird (wood pigeons?) cos pecking would explain the tapping noises. Thing is she hasn’t actually heard it-noises are always either a) late at night when she’s asleep (haven’t been sleeping great the last while myself so awake at odd hours) or b) when she’s cooking + I’d have the kids upstairs out of her way. So she doesn’t realize how loud + basically impressive it is. Trying not to mention it too often/make a big deal out of it cos I don’t want to freak her out but starting to get to me a bit to be honest. No I’m not worried its going to like rip us limb from limb but would be a big relief to just know what it is. Will check out attic + update asap, any + all advice appreciated.

The floaters were packing up, making sure to do it just loudly enough that I would notice how late they had stayed. “Good night, Detectives,” one of them said, when they were hovering in the doorway. Richie said automatically, “Safe home, see yous tomorrow;” I raised a hand and kept scrolling.

It was late the next night, coming up to midnight, before Pat got back online. OK went up to the attic and checked it out, no more nesting materials or whatever. Only thing is one of the roof beams is covered all over in what looks like claw marks. Have to say I’m kind of freaked out because they look like they’re from something pretty big. Thing is though, not positive I’d actually checked out that beam before (its way off in back corner) so they could have been there for ages, like even before we moved in-that’s what I’m hoping anyway!

The guy who had suggested nesting was watching the thread: within a few minutes of Pat’s post, he was on with another suggestion. I assume you have a hatch going up to the attic. In your situation I would leave the hatch open, mount a camcorder pointing at the hatch and I would press Record just before you go to bed or before your wife begins to cook dinner. Sooner or later the animal will get curious… and you will get footage. If you are worried that it will come down into the main house and be dangerous if trapped then you can nail some chicken wire over the opening. Hope this helps.

Pat came back fast and buoyant: just the thought of having the animal in his sights had lifted his spirits. Brilliant idea-thanks a mill! At this stage its been in + out of the house for like a month + a half, so not too worried it’ll suddenly decide to attack at this point. Actually wouldn’t mind if it did, I’d give it something to think about, if I can’t take it down then I deserve whatever it can dish out right? He followed that up with three little emoticons rolling back and forth, laughing. I’d just like to get a good look at the thing, don’t mind how, just want to see what I’m dealing with. Also kind of wondering if my wife should see it-if she sees its not just a bird I figure we can get on the same page + work out what to do between the 2 of us. Also would be nice not to have her worrying that I’m losing the bit I have! Camcorder is a little out of our budget at the mo but we’ve got a video baby monitor I could rig up. Can’t believe I didn’t think of it before-actually even better than a camcorder cos it does infrared so no need to leave the hatch open-I’ll just rig it up in the attic + away we go. I’ll give my wife the receiver to watch while dinner is on + keep my fingers xd. She might even let me do the cooking for once!! Wish us luck! And a small yellow smiley face, waving.

“‘Losing the bit I have,’” Richie said.

“It’s a figure of speech, old son. This guy kept his head when his best mate fell for his future wife: dealt with the situation, no drama, cool as a cucumber. You think he’d have a nervous breakdown over a mink?” Richie, gnawing on his pen, didn’t answer.

And that was it from Pat, for a couple of weeks. A few of the regulars wanted updates, there was some sniffiness about blow-ins who came looking for help and never said thank you, and the thread tailed off.

On the fourteenth of July, though, Pat was back, and things had gone up a notch. Hi guys, me again, really need a hand here. Just to update, I’m trying the video monitor but so far no good. Tried setting camera to catch different bits of the attic but still no go. I know the animal’s not gone cos I’m still hearing it like every day/night. Its getting louder-think its got more confident or else maybe its grown bigger. My wife still hasn’t heard it ONCE, if I didn’t know better I’d swear its deliberately waiting til she isn’t around.

Anyway here’s the update, this aft went up to the attic to see if any more leaves/wood/whatever + in one corner were four animal skeletons. Not an expert here but they looked like rats or maybe squirrels. Heads were gone. Maddest thing is they were lined up really neatly, like someone had arranged them ready for me to find-know that sounds crazy but I swear that’s what it looked like. Don’t want to say anything to my wife in case she freaks out but guys this IS a predator and I NEED to find out what kind.

This time the regulars were unanimous: Pat was out of his depth here, he needed a professional and fast. People posted links to pest control services and, less helpfully, to sensationalist news stories where small children had been maimed or killed by unexpected wildlife. Pat sounded a little reluctant (I was kind of hoping to deal with this myself-don’t like getting people in to fix stuff I should be able to sort), but in the end he handed out thanks all round and headed off to ring the pros.

“Not cool as a cucumber there,” Richie said. I ignored him.

Three days later, Pat was back. OK so pest control guy came out this morn. Took 1 look at skeletons + said can’t help you out man, biggest he deals w is rats + no way is this a rat, rats don’t line up bodies like that + rats won’t take the head off a squirrel + leave the rest-he’s pretty sure all 4 skeletons are squirrels. Never seen anything like it he said. He said maybe a mink or could be some exotic pet that some idiot had to get rid of + let go into the wild. Possibly something like a bobcat or even a wolverine, he said you’d be amazed the tiny spaces these things can slip through. He said could be specialists that would deal w it but I’m not keen on spending loads of dosh to have someone else come out here + tell me not his problem either. Also at this stage starting to feel kind of like its personal-this house ain’t big enough for the two of us!! Those little faces again, rolling and laughing.

So am looking for ideas on how to trap it/flush it out/what to use for bait/how to get proof it exists for my wife. Night before last thought I had it, was giving my son a bath + the thing started going nuts right over our heads-at first just like a few scratches but gradually built up till it sounded like it was spinning round in circles trying to scratch a hole in the ceiling or something. My son heard it too, wanted to know what it was. Told him it was a mouse-never lie to him normally but he was getting scared and what was I supposed to say?? Legged it downstairs to get my wife to come hear it, by the time we got back upstairs the noise had totally stopped, not another peep out of the little bastard all night. Swear to God it was like it knew. Lads I NEED HELP here. This thing is scaring my son in his own home. My wife looked at me like I was some kind of total looper. I need to get this fucker.

The desperation rose off the screen, hot fumes like tar smoking in ruthless sun. The scent of it stirred up the board, turned them restless and aggressive. They started jostling Pat: had he shown the skeletons to his wife? What did she think about the animal now? Did he know how dangerous wolverines were? Was he going to call in the specialist? Was he going to put down poison? Was he going to board up the hole under the eaves? What was he going to do next?

They-or, more likely, all the other things crowding in on his life-were getting to Pat: that level-headed ease was fraying at the edges. To answer your questions no my wife doesn’t know about the skeletons, I scheduled pest control guy for when she was going to the shops w the kids + he took them away. I don’t know about you but I believe its my job to take care of my wife not scare the shit out of her. Its one thing for her to hear scratching, totally other deal showing her skeletons w heads gone. Once I’ve got my hands on this thing then obviously I’ll tell her everything. Don’t exactly like her thinking I’m going mental meanwhile, but I’d rather that than have her petrified every time she has to be in the house on her own, hope that’s OK w you but if not basically tough shit.

About specialist etc: haven’t decided yet but no I’m not planning on boarding up the hole + I’m not planning on poison. Sorry if that’s not what you guys would advise but again tough, I’m the one living with this + I am GOING TO find out what it is + I’m going to teach it to fuck w my family, THEN it can bugger off + die wherever it wants but til then I’m not gonna risk losing it. If you have an actual helpful idea then yeah please feel free to contribute I’d be delighted to hear it, but if you’re just here to give me hassle for not having this under control then screw you. To everyone who isn’t being a shit thanks again + I’ll keep you updated.

At this point someone with a couple of thousand posts to his name said: Guys. Don’t feed the troll.

Richie asked, “What’s a troll?”

“Seriously? Jesus, have you never been on the internet? I thought you were the wired generation.”

He shrugged. “I buy music online. Looked stuff up a few times. Message boards, though: nah. Happier with real life.”

“The internet is real life, my friend. All those people on here, they’re as real as you and me. A troll is someone who posts bollix to stir up drama. This guy thinks Pat’s messing about.”

Once their suspicions were raised, none of the posters wanted to look like suckers: everyone had, apparently, been wondering all along if Pat-the-lad was a troll, an aspiring writer looking for inspiration (Remember that guy last year on the Structural Issues board with the walled-up room and the human skull? The short story showed up on his blog a month later? Piss off, troll), a scammer building towards a pitch for money. Within a couple of hours, the general consensus was that if Pat had been for real, he would have put down poison a long time ago, and that any day now he would be back to announce that the mysterious animal had eaten his imaginary kids and ask for help paying for their funerals.

“Jaysus,” Richie said. “They’re a bit harsh.”

“This? Hardly. If you got online more, you’d know this is nothing. It’s a wilderness out there; the normal rules don’t apply. Decent, polite people who don’t raise their voices from one year’s end to the next buy a modem and turn into Mel Gibson on tequila slammers. Compared to a lot of the stuff you see, these guys were being real sweethearts.”

Pat had seen it Richie’s way, though: when he came back, he came back furious. Look you pack of wankers I am NOT A FUCKING TROLL OK???? I know you spend all your time on this board but I actually have a fucking LIFE, if I was going to waste my time messing w someones head it wouldnt be you lot of losers, just trying to deal w WHAT IS IN MY ATTIC + if you useless twats cant help me w that then you can FUCK OFF. And he was gone.

Richie whistled softly. “That there,” he said, “that’s not just the internet talking. Like you said, Pat was a level-headed guy. To get like that”-he nodded at the screen-“he must’ve been well freaked out.”

I said, “He had reason to be. Something nasty was in his home, scaring his family. And everywhere he turned, people refused to help him. Wildwatcher, the pest-control guy, this board here: all of them basically told him to bugger off, it wasn’t their problem; he was on his own. In his place, I think you’d be well freaked out too.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” Richie reached out to the keyboard, glancing at me for permission, and scrolled back up to reread. When he was done he said, carefully, “So. No one but Pat ever actually heard this yoke.”

“Pat and Jack.”

“Jack was three. Kids that age, they’re not the best with what’s real and what’s not.”

“So you’re with Jenny,” I said. “You figure Pat was imagining it.”

Richie said, “Your man Tom. He wouldn’t swear to it that there was ever an animal in the attic.”

It was after half past eight. Down the corridor, the cleaner was playing chart music on her radio and singing along; outside the incident-room windows, the sky was solid black. Dina had been AWOL for four hours. I didn’t have time for this. “And he wouldn’t swear there wasn’t, either. But you feel that this somehow supports your theory that Pat slaughtered his family. Am I right?”

Richie said, picking the words, “We know he was under plenty of stress. There’s no two ways about that. From what he says on here, sounds like the marriage wasn’t doing great, either. If he was in bad enough shape that he was imagining things… Yeah, I think that’d make it more likely he went off the deep end.”

“He didn’t imagine those leaves and that piece of wood that appeared in the attic. Not unless we did too. I may have my issues, but I don’t believe I’m hallucinating quite yet.”

“Like the lads on the board said, those could’ve been a bird. They’re not proof of some mad animal. Any man who wasn’t stressed to fuck would’ve thrown them in the bin, forgotten all about them.”

“And the squirrel skeletons? Were those a bird too? I’m not a wildlife expert, any more than Pat was, but I have to tell you: if we’ve got some bird in this country that’ll decapitate squirrels, eat the flesh and line up the leftovers, nobody told me.”

Richie rubbed the back of his neck and watched my screen saver spiral in slow geometric patterns. He said, “We didn’t see the skeletons. Pat didn’t keep those. The leaves, yeah; the skeletons, the bit that would’ve actually proved there was something dangerous up there, no.”

The flash of irritation made me clamp my jaw tight for a second. “Come on, old son. I don’t know what you keep in your bachelor pad, but I promise you, a married man who tells his wife he wants to store squirrel skeletons in the wardrobe is in for a short sharp shock and a few nights on the sofa. And what about the kids? You think he wanted the kids finding those?”

“I don’t know what the man wanted. He’s all about showing his wife that this yoke exists, but when he gets solid proof, he backs right off: ah, no, couldn’t do that, wouldn’t want to freak her out. He’s dying to get a look at it, but when the pest-control fella says he should get in a specialist: ah, no, waste of money. He’s begging this board to help him figure out what’s up there, he offers to post photos of the flour on the attic floor, photos of the leaves, but when he finds the skeletons-and they could’ve had teeth marks on them-not a word about pics. He’s acting…” Richie glanced sideways at me. “Maybe I’m wrong, man. But he’s acting like, deep down, he knows there’s nothing there.”

For a strong, fleeting second I wanted to grab him by the neck and shove him away from the computer, tell him to piss off back to Motor Vehicles, I would handle this case myself. According to the floaters’ reports, Pat’s brother Ian had never heard anything about any animal. Neither had his old workmates, the friends who had been at Emma’s birthday party, the few people he had still been e-mailing. This explained why. Pat couldn’t bring himself to tell them, in case they reacted like everyone else, from strangers on discussion boards to his own wife; in case they reacted like Richie.

I said, “Just asking, son. Where do you think the skeletons materialized from? The pest-control guy saw them, remember. They weren’t all in Pat’s mind. I know you think Pat was going off his rocker, but do you seriously think he was biting the heads off squirrels?”

Richie said, “I didn’t say that. But no one except Pat saw the pest-control guy, either. We’ve only that post to say that he ever called someone in. You said yourself: people lie, on the internet.”

I said, “So let’s find the pest-control guy. Get one of the floaters on to tracking him down. Have him start with the numbers Pat got from the board; if none of those pan out, then he needs to check every company in a hundred-mile radius.” The thought of a floater coming in on this angle, another cool pair of eyes reading through those posts and another face slowly taking on the same look Richie had worn, tightened my neck again. “Or, better yet, we’ll do it ourselves. First thing tomorrow morning.”

Richie tipped my mouse with one finger and watched Pat’s posts flick back to life. He said, “Should be easy enough to find out.”

“Find out what?”

“Whether the animal exists. Couple of video cameras-”

“Because that worked so well for Pat?”

“He didn’t have cameras. The baby monitors, they don’t record; he could only catch what was happening in real time, when he had a chance to keep an eye out. Get a camera, set it up to record that attic round the clock… Inside a few days, if there’s anything there, we ought to get a look at it.”

For some reason the idea made me want to bite his head off. I said, “That’s going to look just great on the request form, isn’t it? ‘We’d like to request a valuable piece of department equipment and a massively overworked technician, on the off chance that we might possibly catch a glimpse of some animal that, whether it exists or not, has absolutely sweet fuck-all to do with our case.’”

“O’Kelly said, anything we need-”

“I know he did. The request would be approved. That’s not the point. You and me, we’ve got a certain amount of brownie points with the Super right now, and personally I’d rather not blow the lot on having a look at a mink. Go to the fucking zoo.”

Richie shoved his chair back and started circling the incident room restlessly. “I’ll fill out the form. That way it’s only me blowing my brownie points.”

“No you bloody won’t. You’ll make it sound like Pat was some kind of gibbering maniac seeing pink gorillas in his kitchen. We had a deal: no pointing the finger at Pat until and unless you’ve got evidence.”

Richie whirled on me, both hands slamming down on someone’s desk, sending papers flying. “How am I supposed to get evidence? If you put the brakes on, any time I start off on something that could go somewhere-”

“Calm down, Detective. And lower your voice. You want Quigley popping in to find out what’s going on?”

“The deal was we investigate Pat. Not I mention investigating Pat once in a while and you shoot me down. If the evidence is out there, how the fuck am I supposed to get to it? Come on, man. Tell me. How?”

I pointed at my monitor. “What does this look like we’re doing? Investigating Pat bloody Spain. No, we’re not calling him a suspect to the world. That was the deal. If you feel like it’s not fair on you-”

“No. Fuck not being fair on me. I don’t care. It’s not fair on Conor Brennan.”

His voice was still rising. I made mine stay even. “No? I’m not seeing what a video camera would do for him. Say we set up and catch nothing: how does the lack of otters invalidate Brennan’s confession?”

Richie said, “Tell me this. If you believe Pat, why aren’t you all for the cameras? One shot of a mink, a squirrel, even a rat, and you can tell me to fuck off. You sound the same as Pat, man: you sound like you know there’s nothing there.”

“No, chum. I don’t. I sound like I don’t give a damn whether there’s anything there or not. If we pick up nothing, what does that prove? The animal could have been scared off, could have got killed by a predator, could be hibernating… Even if it never existed, that doesn’t put this on Pat. Maybe the noises were something to do with the subsidence, or the plumbing, and he overreacted and read too much into them. That would make him a guy under stress, which we already knew. It wouldn’t make him a killer.”

Richie didn’t argue with that. He leaned back on a desk, pressing his fingers into his eyes. After a moment he said, more quietly, “It’d tell us something. That’s all I’m asking for.”

The argument, or fatigue, or Dina, had heartburn rolling up into my throat. I tried to swallow it down without grimacing. “OK,” I said. “You fill out the request form. I’ve got to head, but I’ll sign it before I leave-better have both our names on there. Don’t go requesting any strippers.”

“I’m doing my best here,” Richie said, into his hands. There was a note in his voice that caught at me: something raw, something lost, something like a wild call for help. “I’m just trying to get this right. Man, I swear to God, I’m trying.”

Every rookie feels like the world is going to stand or fall on his first case. I didn’t have time to hand-hold Richie through it, not with Dina out there, wandering, shooting off the kind of fractured strobe-light glitter that draws predators from miles around. “I know you are,” I said. “You’re doing fine. Double-check your spelling; the Super’s picky about that.”

“Yeah. OK.”

“Meanwhile, we’ll forward this link to Whatshisname, Dr. Dolittle-he might spot something in there. And I’ll have Kieran check out Pat’s account on this board, see if he sent or received any private messages. A couple of these guys sounded like they were getting pretty invested in his story; maybe one of them got into some kind of correspondence with him, and Pat gave him a few more details. And we’ll need to find the next discussion board he went to.”

“There mightn’t be a next one. He tried two boards, neither one of them was any use… He could’ve given up.”

“He didn’t give up,” I said. On my monitor, cones and parabolas moved gracefully in and out of one another, folded in on themselves and vanished, unfurled and began their slow dance all over again. “The man was desperate. You can take that any way you want to, you can say it was because he was losing his marbles if that’s what you want to believe, but the fact remains: he needed help. He’d have kept looking online, because he had nowhere else to look.”

I left Richie writing up the request form. I already had a mental list of places to look for Dina, left over from the last time and the time before that and the time before that: her exes’ flats, pubs where the barman liked her, dive clubs where sixty quid would get you plenty of ways to fry your brain for a while. I knew the whole thing was pointless-there was every chance in the world that Dina had caught a bus to Galway because it looked so pretty in some documentary, or entranced some guy and gone back to look at his etchings-but I didn’t have a choice. I still had my caffeine tablets in my briefcase, from the stakeout: a few of those, a shower, a sandwich, and I would be good to go. I slapped down the cold little voice telling me that I was getting too old for this, and much too tired.

When I put my key in the door of my flat, I was still running through addresses in my head, working out the fastest route. It took me a second to realize that something was wrong. The door was unlocked.

For a long minute I stood still in the corridor, listening: nothing. Then I put down my briefcase, unsnapped my holster and slammed the door open.

Debussy’s Sunken Cathedral chiming softly through the dim sitting room; candlelight catching in the curves of glasses, glowing rich red in dark wine. For one incredible, breath-robbing second, I thought: Laura. Then Dina uncurled her legs from the sofa and leaned forward to pick up her wineglass.

“Hi,” she said, raising the glass to me. “About bloody time.”

My heart was slamming at the back of my throat. “What the fuck?”

“Jesus, Mikey. Take a chill pill. Is that a gun?”

It took me a couple of tries to get the snap done up again. “How the hell did you get in here?”

“What are you, Rambo? Overreact much?”

“Christ, Dina. You scared the shit out of me.”

“Pulling a gun on your own sister. And here I thought you’d be happy to see me.”

The pout was a mock one, but the glitter of her eyes in the candlelight said to be careful. “I am,” I said, bringing my voice down. “I just wasn’t expecting you. How did you get in?”

Dina gave me a little smug grin and shook her cardigan pocket, which jingled merrily. “Geri had your spare keys. Actually, you know something, Geri has the whole of Dublin’s spare keys-Little Miss Reliable, sorry, Mrs. Reliable, isn’t she exactly who you’d want checking your house if you got burgled on holiday or something? Like if you were making up the person who has everyone’s spare key, wouldn’t she be exactly like Geri? God, you should’ve seen it, give you a laugh: she’s got them lined up on hooks in the utility room, all nice and labeled in her best handwriting. I could’ve robbed half her neighborhood if I’d felt like it.”

“Geri’s going out of her mind worrying about you. We both were.”

“Well, duh, that’s why I came here. That and to cheer you up. You looked so stressed the other day, I swear if I had a credit card I’d have booked you a hooker.” She leaned over to the table and held out the other wineglass. “Here. I brought you this instead.”

Either bought out of Sheila’s babysitting money, or shoplifted-Dina finds it irresistible to try and trick me into drinking stolen wine, eating hash brownies, going for a ride in her latest boyfriend’s untaxed car. “Thanks,” I said.

“So sit down and drink it. You’re making me nervous, hovering like that.”

My legs were still shaking from the bang of adrenaline and hope and relief. I retrieved my briefcase and closed the door. “Why aren’t you at Geri’s?”

“Because Geri could bore the tits off a bull, is why. I was there, what, like a day, and I’ve heard every single thing that Sheila and Colm and Thingy have ever done in their lives. She makes me want to get my tubes tied. Sit down.”

The faster I got her back to Geri’s, the more sleep I would get, but if I didn’t show some appreciation for this little scene, she would blow a fuse until God knew what hour of the morning. I dropped into my armchair, which folded around me so lovingly that I thought I would never be able to get up again. Dina leaned over the coffee table, balancing herself on one hand, to give me the wine. “Here. I bet Geri thought I was dead in a ditch.”

“You can’t blame her.”

“If I’d been feeling too crap to go out, then I wouldn’t have gone out. God, I feel sorry for Sheila, don’t you? I bet whenever she goes to her friends’ houses, she has to ring home every half hour or Geri’ll think she’s been sold into slavery.”

Dina has always been able to make me smile even when I’m trying my best not to. “Is that what this is in honor of? One day with Geri, and all of a sudden you appreciate me?”

She curled back up in the corner of the sofa and shrugged. “I felt like being nice to you, that’s what it’s in honor of. You don’t get enough taking care of, since you and Laura split up.”

“Dina, I’m fine.”

“Everyone needs someone to take care of them. Who’s the last person that did anything nice for you?”

I thought of Richie holding out coffee, smacking Quigley down when he tried to bad-mouth me. “My partner,” I said.

Dina’s eyebrows shot up. “Him? I thought he was some itty-bitty baby newbie that couldn’t find his arse with both hands. He was probably just licking up to you.”

“No,” I said. “He’s a good partner.” Hearing myself say the word sent a quick wave of warmth through me. None of my other trainees would have argued with me over the camera: once I said no, that would have been the end of that. Suddenly the argument felt like a gift, the kind of shoving match that partners can have every week for twenty years.

“Hmm,” Dina said. “Good for him.” She reached for the wine bottle and topped up her glass.

“This is nice,” I said, and a part of me meant it. “Thanks, Dina.”

“I know it is. So why aren’t you drinking that? Are you scared I’m trying to poison you?” She grinned, little white cat teeth bared at me. “Like I’d be obvious enough to put it in the wine. Give me some credit.”

I smiled back. “I bet you’d be very creative. I can’t get pissed tonight, though. I’ve got work in the morning.”

Dina rolled her eyes. “Oh God, here we go, work work work, shoot me now. Just throw a sickie.”

“I wish.”

“So do it. We’ll do something nice. The Wax Museum just opened up again, do you know in my whole entire life I’ve never been to the Wax Museum?”

This wasn’t going to end well. “I’d love to, but it’ll have to be next week. I need to be in bright and early tomorrow, and it could be a long one.” I took a sip of the wine, held up the glass. “Lovely. We’ll finish this, and then I’m going to take you back to Geri’s. I know she’s boring, but she does her best. Cut her some slack, OK?”

Dina ignored that. “Why can’t you throw a sickie tomorrow? I bet you’ve got like a year of holidays saved up. I bet you’ve never thrown a sickie in your whole life. What are they going to do, fire you?”

The warm feeling was vanishing fast. I said, “I’ve got a guy in custody, and I’ve got till early Sunday morning to either charge him or release him. I’m going to need every minute of that to get my case sorted. I’m sorry, sweetheart. The Wax Museum’s going to have to wait.”

“Your case,” Dina said. Her face had sharpened. “The Broken Harbor thing?”

There was no point in denying it. “Yeah.”

“I thought you were going to swap with someone else.”

“Can’t be done.”

“Why not?”

“Because it doesn’t work that way. We’ll catch the Wax Museum as soon as I’ve wrapped things up, OK?”

“Fuck the Wax Museum. I’d rather stab myself in the eyes than go stare at some stupid doll of Ronan Keating.”

“Then we’ll do something else. Your choice.”

Dina shoved the wine bottle closer to me with the toe of her boot. “Have more.”

My glass was still full. “I have to drive you to Geri’s. I’ll stick with what I’ve got. Thanks.”

Dina flicked a fingernail off the edge of her glass, a sharp monotonous pinging, and watched me under her fringe. She said, “Geri gets the papers every morning. Of bloody course. So I read them.”

“Right,” I said. I pushed down the bubble of anger: Geri should have been paying more attention, but she’s a busy woman and Dina is a slippery one.

“What’s Broken Harbor like now? In the photo it looked like shit.”

“It is, pretty much. Someone started building what could have been a nice estate, but it never got finished. At this stage, it probably never will. The people living there aren’t happy.”

Dina stuck a finger in her wine and swirled it. “Fuck’s sake. What a totally shitty thing to do.”

“The developers didn’t know things were going to turn out like this.”

“I bet they did, too, or anyway they didn’t care, but that’s not what I meant. I meant what a shitty thing to do, getting people to move out to Broken Harbor. I’d rather live in a landfill.”

I said, “I’ve got a lot of good memories of Broken Harbor.”

She sucked her finger clean with a pop. “You just think that because you always have to think everything’s lovely. Ladies and gentlemen, my brother Pollyanna.”

I said, “I’ve never seen what’s so bad about focusing on the positive. Maybe it’s not cool enough for you-”

“What positive? It was OK for you and Geri, you got to go hang out with your friends; I was stuck sitting there with Mum and Dad, getting sand up my crack, pretending I was having fun paddling in water that practically gave me frostbite.”

“Well,” I said, very carefully. “You were only five, the last time we went there. How well do you remember it?”

A flash of blue stare, under the fringe. “Enough that I know it sucked. That place was creepy. Those hills, I always felt like they were staring at me, like something crawling on my neck, I kept wanting to-” She smacked the back of her neck, a vicious reflexive slap that made me flinch. “And the noise, Jesus Christ. The sea, the wind, the gulls, all these weird noises that you could never figure out what they were… I had nightmares practically every night that some sea monster thing stuck its tentacles in the caravan window and started strangling me. I bet you anything someone died building that shitty estate, like the Titanic.”

“I thought you liked Broken Harbor. You always seemed like you were having a good time.”

“No I didn’t. You just want to think that.” For a second, the twist to Dina’s mouth made her look almost ugly. “The only good thing was that Mum was so happy there. And look how that turned out.”

There was a moment of silence that could have sliced skin. I almost dropped the whole thing, went back to drinking my wine and telling her how delicious it was-maybe I should have, I don’t know-but I couldn’t. I said, “You make it sound like you were already having problems.”

“Like I was already crazy. That’s what you mean.”

“If that’s how you want to put it. Back when we were going to Broken Harbor, you were a happy, stable kid. Maybe you weren’t having the holiday of a lifetime, but overall, you were fine.”

I needed to hear her say it. She said, “I was never fine. This one time I was digging a hole in the sand, little bucket and spade and everything all adorable, and at the bottom of the hole there was a face. Like a man’s face, all squashed up and making faces, like he was trying to get the sand out of his eyes and his mouth. I screamed and Mum came, but by then he was gone. And it wasn’t just at Broken Harbor, either. Once I was in my room and-”

I couldn’t listen to any more of this. “You had a great imagination. That’s not the same thing. All little kids imagine things. It wasn’t till after Mum died-”

“It was, Mikey. You didn’t know because when I was little you could just put it down to ‘Oh, kids imagine stuff,’ but it was always. Mum dying had nothing to do with it.”

“Well,” I said. My mind felt very strange, juddering like a city in an earthquake. “So maybe it wasn’t Mum dying, exactly. She’d been depressed all your life, off and on. We did our best to keep it away from you, but kids sense things. Maybe it would actually have been better if we hadn’t tried to-”

“Yeah, you guys did your best, and you know what? You did a great job. I hardly remember being worried about Mum ever, at all. I knew she got sick sometimes, or sad, but I didn’t have a clue that it was a big deal. It’s not because of that, the way I am. You keep trying to organize me, file me away all neat and make sense, like I’m one of your cases-I’m not one of your fucking cases.”

“I’m not trying to organize you,” I said. My voice sounded eerily calm, artificially generated somewhere far away. Tiny memories fell through my mind, blooming like flakes of flaming ash: Dina four years old and shrieking blue murder in her bath, clinging to Mum, because the shampoo bottle was hissing at her; I had thought she was trying to dodge having her hair washed. Dina between me and Geri in the back of the car, fighting her seat belt and gnawing her fingers with a hideous worrying sound till they were lumpy and purple and bleeding, I couldn’t even remember why. “I’m just saying of course it was because of Mum. What else would it be? You were never abused, I’d swear to that on my life, you were never beaten or starved or-I don’t think you ever even got a smack on the backside. We all loved you. If it wasn’t Mum, then why?”

“There isn’t any why. That’s what I mean, trying to organize me. I’m not crazy because anything. I just am.”

Her voice was clear, steady, matter-of-fact, and she was looking at me straight on, with something that could almost have been compassion. I told myself that Dina’s hold on reality is one-fingered at best, that if she understood the reasons why she was crazy then she wouldn’t be crazy to begin with. She said, “I know that’s not what you want to think.”

My chest felt like a balloon filling with helium, rocking me dangerously. My hand was clamped on the arm of my chair as if it could anchor me. I said, “If you believe that. That this just happens to you for no reason. How do you live with that?”

Dina shrugged. “Just do. How do you live with it when you have a bad day?”

She was slouching into the corner of the sofa again, drinking her wine; she had lost interest. I took a breath. “I try to understand why I’m having a bad day, so I can fix it. I focus on the positive.”

“Right. So if Broken Harbor was so great and you have all these great memories and everything’s so positive, then why is it wrecking your head going back there?”

“I never said it was.”

“You don’t need to say it. You shouldn’t be doing this case.”

It felt like salvation, to be having the same old fight, back on familiar ground, with that slantwise glitter waking in Dina’s eyes again. “Dina. It’s a murder case, just like all the dozens of others I’ve worked. There’s nothing special about it, except the location.”

“Location location location, what are you, an estate agent? This location is bad for you. I could tell the second I saw you the other night, you were all wrong; you smelled funny, like something burning. Look at you now, go look in mirrors, you look like something shat on your head and set you on fire. This case is fucking you up. Phone your work tomorrow and tell them you’re not doing it.”

In that instant I almost told her to fuck off. It astonished me, how suddenly and how hard the words slammed up against my lips. I have never, in all my adult life, said anything like that to Dina.

I said, when I could be sure that my voice was wiped empty of any hint of anger, “I’m not going to give up this case. I’m sure I do look like shit, but that’s because I’m exhausted. If you want to do something about that, stay put at Geri’s.”

“I can’t. I’m worried about you. Every second you’re out there thinking about that location, I can feel it making your head go bad. That’s why I came back here.”

The irony was enough to make anyone howl with laughter, but Dina was dead serious: bolt upright on the sofa, legs folded under her, ready to fight me all the way. I said, “I’m fine. I appreciate you looking out for me, but there’s no need. Seriously.”

“Yes there is. You’re just as much of a mess as I am. You just hide it better.”

“Maybe. I’d like to think I’ve put in enough work that I’m not actually a mess at this point, but who knows, maybe you’re right. Either way, the upshot is that I’m well able to deal with this case.”

“No. No way. You like thinking you’re the strong one, that’s why you love when I go off the rails, because it makes you feel all Mr. Perfect, but it’s bullshit. I bet sometimes when you’re having a bad day you hope I’ll show up on your doorstep talking crap, just so you’ll feel better about yourself.”

Part of the hell of Dina is that even when you know it’s rubbish, even when you know it’s the dark corroded spots on her mind talking, it still stings. I said, “I hope you know that’s not true. If I could help you get better by having an arm amputated, I’d do it like a shot.”

She sat back on her heels and thought about that. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I would.”

“Awww,” Dina said, with more appreciation than sarcasm. She sprawled on her back on the sofa and swung her legs over the arm, watching me. She said, “I don’t feel good. Ever since I read those newspapers, things are sounding funny again. I flushed your jacks and it made a noise like popcorn.”

I said, “I’m not surprised. That’s why we need to get you back to Geri’s. If you feel like crap, then you’re going to want someone around.”

“I do want someone around. I want you. Geri makes me want to get a brick and hit myself in the head. One more day of her and I’ll do it.”

With Dina, you don’t have the luxury of taking anything as hyperbole. I said, “So find a way to ignore her. Take deep breaths. Read a book. I’ll lend you my iPod and you can block Geri out altogether. We can load it up with whatever music you want, if my taste isn’t trendy enough for you.”

“I can’t use earphones. I start hearing stuff and then I can’t tell if it’s in the music or inside my ears.”

She was banging one heel off the side of the sofa in a relentless, infuriating rhythm that jarred against the fluid sweep of the Debussy. I said, “Then I’ll lend you a good book. Take your pick.”

“I don’t need a good book I don’t need a DVD box set I don’t need a nice fucking cup of tea and a sudoku magazine. I need you.”

I thought of Richie at his desk, chewing a thumbnail and spell-checking his request form, of that desperate call for help in his voice; of Jenny in her hospital bed, wrapped in a nightmare that wasn’t going to end; of Pat, gutted out like a trophy animal, waiting in one of Cooper’s drawers for me to make sure he wouldn’t be stamped Killer in a few million minds; of his children, too young even to know what dying was. That surge of anger heaved up again, shoving at me. I said, “I know that. Right now, other people need me more.”

“You mean this Broken Harbor thing is more important than your family. That’s what you mean. You don’t even see how fucked-up that is, do you, you don’t even see that no normal guy in the world would say that, no one would say that unless he was obsessed with some hellhole place that was pumping shit into his brain. You know perfectly bloody well if you send me back to Geri’s then she’ll bore me till I lose my mind, and I’ll walk out and she’ll be going crazy worrying, but you don’t even care, do you? You’re still going to make me go back there.”

“Dina, I don’t have time for this shit. I’ve got, what, fifty-odd hours to charge this guy. In fifty-odd hours’ time I’ll do whatever you need, come get you from Geri’s at the crack of dawn, go to any museum you want, but until then, you’re right: you’re not the center of my universe. You can’t be.”

Dina stared, propped up on her elbows. She had never heard that whip- crack in my voice before. The gobsmacked look on her face swelled that balloon inside my chest. For a terrifying instant I thought I was going to laugh.

“Tell me something,” she said. Her eyes had narrowed: the gloves were coming off. “Do you sometimes wish I would die? Like when my timing is shit, like now. Do you wish I would just die? Do you hope someone’ll ring you in the morning and go, ‘I’m so sorry, sir, a train just splattered your sister’?”

“Of course I don’t want you to die. I’m hoping you’ll ring me in the morning and go, ‘Guess what, Mick, you were right, Geri isn’t actually a form of torture banned by the Geneva Convention, somehow I’ve survived-’”

“Then why are you acting like you wish I would die? Actually I bet you don’t want a train, you want it to be all neat, don’t you, all nicey-neat-how do you hope it? Hang myself, is that what you’d like, or an overdose-”

I didn’t feel like laughing any more. My hand was clenched around the wineglass, so tight I thought it would smash. “Don’t be bloody ridiculous. I’m acting like I want you to have a little self-control. Just enough to put up with Geri for two fucking days. You really think that’s too much to ask?”

“Why should I? Is this some kind of stupid closure thing, you fix this case it makes up for what happened to Mum? Because if it is then puke, I can’t even stand you, I’m going to puke all over your sofa right this-”

“This has fucking nothing to do with her. That’s one of the stupidest things I’ve ever heard. If you can’t come up with anything that makes more sense than that, maybe you should keep your big yap shut.”

I hadn’t lost my temper since I was a teenager, not like this and definitely not at Dina, and it felt like doing a hundred down a motorway on six straight vodkas, immense and lethal and delicious. Dina was sitting up, leaning forward across the coffee table, fingers stabbing at me. “See? This is what I’m talking about. This is what this thing is doing to you. You never get mad at me, and now look at you, just look, the state of you, you want to hit me, don’t you? Say it, come on, how badly do you want to-”

She was right: I did, I wanted to slap her right across the face. Some fraction of me understood that if I hit her then I would stay with her, and that she knew it too. I put my glass down on the coffee table, very gently. “I’m not going to hit you.”

“Go on, go ahead, you might as well. What’s the difference? If you throw me away into Geri’s House of Hell and I run away and then I can’t come to you and I can’t hold it together and I end up jumping in the river, how is that better?” She was half on the coffee table, face shoved at me, right within arm’s reach. “You won’t give me one little slap because God no you’re too good for that, fuck forbid you might feel like the bad guy just once, but it’s OK to make me jump off a bridge, right, that’s fine, that’s just-”

A sound halfway between a laugh and a yell came out of me. “Sweet Jesus! I can’t begin to tell you how sick I am of hearing that. You think you’re going to puke? How about me, getting this shit shoved down my throat every time I bloody turn around? You won’t take me to the Wax Museum, I think I’ll kill myself. You won’t help me move all my stuff out of my flat at four in the morning, I think I’ll kill myself. You won’t spend the evening listening to my problems instead of taking one last shot at saving your marriage, I think I’ll kill myself. I know it’s my own fault, I know I’ve always caved the second you whipped out this crap, but this time: no. You want to kill yourself? Do it. You don’t want to, then don’t. It’s up to you. Nothing I do will make any difference anyway. So don’t fucking dump it on my lap.”

Dina stared at me, openmouthed. My heart was ricocheting off my ribs; I could barely breathe. After a moment she threw her wineglass on the floor-it bounced on the rug, rolled away in an arc of red like flung blood-got up and headed for the door, scooping up her bag on the way. She deliberately passed so close to me that her hip barged into my shoulder; she was expecting me to grab her, fight her to make her stay. I didn’t move.

In the doorway, she said, “You’d better find a way to tell your work to fuck off. If you don’t come find me by tomorrow evening, you’re going to be sorry.”

I didn’t turn around. After a minute the door slammed behind her, and I heard her give it a kick before she ran off down the corridor. I sat very still for a long time, gripping the arms of my chair to stop my hands shaking. I listened to my heart banging in my ears and to the hiss of the speakers after the Debussy ran out, listened for Dina’s footsteps coming back.

My mother almost took Dina with her. It was sometime after one in the morning, on our last night at Broken Harbor, when she woke Dina, slipped out of the caravan and headed for the beach. I know because I came in at midnight, dazzled and breathless from lying in the dunes with Amelia under a sky like a great black bowl full of stars, and when I eased the caravan door open the bar of moonlight lit up all four of them, rolled up tight and warm in their bunks, Geri snoring delicately. Dina turned and murmured something as I slid into my bed with my clothes still on. I had bribed one of the older guys to buy us a flagon of cider, so I was half drunk, but it must have been an hour before that stunned delight stopped humming in my skin and I could fall asleep.

A few hours later I woke up again, to make sure it was all still true. The door was swinging open, moonlight and sea-sounds rushing in to fill up the caravan, and two bunks were empty. The note was on the table. I don’t remember what it said. Probably the police took it away; probably I could go looking for it in Records, but I won’t. All I remember is the P.S. It said, Dina is too little to do without her mum.

We knew where to look: my mother always loved the sea. In the few hours since I had been there, the beach had turned inside out, transformed itself into something dark and howling. A rising wind blustering, clouds scudding over the moon, sharp shells cutting my bare feet as I ran and no pain. Geri gasping for breath beside me; my father lunging towards the sea in the moonlight, flapping pajamas and flailing arms, a grotesque pale scarecrow. He was shouting, “Annie Annie Annie,” but the wind and the waves bowled it away into nothing. We hung on to his sleeves like kids. I shouted in his ear, “Dad! Dad, I’ll get someone!”

He grabbed my arm and twisted. My dad had never hurt any of us. He roared, “No! No one, don’t you bloody dare!” His eyes looked white. It was years before I realized: he still thought we were going to find them alive. He was saving her, from all the people who would take her away if they knew.

So we looked for them by ourselves. No one heard us shouting, Mummy Annie Dina Mummy Mummy Mummy, not through the wind and the sea. Geraldine stayed on land, up and down the beach, scrabbling through the sand dunes and clawing at clumps of grass. I went in the water with my father, thigh-deep. When my legs got numb it was easier to keep going.

For the rest of that night-I never figured out how long it lasted, longer than we should have been able to survive-I fought the current to stay standing and groped blind at it as it surged past. Once my fingers tangled in something and I howled because I thought I had one of them by the hair, but it came up out of the water a great lump like a chopped-off head and it was just seaweed, wrapping round my wrists, clinging when I tried to throw it away from me. Later I found a cold ribbon of it still bound around my neck.

When dawn started turning the world a bleak bleached gray, Geraldine found Dina, burrowed headfirst like a rabbit into a clump of marram grass, arms dug into the sand up to her elbows. Geri bent back long blades of grass one by one and scooped away handfuls of sand like she was freeing something that could shatter. Finally Dina was sitting up on the sand, shivering. Her eyes focused on Geraldine. “Geri,” she said. “I had bad dreams.” Then she saw where she was and started to scream.

My father wouldn’t leave the beach. In the end I wrapped my T-shirt around Dina-it was heavy with seawater, her shivering got worse-hoisted her over my shoulder and carried her back to the caravan. Geraldine stumbled along beside me, holding Dina up when my grip slid.

We pulled off Dina’s nightie-she was cold as a fish and gritted all over with sand-and wrapped her in everything warm we could find. Mum’s cardigans smelled of her; maybe that was what made Dina yelp like a kicked puppy, or maybe our clumsiness hurt her. Geraldine stripped like I wasn’t there and climbed into Dina’s bunk with her, pulled the duvet over both their heads. I left them there and went to find someone.

The light was turning yellow and the other caravans were starting to wake up. A woman in a summer dress was filling her kettle at the tap, with a couple of toddlers dancing around her, splashing each other and screaming with giggles. My dad had dropped to the sand by the waterline, hands hanging uselessly at his sides, staring at the sun rising over the sea.

Geri and I were covered head to toe in cuts and scrapes. The paramedics cleaned up the worst ones-one of them let out a low whistle when he saw my feet; I didn’t understand why until much later. Dina got taken to hospital, where they said she was physically fine apart from mild hypothermia. They let Geri and me take her home and look after her, until they decided my father wasn’t planning to “do anything silly” and they could let him out. We made up aunts and told the doctors they would help.

After two weeks, our mother’s dress came up in a Cornish fishing boat’s nets. I identified it-my father couldn’t get out of bed, I wasn’t about to let Geri, that left me. It was her best summer dress, cream silk-she had saved up-with green flowers. She used to wear it to Mass, when we were in Broken Harbor, then for Sunday lunch at Lynch’s and our walk along the strand. It made her look like a ballerina, like a laughing tiptoe girl off an old postcard. When I saw it laid out on a table in the police station, it was streaked brown and green from all the nameless things that had woven around it in the water, fingered it, caressed it, helped it on its long journey. I might not even have recognized it, only I knew what to look for: Geri and I had spotted it missing, when we packed away her things to leave the caravan.

That was what Dina had heard on the radio, with my voice swirling around it, the day I caught this case. Dead, Broken Harbor, discovered the body, State pathologist is at the scene. The near impossibility of it would never have occurred to her; all the rules of probability and logic, the neat patterns of center lines and cat’s-eyes that keep the rest of us on the road when the weather is wild, those mean nothing to Dina. Her mind had spun out into a smoking wreck of bonfire noises and gibberish, and she had come to me.

She had never told us what happened that night. Geri and I tried a couple of thousand times to catch her off guard-asked when she was half asleep in front of the telly, or daydreaming out the car window. All we got was that flat “I had bad dreams,” and her blue eyes skittering away to nothing.

When she was thirteen or fourteen we started to realize-gradually, and without any real surprise-that there was something wrong. Nights when she sat on my bed or Geri’s talking full speed until dawn, revved up into a frenzy about something we could barely translate, raging at us for not caring enough to understand; days when the school rang to say she was staring and glazed, terrified, like her classmates and her teachers had turned into meaningless shapes gesturing and jabbering; fingernail tracks scabbing on her arms. I had taken it for granted, always, that that night was the embedded thing corroding at the bottom of Dina’s mind. What else could have done it?

There isn’t any why. That dizziness took hold of me again. I thought of balloons unmoored and soaring, exploding in the thinning air under the pressure of their own weightlessness.

Footsteps came and went in the corridor, but none of them paused outside my door. Geri rang twice; I didn’t answer. When I could stand up, I blotted the rug with kitchen roll until I had soaked up as much of the wine as I could. I spread salt on the stain and left it to work. I poured the rest of the wine down the sink, threw the bottle in the recycling bin and washed the glasses. Then I found Sellotape and a pair of nail scissors and sat on my living-room floor, taping pages back into books and trimming the tape to within perfect hairsbreadths of the paper, until the heap of wrecked books was a neat stack of mended ones and I could start putting them back on my shelves, in alphabetical order.