Broken Harbor by Tana French Page B

was obviously rated 18s. “He’s off sick,” the woman said. She had her arms folded defensively.
    “Lucky for us,” I said, nodding to the kid, who ignored us and kept jamming buttons. “He may be able to help us. I’m Detective Kennedy and this is Detective Curran. And you are . . . ?”
    “Sinéad Gogan. Mrs. Sinéad Gogan. Jayden, turn that thing off.” Her accent was some semi-rough outskirt of Dublin.
    “Mrs. Gogan,” I said, taking a seat on the flowery sofa and finding my notebook, “how well do you know your neighbors?”
    She jerked her head towards the Spains’ house. “Them?”
    “The Spains, yes.”
    Richie had followed me onto the sofa. Sinéad Gogan’s small sharp eyes moved over us, but after a second she shrugged and planted herself in an armchair. “We’d say hiya. We wouldn’t be friendly.”
    “You said she’s a snobby cow,” said Jayden, not missing a beat blasting zombies.
    His mother shot him a glare that he didn’t see. “You shut up.”
    “Or?”
    “Or else.”
    I said, “Is she a snobby cow?”
    “I never said that. I saw an ambulance outside there. What’s happened?”
    “There’s been a crime. What can you tell me about the Spains?”
    “Did someone get shot?” Jayden wanted to know. The kid could multitask.
    “No. What’s snobby about the Spains?”
    Sinéad shrugged. “Nothing. They’re grand.”
    Richie scratched the side of his nose with his pen. “Seriously?” he asked, a little diffidently. “’Cause—I mean, I haven’t a clue, never met them before, but their gaff looked pretty poncy to me. You can always tell when people’ve got notions of themselves.”
    “Should’ve seen it before. The big SUV outside, and him washing it and polishing it every weekend, showing off. That didn’t last, did it?”
    Sinéad was still slumped in her armchair, arms folded and thick legs planted apart, but the satisfaction was edging the snottiness out of her voice. Normally I wouldn’t let new lads do the questioning on their first day out, but Richie’s angle was good and his accent was getting us further than mine would. I left him to it.
    “Not so much to show off about now,” he agreed.
    “Doesn’t stop them. Still think they’re great. Jayden said something to that little young one—”
    “Called her a stupid bitch,” Jayden said.
    “—and your woman came over here giving it loads, all how the kids weren’t getting
on
and was there any way to get them to
cooperate
? Like, so fake, know what I mean? Pretending to be all sweet. I said boys will be boys, deal with it. She wasn’t happy about that; keeps her little princess away from us now. Like we’re not good enough for them. She’s just jealous.”
    “Of what?” I asked.
    Sinéad gave me a sour stare. “Us. Me.” I couldn’t think of a single reason why Jenny Spain would have been jealous of these people, but apparently that was beside the point. Our Sinéad probably figured she hadn’t been invited to Beyoncé’s hen party because Beyoncé was jealous.
    “Right,” I said. “When was this, exactly?”
    “Spring. April, maybe. Why? Is she saying Jayden done something on them? Because he never—”
    She was half out of her chair, heavy and threatening. “No, no, no,” I said soothingly. “When was the last time you saw the Spains?”
    After a moment she decided she believed me and settled back down. “To talk to, that was it. I see them around, but I’ve got nothing to say to them, not after that. Saw her going into the house with the kids yesterday afternoon.”
    “At what time?”
    “Around quarter to five, maybe. I’d say she was after getting the young one from school and going to the shops—she’d a couple of carrier bags. She looked grand. The little fella was throwing a tantrum ’cause he wanted crisps. Spoilt.”
    “Were you and your husband home last night?” I asked.
    “Yeah. Where would we go? There’s nowhere. Nearest pub’s in the town, twelve miles