Nothing. Richie sighed noisily and started skimming the sides of his shoe soles off the linoleum on each step, with a horrible squealing noise. Conor winced. “Yeah. It’s a no. I saw no one.”
“What about the night before last? Because we need to cut the crap, Conor: you were out there. See anyone interesting?”
“I’ve got nothing to tell you.”
I raised my eyebrows. “You know, Conor, I doubt that. Because I’m only seeing two options here. Either you saw what happened, or you are what happened. If it’s Door Number One, then you need to start talking right now. If it’s Door Number Two . . . well, that’s the only reason why you would want to keep your mouth shut. Isn’t it?”
People tend to react, when you accuse them of murder. He sucked his teeth, stared at a thumbnail.
“If you can see an option I’ve missed, old son, then by all means share it with us. All donations gratefully accepted.”
Richie’s shoe squealed inches behind Conor, and he jumped. He said, and there was an edge to his voice, “Like I said: I’ve got nothing to tell you. Pick your own options; not my problem.”
I swept my pen and notebook out of my way and leaned forward across the table, into his face, leaving him nowhere else to look. “Yeah, it is, old son. It bloody well is. Because me and Detective Curran and the entire police force of this country, every single one of us is out to bring down the fucker who slaughtered this family. And you’re right smack in our crosshairs. You’re the guy who’s on the spot for no good reason, who’s been spying on the Spains for a year, who’s filling us up with bullshit when any innocent man in the world would be helping us out . . . What do you think that says to us?”
Shrug.
“It says you’re a murdering scumbag, fella. I’d say that’s very much your problem.”
Conor’s jaw tightened. “If that’s what you want to think, there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“Jesus,” Richie said, rolling his eyes. “Self-pity much?”
“Call it what you want.”
“Come on. There’s loads you can do about it. You could give us a hand, just for starters: tell us everything you saw going down around the Spains’ gaff, hope something in there helps us out. Instead, you’re gonna sit here and sulk like some kid who’s got caught smoking hash? Grow up, man. Seriously.”
That got Richie a filthy look, but Conor wasn’t biting. He kept his mouth shut.
I eased back into my seat, adjusted the knot in my tie and changed the note to something gentler, almost curious. “Do we have it wrong, Conor? Maybe it wasn’t like it looks. We weren’t there, me and Detective Curran; there could have been a lot more to it than we realize. This might not be murder at all; it could have been manslaughter. I can even see how it could have started out as self-defense, and then things got out of hand. I’m willing to accept that. But we can’t do that unless you tell us your side of the story.”
Conor said, to the air somewhere over my head, “There’s no fucking story.”
“Oh, but there is. That’s not really up for debate, is it? The story might be ‘I wasn’t in Brianstown that night, and here’s my alibi.’ Or it might be ‘I was out there and I saw someone dodgy hanging about, and here’s a description.’ Or ‘The Spains caught me breaking in, they went for me and I had to defend myself.’ Or ‘I was up in my hide getting good and stoned when everything went black, and the next thing I remember I was sitting in my bathtub, covered in blood.’ Any one of those could fly with us, but we need to hear it. Otherwise, we’re going to assume the worst. Surely you can see that. Can’t you?”
Silence, so packed with stubborn that you could feel it elbowing you. There are detectives, even nowadays, who would have fixed this problem with a few rabbit punches to the kidneys, either on a toilet trip or while the video camera was mysteriously on the blink. I had been tempted once or twice, when I was younger, had never given in—handing out slaps is for morons like Quigley, who have nothing else in their arsenal—and I had had that under control for a long time. But in that thick, overheated stillness I understood for the first time exactly how fine the line was, and how very easily crossed. Conor’s hands holding the edge of the table were long-fingered and strong, big capable hands with the tendons standing out and the cuticles bitten bloody. I thought of what they had done, of Emma’s cat pillow and the gap in her front teeth and Jack’s soft pale curls, and I wanted to pound a lump hammer down on those hands until they were crunching pulp. The thought of doing it made the blood shake in my throat. It horrified me, how deep in my gut I wanted it, how simple and natural a desire it seemed.
I tamped it down hard and waited until my heart rate subsided. Then I sighed and shook my head, more in sorrow than in anger. “Conor, Conor, Conor. What do you think this is going to accomplish? Tell me that, at least. Do you seriously believe we’re going to be so impressed by your little act that we’ll send you off home and forget the whole thing? ‘I like a man who sticks to his guns, old son, don’t you worry about those nasty murders’?”
He stared at the air, narrow-eyed and intent. The silence stretched. I hummed to myself, adding a beat with my fingertips on the table, and Richie perched on the edge of the table jiggling his knee and cracking his knuckles with real dedication, but Conor had gone past that. He barely knew we were there.
Finally Richie did an ostentatious stretch-groan-yawn routine and checked his watch. “Here, man, are we going to be doing this all night?” he wanted to know. “’Cause if we are, I need coffee to keep up with the pace. Thrill a minute, this.”
I said, “He’s not going to answer you, Detective. We’re getting the silent treatment.”
“Can we get it while we’re in the canteen, yeah? I swear, I’m gonna fall asleep right here if I don’t get some coffee into me.”
“No reason why not. This little shit is making me sick to my stomach anyway.” I clicked my pen shut. “Conor, if you need to get your sulk out of the way before you can talk to us like an adult human being, be our guest, but we’re not going to sit around and watch you do it. Believe it or not, you’re not the center of the universe. We’ve got plenty of more urgent things to do than watch a grown man act like a spoiled kid.”
Not a blink. I clipped my pen to my notebook, tucked them back in my pocket and gave it a pat. “We’ll be back when we get a moment. If you need to go to the jacks, you can give the door a bang and hope someone hears. See you around.”
On the way out Richie whipped Conor’s cup off the table, catching the bottom delicately between thumb and fingertip. I pointed at it and told Conor, “Two of our favorite things: prints and DNA. Thanks, fella. You saved us a load of time and hassle, right there.” Then I gave him a wink and a thumbs-up, and slammed the door behind us.