"I'm not taking my gun," Cassie said. She unbuckled her holster, handed it to Sam and held out her arms. "Check me."
"For what?" Sam said, puzzled, looking down at the gun in his hands.
"Weapons." Her eyes slid away, unfocused, over his shoulder. "If she says anything, she's going to claim I had her at gunpoint. Check my scooter, too, before I get on it."
To this day I'm not sure how I managed to get myself into that van. Possibly it was because, even in disgrace, I was still Cassie's partner, a relationship for which almost every detective has a reflexive, deeply ingrained respect. Possibly it was because I bombarded O'Kelly with the first technique every toddler learns: if you ask someone often enough for long enough when he is trying to do enough other things, sooner or later he will say yes just to shut you up. I was too desperate to care about the humiliation of this. Possibly he realized that, if he had refused, I would have taken the Land Rover and gone down there on my own.
The van was one of those blind, sinister-looking white things that regularly show up in police reports, with the name and logo of a fictitious tile company on the side. Inside it was even creepier: thick black cables coiling everywhere and the equipment blinking and hissing, ineffectual little overhead light, the soundproofing giving it the unsettling look of a padded cell. Sweeney drove; Sam, O'Kelly, the tech and I sat in the back compartment, swaying on uncomfortable low benches, not talking. O'Kelly had brought along a thermos of coffee and some kind of glutinous pastry, which he ate in huge methodical bites with no evidence of enjoyment. Sam scraped at an imaginary stain on the knee of his trousers. I cracked my knuckles, until I realized how irritating this was, and tried to ignore the intensity with which I wanted a cigarette. The tech did the Irish Times crossword.
We parked in Knocknaree Crescent and O'Kelly rang Cassie's mobile. She was within range of the equipment; her voice, over the speakers, was cool and steady. "Maddox."
"Where are you?" O'Kelly demanded.
"Just coming up to the estate. I didn't want to be hanging around."
"We're in position. Go ahead."
A tiny pause; then Cassie said, "Yes, sir," and hung up. I heard the buzz of the Vespa starting up again, then the weird stereo effect as, a minute later, it passed the end of the Crescent, only a few yards from us. The tech folded away his newspaper and made a minuscule adjustment to something; O'Kelly, across from me, pulled a plastic bag of sweets out of his pocket and settled back on the bench.
Footsteps jolting the mike, the faint tasteful ding-dong of the doorbell. O'Kelly waved the bag of sweets at the rest of us; when there were no takers, he shrugged and fished out an iced caramel.
The click of the door opening. "Detective Maddox," Rosalind said, not sounding pleased. "I'm afraid we're all very busy at the moment."
"I know," Cassie said. "I'm really sorry to bother you. But could I…Is there any chance I could talk to you for a minute?"
"You had your chance to talk to me the other night. Instead, you insulted me and ruined my evening. I really don't feel like wasting any more of my time on you."
"I'm sorry about that. I didn't-I shouldn't have done that. But this isn't about the case. I just…I need to ask you something."
Silence, and I pictured Rosalind holding the door open and staring at her, gauging; Cassie's face upturned and tense, her hands deep in the pockets of her suede jacket. In the background someone-Margaret-called something. Rosalind snapped, "It's for me, Mother," and the door slammed shut.
"Well?" Rosalind inquired.
"Could we…" A rustle: Cassie shifting nervously. "Could we maybe go for a walk or something? This is pretty private."
That must have piqued Rosalind's interest, but her voice didn't change. "I'm actually getting ready to go out."
"Just five minutes. We can walk round the back of the estate, or something… Please, Miss Devlin. It's important."
Finally she sighed. "All right. I suppose I can give you a few minutes."
"Thanks," Cassie said, "I really appreciate it," and we heard them going down the pathway again, the swift decisive taps of Rosalind's heels.
It was a sweet morning, a soft morning; the sun was skimming off last night's mist, but there had still been wispy layers, over the grass and hazing the high cool sky, when we got into the van. The speakers magnified the twitter of blackbirds, the creak and clank of the estate's back gate, then Cassie's and Rosalind's feet swishing through the wet grass along the edge of the wood. I thought of how beautiful they would look, to some early watcher: Cassie windblown and easy, Rosalind fluttering white and slender as something from a poem; two girls in the September morning, glossy heads under the turning leaves and rabbits scampering away from their approach.
"Can I ask you something?" Cassie said.
"Well, I did think that was why we were here," Rosalind said, with a delicate inflection implying that Cassie was wasting her valuable time.
"Yeah. Sorry." Cassie took a breath. "OK. I was wondering: how did you know about…"
"Yes?" Rosalind prompted politely.
"About me and Detective Ryan." Silence. "That we were…having an affair."
"Oh, that!" Rosalind laughed: a tinkling little sound, emotionless, barely even a speck of triumph. "Oh, Detective Maddox. How do you think?"
"I thought probably you guessed. Or something. That maybe we didn't hide it as well as we thought. But it just seemed…I couldn't stop wondering."
"Well, you were a little bit obvious, weren't you?" Mischievous, chiding. "But no. Believe it or not, Detective Maddox, I don't spend a lot of my time thinking about you and your love life."
Silence again. O'Kelly picked caramel out of his teeth. "Then how?" Cassie asked finally, with an awful note of dread.
"Detective Ryan told me, of course," Rosalind said sweetly. I felt Sam's eyes and O'Kelly's flicking to me, and bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself denying it.
This is not an easy thing to admit, but until that moment I had held out some craven speck of hope that this had all been a hideous misunderstanding. A boy who would say anything he thought you wanted to hear, a girl made vicious by trauma and grief and my rejection on top of it all; we could have misinterpreted in any one of a hundred ways. It was only in that moment, in the ease of that gratuitous lie, that I understood that Rosalind-the Rosalind I had known, the bruised, captivating, unpredictable girl with whom I had laughed in the Central and held hands on a bench-had never existed. Everything she had ever shown me had been constructed for effect, with the absorbed, calculating care that goes into an actor's costume. Underneath the myriad shimmering veils, this was something as simple and deadly as razor wire.
"That's bollocks!" Cassie's voice cracked. "He would never fucking tell-"