16

Before we had Conor brought over to us, we skimmed through everything the tide had washed up in the squad room: reports, phone messages, statements, tips, the lot. Most of it was a whole lot of nothing—the floaters looking for Conor’s friends and family had turned up no one but a couple of cousins, the tip line had attracted the usual swarm of freaks who wanted to talk about the Book of Revelations and complicated maths and immodest women—but there were a couple of gems in there. Fiona’s old pal Shona was in Dubai this week and would sue us all personally if anyone printed her name in connection with this mess, but she did share her opinion that Conor had been mad about Jenny when they were kids and that nothing had changed since, otherwise why had he never had a relationship longer than six months? And Larry’s boys had found a rolled-up overcoat, a jumper, a pair of jeans, a pair of leather gloves and a pair of runners, size ten, shoved in the bin of an apartment block a mile from Conor’s flat. They were all covered in blood. The blood types matched Pat and Jenny Spain. The left runner was consistent with the print in Conor’s car, and a perfect match to the one on the Spains’ kitchen floor.

We waited in the interview room, one of the tiny cramped ones with no observation room and barely enough space to move, for the uniforms to bring Conor up. Someone had been using it: there were sandwich wrappers and foam cups scattered on the table, a faint smell of citrus aftershave and sweat and onion in the air. I couldn’t stay still. I moved around the room, balling up rubbish and tossing it into the bin.

Richie said, “He should be well nervous by now. A day and a half sitting in there, wondering what we’re waiting for …”

I said, “We need to be very clear on what we’re after. I want a motive.”

Richie stuffed empty sugar sachets into a foam cup. “We might not get one.”

“Yeah. I know.” Saying it hit me with another wave of that lightheadedness; for a second I thought I would have to lean on the table till my balance steadied. “There might not be one. You were right: sometimes shit just happens. But that’s not going to stop me giving it my best shot.”

Richie thought about that, examining a plastic wrapper he had picked off the floor. “If we might not get a motive,” he said. “What else are we after?”

“Answers. What Conor and the Spains fought about, a few years back. His relationship with Jenny. Why he wiped that computer.” The room was as clean as it was going to get. I made myself lean against the wall and stay put. “I want us to be sure. When you and I leave this room, I want both of us on the same page and both of us sure who we’re chasing. That’s all. If we can just get that far, the rest will fall into place.”