Richie said, from his corner, “The Spains’ lives didn’t stay beautiful, though. Not after Pat lost his job.”

“They were grand.”

The instant edge to Conor’s voice—straight to Pat’s defense—set that unease ricocheting around inside me again. Richie came off the wall and leaned his arse on the table, too close to Conor. “Last time we talked, you said it wrecked Pat’s head. What’d you mean by that, exactly?”

“Nothing. I know Pat. I knew he’d hate being out of work. That’s all.”

“Man, the poor bastard was in tatters. OK? You’re not giving away anything we don’t already know. So what’d you see? Him acting weird? Crying? Fighting with Jenny?”

“No.” A short, tight pause, as Conor weighed up what to give us. His arms were folded across his chest again. “At first he was fine. After a few months—like over the summer—he started staying up late, sleeping late. He didn’t go out as much. He used to go running every day, but that went out the window. Some days he didn’t bother getting dressed, or shaving.”

“Sounds like depression to me.”

“He was down. So? Do you blame him?”

Richie said, “But you still didn’t think about actually getting in touch, no? When things went bad for you, you wanted Pat and Jenny. You never thought they might want you, when things got tough?”

Conor said, “Yeah. I did. I thought about it a lot. Thought maybe I could help—head out with Pat for a couple of pints and a laugh, mind the kids while the two of them got some time together … But I couldn’t do it. It would’ve been like saying, Ha-ha, told you this would all go to shite. Would’ve made things worse, not better.”

“Jaysus, man. How much worse could he have got?”

“A lot. So he didn’t get enough exercise, big deal. That doesn’t mean he was falling apart.”

The defensive snap was still there. I said, “You can’t have been happy that Pat wasn’t going out. If he was home, no tea and sandwiches for you. Did you still get chances to spend time in the house, the last couple of months?”

He turned towards me fast, giving Richie his shoulder, like I was saving him. “Less. Maybe once a week, though, they’d all be out, like they’d all pick up Emma from school and then go to the shops. Pat wasn’t scared to go out the door—he just wanted to be in so he could keep an eye out for that mink or whatever. He didn’t have a phobia, nothing like that.”

I didn’t look at Richie, but I felt him freeze. Conor shouldn’t have known about Pat’s animal.

I said easily, before he could realize, “Did you ever see the animal?”

“Like I said. I wasn’t in the house much.”

“Sure you were. I’m not talking just the last couple of months; I’m talking about the whole time you were popping in and out. Did you see it? Hear it?”