Richie watched me. His face was unreadable. He said, “I thought you were sure.”

My eyes were gritty with fatigue. I wished I had got an extra coffee, when we stopped for lunch. I said, “I was.”

He nodded. He tossed the cup into the bin and came to lean against the wall next to me. After a while he dug a packet of mints out of his pocket and held it out. I took one and we stayed there, sucking mints, shoulder to shoulder, until the interview-room door opened and the uniform brought Conor in.

*

He looked bad. Maybe it was just because he wasn’t wearing the duffle coat this time, but he seemed even thinner, thin enough that I wondered if we should get him checked out by a doctor, bones jutting painfully through the reddish stubble. He had been crying again.

He sat hunched over the table, staring at his fists planted in front of him, not moving even when the central heating kicked on with a clang. In a way, that reassured me. The innocent ones fidget and jitter and almost leap out of their seats at the slightest noise; they’re itching to talk to you and get the whole thing straightened out. The guilty ones are concentrating, marshaling all their forces tight around the inner stronghold and bracing themselves for battle.

Richie stretched up to switch on the video camera and told it, “Detective Kennedy and Detective Curran interviewing Conor Brennan. Interview commenced at four forty-three P.M.” I ran through the rights sheet; Conor signed without looking, sat back and folded his arms. As far as he was concerned, we were done.

“Oh, Conor,” I said, leaning back in my chair and shaking my head sadly. “Conor, Conor, Conor. And here I thought we were getting on so well, the other night.”

He watched me and kept his mouth shut.

“You weren’t being honest with us, fella.”

That sent a zip of fear across his face, too sharp to hide. “I was.”

“No you weren’t. Ever heard of the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth? You let us down on at least one of those. Now why would you go and do that?”

Conor said, “Don’t know what you’re talking about.” His mouth clamped shut in a hard line, but his eyes were still fixed on me. He was afraid.

Richie, lounging against the wall under the camera, clicked his tongue reproachfully. I said, “Let’s start with this: you gave us the impression that, up until Monday night, the closest you’d got to the Spains was through binoculars. You didn’t think it might be an idea to mention that you’d been best buddies since you were kids?”

A faint red sprang up on his cheekbones, but he didn’t blink: this wasn’t what he was afraid of. “None of your business.”

I sighed and wagged a finger at him. “Conor, you know better than that. You name it, it’s our business now.”