“Who was that?” Daniel asked, looking up from his hand.
“That detective,” I said. “He wants me to come in to them.”
“Which one?”
“The cute blond one. O’Neill.”
“Why?”
Everyone was looking at me, motionless as startled animals; Abby had stopped with a card pulled halfway out of her hand. “They’ve found some guy,” I said, sliding back into my chair. “About last night. They’re going to question him tomorrow.”
“You’re joking,” Abby said. “Already?”
“Go on, get it over with,” Rafe told Daniel. “Say I told you so. You know you want to.”
Daniel paid no attention. “But why you? What do they want?”
I shrugged. "They just want me to have a look at him. And O’Neill asked if I remembered anything more, about that night. I think he’s hoping I’ll take one look at this guy and point a trembling finger and go, ‘That’s him! The man who stabbed me!’ ”
“One of you has seen way too many made-for-TV movies,” said Rafe.
“Have you?” Daniel asked. “Remembered anything more?”
“Sweet fuck-all,” I said. My imagination, or did some wire-fine tension drop out of the air? Abby changed her mind about her hand, tucked the card back in and pulled out another; Justin reached for the wine bottle. “Maybe he’ll get someone to hypnotize me-do they do that in real life?”
“Get him to program you to get some work done every once in a while,” Rafe said.
“Oo. Could he? Program me to get my thesis done faster?”
“Possibly he could, but I doubt he will,” Daniel said. “I’m not sure evidence obtained under hypnosis is admissible in court. Where are you meeting O’Neill?”
“His work,” I said. “I would have tried to get him to meet up in the pub, come for a pint in Brogan’s, or something, but I don’t think he’d go for it.”
“I thought you hated Brogan’s,” Daniel said, surprised.
I was opening my mouth for a fast backpedal-Duh, course I do, I was only messing… It was nothing about Daniel that saved me; he was looking at me over his cards with calm, unblinking, owlish eyes. It was the puzzled little drop of Justin’s eyebrows, the cock of Abby’s head: they had no idea what he was talking about. Something was wrong.
“Me?” I said, puzzled. “I don’t mind Brogan’s. I never really think about it; I only said it ’cause it’s right across from where he works.”
Daniel shrugged. “I must have confused it with somewhere else,” he said. He was smiling at me, that extraordinary sweet smile, and I felt it again: that sudden slackening in the air, the sigh of release. “You and your quirks; I can’t keep track.” I made a face at him.
“What are you doing flirting with cops, anyway?” Rafe demanded. “That’s just wrong on so many levels.”
“What? He’s cute.” My hands were shaking; I didn’t dare pick up my cards. It had taken a second to sink in: Daniel had tried to trap me. I had been a fraction of a second from bouncing happily down his false trail.
“You’re incorrigible,” Justin said, topping up my wine. “Anyway, the other one is much more attractive, in a bastard-y kind of way. Mackey.”
“Oh, ewww,” I said. Those fucking onions-I was sure, from that smile, that I had called this one right, but whether it had been enough to reassure Daniel; with him you could never tell… “No way. Bet you anything he’s got a hairy back. Back me up here, Abby.”
“Different strokes,” Abby said comfortably. “And you’re both incorrigible.”
"Mackey’s a prat,” Rafe said. “And O’Neill’s a yokel. And it’s diamonds and it’s Abby’s go.”
I managed to pick up my cards and tried to work out what the hell to do with them. I watched Daniel all evening, as carefully as I could without getting caught, but he was the same as always: gentle, polite, distant; paying no more attention to me than to anyone else. When I put my hand on his shoulder, on my way past to get another bottle of wine, he reached up and covered it with his own hand, squeezed hard.
I didn’t get to Dublin Castle till almost eleven, the next morning. I wanted to let the daily routine kick in first-breakfast, the drive to town, everyone getting to work in the library; I figured it would settle the others, make them less likely to want to go with me. It worked. Daniel did ask, when I stood up and started putting on my jacket, “Would you like me to come along, for moral support?” but when I shook my head he nodded and went back to his book. “Do the trembling-finger-point either way,” Rafe told me. "Give O’Neill a thrill.”
Outside the door of the Murder squad’s building, I chickened out. It was the entrance I couldn’t do: checking in at reception like a visitor, making excruciating chirpy small talk with Bernadette the squad admin, waiting under fascinated passing eyes for someone to come steer me through the corridors like I’d never been there before. I phoned Frank and told him to come get me.
“Good timing,” he said, when he stuck his head out the door. “We were just taking a little break, to re-evaluate the situation, shall we say.”
“Re-evaluate what?” I asked.
