I said, “That’s going back a few months, Pat losing his job. When did you start spending time out at Ocean View?”

A second’s silence. “A while back.”

“A year? Two?”

“Maybe a year. Maybe less. I didn’t keep track.”

“And how often do you get up there?”

A longer silence, this time. The wariness was starting to crystallize. “Depends.”

“On what?”

Shrug.

“I’m not looking for a stamped time sheet here, Conor. Just give us a ballpark. Every day? Once a week? Once a month?”

“Couple of times a week, maybe. Less, probably.”

Which meant every other day, at least. “What time? Day or night?”

“Nights, mostly. Sometimes daytime.”

“What about night before last? Did you head up to your little holiday home?”

Conor leaned back in his seat, folded his arms and focused on the ceiling. “I don’t remember.”

End of conversation. “OK,” I said, nodding. “You don’t want to talk about that just yet, fine with us. We can talk about something else instead. Let’s talk about you. What do you do, when you’re not kipping in abandoned houses? Got a job?”

Nothing. “Ah, for God’s sake, man,” Richie said, rolling his eyes. “Like pulling teeth. What d’you think we’re gonna do? Arrest you for being in IT?”

“Not IT. Web design.”

And a web designer would have known more than enough about computers to wipe the Spains’. “See, Conor? How hard was that? Web design’s nothing to be ashamed of. There’s good money in it.”

A humorless sniff of a laugh, up at the ceiling. “You think?”

“Recession,” Richie said, snapping his fingers and pointing at Conor. “Am I right? You were doing grand, all up and coming and web-designing away, and then the crash came and bang, just like that, on the dole.”

That hard almost-laugh again. “I wish. I’m self-employed. No dole for me; when the work went, the money went.”

“Shit,” Richie said suddenly, eyes widening. “Are you homeless, man? Because we can give you a hand there. I’ll make a few calls—”

“I’m not bloody homeless. I’m grand.”

“No reason to be embarrassed. These days there’s loads of people—”

“Not me.”

Richie looked skeptical. “Yeah? D’you live in a house or a flat?”

“Flat.”

“Where?”

“Killester.” Northside: just right for a regular commute up to Ocean View.

“Sharing with who? Girlfriend? Flatmates?”

“No one. Just me. All right?”

Richie turned up his hands. “Only trying to help.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“I’ve got a question, Conor,” I said, twirling my pen between my fingers and watching it with interest. “Your flat got running water?”

“What’s it to you?”

“I’m a cop. I’m nosy. Running water?”

“Yeah. Hot and cold.”

“Electricity?”

Conor said, “For fuck’s sake,” to the ceiling.

“Mind your language, son. Got electricity?”

“Yeah. Electricity. Heating. A cooker. Even a microwave. What are you, my mum?”

“Couldn’t be further from it, fella. Because my question is, if you’ve got a nice cozy bachelor pad with all mod cons and even a microwave, why the hell are you spending your nights pissing out the window of a freezing rattrap in Brianstown?”