“He didn’t like being out of work—obviously; I mean, I know there are people who do, but Pat’s not like that. He would’ve been happier if he’d known when he’d get a new job, but he made the best of it. We believe in positive mental attitude. PMA all the way.”

“Yeah? There’s a lot of fellas these days that are out of work and having a tough time adjusting; no shame in that. Some of them get depressed, or get irritable; maybe they drink that bit too much, or lose their tempers that bit easier. It’s natural enough, sure. Doesn’t make them weak, or mental. Did Pat have any of that stuff, yeah?”

He was struggling for the easy intimacy that had got him under Conor’s guard and the Gogans’, but it wasn’t working: his rhythm was off and his voice had a forced note, and instead of relaxing Jenny had managed to haul herself upright, her eyes blazing a furious blue. “Oh my God, no. He wasn’t, like, having a nervous breakdown or whatever. Whoever’s been saying—”

Richie raised his hands. “It’d be fair enough if he was, is all I’m saying. It could happen to the best of us.”

“Pat was fine. He needed a new job. He wasn’t crazy. OK, Detective? Is that OK with you?”

“I’m not saying he was crazy. I’m only asking: were you ever worried about him? That he’d hurt himself, like? Maybe even hurt you? With the stress—”

“No! Pat would never. Not in a million years. He—Pat was … What are you doing? Are you trying to …” Jenny had fallen back onto the pillows, breathing in shallow gasps. She said, “Could we just … leave this till some other time? Please?”

Her face was gray and fallen-in, all of a sudden, and her hands had gone limp on the blanket: she wasn’t putting it on this time. I glanced at Richie, but he had his head down over his notebook and didn’t look up.

“Absolutely,” I said. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Spain. Please accept our sympathies, again. I hope you’re not in too much pain.”

She didn’t answer. Her eyes had dulled; she was nowhere near us any more. We eased out of the chairs and out of the room as quietly as we could. As I closed the door behind us, I heard Jenny starting to cry.

*

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.”