Richie wandered over to the table, pulled out a chair facing Conor. “No you didn’t, man. There’s no street lighting. What are you, Superman? See in the dark?”
“It was summer. Bright till late.”
“You were prowling round their gaff while it was still bright? While they were still awake? Come on, man. What were you, looking to get arrested?”
“So maybe it was dawn. I found the key, I got it copied, I got in. End of story.”
I said, “How many times?”
That tiny pause again, while he tested answers in his head. I said crisply, “Don’t waste your time, old son. There’s no point in bullshitting me. We’re well past that. How many times were you in the Spains’ house?”
Conor was rubbing at his forehead with the back of his wrist, trying to hold it together. That sheetrock wall of stubbornness was starting to waver. Adrenaline can only keep you going for so long; any minute now, he was going to be too exhausted to sit up straight. “A few. A dozen, maybe. What’s it matter? I was there night before last. I’ve told you.”
It mattered because he knew his way around the house: even in darkness, he would have been able to find his way up the stairs, into the children’s rooms, to their beds. Richie asked, “Ever take anything away with you?”
I saw Conor dig for the energy to say no, and give up. “Little things, only. I’m not a thief.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“A mug. Handful of rubber bands. A pen. Nothing worth anything.”
I said, “And the knife. Let’s not forget the knife. What did you do with it?”
That should have been one of the tough questions, but Conor turned towards me like he was grateful for it. “Into the sea. The tide was up.”
“Where’d you throw it from?”
“The rocks. South end of the beach.”
We were never getting that knife back. It was halfway to Cornwall by now on some long cold current, rocking fathoms deep among seaweed and soft blind creatures. “And the other weapon? The one you used to hit Jenny?”
“Same.”
“What was it?”
Conor’s head fell back and his lips parted. The grief that had been looming under his voice, all night long, had made its way to the surface. It was that grief, not fatigue, that was leaching the willpower out of him, scouring his concentration away. It had eaten him alive, from the inside out; it was all that was left.
He said, “It was a vase. Metal one, silver, with a heavy base on it. Simple thing, it was; beautiful. She used to put a couple of roses in it, have it on the table when she made fancy dinners for the two of them . . .”
He made a small sound between a swallow and a gasp, the sound of someone sliding underwater. I said, “Let’s rewind a little, shall we? Start from the point when you entered the house. What time was it?”
Conor said, “I want to sleep.”
“As soon as you’ve talked us through it. Was anyone awake?”
“I want to sleep.”
We needed the full story, blow by blow and packed with details that only the killer would know, but it was heading for six o’clock and he was heading for the level of fatigue that a defense attorney could use. I said gently, “OK. You’re nearly there, son. I’ll tell you what: we’ll just get what you’ve told us in writing, and then we’ll take you somewhere you can get a bit of kip. Fair enough?”
He nodded, a lopsided jerk, like his head had suddenly turned too heavy for his neck. “Yeah. I’ll write it down. Just leave me alone while I do it. Can you do that?”
He was at the end of his strength, way past trying to get smart with his statement. “Sure,” I said. “If that’s what works for you, not a problem. We’ll need to know your real name, though. For the statement sheet.”
For a second I thought he was going to stonewall us again, but all the fight was gone. “Brennan,” he said, dully. “Conor Brennan.”
I said, “Well done.” Richie moved quietly to the corner table and passed me a statement sheet. I found my pen and filled in the header, in strong block capitals: CONOR BRENNAN.
I put him under arrest, cautioned him again, went through the rights sheet again. Conor didn’t even look up. I put the statement sheet and my pen into his hands, and we left him there.
*
“Well well well,” I said, tossing my notebook onto the table in the observation room. Every cell in my body was fizzing like champagne with pure triumph; I felt like throwing a Tom Cruise, jumping up on the table shouting I love this job! “Now that was a whole lot easier than I was expecting. Here’s to us, Richie my friend. Do you know what we are? We’re a bloody great team.”
I gave him a pumping handshake and a clap on the shoulder. He was grinning. “Felt like that, all right.”
“No two ways about it. I’ve had a lot of partners in my time, and I can tell you, hand on heart: that was the real thing. There are guys who partner for years and still don’t work together that smoothly.”
“It’s good, yeah. It’s good stuff.”
“By the time the Super gets in, we’ll have that statement signed, sealed and delivered to his desk. I don’t need to tell you what this is going to do for your career, do I? Let’s see that prick Quigley give you hassle now. Two weeks on the squad, and you’re part of the biggest solve of the year. How does it feel?”
Richie’s hand slid out of mine too fast. He still had the grin, but there was something unsure in it. I said, “What?”
He nodded at the one-way glass. “Look at him.”
“He’ll write it up just fine. Don’t you worry about that. He’ll have second thoughts, of course he will, but they won’t kick in till tomorrow: emotional hangover. By then, we’ll have our file half ready to send to the DPP.”
“It’s not that. The state of that kitchen . . . You heard Larry: the struggle was full-on. Why isn’t he more beat up?”
“Because he isn’t. Because this is real life, and sometimes it doesn’t go exactly the way you’d expect it to.”
“I just . . .” The grin was gone. Richie was digging his hands into his pockets, staring at the glass. “I have to ask, man. You’re positive he’s our guy?”
The fizz started to fade out of my veins. I said, “That’s not the first time you’ve asked me that.”
“I know, yeah.”
“So let’s hear it. What’s got up your arse?”
He shrugged. “Dunno. You’ve been awful sure all along, is all.”