think?”
Her mouth fell open and she gasped for air. “
No.
Questions, Jesus, I can’t— I want to go home.
I want my mam.
Oh,
God,
I want—”
She was on the verge of breaking down again. I saw Richie start to draw back, hands going up reassuringly. I said smoothly, before he threw her away, “Ms. Rafferty, if you need to go home for a little while and come back to us later on, we won’t stop you. It’s your choice. But for every minute we lose, our chances of finding the person who did this go down another notch. Evidence gets destroyed, witnesses’ memories get blurry, maybe the killer gets farther away. I think you should know that, before you make your decision.”
Fiona’s eyes were starting to focus. “If I . . . You could lose him? If I come back to you later, he could be
gone
?”
I moved Richie out of her eye line with a hard grip on his shoulder and leaned against the car door. “That’s right. Like I said, it’s your choice, but personally I wouldn’t want to live with that.”
Her face contorted and for a moment I thought she was gone, but she bit down hard on the inside of her cheek and pulled it together. “OK. OK. I can . . . OK. I just . . . Can I just take two minutes and have a cigarette? Then I’ll answer whatever you want.”
“I think you’ve made the right decision there. You take your time, Ms. Rafferty. We’ll be here.”
She pulled herself out of the car—clumsily, like someone standing up for the first time after surgery—and staggered off across the road, between the skeleton houses. I kept an eye on her. She found a half-built wall to sit on and managed to light her smoke.
Her back was to us, more or less. I gave Larry the thumbs-up. He waved cheerfully and came trundling towards the house, pulling his gloves on, with the rest of the techs trailing after him.
Richie’s crappy jacket wasn’t made for country weather; he was bouncing up and down with his hands in his armpits, trying not to look frozen. I said, keeping my voice down, “You were about to send her home. Weren’t you?”
He whipped his head around, startled and wary. “I was, yeah. I thought—”
“You don’t think. Not about something like that. Whether to cut a witness loose is my call, not yours. Do you understand?”
“She looked like she was about to lose it.”
“So? That’s not a reason to let her leave, Detective Curran. That’s a reason to make her pull it together. You almost threw away an interview that we can’t afford to lose.”
“I was trying
not
to throw it away. Better get it in a few hours’ time than upset her so bad we might not get her back till tomorrow.”
“That’s not how it works. If you need a witness to talk, you find a way to make her do it, end of story. You don’t send her
home
to have a bloody cup of tea and a biscuit and come back when it suits her.”
“I figured I should give her the choice. She just lost—”
“Did you see me putting handcuffs on the girl? Give her all the choice in the world. Just make damn sure she chooses the way you want her to. Rule Number Three, and Four and Five and about a dozen more: you do not go with the flow in this job. You make the flow go with
you
. Do I make myself clear?”
After a moment Richie said, “Yeah. I’m sorry, Detective. Sir.”
Probably he hated me right then, but I could live with that. I don’t care if my rookies take home photos of me to throw darts at, as long as when the dust settles they haven’t done any damage, either to the case or to their careers. “It won’t happen again. Am I right?”
“No. I mean, yeah, you’re right: it won’t.”
“Good. Then let’s go get that interview.”
Richie tucked his chin into his jacket collar and eyed Fiona Rafferty doubtfully. She was sagging on her wall, head almost between her knees, cigarette hanging forgotten from one hand. At that distance she looked like something discarded, just a crumple of scarlet cloth tossed away in
Her mouth fell open and she gasped for air. “
No.
Questions, Jesus, I can’t— I want to go home.
I want my mam.
Oh,
God,
I want—”
She was on the verge of breaking down again. I saw Richie start to draw back, hands going up reassuringly. I said smoothly, before he threw her away, “Ms. Rafferty, if you need to go home for a little while and come back to us later on, we won’t stop you. It’s your choice. But for every minute we lose, our chances of finding the person who did this go down another notch. Evidence gets destroyed, witnesses’ memories get blurry, maybe the killer gets farther away. I think you should know that, before you make your decision.”
Fiona’s eyes were starting to focus. “If I . . . You could lose him? If I come back to you later, he could be
gone
?”
I moved Richie out of her eye line with a hard grip on his shoulder and leaned against the car door. “That’s right. Like I said, it’s your choice, but personally I wouldn’t want to live with that.”
Her face contorted and for a moment I thought she was gone, but she bit down hard on the inside of her cheek and pulled it together. “OK. OK. I can . . . OK. I just . . . Can I just take two minutes and have a cigarette? Then I’ll answer whatever you want.”
“I think you’ve made the right decision there. You take your time, Ms. Rafferty. We’ll be here.”
She pulled herself out of the car—clumsily, like someone standing up for the first time after surgery—and staggered off across the road, between the skeleton houses. I kept an eye on her. She found a half-built wall to sit on and managed to light her smoke.
Her back was to us, more or less. I gave Larry the thumbs-up. He waved cheerfully and came trundling towards the house, pulling his gloves on, with the rest of the techs trailing after him.
Richie’s crappy jacket wasn’t made for country weather; he was bouncing up and down with his hands in his armpits, trying not to look frozen. I said, keeping my voice down, “You were about to send her home. Weren’t you?”
He whipped his head around, startled and wary. “I was, yeah. I thought—”
“You don’t think. Not about something like that. Whether to cut a witness loose is my call, not yours. Do you understand?”
“She looked like she was about to lose it.”
“So? That’s not a reason to let her leave, Detective Curran. That’s a reason to make her pull it together. You almost threw away an interview that we can’t afford to lose.”
“I was trying
not
to throw it away. Better get it in a few hours’ time than upset her so bad we might not get her back till tomorrow.”
“That’s not how it works. If you need a witness to talk, you find a way to make her do it, end of story. You don’t send her
home
to have a bloody cup of tea and a biscuit and come back when it suits her.”
“I figured I should give her the choice. She just lost—”
“Did you see me putting handcuffs on the girl? Give her all the choice in the world. Just make damn sure she chooses the way you want her to. Rule Number Three, and Four and Five and about a dozen more: you do not go with the flow in this job. You make the flow go with
you
. Do I make myself clear?”
After a moment Richie said, “Yeah. I’m sorry, Detective. Sir.”
Probably he hated me right then, but I could live with that. I don’t care if my rookies take home photos of me to throw darts at, as long as when the dust settles they haven’t done any damage, either to the case or to their careers. “It won’t happen again. Am I right?”
“No. I mean, yeah, you’re right: it won’t.”
“Good. Then let’s go get that interview.”
Richie tucked his chin into his jacket collar and eyed Fiona Rafferty doubtfully. She was sagging on her wall, head almost between her knees, cigarette hanging forgotten from one hand. At that distance she looked like something discarded, just a crumple of scarlet cloth tossed away in
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