“That’s right. You fucked up, son. You left one of the Spains alive.”

The muscles in his throat were clenched so tight that his voice came out a hoarse rasp. “Which one?”

“You tell me, fella. Who would you like it to be? Go on. If you had to choose, which one of them would it be?”

He would have answered anything to make me go on. After a moment he said, “Emma.”

I leaned back in my chair and laughed out loud. “That’s adorable. Really, it is. That sweet little girl: you figure maybe she deserved a shot at life? Too late, Conor. The time to think about that was two nights ago. Emma’s in a morgue drawer right now. Her brain’s in a jar.”

“Then who—”

“Were you out at Brianstown night before last?”

He was half out of his chair, clutching the edge of the table, crouched and wild-eyed. “Who—”

“I asked you a question. Night before last. Were you out there, Conor?”

“Yeah. Yeah. I was there. Who—which—”

“Say please, fella.”

“Please.”

“That’s better. The one you missed was Jenny. Jenny’s alive.”

Conor stared at me. His mouth opened wide, but all that came out was a great rush of breath, like he had been punched in the stomach.

“She’s alive and kicking, and that was her doctor on the phone, telling me she’s awake and wants to talk to us. And we all know what she’s going to say, don’t we?”

He barely heard me. He gasped for air, again and again.

I shoved him down into his seat; he went like his knees had turned liquid. “Conor. Listen to me. I told you that you’ve got no time to waste, and I wasn’t joking. In just a couple of minutes, we’re going to head over to the hospital to talk to Jenny Spain. And as soon as that happens, I will never again in my life give a damn about anything you have to say. This is it: your last chance.”

That reached him. He stared, slack-jawed and wild.

I pulled my chair even nearer, leaned in till our heads were almost touching. Richie slid around and sat on the table, close enough that his thigh pressed against Conor’s arm. “Let me explain something to you,” I said, quiet and even, straight into his ear. I could smell him, sweat and a wild tang like split wood. “I happen to believe that basically, deep down, you’re a decent guy. Everyone else you meet from here on in, every single person, is going to believe you’re a sick, sadistic, psychopathic bastard who should be skinned alive and hung out to dry. I may be losing the bit I have, and I may end up regretting this, but I don’t agree. I think you’re a good guy who somehow ended up in a shit situation.”

His eyes were blind, but that got a tiny twitch of his eyebrows: he was hearing me. “Because of that, and because I know nobody else is going to give you a break, I’m willing to make you a deal. You prove me right, tell me what happened, and I’ll tell the prosecutors you helped us out: you did the right thing, because you felt remorse. When it comes time for your sentencing, that’s going to matter. In a courtroom, Conor, remorse equals concurrent sentences. But if you show me that I’m wrong about you, if you keep on dicking me around, that’s what I’m going to tell the prosecutors, and the whole lot of us are going to go for broke. I don’t like being wrong about people, Conor; it pisses me off. We’ll charge you with everything we can think of, and we’ll go for consecutive sentences. Do you know what that means?”