“Key.”

“To which door?”

A splinter of a pause. “Back.”

“Where’d you get that?”

That splinter again, bigger this time. He was being careful. “Found it.”

“When?”

“A while back. Few months, maybe more.”

“Where?”

“Street outside. Pat dropped it.”

I could feel it on my skin, the sideslipping twist to his voice that said Lie, but I couldn’t put my finger on where or why. Richie said, from the corner behind Conor’s shoulder, “You couldn’t see the street from your hide. How’d you know he’d dropped the key?”

Conor thought that over. “Saw him come in from work in the evening. Later that night, I went for a wander around, spotted the key, figured he had to be the one that lost it.”

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.