Broken Harbor by Tana French Page A

reminder of exactly what you’re looking for. Delete the photo before you leave the scene tonight. Don’t forget.”
    They whipped out phones and passed the evidence bag around, handling it like it was made of soap bubbles. I said, “The knife I’ve described is a good bet for the murder weapon, but we don’t get guarantees in this game, so if you come across another blade hanging around in the undergrowth, for God’s sake don’t skip on your merry way just because it doesn’t fit the description. We’re also keeping an eye out for bloody clothing, footprints, keys and anything else that looks remotely out of place. If you find something that’s got potential, what do you do?”
    I nodded at Marlboro Man—if you take someone down a peg, always give him a way to climb back up. He said, “Don’t touch it. Don’t leave it unattended. Call the Bureau lads to photograph it and bag it.”
    “Exactly. And call me, too. Anything you find, I want to see. Detective Curran and I will be interviewing the neighbors, so you’ll need our mobile numbers, and vice versa—we’ll be keeping this off the radio for now. The reception out here is shit, so if a call doesn’t get through, text. Don’t leave any voice-mail messages. Everyone got that?” Down the road, our first reporter had set herself up against some picturesque scaffolding and was doing a piece to camera, trying to keep her coattails down against the wind. Within an hour or two there would be a few dozen like her. Plenty of them wouldn’t think twice about hacking into a detective’s voice mail.
    We did the number swap all round. “There’ll be more searchers joining us soon,” I said, “and when they take over I’ll have other jobs for you, but we need to get moving now. We’re going to start from the back of the house. Start at the garden wall, work your way outwards, make sure you don’t leave any gaps between your search areas, you know the drill. Go.”
    * * *
    The semi-d that shared a wall with the Spains’ house was empty—permanently empty, nothing in the front room except a screwed-up ball of newspaper and an architectural-level spiderweb—which was a bastard. The nearest signs of human life were two doors down on the other side, in Number 5: the lawn was dead, but there were lace curtains in the windows and a kid’s bike lying on its side in the drive.
    Movement behind the lace, as we came up the path. Someone had been watching us.
    The woman who answered the door was heavy, with a flat suspicious face and dark hair scraped back in a thin ponytail. She was wearing an oversized pink hoodie, undersized gray leggings that were a bad call, and a lot of fake tan that somehow didn’t stop her looking pasty. “Yeah?”
    “Police,” I said, showing her my ID. “Can we come in and have a word?”
    She looked at the ID like my photo wasn’t up to her high standards. “I went out earlier, asked those Guards what was going on. They told me to go back inside. I’ve got a right to be on my own road. Yous can’t tell me not to.”
    This was going to be a real walk in the park. “I understand,” I said. “If you’d like to leave the premises at any point, they won’t stop you.”
    “Better not. And I wasn’t trying to
leave the premises
, anyway. I only wanted to know what’s after happening.”
    “There’s been a crime. We’d like to have a few words with you.”
    Her eyes went past me and Richie to the action, and nosiness beat wariness. It usually does. She stood back from the door.
    The house had started out exactly like the Spains’, but it hadn’t stayed that way. The hall had been narrowed down by heaps of gear on the floor—Richie caught his ankle on the wheel of a pram, bit back something unprofessional—and the sitting room was overheated and messy, with crowded wallpaper and a thick smell of soup and wet clothes. A chunky kid about ten was hunched on the floor with his mouth open, going at some PlayStation game that