*
Outside, the sky was patchy, just enough sunshine to trick you into thinking you were warm; the hills were dappled with moving splotches of light and shade. I said, “What happened there?”
Richie was tucking his notebook back into his pocket. He said, “I made a bollix of it.”
“Why?”
“Her. The state of her. Put me off my game.”
“You were fine with her on Wednesday.”
He twitched a shoulder. “Yeah. Maybe. It was one thing when we thought this was some stranger, you know? But if we’re gonna have to tell her that her own husband did that to her, to their kids . . . I guess I was hoping she already knew.”
“If he did it. Let’s worry about one step at a time.”
“I know. I just . . . I fucked up. Sorry.”
He was still messing with his notebook. He looked pale and shrunken, like he was expecting a bollocking. A day earlier he would probably have got one, but that morning I couldn’t remember why I should put in the energy. “No real harm done,” I said. “Anything she says now won’t hold up anyway; she’s on enough painkillers that any statement would get thrown out in a heartbeat. That was a good moment to leave.”
I thought that would reassure him, but his face stayed tight. “When do we give her another go?”
“When the doctors take down her dosage. From what Fiona said, it shouldn’t be long. We’ll check in tomorrow.”
“Could be a good while before she’s in decent enough shape to talk. You saw her: she was practically unconscious there.”
I said, “She’s in better shape than she’s trying to make out. At the end, yeah, she faded fast, but up until then . . . She’s foggy and in pain, all right, but she’s come a long way since the other day.”
Richie said, “She looked like shite to me.”
He was heading for the car. “Hang on,” I said. He needed a few breaths of fresh air, and so did I; I was much too tired to have this conversation and drive safely at the same time. “Let’s take five.”
I headed for the wall where we had sat the morning of the post-mortems—that felt like a decade ago. The illusion of summer didn’t hold up: the sunlight was thin and tremulous, and the air had an edge that cut through my overcoat. Richie sat beside me, running the zip of his jacket up and down.
I said, “She’s hiding something.”
“Maybe. Hard to be sure, through all the drugs.”
“I’m sure. She’s trying much too hard to act like life was perfect up until Monday night. The breakins were no big deal, Pat’s animal was no big deal, everything was just fine. She was chatting away like we’d all met up for a nice coffee.”
“Some people, that’s how they operate. Everything’s always fine. Doesn’t matter what’s wrong, you never admit it; just grit your teeth, keep saying it’s all grand, and hope it comes true.”
His eyes were on me. I couldn’t hold back a wry grin. “True enough. Habits die hard. And you’re right, that sounds like Jenny. But at a time like this, you’d think she’d be spilling everything she’s got. Unless she’s got a bloody good reason not to.”
Richie said, after a second, “The obvious one is that she remembers Monday night. If it’s that, then it says Pat. For her husband, she might keep her mouth shut. For someone she hadn’t even seen in years, no way.”
“Then why is she playing down the breakins? If she genuinely wasn’t frightened, then why not? Any woman in the world, if she suspects someone’s got access to the house where she and her babies are living, she does something about it. Unless she knows perfectly well who’s coming in and out, and she doesn’t have a problem with it.”
Richie bit at a cuticle and thought that over, squinting into the weak sunlight. A little color was coming back to his cheeks, but his spine was still curled with tension. “Then why’d she say anything to Fiona?”
“Because she didn’t know at first. But you heard her: she was trying to catch the guy. What if she did? Or what if Conor got ballsy and decided to leave Jenny a note, somewhere along the way? There’s history there, remember. Fiona thinks there was never anything romantic between the two of them—or that’s what she says she thinks, anyway—but I doubt she’d know if there had been. At the very least, they were friends; close friends, for a long time. If Jenny found out Conor was hanging around, she might have decided to rekindle the friendship.”
“Without telling Pat?”
“Maybe she was afraid he’d fly off the handle and beat the shite out of Conor—he had a history of jealousy, remember. And maybe Jenny knew he had something to be jealous about.” Saying it out loud sent a shot of electricity through me, a charge that almost lifted me off the wall. Finally, and about bloody time, this case was starting to fit itself into one of the templates, the oldest and best-worn one of all.
Richie said, “Pat and Jenny were mad about each other. If there’s one thing everyone agrees on, it’s that.”
“You’re the one saying he tried to kill her.”
“Not the same thing. People kill people they’re mad about; happens all the time. They don’t cheat on someone they’re mad about.”
“Human nature is human nature. Jenny’s stuck in the middle of nowhere, no friends around, no job to go to, up to her ears in money worries, Pat’s obsessing over some animal in the attic; and all of a sudden, just when she needs him most, Conor shows up. Someone who knew her back when she was the golden girl with the perfect life; someone who’s adored her for half their lives. You’d have to be a saint not to be tempted.”
“Maybe,” Richie said. He was still ripping at that cuticle. “But say you’re right, yeah? That doesn’t take us any closer to a motive for Conor.”
“Jenny decided to break off the affair.”
“That’d be a motive to kill her, just. Or maybe just Pat, if Conor thought it’d make Jenny come back to him. Not the whole family.”
The sun was gone; the hills were fading into gray, and the wind punched fallen leaves in dizzy circles before slapping them back to the damp ground. I said, “Depends how much he wanted to punish her.”
“OK,” Richie said. He took his nail away from his mouth and shoved his hands into his pockets, pulled his jacket closer around him. “Maybe. But then how come Jenny’s saying nothing?”
“Because she doesn’t remember.”
“Doesn’t remember Monday night, maybe. But the last few months: she remembers those just grand. If she’d been having an affair with Conor, or even just hanging out with him, she’d remember that. If she’d been planning on dumping him, she’d know.”
“And you think she’d want that splashed across the headlines? MURDERED CHILDREN’S MOTHER HAD AFFAIR WITH ACCUSED, COURT TOLD. You think she’s going to volunteer to be the media’s Whore of the Week?”
“Yeah, I do. You’re saying he killed her kids, man. No way would she cover for that.”
I said, “She might if she felt guilty enough. An affair would make it her fault Conor was in their lives, which would make it her fault he did what he did. A lot of people would have a pretty tough time getting their own heads around that, never mind telling it to the police. Never underestimate the power of guilt.”
Richie shook his head. “Even if you’re right about an affair, man, it doesn’t say Conor. It says Pat. He was already losing the plot—you said that yourself. Then he finds out his wife’s having it off with his old best mate, and he snaps. He takes Jenny out as punishment, takes the kids along so they won’t have to live without their parents, finishes off with himself because he’s got nothing left to live for. You saw what he said on that board: Her and those kids are everything I’ve got.”
A couple of med students who should have known better had brought their eye bags and stubble outside for a cigarette. I felt a sudden rush of impatience, so violent that it smashed the fatigue away, with everything around me: the pointless reek of their smoke, the tactful little dance steps of our interview with Jenny, the image of Dina tugging insistently at the corner of my mind, Richie and his stubborn, tangled mess of objections and hypotheticals. “Well,” I said. I stood up and dusted off my coat. “Let’s start by finding out whether I’m right about the affair, shall we?”
“Conor?”
“No,” I said. I wanted Conor so badly I could almost smell him, the sharp resiny tang of him, but this is where control comes in useful. “We’re saving him for later. I’m not going near Conor Brennan till I can go in with a full clip of ammo. We’re going to talk to the Gogans again. And this time I’ll do the talking.”